by Aimee Phan
Yen and Michel put on their coats. When Hung started for his coat, Yen told him that he didn’t want his father to slip in the rain.
“Stay with Trinh,” Yen said to his parents. “Look after my wife.”
Émilie went upstairs to check on Petit Michel and Cam, who were playing in his room.
Hung glared at Trinh. “If something happens to Xuan,” he muttered in Vietnamese, “your life is over.”
“If my baby is hurt,” Trinh shouted, “I will take care of that myself.” Pulling herself off the sofa, she grabbed her bags from the floor and stumbled out of the room.
Hoa wanted to wait. There was no need to panic yet. Hung stood by the window, glaring at the mountains. After several distracted attempts at crocheting, she looked up at the clock. Only twenty minutes had passed. So much could happen to a little boy in twenty minutes, let alone the hours that had passed when they hadn’t known their grandson was lost. She turned to look at her husband.
“I told you,” she said, unable to control the shrillness in her voice. “You had to wait until something terrible happened? Well, here it is!”
“Who could have predicted this?” Hung yelled. “If you were so worried, why didn’t you go with them? If this is anyone’s fault, woman, it is yours.”
She couldn’t sit in the same room with the man. Hoa stalked through the kitchen, the dining room, the study, the family room, trying to find areas to clean, but the château’s housekeeper had already gone through the house earlier that day. Hoa scowled when she realized she could still hear Hung muttering to himself in the living room.
What could have happened? Trinh and Xuan never argued with each other like Ngoan and Cam did. When his parents bickered, Xuan was always quick to take his mother’s side, loyal to the parent he’d always known. Whatever happened, Trinh should have been strong enough to control and protect her child. Parents’ wishes held value in their old country, but not here.
Though she didn’t want to, Hoa felt compelled to check on Trinh. She knocked on their bedroom door, once, twice, and after no answer, opened the door herself. None of the lights were on, but Hoa heard water splashing in the bathroom.
Pressing her hand against the bathroom wall, Hoa flicked the light switch on. In the bathtub, Trinh huddled naked, shivering in a shallow pool of water. Her long, dark hair was plastered over her face like a soggy helmet, her thin lips white. Next to the tub on the tile floor was a pile of empty plastic Mary bottles, their vivid blue crowns unscrewed and tossed aside.
Hoa lunged across the slippery bathroom floor, falling to her knees. Reaching for the hot-water knob, Hoa twisted the fixture as far as she could. Trinh wouldn’t stop trembling. She tried draping a towel over her shoulders, but Trinh shrugged it off, letting it fall into the water.
“I don’t want that water,” Trinh said, batting at the fixture as Hoa used her hands to swirl the waters together. There were goose bumps all over Trinh’s slender body. “It’s not pure; I want the holy water.”
“Foolish girl,” Hoa admonished. “You’re going to catch pneumonia.” Hoa’s voice clanged off the bathroom tiles, making her sound angry rather than frightened. “How long have you been sitting here?”
“I need more holy water,” Trinh said through chattering teeth as Hoa removed her from the tub and wrapped her in another towel. “There’s not enough, I need to go out and get some more.”
“Are you trying to save yourself?” Hoa demanded to know. “Or are you trying to die?”
Though Hoa was smaller than Trinh, she managed to maneuver the girl out of the bathroom, her arms wrapped around her waist, and drag her to the bed.
“I can feel their hands on me,” Trinh said while Hoa draped the sheets and duvet over her. Trinh struggled, kicking her feet against the linens. “Get them off of me.”
“No,” Hoa said, wiping away the tears on her cheeks. “They’re my hands.”
The girl’s legs finally relaxed, allowing Hoa to tuck them in the duvet. Trinh’s eyes sprang open, but she wasn’t looking at anything. “Why did you all leave me?”
“What are you talking about?” Hoa asked. “We didn’t leave you. We took you with us.”
Trinh shook her head, slowly at first, then harder and harder, until she was rocking the bed, so that Hoa tried to hold her still, for fear that she’d hurt herself.
“You left me,” Trinh sobbed, pushing Hoa’s arms off. “Every night with those men.”
