I didn’t think it was possible, but I feel sicker than I did just a minute ago. I’m clutching the phone so hard the veins on my hand pop. I pace, fast. Montana is telling HIM what a great idea my trip is, as if she could last a day here. She’s babbling, meaning she’s nervous. We have that sad trait in common.
“Talk to her, talk to Mia,” she keeps saying, like she’s in sales. Her breathing gets louder. She must be running after HIM.
“Hey.”
I stop pacing, knowing that “hey” well. There’s no mistaking the speaker.
“Hey,” I manage. That came out dry and pained, as if an army of ants were crawling down my throat.
“What’s it like there?” HIS first sentence directed at me, ever. What a beautiful sentence.
“Hot.” Have the ants eaten all my words? The mosquitoes sure are. Jiggle, jiggle.
“Here too. We’re in the middle . . .”
I hear scratchy noises, then we’re cut off. Why, why, why? HE was talking to me. And I was getting ready to talk back. I redial and get voice mail. I call again. Voice mail. I text. Wait. No response. Being across the world sucks.
How can a conversation lasting 2 minutes, 12.8 seconds leave me this jittery? What just happened?
HE and I exchanged words. Excellent.
HE was trying to walk away from Montana. Good.
Montana was nervous, that means she’s plotting for HIS attention. Dangerous.
Hadley likes HIM, that means Montana will try even harder. Dire.
Montana didn’t ask one question about my trip or say that she misses me. Rude.
If only I could confide in Montana and get her to fish around for HIS feelings for me, but that’s never going to happen. Depressing.
So many emotions are crashing into one another that my whole body hurts. I run into the house. Things will clear up when I’m rested and energized. They have to, right?
CHAPTER 10
Tense voices wake me up. Bà’s and a man’s. Not Ông’s Brother. Definitely not Anh Minh. Not Dad’s. I wish. OMG, it’s our detective.
I scramble out of the net, which is harder to do than you’d think, and run into the front room. He’s here, as leathery and wordy as ever. I’ve only marked four days off my Trip of Torment calendar. This man is a genius. I will be at the beach blocking HIM from Montana’s butt bow very soon, la la la. Then I look around. Wait, where’s the guard?
I look at Bà with a desperate expression that surely conveys, “Where’s the guard?” but Bà just frowns.
“Please forgive my granddaughter, she has not awakened enough to employ her manners,” Bà says to him. To me, “Your clothes?”
As if her pajama-ish matching silk set looks that different from my real pajamas matching silk set. But I obviously do not possess the magical powers to tell loose day wear from loose night wear. I go change, returning in proper mosquito-bait capris. Bà shakes her head just the slightest bit. I get it. Go outside, away from adult conversation.
Not to worry, I have major spying skills. They’re talking in the front room, so by squatting outside under the open window I can hear everything. I used chopsticks to place a rotting banana under the window. In position, plastic bag in hand, I can always say I’m catching fruit flies for you-know-who.
I only understand Bà’s part of the conversation. When the detective talks, his words float away then pop like bubbles. He, unfortunately, does most of the talking. I have to bounce while squatting to keep my legs from going to sleep. I do realize how weird I look.
“You have located the guard in Hà Nội? Why isn’t he here?”
Pop, pop, pop.
“I will not go to him. I need rest. He held my husband captive; he must come to me to release his past.”
Pop, pop, pop.
“This man is pointing at the sun when the answer resides at his feet. No one will think he is profiting from the war. Every detail, every drop, means . . .”
More pops. Ugh!
“Tell him I’ve waited through the war, through the maturity of seven children, through a foreign world, waited for the day when someone can reveal how my husband absorbed the air without his family beside him. Tell him we will not talk of war. It simply was. Better yet, tell him I want to listen, no more.”
The detective takes a long breath, as if to slow down his whole being. “I will explain your story again.”
Wow, I understand him! He is capable of normal talk. Maybe Bà should numb him more often with the facts of her life. But where’s the guard? That’s the question I want the answer to.
