Thien sought to help him turn the board onto its side. “What should we do with this, Mr. Noah?”
He let her hold the board while he grabbed one of the tires and dragged it over. “We’re going to take some more wood and bolt it to this board, and then bolt on the tires.” He dropped the tire and then gave the hand drill to Minh, hoping that he’d be able to turn it. “Can you drill a hole for me?” Noah asked, pointing to a spot on the tire’s sidewall.
Minh nodded. He leaned forward, using his good hand to grasp the drill. He positioned it properly, then took the handle between his teeth. He bit it hard, placed his hand on the crank, and began to turn. It took only about a dozen turns for the drill to puncture the tire.
“Good work,” Noah said. “Do you want to try?” he asked Mai.
Mai would have liked to turn the drill but saw that Minh was smiling. “No, no. Minh the Driller is better.”
Minh put the handle between his teeth again. As he started to twist the crank, he glimpsed the shiny metal above Noah’s fake foot. He shifted his gaze from the foot to the tire to the foot, wondering if he’d ever have a pretend hand. How wonderful that would be. No one would stare at him. No one would laugh. Wishing for such a hand, Minh continued to twist the crank until the hole was complete.
“That’s great,” Noah said. “Perfect.” He took the drill from Minh, noticing that the boy was smiling.
“What next?” Mai asked. “More holes for Minh? He drill all day if you want. He be your assistant. And maybe I cut something with saw. We both happy to help. Sure, sure.”
Despite a desire to wet his lips with whiskey, Noah smiled at her enthusiasm. He could see that she was happy for Minh, that she’d also noticed his grin. “You’re good kids,” he said, handing her a small block of wood.
“Of course we is,” Mai replied. “You think we bad kids?”
“No, I don’t,” Noah replied, seeing the goodness in each, aware that they wanted to please him, that they wanted to be loved. He handed Mai a saw and told her how the block should be cut. Then he gave the drill back to Minh. Thien started to sing softly as she held the tire for Minh.
Noah looked at the three Vietnamese. He looked at the playground. He saw the two little trees and knew that someday they’d grow to shade most of the area. Children would run beneath the trees. They’d climb up and over worn branches. They’d leap from the grass to his path. And a place that he’d built would help them be exactly who they were meant to be—children who laughed and learned and loved to play.
Whatever happened to him, the playground would flourish, lingering when he no longer did. It would bring happiness to those who deserved it most. Children would smile here. They’d be safe here. And that was something. No matter what became of his life, he’d done something good. Nothing—not pain or lies or sorrow—could ever take that from him. He’d build a playground. It would have swings and slides and the greatest seesaw the world had ever known.
When the playground was complete, Noah would sit outside, close his eyes, and just listen. And the sounds he heard would always remain with him, no matter where he went, no matter what fate had in store. He’d remember the laughter and know that he hadn’t failed completely, that his life carried some meaning. And though his misery might ultimately overwhelm him, he’d have left his mark on the world, and could depart it with this one sense of pride.
EVER SINCE IRIS HAD TOLD HER that a French doctor would arrive later in the day to examine Tam, Qui had struggled to entertain Tam and clean the dormitory. Qui’s mind was as restless as storm-driven clouds. Fear and hope dominated all other emotions. To push away the fear, she prayed incessantly for a miracle. Maybe the last doctor was wrong. Maybe this new doctor would say that Tam could recover. Qui begged Buddha for such news. She promised that she’d give her sight, her very life, for such news.
As Tam slept, Qui mopped the tile floor. Nervousness caused her stomach to ache and cramp, and she often hurried to the toilet. She hated not being near Tam, and she always returned from the bathroom as quickly as possible. Upon seeing Tam, she went back to her mop and her thoughts. The mop moved and stopped in her sunspotted hands as she alternated between work and prayer.
