“You did not perform your duty,” Bà says in an iron voice that is not hers.
“I had not the strength to force him,” the guard pleads. He’s not angry, just panicky like the rest of us.
“You should have dragged him back down, forced him if you must.” Bà’s iron voice has shifted into a choke. She walks away. I should follow but I’m supposed to be on the plank. What if she slaps me too? First, she wants to make sure the guard did not hurt Ông, then she wants the guard to use force if needed. Nothing makes sense in a war.
“We never found his body, by the pond or anywhere,” the guard calls after her. “He wrote you a message.”
OMG, that’s huge! But Bà keeps walking toward Ông’s ancestral home and no one dares to stop her. Did she hear the guard? This makes coming to Vietnam almost worthwhile. Why won’t Bà listen to the best part?
“Let me have the letter,” the detective demands. He stands up, face rigid. In this kind of emergency, even he omits the poetic nonsense. Thank you!
“It’s not a letter that I can carry,” the guard says. “She has to come see it.”
“The letter, now! I have no more patience.”
“If you bring her south, I will take her to see it.”
Just like Bà, the guard stands up and walks out of the village. Why did he hide the message in the South? Is the message a letter?
The detective releases swirls after swirls of words and gestures, but the guard keeps walking and shaking his head. The detective looks ready to chase and tackle him. But in a contest between two equally leathery men, the younger one will always be able to flick off the older. Even the detective knows this and slumps down on his stool.
If the detective is defeated, this know-everything, been-all-over man, then what can the rest of us do? Everyone starts shouting and running and I hurry back to the torturous plank. With this many people on edge, I’m not about to add to the tension.
CHAPTER 21
By late afternoon:
Bà has shut herself in the blue goddess room.
The guard, whose name I’ve finally learned is Thượng and I’m to address him as Bác, meaning he’s younger than Ông but older than Dad, has disappeared. I can twist my tongue and intestines into several pretzels and still not be able to say Bác Thượng, so I shall continue to refer to him as “the guard.”
The detective is frantic, dropping things, running here and there, emailing Dad, shouting into his cell. Yep, the oldest man ever has a cell. Finally, he leaves too.
Cô Hạnh tries to get everyone to sip tea and eat soup, two acts meant to bring about peace and harmony, and failing at both, she goes to give herself a facial.
Út and Froggy retreat to the pond.
Anh Minh has been sent on errands.
That means no one is watching me.
I’m about to report these monumental events to Mom when I realize I left my cell in Ông’s Brother’s house. A good thing, otherwise the cell would be at the bottom of the pond. But if I’m to have energy to text later, I’ve got to eat. Seriously, I can feel my cheeks sinking in, even the one recently swollen and still bruised.
I fumble my way to the phở stand in the open market. It smells like safety: salty beef broth, sturdy white noodles, sprigs of basil, wedges of lime. I realize I must look pathetic, bruised and pale, standing there swallowing spit. But I can’t force my feet to step away. It’s the end of the market day and the sun has weakened. Thank goodness few people are around. The phở stand owner waves me over.
“What does your stomach tell you? Can you eat?” Of course she knows about my troubles. No one has secrets in Vietnam.
I nod so eagerly my head wobbles like a dashboard doll.
“Eat just noodles and broth, all right? Let’s listen to what your stomach does with that.”
They are just rice noodles and beef broth, but they are the best rice noodles and beef broth ever. My stomach shreds every bit and demands more. But I have no money. My face tells her. The seller pats me on the shoulders and say, “It’s only the bottom of the pot. Go on home.”
“Cảm ơn,” thank you. “Con qua ngày mai,” I come here tomorrow. I mean to say I will pay her tomorrow, but those are the words I know and they will have to do. But four words in a row! I’m getting less Tarzan-ish.
Two girls I recognize from the sewing party walk up, smiling. From their ability to not pick and wiggle, I can tell they know about my talk with Anh Minh and have rid themselves of their thongs.
