The clock struck eleven. I lit the coal stove, boiling water for a spinach soup. In a clay pot, I stewed a couple of mullets with fish sauce, chili, and pepper. Pouring rice into another pot, I washed it carefully to get rid of any rice weevil. Normally I had to mix corn, manioc, or sweet potato with rice to fill our stomachs, but we were having a special guest today. So, rice for lunch. I hoped Auntie Duyên would appreciate the food. It had to be difficult for her. She worked in a garment factory and was being paid in food coupons. Like my father and uncles, her husband had gone to the battlefield. She lived by the Red River, and had to take care of two young children.
Noon approached. The fish simmered. The air smelled so delicious, I put out my tongue to lick it. I tasted the spinach soup. It was so yummy I had to have another spoonful. Glancing first at my mother’s bedroom, I reached for the rice pot. Just one spoon, one only.
Putting the rice into my mouth, I was yet to chew when a sound clicked at the front door. “Hương, I’m home.” Grandma’s voice. I swallowed so fast, the rice glided like fire down my throat. I kicked the spoon into a kitchen corner, wiping my mouth against my shirtsleeve.
“Is the food ready? I’m starving.” Grandma pushed her bike inside.
My smile must be crooked. I signaled toward the bedroom. “Auntie Duyên is here. She got Mama to talk.”
Grandma brought a finger to her lips. “Let them.”
I ferried bowls and chopsticks to the table. My mother was talking, she must be feeling better. I imagined our meal to be a happy reunion lunch, where I’d sit next to her, she’d praise my cooking, fill my bowl, and urge me to eat; her tender voice would tell me to stop worrying about her and go back to class.
But when Auntie Duyên and my mother came to the table, a heavy silence shrouded our meal. Grandma tried to keep the conversation flowing by asking Auntie Duyên about her job.
“We’re producing by quota.” My aunt sighed. “Our garments are piling up in the warehouse. We can’t sell, but production has to go on.”
“The government wants to control the economy, but how can they?” Grandma put some fish into Aunt Duyên’s bowl. “Our medical system is suffering, too. I just visited a friend at the Bạch Mai Hospital; it’s so crowded. They need more doctors there.” She turned to my mother. “Ngọc, I ran into your colleagues who said they can’t wait to have you back.”
“They told you that because they love to lie.” My mother’s sharp words startled me.
A minute of silence followed.
“They care about you, Daughter. All of us do. We all want to help you get better.”
“Get better?” Laughter spilled from my mother’s mouth; her eyes were red. “If I were as strong as you, for sure I’d be better. You left us behind when running away from your goddamn village, remember?”
“Come on, Ngọc. That was a long time ago. I didn’t have any choice.” Grandma’s lips quivered.
“You had a choice. Every mother has a choice!”
I had never seen my mother so angry.
“Sister Ngọc . . .” Auntie Duyên reached for my mother’s hand.
“No, you don’t get it. If my mother hadn’t run away, perhaps all of my brothers would be alive now. Thuận is dead. Đạt and Sáng might not be coming back. Brother Thuận is dead. He is dead!” Tears trembled on my mother’s cheeks.
“I’m sorry, Daughter,” Grandma whispered. “Let me make it up to you. Tell me what I should do.”
“You can do nothing for me now.” My mother brought her hands to her face. “Nothing! I’m finished. Fouled and finished. Nobody could make me clean again.”
I stared at my mother. Her words made no sense to me.
“Ngọc.” Grandma put down her bowl and chopsticks. “You must have gone through terrible things. Let me help—”
“If you can help, tell me how you do this.” Anger flashed in my mother’s eyes. “Tell me how you can go on. Tell me how you can eat when Thuận’s body is cold under the ground.”
“Enough!” Grandma slammed the table so hard, it shook. “You can’t even imagine how much it hurts to have a dead son.”
“Oh, you bet I can. I know exactly how it feels and that’s why I can’t understand how you can sit here, eating like this.”
“Stop fighting,” I screamed. “Stop it!”