When she finished cleaning the floor, Qui sat beside Tam and watched her chest rise and fall. Tam slept in her new pajamas with her doll held near her face. Her beloved blanket was wrapped around her other hand. Sometimes Tam made soft noises that sounded like the coos of a pigeon. Qui wondered if she was dreaming or if her pains even plagued her sleep. For the ten thousandth time, she wished that she could trade places with her granddaughter. She wanted to take Tam’s pain and make it her own, to take what strength remained in her and somehow infuse it into Tam’s dying bones.
Tam moaned softly, prompting Qui’s eyes to fill with tears. She felt her stomach clench again but resisted the urge to rush to the toilet. Please, sweet Buddha, she prayed, please let the French doctor say good things. Please give me one more miracle. Give me this miracle and I’ll never ask anything of you again. Please.
“Little Bird?” Tam asked, yawning.
“Yes?”
“I like . . . this soft bed.”
“Me too. Especially sharing it with you.”
“Is Momma here?”
“She’s coming, my precious child. She’s almost done with her work in Thailand and then she’ll come.”
“She works hard.”
“Too hard, maybe. But that’s because she loves you so much.”
“How much?”
“Like . . . like boys love a soccer ball.”
Tam smiled, stroking her doll’s hair. “Dung couldn’t sleep. She kept waking me up.”
“She did?”
“She was cold.”
Qui looked at the ceiling fan, which wobbled as it spun. “Are you cold?”
“Not as cold as Dung.”
After pulling up the sheet to Tam’s chin, Qui stroked her granddaughter’s forehead and then stood. Despite the heat, she turned off the fans and closed the windows. Qui was about to return to Tam when steps and voices echoed in the stairwell. Her stomach rumbled and she bent over, clutching her side. She wanted to remain and greet their visitor, but suddenly had no choice but to hurry to the toilet. She tried not to moan as her body convulsed, her hand pressing against a nearby wall.
After gathering her will and strength, Qui stepped from the bathroom and saw a Western man sitting at the end of Tam’s bed. He turned in Qui’s direction, rising.
“Bonjour,” he said quietly.
“Hello,” she replied in English.
“Are you Qui?”
“Yes.”
The doctor motioned her forward. “The others left us alone. Everyone thought this matter should be private. Is this acceptable to you?”
“Yes.”
He turned to Tam, who was now wide-awake. “Bonjour, Tam. My name is Henri, and I am a doctor. I would like to look at you. Is that fine?”
Tam glanced at Qui, who nodded. Henri smiled and moved closer to Tam, sitting beside her. He pulled back the sheet until her torso was revealed. For more than a minute he simply sat and gazed at her body. Qui watched his eyes as he studied Tam, her heart thumping wildly. She thought she might faint.
Henri carefully lifted Tam’s arm and pulled back her sleeve. The exposed flesh seemed to be little more than fabric that tightly surrounded bone. Tam’s elbow was puffy and swollen. Removing a stethoscope from his blue backpack, the doctor listened to her stomach, heart, and lungs. “Can you breathe deeply?” he asked, patting her shoulder. “A deep breath would make me so happy.”
Tam tried to do what he asked but started to cough.
“Merci,” he said, patting her again, continuing to listen to her lungs.
Seeing the discomfort on Tam’s face, Qui slumped unsteadily. She leaned against a nearby bunk bed, praying.
“Does your head hurt?” Henri asked, using a small flashlight to peer into her eyes.
“Yes.”
“Where else does it hurt?”
Tam ran her fingers along her arms and legs.
“In your bones?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Qui saw a sigh escape his lips and her world began to collapse.
Henri found Tam’s spleen and pressed down lightly. “Does this hurt?”
“Ooh.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, removing his hand, aware that the other doctor’s prognosis was correct. This girl is dying, he thought. This beautiful little girl, who might have been saved if her grandmother could have afforded early treatment, is being devoured by leukemia. She seems brave and strong, but she’ll soon die all the same.
Henri swore silently. He would take some blood, just to be certain. But he knew what the tests would say. “Does the medicine help?” he asked.
“Medicine?”
“Do the pills make you feel better?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Please keep taking them.” He looked at her doll. “What is her name?”
“Dung.”
