The Unwanted

by Kien Nguyen

  We entered our house through the back door. Dropping her sacks in the kitchen, my mother pulled a reed mat from her room and laid it in front of my dirty feet. From the doorway, my room seemed larger than usual. The armoire, the chest of drawers, and our beds had disappeared.

  As if to answer my thought, my mother said, “I had to raise money to bribe the officials for your release, so I sold everything.”

  The rest of my family, seated in my grandfather's bedroom, didn't hear us come in because of the loud rain. The house was gloomy, with little light penetrating the windows. My grandfather, stretched on his mattress, seemed lost in his Buddha's scriptures. A pipe hung forgotten at a corner of his mouth.

  His bed frame and my uncle's altar were also gone, leaving a faded imprint on the gray cement. The room was bare, except for some of my grandmother's belongings. On her pillow lay the copper mortar and pestle she used to grind betel nuts with, and next to it was a basket of her garments.

  With his back turned to us, my brother was giving my grandfather a foot massage. A few paces away, my sister played with Lou, who was curled up beside her pillow. While one of her tiny hands kept him still by his collar, the other caressed the dog's fur and stroked the folds of his chin.

  Lou was the first to detect our presence. He sprang up from my sister's hold and barked, waving his tail. Jimmy ran toward us, pale from excitement. In the glimmering dimness, his face looked as if it were carved from marble. I embraced him, feeling his body quiver in my arms.

  My grandfather was first stunned, then overcome with happiness. He got up from his bed, reached out his hands, and beckoned for me to come over. “Thank heaven you are saved,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. He shook his head in disbelief. “Come to Grandpa, my poor boy.”

  AS WE SAT DOWN for lunch, my aunt entered the kitchen from the back steps. In just a few months, she had aged ten years. Her face, thin and exhausted, appeared starker than usual. Even her hair, once long and thick, was now as lifeless and dull as a mane of horsehair. She narrowed her eyes, which were swollen from crying, and awkwardly said to me, “I am glad that you made it home.” She shifted her eyes to her feet. “Do me a favor, please. My daughter wants to see you.”

  I looked up to my mother, who remained quiet and stared at her bowl of rice. My grandfather patted my shoulder and said, “Go ahead, Kien. Moonlight has been waiting for you. Go and say good-bye to your cousin. Your mother and I will join you in about fifteen minutes.”

  My aunt covered her nose with a handkerchief and blew noisily. Obeying my grandfather's wish, I got up from the floor and followed her.

  The black divan in their den, where Moonlight had spent most of her sick days, had been moved into her room at her request. Fresh lotus blossom and a glass of condensed milk sat on a counter nearby. The light from outside created a ghostly collage of black and white shadows on her heavily made-up face, making her look like a Japanese doll.

  The moment she saw me, Moonlight coughed violently. Her body doubled over in my uncle's arms as she gasped for air, clutching her hands across her chest. Her family, scattered outside her room, watched silently. The attack grew increasingly severe, until she threw up blood onto the divan. Her blouse was also soaked in the thick red liquid, some of which spilled over to the floor below. At last, the cough subsided, and she waved at me.

  I approached her bed. My aunt was standing beside me. I picked up Moonlight's hand and held it in mine, feeling her fingers as cold as ice. Her father instinctively pulled her away from me.

  Moonlight lifted her head. Her lids hung heavily over her dark irises. “You made it home,” she whispered to me. “At last I got to see you. I am running out of time, Kien.”

  I blinked away a tear.

  “Daddy, may I have a private moment with him?” she asked.

  My uncle's bushy eyebrows furrowed tightly over the bridge of his nose.

  Moonlight repeated, “Please, Daddy. It will only take a few minutes.”

  He stood up and said to me, “Sit down. And hold her. If anything happens, just call us. We will be right outside.”

  I sat on the edge of her bed and she leaned back, pressing her shoulder against my chest. Her body was so bony it seemed as fragile as glass. Her lips were lavender as she tried to smile, but instead, a corner of her mouth just shook slightly. A trace of blood slowly oxidized with the air and became a dark brown mark on her pale skin.

