The Mountains Sing

  Tears blurred my eyesight. “Yes, I failed. But I’ll make it up to all of you. In Hà Nội, I’ll be one in tens of thousands. There we can start a new life.”

  “Then just go ahead.” Ngọc skirted around me, staggering forward.

  “Wait. Tell me what to do?”

  “You’re smart. You always know what to do, Mama.”

  After these words, she left me.

  I followed her from one lane to the next. I searched among my knotted thoughts for words of apology to say to my daughter but found none. The truth had sunk deep into my bones, that I had indeed, by abandoning my children one by one, become the worst mother. I didn’t know what would happen to us, but I knew one thing: my children might never forgive me.

  After a while, Ngọc turned and disappeared behind a thick fence of leafy plants. Peeking through, I saw her kneeling on a front yard’s dirt surface. There, five or six children were playing, tossing pebbles and catching them while holding a pair of chopsticks in the same hand. Do you remember, Guava, how good your mother was with that game? She’d been an expert since a very young age. Now she was enchanting the children with her skills.

  Behind Ngọc stood a house, walled by thin bamboo slats and roofed with dry rice stalks. It was a typical home of a farmer, someone who was not rich, but not too poor. A woman appeared in the open doorway, a baby clutched at her waist.

  I ducked so she wouldn’t see me.

  “Mama,” the children called. “We got a new friend. She’s so good at this.”

  I heard Ngọc’s polite greeting and the click-clack sounds of pebbles being tossed and caught mid-air. The children cheered and clapped.

  “Where do you come from?” the woman asked.

  “My parents died last year, Auntie. I’ve been wandering, looking for a job.”

  “Poor you. Does it mean you have no home?” a girl’s voice said.

  “I have none for now.”

  “Mama, could she stay with us? Please, Mama,” said a boy.

  “Don’t you even suggest that, Son,” the woman said. “We have too little to eat ourselves. We can’t hire anybody.”

  “I can share my rice with her,” said a girl.

  “Me, too. Me, too.” Other voices followed.

  “I could be your faraway relative coming for a visit,” said Ngọc. “Please, Auntie. I’m honest and hard-working. Let me help look after your kids. I can cook and keep the house clean. I’m good at planting rice. I’ll do anything you ask. All I need is food and somewhere to sleep.”

  “Uhm, I’m not sure. . . . I have to ask my husband first.”

  “Daddy will agree. He always complains about too much work,” said a boy.

  “I can teach your children how to read and write,” said Ngọc. “My parents used to send me to the best school. I even had a private teacher.” This part was true and as she said it, Ngọc began to cry.

  “Mama, Mama, please, let her stay,” the children begged.

  When I lifted my head and peered through the fence, I no longer saw my daughter. Everyone was gone, leaving behind nothing but an empty yard.

  My Mother’s Secret

  Hà Nội—1975–1976

  Sitting next to Uncle Đạt and listening to his story that night, I realized that war was monstrous. If it didn’t kill those it touched, it took away a piece of their souls, so they could never be whole again.

  A sob. Grandma emerged from the darkness, tears glistening on her face. She opened her arms, wrapping them around Uncle Đạt. “What a journey you had to go through. I’m sorry, Son.”

  “I’m sorry, too, Mama . . . for taking so long to come back.”

  “It doesn’t matter anymore. You’re here now.”

  The bàng tree stirred, its branches rustling against our roof. I’d seen a pair of brown birds building their nest on a high branch. Now I heard them call each other. The sun was yet to rise, but I saw light ahead of me: with Uncle Đạt home, for sure my mother would return.

  “Tea?” I asked.

  Grandma put on her jacket. “Go back to bed, both of you.” She reached for the bicycle’s handle, then swirled around, smiling at Uncle Đạt. “Ngọc and Sáng will be so happy to see you.”

  I was pouring water into the kettle when Uncle Đạt cleared his voice. “Hương, I need a favor.”

  “Sure.” I nodded, expecting him to ask me to go get him more liquor.

  “I hope Nhung doesn’t come back. If she does, tell her I’m not home.”

  “But why, Uncle?”

  “Well . . . things change. People change.”

  I bit my lip. Miss Nhung looked so wretched last night. “I’m sorry, Uncle, but I can’t lie. Miss Nhung has been kinder to Grandma than Uncle Sáng’s wife. She is one of the few people who still visits our home, despite Grandma’s job.”

  “It’s over between us, Hương.”

  “She taught me how to ride a bicycle—”

  “I don’t care, and I don’t want to talk about her anymore. Okay?”

  I turned away at the harshness of his voice.

  After finishing breakfast, I was about to feed the squealing pigs when my mother called at the door. Pulling it open, I met her face, wet with tears.

  “Hương, where’s your uncle?”