“She is lovely. Just like you.”
Tam smiled faintly, feeling tired and wanting to sleep again. “Thank you, Mr. Doctor.”
“I am going to talk to your grandmother for a minute. And then I will return tomorrow and take a little bit of your blood. Is that all right, Miss Tam?”
“Just a little?”
“Oui.”
“Oui?”
“I’m sorry. Yes, just a little blood.” Henri patted her shoulder again and stood up. He motioned for Qui to follow him into the stairwell. Though her legs didn’t seem to work properly, she did her best to stand tall in case Tam was watching. She followed the Westerner as he entered the stairwell and took a few steps down. When he turned to her, and she saw the bleakness of his stare, she thought that she’d fall.
“May I take her blood?” he asked. “I will return tomorrow.”
“That okay.”
“I will do some tests.” His lips pressed together momentarily. “I’m sorry, but I am most certain that, indeed, she has childhood leukemia. Her spleen and liver are enlarged. I believe she has a mass in her lungs. And the pain in her bones . . . that means the cancer is in her marrow . . . deep inside where we cannot stop it.”
Qui reached for the handrail, her eyes like leaking dams, tears racing to be the first down her face. “Please, Mr. Henri. I ask Buddha for miracle. Please give one to me. Please . . . please . . . please give me one. She is too young. Too good. Her mother leave her. Her father is dead. But she so good. Please tell me about miracle. Please, kind sir.”
Henri reached into his pocket and removed a clean handkerchief, which he gave to her. “I’ll bring more medicine, to take her pain away. But it’s too late, much too late, to do anything else. Removing all her cancer would be like . . . like trying to remove all the water from Vietnam. It cannot be done. I’m sorry.”
The doctor continued to speak, but Qui no longer heard his words. He was nothing but a blur before her. She sobbed quietly, holding on to the handrail, falling to her knees, struggling to breathe. He knelt beside her, but she barely saw him. Instead she saw Tam, saw a time when sickness hadn’t found her, saw a perfect baby girl who laughed deliriously as fingers tickled her belly.
Qui gasped, felt herself fading, and then sought to pull herself together, as Tam still needed her. She squeezed the doctor’s hand. She didn’t pray for strength as she might normally have done. Buddha was no longer a part of her world. She hated him for leaving Tam, for never giving her anything. She hated him for the unfairness of life, for how it brought some such joy and others such misery.
Instead of praying, Qui forced herself to stand. The walls spun about her and she shut her eyes. She moaned, trying to gather her wits. The doctor said something, but a buzz filled her ears. She’d never heard this buzz before, the sound like air escaping from a small hole in a balloon. She wiped her eyes and face, and took several deep breaths. Nodding to whatever the doctor was saying, she turned and wearily climbed the steps.
Tam hadn’t moved, and Qui lay beside her, holding her tight. She kissed Tam’s head. More tears threatened to dampen Qui’s cheeks, but she wouldn’t let them arrive. Instead, she helped her granddaughter roll to her side, so that Tam’s eyes couldn’t see her own. Qui moved until their bodies curved against each other. “Did you like him?” she asked, her voice calm even while her thoughts spiraled into the darkest of places.
Tam stroked Dung’s hair, wondering about the world with all of the happy children. She’d heard about this world so many times, and was ready for its beautiful rivers, its countless gardens. She was tired. She wanted to see her father again and to walk near the ocean. She wanted to listen to him laugh as she told him the story about the small fish.
Hearing Qui cry quietly behind her, Tam handed her Dung. “She’ll sleep with you, Little Bird. She loves you . . . just as much as I do.”
“She does?”
“I told her how you . . . carry me on your back. How you take me places. She said you must love me very much . . . to do that.”
“I do. You know I do.”
Tam edged even closer against Qui. “Maybe in the new world . . . I’ll carry you.”
“Really?”
“I’ll try.”
“Will you . . . will you promise me to do that, my sweet Tam?”
“Yes.”
“Please . . . promise me that. Please.”