Those men. Those men. The realization of who Trinh was talking about gripped Hoa solidly by the throat. Those men. Hoa knew. She wanted to believe Trinh was wrong, that it wasn’t possible, that she was paranoid, but the scattered memories, the whispered innuendo, and Trinh’s words came together so forcefully, and settled upon Hoa’s skin so thoroughly, that she couldn’t deny it. Finally. The Malay guards, who smiled and elbowed one another, their lascivious gestures, when Trinh slumped past them in the mess hall. She never acknowledged them or spoke of them, so Hoa never said anything, either. Watch over my wife. Yen had said it so many times they’d forgotten to listen. Hoa pulled the blue-and-yellow duvet up to her face and cried. She did not try to touch Trinh again, but she wanted her daughter-in-law to know she was there, sitting with her, and she knew.
“We watched a man die today,” Trinh said, her eyes drifting closed.
“Where?” Hoa asked.
“In the grotto,” Trinh said, “right in front of Mary.”
Watching Trinh struggle into slumber, Hoa realized what she must have looked like as a child, as vulnerable and innocent as any of her own sons, but now with nightmares they could never imagine. When Trinh had finally fallen asleep, Hoa wiped her face, slipped off the bed, and walked into the bathroom.
The water in the bathtub was still running. She twisted it off. Hoa sat on the toilet and watched the water, both holy and ordinary, swirl down the drain, on its way to the sewers.
Her reflection in the mirror was unforgiving. The bright, pale lights along the bathroom’s low ceiling seemed to pry open every wrinkle and liver spot on her face, exposing Hoa as a meaner, uglier version of herself. She was only fifty-seven years old. Why did she look so much older?
Her eyes wandered to the Mary bottles still scattered on the floor. She knelt down, gathering the bottles into her arms, ready to drop them in the wastebasket when she spotted the sleeping Trinh on the bed. If they left for Paris this afternoon, they wouldn’t have time to stop at the grotto for more holy water.
Hung appeared at the bathroom door. He glanced at the sleeping Trinh and then at Hoa, who unflinchingly stared back at him.
“Yen called,” Hung said. “Xuan slipped and sprained his ankle. He’s fine. They’ll be back in an hour.” His head nodded in Trinh’s direction. “What happened to her?”
“Nothing,” Hoa said. “Leave her alone.”
After he left, Hoa looked down at the bottles collected around her chest. She spotted something behind the wastebasket. Gently dropping the bottles on the toilet seat, she crawled across the floor. It was a Mary bottle still full of holy water. It had probably fallen there, a forgotten casualty of Trinh’s frenzy. Hoa carefully held it in her hands.
On the tile floor, Hoa lined up the empty Mary bottles so they were all standing upright. Holding the full bottle, she unscrewed the blue crown cap, and poured a small drop into each one, until every Mary had her own portion of holy water. She then placed one of the bottles under the sink faucet, filled it to the brim with tap water, and screwed on the blue crown cap. Hoa repeated this for every bottle.
After she was finished, Hoa sat on the bed next to Trinh, holding one of the Mary bottles, scrutinizing it. As she traced the Virgin Mother’s serene, plastic face with the pads of her thumbs, Hoa realized Trinh would never be able to tell. Her hands trailed Mary’s long robes and her folded reverent hands. It was only water.
Trinh’s head lolled over on the pillow, her eyes blinking open. After Hoa told her that the men had found Xuan, Trinh’s face crumpled up. Her s
houlders shook with new tears. “You can’t tell Yen,” she said.
“I won’t,” Hoa said.
“If you tell Yen,” Trinh said, her eyes wet, but clear and alert for the first time since Hoa found her, “I will die. I promise.”
“I won’t,” Hoa said again.
1980
Kim-Ly Vo
Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam
… I wonder what my children will think of our former country now that we are here. Lum’s memories are already fading, and this new child will know nothing. Vietnam will just be a place his parents talk about. He will be an American. Did I tell you this second child is going to be a boy? I had the same feeling with Lum.
I know the child being an American is beneficial, but still it worries me. Shouldn’t he know his family’s history? I’m probably acting foolish. You can tell me if I am. Many parents in Vietnam must envy my position. Our children have the opportunity to be educated in a free country. They can become doctors, engineers, lawyers, whatever we’d like.