“Miss, what are you doin’?”
I jump and wham my head under the half-open shutter. Double OOOWWWW! My translator is the coolest ever, but I could use some alone time, thank you. He’s going to ask why don’t I use the bathroom instead of squatting and bouncing. If I ran into me right now, I would ask exactly that. Quickly, I hold up my pathetic bag imprisoning three fruit flies. Those tiny things rarely need to land.
“Surely, you are not goin’ to all this trouble for Frog? He is so enormous we are all fearful he will have a heart attack. Can you imagine the catastrophic response from Miss Út?”
I make a big show of standing up and releasing the captured three, for the sake of obese pets everywhere.
Now Bà and the detective are in front of the house. I oh-so-casually ease my way over there. Sly, that’s me.
Bà nods and heads inside. I smile really big at the detective, pretending mega interest so I can find out the deal with the guard.
“Chào Anh,” I say, and bow toward the detective, so proud I can greet him all by myself.
Anh Minh laughs. “Miss, he is your grandfather’s age so you must address him as Ông.”
“I thought my Ông is called Ông.”
“When you say ‘Ông’ alone everyone knows you mean your grandfather. But when you address someone of the same generation you must say Ông plus the man’s first name.”
The detective clutches my hand and says, “Ông Ba nắm chặt tay con, dù cho chiến-tranh đã chia rẽ nhiều người, dù rằng nhiều tim đã thành miểng đá, Ông Ba từ lâu đã quyết-định rằng. . . .”
What is he saying about my grandparents?
My translator steps in. “His name is Ông Ba. Ba means three, thus he ranks as the third son in his family. Different from Ông Bà where your tone goes downward for Bà.”
I must look confused because Anh Minh repeats, “Ông Ba,” pointing at the detective and “Ông Bà,” pointing at Bà inside the house. I DO NOT HEAR ANY DIFFERENCE!
Anh Minh just won’t stop. “Ba, Bà, as distinctive as saying choose chose.”
Show-off! I shoot him my famous laser-death stare.
“If you allow me, miss, I would like to teach you the diacritical marks. Once you know how to pronounce them, and there are only nine for the twelve main vowels and the various ways to combine them, you will know how to say every word perfectly because the beauty of Vietnamese stems from every word bein’ spelled exactly the way it sounds. You will never mispronounce like a foreigner again.”
“I sound like a foreigner?”
“Uh, not . . . hum, barely . . .”
Just then Ông Bà, I mean Ông Ba, oh forget it, I’ll just go right back to calling him “the detective,” opens his mouth and releases ribbons of bubbles.
Anh Minh listens so intently veins start pulsating at his temples. “Miss, I apologize but I cannot fully translate his true words. They are beyond my humble English. Not to worry, I will persevere.”
That said, Anh Minh whips out a notebook and pen from his back pocket and takes notes. Of course the international scholar would have a notebook and pen ready. I bet he has a calculator on him too. On second thought, he probably calculates everything in his head. Seeing the notebook, the wordy, leathery one lets it all pop. Anh Minh looks like he’s listening to a love song, scribbling, scribbling. They deserve each other.
I might as well go inside.
&nb
sp; Bà is sitting by the window, eating cháo, a hot rice porridge, this one cooked with catfish and dill, Bà’s favorite breakfast. A covered bowl waits for me. Cháo, not to be confused with chào, meaning hello, is starting to be my favorite too, light and savory. I’m jiggling my legs to keep away you-know-what. Bà wants to laugh but she’s always too polite.
Of course Bà would never worry about the buzzers craving her blood, pure and bland from decades of greens and grains. Anh Minh told me mosquitoes here love overseas visitors, whose blood is loaded with sugar. He said it like that’s a universal fact. True, mine has been doused with Hawaiian bread and cereal and corn chips and just plain corn, all of which you wouldn’t think have tons of sugar, but according to Mom, eating them is like spooning white sugar straight into your mouth. Well, I haven’t been eating any invisible sugars here (I don’t think), but the mosquitoes still adore me. How long before my blood turns salty?