  Once we were alone, Moonlight whispered to me, “The postman came this morning, but there's still no letter from Ty Tong.”

  “I am so sorry,” I said.

  “Hey, I've got something for you,” she said.

  I waved my hand. “No, Moonlight. You don't have to give me anything. Just get better.”

  “Trust me, you'll want this,” she said. “But first, help me. I need to lie down.”

  I laid her gently on her bed and stepped back to give her some room. Slowly, she reached inside her pillowcase and fumbled around. When her hand found what she was looking for, she pulled it out and held it protectively inside her palm. A sad smile returned to her face. “I would trade anything just for another day at the beach, swimming in the water and playing in the sun. Do you know the feeling? Of course you don't. Why should you? You can do any of those activities whenever you want. But don't ever take it for granted, Kien. Life is precious.”

  I nodded.

  She looked up at the ceiling to recover herself, and then she continued. “I remember your wish that day at the Spirited Mountain Temple. Your prayer was about your father.”

  “Well,” I said bitterly, “I also prayed for Grandmother's health, but she died. And now, look at you. Miracles don't always happen to poor people, Moonlight.”

  “Please don't lose your faith!” she urged. “At least not in humanity, Kien. I know you are angry, and I know the feeling of being ostracized. Look at me with this disease! People are afraid of getting close to me —” She stopped and gasped for air.

  “You'll get better soon. Just slow down, Moonlight.”

  She shook her head. “It isn't important anymore. I want to apologize to you about my family. I want you to forgive them.”

  I looked away from her fervent face. “I don't know what you are talking about.”

  “Please, forgive them. I am going to tell you an important secret. Promise me that you will apply this knowledge for your own good. Don't use it against my family. You can hate them for what they did to your family, but I don't want another war in this house.”

  I held her hand. “Whatever you want, Moonlight. I promise you.”

  “You must swear by my death bed —”

  I cried and nodded my head. Relieved, she raised her hand and opened her fingers, revealing a small piece of paper. Every crease on its surface had turned dark brown, and the ink was faded. I took it from her hand. It appeared to be part of an envelope, scribbled in some foreign language with my mother's handwriting.

  “What is it, Moonlight?” I asked her.

  She said, “It's your father's address. You can write to him now if you like.”

  “How did you get this?” I stuttered in shock. “All of the letters were buried and lost years ago. We dug the whole lawn upside down to search for it.”

  Moonlight choked in her own fluid. Suddenly, her cheeks turned from pale to pink, then to crimson, but she soon collected herself and took in several deep breaths. My aunt stuck her head in to check, but Moonlight waved her away.

  “I am so sorry, Kien,” she said. “I don't have an explanation for you. Nothing I can say will justify my family's behavior. You know why I couldn't give this to you earlier. For my sake, don't tell anyone, please.”

  I examined the paper in my hand. “Is it really his address? Half of his name is missing.”

  “I know. But that's all I have. I wish you a lot of luck finding your father. And when you do —” She paused.

  “Yes, Moonlight?”

  She sobbed, “Find Ty Tong for me. Tell him my heart is b
roken. Tell him I waited like he asked, but the postman never came.”

  I wiped the tears off her face and kissed her forehead before I withdrew from her room. Her mother pushed the door open and ran inside. My grandfather accompanied me back to my house, lit a candle for the kitchen gods, and then prepared tea. I could hear my aunt's weeping, faintly echoed in the rain.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  That night, after dinner, I helped my mother with the dishes by the well. My aunt's family clustered inside Moonlight's room with a doctor. On the ground next to us, a candle dripped its red, waxy tears onto a bronze dish. Its weak light sputtered in the thick darkness, showing just enough contrast for my mother to see what she was doing. The rain had stopped and the water inside the well was like black ink. Each time I dropped the bucket to scoop up some water, it made a wet sound. As the pail moved upward, pulled by old ropes on squeaking wheels, the noise reverberated like a moan. After filling up the basin, I sat down beside my mother.

  “Mother, can I ask you something?”