But I could never forgive myself if he were to grow too spoiled to remember the past. His parents and family have sacrificed too much for him to be here. He should know this. I will tell him.…
Tuyet Truong
Tustin, California, USA
Chapter Four
KIM-LY
LITTLE SAIGON, CALIFORNIA, 1992
When Kim-Ly agreed at the last minute to go to the beach with her family, she could tell by their eyes glancing at the clock and the collective exhales in their chests that they felt burdened. Having Grandma along meant less space in the minivan. They’d have to bring the large sun umbrella, Kim-Ly’s preferred nylon lounge chair, and the velour blanket. Kim-Ly also insisted on carrying along a large tote bag of her books, a personal Walkman, and cassette tapes; the extra boogie board and boom box would have to stay in the garage.
The location on the beach was another negotiation. Since her children insisted on going to Huntington Beach—which they claimed was more enjoyable than the less crowded and arguably cleaner Newport Beach (Kim-Ly’s preference)—she requested a patch of sand that wasn’t so close to the waves, surfers, volleyball players, seagulls, screaming toddlers, and radios playing obnoxious American rock music.
“That’s the entire beach,” her delinquent grandson Lum said. He’d turned sixteen the previous month and acquired a driver’s license, which made him think he was an adult.
After finally settling upon a spot and instructing her sons-in-law on how to properly set up her umbrella, blanket, and chair, Kim-Ly watched her family strip down to their bathing suits, while she remained decent in her ao dai and pants. Kim-Ly did not like to tan and was annoyed by the Americans’ obsession for doing so. Though her family slathered on sunscreen, she was dismayed that the children still darkened every summer as if they were Mexicans or Africans. She was most concerned with her granddaughter Duyen, whose delicate complexion resembled her own.
“Shouldn’t you cover up more?” Kim-Ly asked the teenager. “You don’t want to get dark before next week.”
“I’ll be fine, Grandmother,” Duyen said. Her voice was gentle, respectful, but her meaning was clear. Kim-Ly’s opinion wasn’t needed.
VUNG TAU, VIETNAM, 1972
Kim-Ly began bringing the children back to her favorite beach after her husband died. Her sister Ha owned a restaurant right on the sand. Kim-Ly needed a break from watching the children, and barren Ha enjoyed the company. After her oldest son Thang initiated a lucrative partnership with some American officers in Vung Tau, there was more reason to make the resort town their weekend home.
On the water, Kim-Ly’s daughters attracted plenty of attention. They were beautiful back then, their skin not yet sun damaged, their hair still lustrous and black. They all inherited their mother’s finely sculpted face and their deceased father’s lean body. The middle child, Tuyet, was especially striking, with a small, wicked grin she could use to manipulate any man. Kim-Ly watched in satisfaction as both men and women noticed—curiously, jealously—her daughters’ collective beauty.
Unlike her friends who bemoaned having daughters, Kim-Ly understood their potential. For every pretty daughter, a beneficial son-in-law could be procured. She did not believe in the old-fashioned notion that a daughter left to join the husband’s family, the reason Kim-Ly always preferred to select suitors whose families she could research. Never choose an eldest or youngest son. Go for the middle, typically the most forgotten. He would crave a mother who needed him and Kim-Ly could satisfy that longing. If the suitor’s mother had died, that was ideal. Her daughter Hien’s fiancé, Chinh, had been raised motherless.
One weekend, Kim-Ly and Ha noticed an older American military officer ogling her daughters. The man had been meeting with her son, and stayed after Thang left. The girls waded in the low tide, while the officer, Kim-Ly, and Ha sat in the shade of the restaurant bar.
“He’s been watching them for over an hour,” Ha said to her sister in Vietnamese. “You should ask him which one he prefers.”
“Why notice only one?” Kim-Ly asked. “From here, they’re only bodies.”
The officer turned around, revealing himself as a thick man, large chest, gray in both his thinning hair and mustache. Like most Americans she knew, his face dripped abundantly in the humidity. “The one in the yellow is beautiful,” the man said in Vietnamese.
Kim-Ly and Ha gaped at him. They shouldn’t have been surprised, Kim-Ly later realized. Most American officers in the area spoke their language fluently.
“They’re mine,” Kim-Ly said, smoothly recovering, taking a sip from her sweaty beer.
“Your daughters?” the man asked.