Without saying anything, they escort me all the way to the cement front yard at Ông Brother’s house. There, I step on something: the detective’s notebook. Can I be this lucky? The powdery cover has very little leather left, but the pages somehow hold together. The girls think nothing of this find and leave. I hear their flip-flops disappear into the dusk and know I have minutes before an army bearing minuscule swords will start hunting. So what if I could sorta maybe pass for a real Vietnamese in my pajama-ish set, I won’t fool the buzzers.
Inside, under a dangling bulb, I flip through inky, tiny handwriting dating from 1975 to now. The detective must be turning his stomach inside out looking for his beloved notebook. I’m so mad at myself for not learning to read Vietnamese. When I get back, I’m going to go to school in Little Saigon. Yes, my parents always nagged me. Yes, I always fought them because each class lasts all Saturday. Track meets that day, and HE is on the boy’s team, and . . . you know. Track, though, doesn’t last all year.
I crawl inside the mosquito net, arrange the pillows just so. Bà’s awake, chanting. When I was little, I used to fall asleep every night to that murmur and the comfort of Tiger Balm and BenGay. I hadn’t known how much I missed her until this summer.
“If only I could retrieve the force in my palm.”
I hold Bà’s hand. “Không sao,” no worries, I say, using Bà’s constant phrase. Maybe it’ll soothe her too.
“In listening, my intestines wrung themselves until I thought they would tear. Imagine Ông coughing and starving, without even a pair of sandals. The guard did not say but I heard between his words that Ông was too weak to have survived even if he had dragged himself back under. I understand Ông’s yearning for real air in possibly the last hours of his life, but I was thinking of us. I should not have punished the person who told me what my entire being refused to hear.”
“Không thấy người.” Not see person is what I say to mean they didn’t find his body. Bà understands and sits up.
“How do you know?”
I repeat what the guard said, dramatizing with hand gestures and facial expressions. Bà looks so hopeful and sad and determined.
“Maybe a villager pulled Ông inside his hut, maybe they cared for him or took him to a hospital, maybe he was granted a full stomach, maybe they bandaged his feet. Maybe someone cared for him in our absence.”
Bà sounds strangely hopeful.
“Ông sống?” Ông alive?
Bà whispers her frequent word, “Maybe.”
“Làm gì?” What to do?
“I need to apologize to the guard, maybe . . .”
When I was little, Bà would whisper all kinds of maybes to herself when she thought I was asleep. I remember now. I used to sneak in and sleep with her way past kindergarten, up to third grade even. Deep in the night, I’d hear murmurs of maybe Ông escaped, maybe Ông lost his memory but was healthy and happy, maybe Ông was stuck in a place where no one knew the war had ended, maybe Ông was thinking of us right now.
I listened, even when I couldn’t hear every word because some remained in her throat. No matter how I listened, though, I never knew how she would ever come to a point where she’d no longer need the maybes.
Bà squeezes my hand. “Tell the guard to bring me the letter. I will listen this time. I shall ready my mind to accept that what he knows equates to all we shall ever know and that the time has come to go home.”
“Không thư,” meaning there might not be a letter but some other mess
age.
But Bà isn’t listening.
Why, why, why do I have such a big mouth? Why couldn’t I just keep secret what the guard said, then leave it to the detective to solve everything? We could be going home. Whatever Ông wrote in the South, the detective can bring it to Laguna. He’d like Little Saigon, where signs are in Vietnamese, and the food is so good he’d plump up in no time.
So we’re back to waiting for the detective to return with the guard. NO! I’m not sitting around and waiting for our stressed-out, wordy detective to do his one little job. What if he doesn’t appear for weeks and weeks? I will get Út to help. We will think of something.
CHAPTER 22
Bà did not sleep all night and neither did I. The more hours Bà had to think about Ông in the tunnel, by the pond, aching for a sweet potato, dragging himself on rotten feet, the more she lay immobile and sighed.
I sat up and tried to comfort her with foot rubs and cold tea then realized she only wanted me to massage Tiger Balm into her temples. That got us through the night. Now at breakfast time, Bà still shows no sign of wanting tea or cháo. Of course, I’m starving but playing nice. Út must have brought the basket and left, having been told to not bother Bà or fire up the charcoal stove. The entire village is keeping its distance, giving Bà time to regain her composure.