  “Sure,” she said.

  “Do you remember anything about my father?”

  She paused. Her long hair covered most of her face, hiding her expression from view. “I remember some,” she said, turning back to the dishes.

  “What is he like?”

  My mother wiped her hands with the rag she kept on her side and looked up. In the dim light, her eyes were as dark and mysterious as the well. “It has been so many years,” she said. “Why do you want to know now?”

  “I don't know,” I said with a shrug. “Just wondering. Everyone has a father. I want to know whether or not mine exists, that's all.”

  “He exists just fine, somewhere in America.”

  “Does he know about me, mother?”

  “Yes, son. You were three months old when he left.”

  “Mom, how did you meet him?”

  My mother stretched her arms upward and moaned softly, complaining about a dull ache she felt on her back. In the shadow of the night, everything around us seemed calm. At the same time, the temperature was dropping. In a soft, whispering voice, as though she were talking to herself, my mother told me her story.

  “I was supposed to get married to a son of your grandfather's friend. In those days, there was no such thing as marrying for love, and matches were prearranged. The night before the wedding, I sneaked out to see the groom's face, with the help of your late uncle, of course. We hid behind a bamboo bush outside his house for two hours before I could get a good look at his face for the first time. Good heavens, was he ugly! I cried like my Daddy had just died. It was awful, the thought of living with that man for the rest of my life. So, that same night your uncle, barely your age then, took me to the bus station and sent me off to Saigon.”

  “Mother, weren't you afraid?”

  “Afraid? I was terrified, but I was also determined. Your grandfather was so mad, he beat the tar out of your uncle, and then went to Saigon to look for me. By the time he got there, I had a job in a jewelry store working as a hand model. I refused to go home, so your grandfather had to apologize to the groom's family and call off the wedding. It was a real scandal, and I was lucky that he didn't disown me for what I did. Then, a couple of months later, the Americans came to Vietnam. Everybody in the south took English classes so that they could get a better job working for the foreigners and getting paid in dollars instead of dong. I was inspired by their sophisticated culture, so I went back to night school and learned English. I met your father in Saigon, through an ad in a newspaper. Your daddy was looking for a translator, so I came for an interview and ended up spending the night. He was tall, dark, and handsome—just like a movie star. He swept me off my feet. You know the rest of the story. We moved back to Nhatrang and I got pregnant. The following year I gave birth to you.”

  In front of us, the dishes had been washed, dried and stacked on a tray. She went on, her voice low and mournful. “Three months after you were born, he left Vietnam. Your father was very upset that he had to leave you behind. In fact, he offered to take you with him, but I refused. You have a good father, Kien, just like everybody else. And for the short time that he was here with us, he loved you very much.”

  “What's his name?”

  My mother sucked in a deep breath. “I don't remember.”

  “How could you not? You were living with him.”

  “He was my boss,” she explained. “I called him by his last name like everybody else in the company, Mr. Russo this, Mr. Russo that. Have you any idea how many years ago that was? I am forced to forget about these things.”

  “I bet my father would remember your name,” I said sarcastically.

  My mother burst out laughing. “I seriously doubt that. He never knew my real name. He used to call me Nancy Kwan. Names weren't important to us. It was the sixties, for god's sake.”

  “Do you believe that he thinks about us sometimes?” I asked.

  “Sure he does.”

  “Does he still want me?”

  My mother furrowed her eyebrows. “I don't know, son. But if I were he, I certainly would. Any parent would be proud of you, Kien. You are a good son.”

  I got up and touched her hair gently. “Thanks, Mother.”

  THAT EVENING, after everybody else had gone to bed, I got up and poured some oil into the old lantern. On my new bed, which was made out of discarded rice sacks Tin had brought back from his company, I drafted a letter to my father. Even with the help of an English-Vietnamese dictionary, and with my limited knowledge of English grammar that I learned in school, the foreign language was more difficult than I had imagined. Under the dim light, I struggled to convey what I wanted him to know, wondering whether or not he would understand.