I was at my desk, crying, when Auntie Duyên came to me. “I’m sorry I stirred up bad emotions. Your mother . . . she needs time.”
“What happened to her, Auntie? What did she say to you?”
Auntie Duyên dried my tears with the back of her hand. “You’ll understand one day, Darling. . . . What I can tell you is that as a doctor, your mother saved many lives. She worked at makeshift clinics along the Hồ Chí Minh Trail. She operated on soldiers, sometimes without the help of pain-relief medicine. Wherever she was, she tried to look for your father and uncles, but it was in vain.”
“What else did she tell you? What turned her into such a horrible person?”
“Oh Hương, the war . . . it’s worse than we could ever imagine.”
“Did she kill anybody?”
“What? Why did you say that?”
“In her sleep, she cried about a baby. Once she said she’d killed him.”
“No . . . that was just a nightmare.” Auntie Duyên shook her head. “Believe me, your mother is a good person.”
“You talked for hours with her. Please, what else did she say?”
“I’ll leave it to your mother to tell her own story to you once you’re old enough, Hương. Whatever happened, please know that she loves you very, very much. She cares about you more than you’ll ever know. And she’s very thankful that you’ve tried to take care of her.”
“Did she even notice?”
“Of course she did.” Auntie Duyên bit her lip. “There is . . . there’s something she asked me to tell you.”
“She can’t talk to me herself?”
My aunt reached for my arm. “Hương, your mother wants to come to my place and stay for a short while. She needs time to—”
“She wants to abandon me again?” I stood up.
“Oh, Hương, don’t think like that. Your mother needs help. I can be there for her. My home is not much, but I can take long walks with her by the river. Being close to nature would be good for her.”
I turned away. My mother confided in Auntie Duyên, but not in me. She didn’t trust me. She didn’t think I was good enough as a daughter.
After my mother had departed with Auntie Duyên, I went out to the backyard, Little House in the Big Woods in my hands. How lucky for this American girl to be anchored by her parents, while mine had drifted so far away. I turned to the final page, where Laura had been tucked snugly in her bed, with her mother in her rocking chair knitting and her father’s music and singing voice filling their cozy home with happiness.
I ground my teeth, ripped the last page from the book, and tore it to pieces. I thought I’d feel satisfied by my revenge but as the scraps of paper flittered down to my feet like dead butterflies, my tears followed.
I went back to school, struggled, and did badly on my tests. Grandma was shocked at the results, but I didn’t care. She was the one who’d chased my mother away.
Grandma became quiet; my mother’s words had hurt her deeply. She’d taken care of me, and now I should show my loyalty by comforting her, but I couldn’t bring myself to do so, fearing I would betray my mother. My mother didn’t care much about me, though. Whenever I brought her the food baskets Grandma had prepared, she looked at me with such vacant eyes that I wondered if it was truly my mother sitting there.
I tried talking to Auntie Duyên, but she didn’t tell me anything new. She kept saying that my mother needed time, and that she’d get better soon.
On April 30, 1975, news of the Northern Army taking over Sài Gòn came, bringing torrents of people out of their homes. The Resistance War against America had truly ended. Việt Nam was now united. The North and the South h
ad again become the body of one nation. People were singing, dancing, twirling our flag in their hands. The red flag, centered by a yellow star, soared like flames along each street, each road, each winding lane. Speeches and songs blared from public speakers, praising the heroism of the North Vietnamese Army, applauding our people for defeating the Americans and their Southern regime.
Looking back, I wish I had understood more fully the significance of this day. It marked the end of a bloodbath that flooded our country for nearly twenty years, drowning more than three million people, leaving millions of others injured, traumatized, and displaced. Once, I read an article about the bombs that had been dropped during our war and the number stunned me: seven million tons.
Yet on the day the war ended, Grandma and I didn’t celebrate. For us, peace would only arrive when all our loved ones had returned home. Our house was the only one in the neighborhood without the red flag unfurling above its front door. Grandma knelt in front of our family altar, the wooden stick in her hand knocking rhythmically against her prayer bell. I was next to her, my eyes closed, my hands in front of my chest. I prayed for my father, Uncle Đạt, and Uncle Sáng to come home, and that they wouldn’t bring any ghosts of war back with them.