Such is my life: when I need maybe-relatives to help cheer up Bà, they vanish; when I ached to be alone after the most embarrassing bathroom trip ever, they sardined me.
Bà lies so still that once in a while I have to put my ear next to her mouth to listen for her breaths. That does it, I’m calling Mom.
Ugh, she’s not picking up. My message: “emergency. now. help.” Surely, that will get her attention.
Within fifteen minutes my phone rings. I jump out of the net, out of hearing range.
Mom gets words out first. “I’ve got a tough cross-examination, what’s the matter? Are you okay? Is Bà? I have to go back in five,” Mom whispers, which means she’s in the hall peeking into the courtroom. I can see her: gray suit, slick hair, perfectly poised, even if she’s exhausted at the end of a trying court day.
“Ông left Bà a letter, and the guard said only Dad can go get it, so Dad must come back right now, like right now.”
So I have a habit of exaggerating. But in my logical universe the person who’s actually here to endure the stress with Bà gets to relay the facts however she wants.
“Now, now, let’s not get carried away. I already talked to the detective and I’ve hired three scouts to find Dad and drag him back to you.”
Why do I have a mom who knows everything?
“It’s so not fair. I can’t handle this much stuff happening. The guard has disappeared again and I swear every one of my fingerprints has burned off after all that Tiger Balming, and Bà is only taking little baby breaths. Who knows if she’s getting enough oxygen? I detest waiting and what if Bà cries and you know I’m only twelve and this is so Dad’s problem, not mine.”
“Mai, honey. Breathe. I will find Dad; he will come back. But the truth is no one knows what to do. You being there for Bà means you are doing the best thing for her.”
“But Mom, what if Bà needs something? What if I do something wrong?”
“Listen to me, you are enough. Sit with her, eat with her, tell her stories, take her on walks, most of all, when she’s ready to talk, listen to her. I really have to go, call you later. You’re my brave girl. Miss you, love you.”
So much for Mom’s help. I so don’t want to do this, but like Bà has said so many times, “Cờ đến tay, phải phất.” Flag in hand, must wave it. But I’ve got to eat first, lots. I can’t even wave my index finger right now.
I carry the basket, two bowls and two spoons inside the mosquito net. Not making a big deal of it, I serve myself and Bà and start eating. I chomp and slurp like the detective to inspire hunger in Bà. So far, she’s immune. How can she stand it? The sharp dill, the savory catfish, the burning scallions, the heavy fish sauce. I could eat the whole pot. I’m so over being sick.
Finally, even Bà can’t stand it anymore and stirs, sitting up. She eats half a bowl. That’s not enough sustenance for a two-year-old, but baby steps. Bà sighs and actually smiles at me.
“Shall we take a walk to aid digestion?” She reaches out to pat my head. That’s her way of conveying she’s sorry for keeping me up all night. Life is swinging back in my favor; she’s feeling guilty. I can ask for anything right now. But control, I’m not one to take advantage.
We need to pay the phở merchant, and while there, we might as well eat a bowl or two with extra-hot broth to wilt an abundance of bean sprouts and basil.
I have a bongo belly full of phở, making it hard to stroll, especially because I’ve tucked the decrepit notebook into my waistband. I plan on whipping out the detective’s tiny words and distracting Bà should she get moody. Planning ahead, that’s the new me.
Three bowls of phở floated into me as easily as mango smoothies. Three because portions here are doll-sized to serve a size-zero population. How am I supposed to get beyond lanky in a land where ice cream is made of red beans instead of cream?
We’re walking toward the pagoda, Bà’s idea. Fine by me. In the middle of the village, under the three-hundred-year-old cây đa, people are sitting around, catching the midmorning breeze before going home with the day’s groceries. Cô Hạnh sees Bà and springs into action, scattering instructions while clearing a space on a bench. No doubt a pot of freshly brewed tea and some kind of seasonal, perfectly ripened fruit shall appear.
“Không sao, không sao,” no worries, Bà tells the crowd, which hovers over her every move. I’m realizing “không sao” might be the most spoken phrase in Vietnamese. Everyone reassuring everyone else everything is all right. It’s difficult to be cranky while speaking such a polite and soothing language.