  Dear Mr. Russo,

  I am your son from Vietnam. You don't know me yet. My name is Kien Nguyen, and I am fourteen years old. I was born May 12 , 1967. You left Nhatrang, Vietnam on August, same year.

  It was an exciting time this morning when I found your address. I have looked for you many years before. I think, of you everyday and I want to meet you.

  Please take me to America. I have nothing to live for in Vietnam. I am always hungry, and unhappy. I don't have new clothes, or blanket. I am sleeping on two rice sacks because I have no bed. After many rains, lots of mosquitoes around, and the weather get very cold at night. You may remember about that since you lived here before.

  Please write. I want to hear from you. I can't send you any picture, because I don't have yet. Nancy Kwan says hello to you. She also said you love me, and you will take care of me. I want very much for her to be right.

  Your son,

  Kien Nguyen

  I read the letter over and over again, trying to correct as many mistakes as I could before I put it in an envelope. Then, exhausted from my euphoria and hope, I fell asleep holding the letter close to my chest.

  The next morning, I woke up early. I jumped out of bed, intending to show Moonlight the letter. On my way to my aunt's house, my mother stopped me at the kitchen. She was holding a pair of wooden chopsticks. Behind her, a pan of fried rice sizzled over the kiln. From inside my aunt's house, someone struck a gong three times and the sound echoed through the morning air. Monks in yellow robes appeared at her front steps between the rose bushes. “Where are you going?” my mother asked. “I am going to see Moonlight.”

  “Don't! Please stay here,” she said sadly. “Moonlight passed away last night. Do not disturb her family.”

  I staggered to sit down, dizzy and numb from the news. Outside, white clouds and beautiful morning sun had replaced the rain. Lights sparkled on the soggy ground as if to announce summer was here at last.

  Sometime later, I got up from the floor and stepped out of the kitchen. Sitting at my aunt's dinner table, my grandfather seemed lost in thought. In front of him, a cup of tea was left untouched. In the garden, my uncle, with the help of the monks, released the latch on his birdcage and let go about a hundred sparrows. Their wings flut
tered under the bright sun before they disappeared from sight. Outside Moonlight's room, my aunt collapsed on the floor, hitting her head against the cement threshold in frustration. Her wail was bloodcurdling and painful as her daughters huddled next to her. The moment she saw my face, my aunt stopped crying, got up and lunged at me. “I want to know what she said to you last night,” she said. “Who?” I lied. “I don't know what you are talking about.” “My daughter, Moonlight,” she pressed. “What sorts of things did she tell you last night?”

  “I can't tell you, Auntie,” I stammered. “It's confidential.” “Why not?” she wailed. “I am her mother. Tell me.” “I can't. I promised her. Besides, it isn't important anymore.” The anger crept back in her eyes, and Pink pulled her away from me. “Not important?” my aunt cried. “How dare you? She hung on for weeks, waiting for your return so that she could tell you something. How dare you not confide in me what my daughter said?” I shook my head and ran away.

  IN THE GARDEN, I encountered Mr. Qui Ba on his way to my aunt's kitchen.

  “Hey, congratulations,” he said. “You are back.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Great, I got news for you. I talked to your dean the other day. He wanted me to tell you to enjoy the summer. Next semester you can go back to school. There will be no penalty after the faculty has evaluated your conduct.”

  “Thank you, sir.” I looked at his face. “Or should I ask my mother to thank you for me?”

  His smile disappeared. “You ungrateful mongrel,” he snapped. “Your mother is a nobody. Who do you think she is, Queen of Sheba? And you, stay away from my daughter. She is out of your league. You are a smart boy—don't make me one of your enemies, son.”

  “If not because of my mother, why would you help me?”

  He waved his hand. “Get out of here. I am sick of you.”

  I walked past him and headed to the post office to mail my father the letter.

  THREE MONTHS LATER, one Saturday morning, the postman came looking for me. He handed me an envelope, which I recognized immediately. The letter had returned to me unopened, after traveling around the world. A red stamp slashed across my father's address, accompanied by the words, “Return to sender, address unknown.”