“You can ride on my back. Dung and I will take you everywhere.”
Qui subdued a sob, pressing her face into the pillow. “We’ll go there . . . soon. I’ll be right beside you. And then you . . . you’ll carry me. And we’ll see such beautiful things together.”
“Like what?”
“Like mountains. And dragons. And a sun that doesn’t set.”
“I’ll carry you, Little Bird. You’ll never have to walk.”
Qui kissed the back of Tam’s head. “We won’t ever leave each other.” She wiped a tear from her cheek. And though she’d cursed Buddha just a few minutes earlier, she found herself praying once again, praying that Tam would carry her in the new world, that Tam’s feet would barely strike the ground. “Would you like me to tell you a story?” she asked, rallying her strength, kissing Tam again.
“Yes.”
“About what, my sweet child?”
“About a beautiful place . . . that I’ll carry you to. Could you please tell me . . . about that? About a place we’ll see together?”
ELEVEN
A Time for Offerings
On the center’s roof, the day began like most any other. Geckos sat still until insects moved before them. Patches of black mold and green lichen clung to exposed concrete, glistening with dew. Spiders the size of skipping stones hid in cracks and nooks, aware that birds might drop from the sky. In small puddles, mosquito larvae twisted and grew. The rooftop was its own ecosystem, having been practically untouched for many years.
Yet on this morning the rooftop had changed. Qui, Tam, Thien, Iris, and Noah sat on a tarp that Thien had spread out to create a picnic area on the roof. The tarp was covered with a red tablecloth, several bouquets of tropical flowers, and platters bearing fruits and Chinese dumplings. At the edges of the tarp, Thien had arranged a variety of pillows upon which people now sat. She had placed the tarp so that Tam could rest with her back against the short wall that rose above the edge of the roof. By positioning pillows all around Tam’s spot, Thien had made a couch of sorts.
As the residents of the center ate together, Iris tried to hide her sorrow. The previous night, upon Qui informing her of the doctor’s prognosis, Iris had gone to her computer and started researching childhood leukemia. While Noah had also searched on the computer beside her, she’d visited dozens of medical sites and support groups, looking for possible cures to such a late-stage diagnosis. What she’d found, or didn’t find, had left her in tears. Unless the blood work revealed some sort of miracle, Tam was going to die.
Nev
er had Iris felt as helpless and frustrated as she did now. She didn’t understand how humanity could put a man on the moon and could split the atom, but couldn’t solve the horrors of cancer. She was angered that billion-dollar sports stadiums existed when children like Tam were dying all over the world. The priorities of her fellow citizens made her question the sanity of her own species. How, she asked herself, could people own yachts and planes and five-carat rings while Tam was living and dying on the street?
Aware that Tam’s eyes had drifted to her, Iris made herself smile. “Do you like it up here?”
Tam nodded. “It beautiful. I lucky to be here.”
“We’re lucky to have you,” Iris replied, nibbling on a slice of star fruit. “You’re our first student, Tam. And that’s very special.”
Thien stood up and reached for her Polaroid. “We should have a picture, Miss Iris,” she said. “A picture for our wall. Of the three of you and our first student.”
“Of me?” Tam asked, surprised.
“You’re the star,” Iris said, moving beside Tam, as did Qui and Noah.
Thien waited until Tam lifted up her doll so that Dung would also be in the photo. “Now smile,” Thien said, raising the camera’s viewfinder to her eye. “Smile like you are listening to Mr. Noah sing.”
“Hey,” Noah said, aware that Thien was trying to infuse the moment with a happiness that didn’t exist. “My voice isn’t so bad.”
“Oh, really? Then maybe you could sing us a song? Stand up and dance and sing us a song?”
Tam grinned at the thought of Mr. Noah dancing, and as she did, Thien took a photo. A square white sheet rolled out of her camera and she held it carefully, waving it in the air. “I think Tam does not believe you, Mr. Noah,” she said, smiling. “I think she believes that elephants could fly better than you could dance and sing.”
“For sure,” Tam said, still grinning.