While Grandma urged me to go to school, she stayed home during the next days. She spent money lavishly, preparing different types of food, ready for a big welcome home party.
Exactly one week after Unification Day, I got up early and prayed with Grandma. While she prepared breakfast—another sumptuous meal, just in case—I carried a pair of empty tin pails out of the door. I greeted Mrs. Nhân, who was out in her front yard doing her morning exercise.
Several women were squatting around the well, washing buckets of clothes, when I arrived. I passed them, heading for the water pump.
“A returning soldier,” someone murmured behind my back.
I turned. A slim figure was moving down our neighborhood’s lane. He had the same build, the same height as my father.
“He looks just like my brother,” someone else said.
Crashing sounds rang up around me as the women knocked over their buckets, rushing toward the man. I pushed ahead but was too slow. A crowd had already surrounded the soldier when I approached.
“Chú Sáng, chú Sáng về rồi!” a kid’s voice called out cheerfully. My Uncle Sáng. He was back.
“Chào các bác, các cô, các cháu.” He greeted the men, women, and children around him.
“Your mother is lucky, Sáng.” Mr. Tùng patted my uncle’s shoulder.
Mrs. Thương, an elderly lady, clutched his hand. “Have you seen my sons Thắng and Lợi?”
Uncle Sáng shook his head. “Now the war has ended, they’ll be back soon.”
“I hope so.” The lady mumbled, turning away, wiping her tears.
“Here’s Hương, your niece.” Someone ushered me forward, and I sank into Uncle Sáng’s embrace.
“Look at you, you’re nearly as tall as me,” my uncle said as I took a deep breath, telling myself not to cry. Uncle Sáng was back, really back. My father and Uncle Đạt would return soon and everything would be fine.
“What a stupid, stupid thing you did.” I sat frozen next to Grandma as Uncle Sáng paced back and forth in our living room, berating her. His boots squeaked under his heavy footsteps. He raised his feet, sending the pigs scurrying away. “I can’t believe you quit teaching to become a trader.”
“Calm down, Son. I’m not doing anything bad.” Grandma poured a cup of tea for my uncle.
“Nothing bad?” Uncle Sáng walked to Grandma. He put his mouth against her ear. “I’ve become a Party member. My mother can’t be a con buôn.”
“Oh, so you’ve joined the league, have you?” Grandma snorted. “I don’t see how anyone should care. My business is my business. Yours is yours.”
“It’s not as simple as you think,” hissed my uncle. “My comrades and I, we’ve risked our lives to bring justice to the people of this country. We’ve shed our blood so our people are free from foreign invasion. Free from exploiters and bourgeoisie.”
As my uncle went on preaching, Grandma stood up, moving toward her stove. She carried plates and bowls of food to the table: steamed rice rolls, phở noodle soup, glutinous rice with coconut milk, and fish porridge. Seeing that she was determined to celebrate her son’s return, I got up and helped her.
“. . . you are ruining my chance for a leadership position, Mama. I’ll become a laughing stock in front of my comrades. Now I can’t discipline anyone anymore because—”
“Because you can’t discipline your own mother?” Grandma looked up from the chopsticks she was distributing. “Come on, Sáng. You haven’t seen me for years. Sit down and enjoy our first meal.”
Only now did Uncle Sáng stop walking. He stared at the food, his nostrils flaring. He turned away, but not quickly enough. I saw him swallow.
“Uncle Sáng, please,” I told him. “Grandma has been cooking your favorite dishes all week, just in case you came home.”
My uncle walked back and forth a few more times. He checked to see if our door was closed and locked. He put his ear against it, then peered out from a crack as if to make sure no one was spying. He glanced up at our windows.
He walked to the table. “All right,” he whispered, “only this time and only because I don’t want little Hương to be sad.” He dove into the food. He was silent throughout his meal, but when he finished, he let out a gigantic belch.