Út is here. I’m so happy I run over and almost hug her but stop myself.
“Phải giúp,” must help, I whisper. “Tìm người canh Ông,” find person guard Ông.
Út looks skeptical.
Then I say the magical words, “Ở Hanoi.”
Út jumps up, whips out her writing pad. “How do you know the man is in Hà Nội?”
So that’s how you spell Hà Nội? Who knew from seeing the name Anglicized.
I hand over the detective’s notebook. As much as he wrote, he must have put the answer in there. Út peers into the detective’s tiny handwriting like they contain diamonds. She’s very happy with me because I actually see her braces. The writing, though, proves too much for her. She marches over to Anh Minh, who’s sorta standing close to Chị Lan, who’s attached to Con Ngọc. Triangles are exhausting but I can’t stop obsessing over them.
While Anh Minh gets to work, brows scrunching, eyes laser sharp, scanning each line with his finger, Út and I examine the romantic dynamic in front of us. My heart is thumpy, happy. Suspense, drama are back in my life.
Út writes in perfect cursive, “If he calls himself Anh and calls my sister Em, our work has done.”
“Huh?”
Út rolls her eyes and writes some more. “That is how he tells her of strong feelings in his heart. If she answers, calling him Anh and herself Em, our work has truly done.”
“I CALL HIM ANH,” I print clear and big, like a laptop would. We’re in secret spy mode, so no whispering in broken Vietnamese.
“For you, ‘anh’ means he is like your older brother. For her, it means a strong heart for him she has.”
“WHAT DO THEY CALL EACH OTHER NOW?”
“Minh and Lan,” Út writes, and gives me a face like, duh!
I could write back, “YOU AND YOUR LANGUAGE ARE SOOOOO ANNOYING,” but I choose to rise above.
“SHOULD I CALL YOU JUST ‘ÚT’?”
“Or ‘mày’ to mean ‘you’ and ‘tao’ to mean ‘me.’”
I stare at her, probably looking dumb, never having seen these words before.
&nb
sp; “‘Mày tao’ is for good friends.”
I really stare at her, shocked. I read it again. She did write “good friends.” She nods. I nod. Mày tao may be the two most beautiful words in Vietnamese.
“Ðây,” here. Anh Minh yells and jabs a spot on the dusty page.
For real, in pencil, finely scripted, sits an address: 28–30 Ðường Ngô Thế Huệ. OMG, we have an address. It’s like the sky opening up.
Út wastes no time. In her notebook she writes, “Follow my lead.”
What?
Suddenly, Út clutches one cheek and screams, so loud, as in crying-screaming.
“Owww! It’s jabbing my cheek. Owww! I’m bleeding.”
Everyone turns white, especially Út’s mom. Út falls to the ground, rolls in the dirt, blending it into the dirt already on her wrinkly T-shirt, and clutches her cheek tighter. Hisses of pain. Are those tears? Her eyes are squeezed too tight for me to tell.
All villagers offer opinions, of course.
“Death of me, she’s green as spring shoots.”
Út screams even louder.
“Blood, did she just spit blood?”
Yes, she did!
“Has she been coughing? Does she have a fever?”
Yes, and no.
“Not so near, she could be contagious.”
Too late for the entire bunch, hovering for a close-up.
“My cousin had malaria once, shaking, shaking, his complexion was green like hers.”
Noooo! Could I be next? Mosquitoes adore me.
“SSHHH, step back!”
Reason has pronounced itself. Cô Hạnh makes everyone take five steps back. I do it right away. She squeezes Út’s mouth, tells her to spit—blood, not a lot at all, but definitely blood—then she pokes an index finger inside Út’s mouth, swivels it around, and nods twice. Poor Út, she will soon be drinking something potent and sludgy.
They get up. She sits Út down on a stool that miraculously appears. No doubt, Cô Hạnh has a great team working with her. Út drinks water, opens her mouth for inspection yet again, and finally Cô Hạnh talks. “A wire from the many that surround her teeth has broken loose and is stabbing her inside cheek. It’s quite dangerous and uncomfortable if left untreated.”