I’m fitting Vietnamese words together to ask about the guard, but it’s taking forever because I can only speak like thirty words. My listening brain and my speaking brain do not like to share.
Bà notices, of course. She pats my hand and gives me that smile, the one that says she would give me the world if she could.
“Con khổ.” I’m suffering, I tell her. “Không chịu được,” can’t bear it.
Bà takes my hand. “Shsss, không sao,” not to worry. She’s said it a million times, and each time I do feel better. “When you can complain out loud, I know you’re still strong. When your pain has advanced beyond lament, when it’s unbearable to hear your own story, that’s when I know to truly worry. Though hidden in silence, your pain would still surface on your breaths, your eyes, your pores. I will know. Take long inhales, my child, you are more bendable than you realize.”
I have no idea if I’m bendable or not, I just want to go home. “Muốn về,” want home, I finally say it out loud. She nods the saddest nod.
“I know friends build your world at this age, you must miss them so. My child, lend me a bit more of your time. I am overjoyed you are by my side. Yet if my asking equals suffering, we have the option of contacting your father to begin arrangements to release you of your obligation.”
I shrivel to a speck of dust. What kind of a granddaughter would I be if I zip home when this is the only task Bà has ever asked of me? To load on the guilt, she looks anguished, truly anguished, for my pain.
“Không sao,” no worries, I hear myself say. I don’t quite believe it, but Bà has always been able to soothe me with these two words. “Không sao,” I say again, more for her than for me. The words work their magic because her cheekbones pump up into the bottom of her eyes.
“Chờ được không?” Can you wait? she asks.
I make myself nod yes, before honesty takes over.
We eat in silence. I chant “không sao” to myself over and over. Perhaps after a while, I will wholeheartedly believe it’ll be all right to wait. What can I do but wait? Things will happen in Laguna whether I stress or not. I wish I could force myself to stop thinking about HIM or Montana or the beach until I’m actually home. I hate waiting. Who wouldn’t? Especially when I have no idea how long the wait is. Is it still around two weeks? The detective coming here, twisty-browed and whispery, cannot be a good sign. That’s the worst part, not knowing. I don’t even know how to find out because I bet nobody knows. The only person who can wait for decades in absolute stillness is Bà.
She pushes her bowl away and asks if I’d like a story. When I was little, she’d tell me a story when I was sad. I’ve always loved her stories, even if they’re sadder than anything I could be feeling. I love the way she pulls words into a tight embrace.
“They came in white uniforms, the same crisp pants and hard-brimmed hat that Ông had always worn. The men came and stood hats in hands, eyes in the distance. They had to wrestle words from clogged throats. I heard clearly: ‘is now recorded as missing in action.’
“That day was the tenth in April, year of the horse 1966.
“Later, when we fled war and country, I needed a birth day and month to request refuge. Your father and aunts and uncles knew their dates of birth, having grown up when the world tilted toward the West. I had remained planted in the East where the lunar year and the exact hour of entrance into this world marked a person’s fate.
“No one could enter the United States without a date of birth, a space for that was reserved on every single form. There were endless forms. I was not the only one to stare at the blank spaces. Someone advised us to choose a date readily remembered.
“The tenth day in each April.
“The date stabbed me every time I was required to record it. This guaranteed continued remembrance. I didn’t choose the last day I saw him. That day remains solely mine.
“I had reached out, just as Ông was leaving, to align the rim of his straw hat. He was not in uniform that day but dressed as a casual traveler. As if a change of clothes could camouflage fate. That day he went on a mission on Route 1, straight toward the claws of the Communists.
“When I reached out I might have grazed my palm against his cheek. Our last touch. I’m no longer certain if we indeed met skin to skin those many years ago, and despite the years I have not been able to release the possibility.
“I did not borrow a date of birth from your father or his siblings. Seven of them. Whose date would be best? To confess, the exact birth day and month of each child have never attached to my memories, though the year and hour of each have long become a part of my breaths.