Grandma and I were still eating when he stood up, his boots knocking against the chairs’ legs. When he opened his mouth, his words rolled out, as if from a stranger’s tongue, “Mama, if you love me, quit your trading job and go back to teaching. Until you do, I can’t visit you anymore.”
• • •
Grandma looked defeated after Uncle Sáng left. She put away the food and quietly returned to the market.
What had happened that made Uncle Sáng change so much? He’d always been caring toward Grandma. He’d often folded colored papers into animals for me and my friends. During the Mid-Autumn Festival, he’d slivered bamboo and made different paper lanterns: a cat, a fish, a tiger, a star, a flower. The lanterns he made for me always won a prize at the Light Parade around the Lake of the Returned Sword. He’d learned the skills from the artisan who took care of him when he first got to Hà Nội with Grandma.
I gave Grandma a glass of water when she came home. “You okay? I couldn’t believe how rude Uncle Sáng was.”
“He’s been brainwashed by propaganda.” She sat down on the phản. “Given what happened to his father, I’ve warned him about the dangers of politics. Yet he doesn’t want to listen.” She sighed. “People say mưa dầm thấm lâu.” Soft and persistent rain penetrates the earth better than a storm. I need to be patient with him.”
She turned the glass in her hands. “As for your mother, Hương, I’ve been thinking . . . that we need to make more effort. Keep talking to her. Your voice will lead her back to us.”
“She doesn’t care, Grandma. I don’t want to visit her anymore.” I stood up, wanting to walk away from my mother’s problems.
Grandma reached for my hand. “Hương, if we don’t help her, nobody can. Promise you’ll never give up on her?”
From then on, whenever I visited Auntie Duyên’s house, I brought books along to read and homework to do, so as to fill the silence between my mother and me.
A few weeks later, I got a letter. I was so surprised, I kept opening the envelope, pulling out a note, reading it, smiling to myself, returning it to the envelope, only to open it again.
“Whose letter is that?” my mother suddenly asked, sitting a few arm’s lengths away from me as usual.
“I don’t know, Mama.”
She arched her eyebrows.
“Want to know what it says?” I asked, and without waiting for her answer, I cleared my throat.
Dear Hương, have you noticed that summer has arrived? Phượng flowers are lighti
ng up their torches alongside the streets. I dream about the day when I can walk with you under the red sky.
I held up the note. “Found it inside my bag. I don’t know who put it there.”
“You have a secret admirer then.” My mother actually smiled as she said these words.
“Perhaps someone is playing a trick on me?”
“I don’t think so,” she said. “I also received such letters when I was your age.”
“Really? How many? And who sent them to you?”
The smile on her face vanished. She turned, looking out of the window.
“Don’t you want to come home, Mama?”
Silence.
“Mama, please. Come home. I need you.”
“I can’t. . . . You shouldn’t be around me now. I’m no good.”
“Auntie Duyên said you’re going back to work. But why at her factory? You’re a doctor. You loved your job.”
“I can’t be a doctor anymore.” She twisted her fingers. “It’d bring back too many painful memories.”
“What memories, Mama?”
“Oh Hương, I can’t tell you. Let’s just say that I went through terrible, terrible things. Things that I don’t wish to happen to anyone.”
“Mama, if you can’t tell me, talk to Grandma. She can help you.”
“No,” whispered my mother. She bent her head, her shoulders quivering. “I’m sorry I couldn’t bring your Papa back to you, Hương. I made him join the damn Army. He wanted to chop his finger off so he wouldn’t have to enlist. He talked about going into hiding to avoid fighting. But I told him he was a coward, that as a man he had to defend our country and get rid of foreign invaders.”
I stared at my mother. Had she gone mad?
I shook my head. “Grandma told me everyone had to go. Papa didn’t have a choice.”
“Yes, he did have a choice. Damn it, he did!” She clenched her fists.
“Papa will come back. He will—”
“Will he? It’s been three months since the war ended, Hương.”
Three months. We would’ve heard from him by now if he were still alive; she wanted to tell me that but couldn’t bring herself to say it.
The Mountains Sing Page 10