She nodded.
“You look too young to have daughters.”
Unimpressed, Kim-Ly smiled nonetheless. American compliments could be incredibly transparent. The trick was not to let on to their false flattery, so one could determine what they really wanted.
“Are you married?” Kim-Ly asked.
The American shook his head. “Not anymore. I was, twice. Both my fault. I should have learned my lesson about American women the first time.”
“Vietnamese women are very obedient,” Kim-Ly said.
He nodded. “I know.”
Their eyes drifted back to Kim-Ly’s daughters, who were splashing one another, shrieking with laughter. The girls had always been close. It was Tri’s yellow bikini, but that morning her older sister had asked to wear it. Kim-Ly had to agree. Tuyet did look flattering in yellow.
* * *
Usually, Kim-Ly preferred driving to walking to the family’s nail salon, but not with her grandson. She didn’t like traveling in Lum’s death trap. He had purchased the vehicle himself, he’d tell you proudly, although the automobile was nothing to be proud of. A previously owned Japanese car, with cigarette and hamburger stink in the interior upholstery, broken front seats so one had to fall inside to find the backseat.
Yet it was still more desirable than walking by herself. She’d heard a story from the twins about an elderly Vietnamese man recently accosted by some punk on a street not too far from where they lived. She had no wish to become a cautionary tale, and resigned herself to wait for her grandchildren to return from school that afternoon and give her a ride. Quynh was with them. The well-mannered young woman was Linh’s friend, a positive influence, but lately, she had been accompanying Lum on more afternoons than not.
In the Deathtrap, the children were chatting about one of their cousins. Kim-Ly wanted to listen—her backseat position should have some advantages—but she was too distracted by Lum holding Quynh’s hand. Kim-Ly pulled on the oppressive seat belt, leaning forward to peer over the console. Their hands were absolutely touching.
Kim-Ly kicked the back of her grandson’s seat with her slippered foot. “What is this about a boyfriend?” she asked.
The children’s hands released. Quynh glanced over her shoulder, a sheepish grin on her delicate face. “Jorge is not her boyfriend,
Ba Vo, he is just Linh’s friend.”
“A Mexican?” Kim-Ly cried. “No, no, I said that only Vietnamese suitors are acceptable.”
“Grandma,” Cherry groaned in the seat next to her, rolling her eyes from behind her paperback book.
“Regardless, you are children,” Kim-Ly declared. “I didn’t allow your mothers to socialize until after they were finished with their schooling. You need to concentrate on your studies, like Cherry.” She nodded approvingly at her granddaughter, who was now frowning. “I’m complimenting you, child. I never see boys running after you, distracting you. Believe me, that’s a good thing.”
“Grandmother,” Lum said, his eyes narrowing in the rearview mirror. “Leave Cherry alone.”
“What did I say?” Kim-Ly asked. “What is wrong now?”
No one answered her. Cherry sullenly stared out the window, avoiding her grandmother’s gentle elbowing. Kim-Ly gave up, instead turning her attention to Lum’s driving, taking note of when he jerked on the brake and forgot to signal making left-hand turns. She worried about her grandson. He was too much like his mother—impulsive and temperamental.
Dat once tried to explain it to her: “He doesn’t try in school because he’s too scared. He and his friends would rather pretend they failed their classes on purpose than embarrass themselves by studying. It’s a shame, Grandmother. I honestly feel sorry for them.”
Dat was a good, obedient boy (honor roll every semester, advanced science classes), so Kim-Ly had no reason to doubt his stories about Lum (academic probation, repeating algebra). Kim-Ly had practically raised Dat, instilling a solid work ethic from the beginning, but Lum was already ten years old when she finally arrived in America, too late to correct the mistakes of his parents, too late for so many things.
Raising grandchildren in America had proven far more difficult than she imagined it would have been if they’d remained in Vietnam. This, Kim-Ly had discussed and agreed upon with the twins Ba Liem and Ba Nhanh and other concerned grandmothers in Little Saigon. Though staying in Vietnam was no option at all, noble values could be learned growing up in constant fear of poverty, hunger, and a corrupt government. Grandchildren had no chance of ever growing up spoiled or privileged in that kind of environment. They had to behave and respect their elders. Their survival depended on this courtesy.