“Ông named each child after the closing line he wrote in every letter home. Written in the years when he was in a French school while I was being tutored at home. In the years before the Việt Minh turned its head and revealed the tail of the Việt Cộng while I was a youthful mother. In the year when the navy trained him in San Di-e-go while I managed our house and brood.
“Always his letters closed with Mong Nhớ Em Ðếm Từng Hạt Mưa. This line was written in his very first letter home in the voice of a lonely boy sent to the city, a boy who stared at the spring rain as he longed for his bride-in-waiting.
“The names embarrassed our children, your father especially. How could we have named a boy after drops the shape of tears, he argued? I had offered alternatives after each birth, but Ông clung to these names like roots to the earth. He wanted to look at his children and be struck by the core of his feelings in our times apart.”
I’ve always laughed at the names of Ông Bà’s children. Mong Nhớ Em Ðếm Từng Hạt Mưa means Longing Missing You Counting Each Drop of Rain. C’mon, who names their children after a sappy line in a letter? It’s romantic and all, but death on playgrounds. It’s even worse when attached to a title. Uncle Longing. Uncle Missing. Aunt You. Aunt Counting. Aunt Each. Uncle Drop. Daddy Rain.
Not that Montana’s parents did much better. Montana has an older sister named Wyoming. That was when their dad was into the wild, wild West and bought a horse ranch. A movie producer, he then figured out he didn’t know anything about and didn’t care for horses. Montana said he switched interest to his assistant, and they had a baby boy named People. For real, People. So Montana’s mom moved to Laguna and bought the grandest house she could find.
When I’m furious with Daddy Rain, I call him Thunder, Cloud, Typhoon, Monsoon. But just in my head. Dad has no sense of humor about this. When he got to the United States, Dad tried going by Rain, but that led to many problems among middle schoolers. So he came up with Ray, which has no connection to his given name but gave him some peace. At home, though, he has always been Mưa.
CHAPTER 11
Everything is still in shadows, and the really loud rooster next door hasn’t even started crowing yet, but I might as well get up. It doesn’t help that a constant seesawing snore blasts from the back room. The detective is staying over because he and Bà talked late into the night. All that talking and I know nothing more. If it had been my choice, I would have shooe
d him out the door to go do his job. But I have very little say in life right now.
All yesterday the detective ignored me and catered to Bà, who asked me to wait. I’ve been waiting! Dad sent word through Mom that a patient has had extreme complications and he can’t return to sort out the problem with the guard for a while. How long is “for a while”? Mom texted this news because she was in court and couldn’t talk. I dutifully texted her back saying the phone part isn’t working, but texting is fine. By texting, I can ignore her questions about a “friend.” Just imagining talking to Mom about HIM turns my stomach into a wave pool. In return, Mom ignored how I ended each text with “I wnt 2 go hme.” Texting, though, didn’t prevent her from leaving exasperated voice messages. I get that she’s worried, but I can’t talk to her. Not yet.
I’m forever creating possibilities in my crazed mind. One, Montana and HE somehow are together, and that will end my obsession. I’m not going to keep liking someone who goes for Montana. Two, they are not together, so I maneuver a way to find out how HE feels about me, but this will encourage Montana if she knows I like HIM. OMG, this one topic has ballooned in my mind for months and I’m right back to square one? I’m starting to bore myself, although I’m still really interested.
I force myself to get up.
I step onto the porch in Bà’s pajamas and socks. Whoa, it’s actually cool out. Not beach breezes but for once the air is not nibbling at my skin like thousands of miniature insects. Shadows are moving about. A hint of morning comes from the east, from California.
I love Laguna in June. That’s when we get this marine layer that covers the air in a gray, cool fog all morning. Montana hates it, saying all that grayness is depressing. Oh, but the air is so cool it’s like standing in water while keeping dry. I made a habit of getting up really early and sitting on the back porch, soaking up the fog until it burned off. If I was lucky, the fog wouldn’t lift at all and I would float among gray clouds all day.