  Uncle Đạt was sitting with his back in our direction. He was as still as a statue frozen by time.

  “Đạt!” My mother stumbled toward him.

  My uncle remained motionless until his shoulders shook. He grabbed his chair’s wheels, turning around. His body was bathed in morning light, his chest sunken under his shirt, his face gaunt under the sprouting beard. The stumps of his legs. Their horrendous scars.

  “Sister Ngọc.” His face twisted into a smile.

  My mother held my uncle, her cries muffled.

  “You made it home.” She knelt down, touching the stumps. “Your legs . . . I’m sorry.”

  “Mama told me you went to the battlefields. I’m glad you got out alive.”

  “Brother, I wish they’d taken my arms and legs instead.”

  “Why say that, Sister? What happened?”

  My mother didn’t answer. Her back hunched, as if she had to carry a burden larger than herself.

  “Sister, something bad happened to you? Tell me.” Uncle Đạt dried her tears. “No secrets between us, remember?”

  The look on my mother’s face told me she wanted some private moments. She had a secret she didn’t want me to know.

  The pigs’ squealing had risen into a high-pitched screeching. “These awful animals,” I mumbled. “Let me go feed them.”

  Hurrying over to the animals, I prepared their food, dumping it into their trough. In the living room, my mother was pouring tea into cups. Wiping my hands against my pants, I sneaked into my room. Keeping the door slightly ajar, I stood eavesdropping. For once, I was grateful that our house was small and the distance between me and the kitchen was short.

  “Mama told me you saw Hoàng,” my mother said.

  “We underwent the same training in Ba Vì with Thuận, Sister. Unfortunately, all of us were separated before going south. I saw him weeks later, when I was struck down with malaria and had to camp by the roadside.”

  “How was he? How much time did you have together?”

  “He was in good spirits, and in good health. During the one day that we had together, I laughed more than I did during the many previous months. Hoàng couldn’t stop talking about you. He told me how he’d torn up his outer shirt to win your heart—”

  “You know where he was going? Did you see him again?”

  My mother’s questions told me she didn’t want to talk about the happy memories with my father.

  “I didn’t see Hoàng again, no. . . . ,” said my uncle. “He was heading south but didn’t know exactly where. He told me he’d do all he could to survive, to come back to you.”

  “Brother, I don’t deserve him.” My mother’s words were not knives but they would leave me bleed
ing for years to come.

  “Sister, why did you say that? What happened?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m ashamed of myself. I did a very bad thing. I’m a bad, bad person.”

  My palms were sweaty. So my suspicion was true. My mother had killed people on the battlefield. Innocent people.

  “Listen to me, Sister Ngọc. Look at me. I won’t judge you. Trust me.”

  Silence. The shuffling of my mother’s feet. Was she leaving? I reached for the door’s handle, ready to rush out to stop her.

  “Sister Ngọc, we all had to fight against the enemy to be able to survive. Don’t feel guilty—”

  “It’s not about that, Brother. It’s worse.”

  “Tell me. I’ve seen enough horror to understand.”

  Silence.

  “Sister, if you can’t talk to me, confide in Mama. She can help you.”

  “No, Brother . . . I can’t burden Mama. Besides, I feel filthy. I don’t deserve her. I don’t deserve Hương, either.”

  I cupped my mouth with my hands.

  “I don’t know what happened to you, Sister, but the fact you risked your life looking for Hoàng is very honorable. And you must have saved many patients along the way.”

  Silence.

  “Sister, why don’t you move back home? Hương needs you. I’ve seen the sadness in her eyes.”

  “I have nothing to offer her. My misery will only drag her down. I’m not ready yet.”

  “When will you be ready? Look at me, Sister. . . . I can’t cope without you here. There’re even two beds in my room. Come home and be my legs. Do this for me, please?”

  Despite Uncle Đạt’s best efforts, it was more than another week before my mother came home. Grandma acted as if they hadn’t fought; she prepared a big welcome-back meal. But my mother hardly ate; she didn’t talk at all. While we were still at the table, she retreated into the bedroom.

  I got up early the next day, excited to share breakfast with my mother, but she’d already left for the factory. Returning home, she had dinner in silence. And in silence she helped Uncle Đạt wash. Watching them, a lump of envy filled my throat. Perhaps I had to make myself injured so she would touch me?

  “What’s going on with her?” I asked Uncle Đạt the following day after my mother and Grandma had gone to work. He was sitting at the table, going through the pile of books Grandma had selected from our bookshelf.

  “I have no idea.” He flipped through the pages of a book. “She doesn’t want to talk yet. Give her time.”

  “Everybody tells me to give her time. How much longer does she need?”

  “I don’t know.” He dropped the book, picking up another one. “Many of my friends aren’t able to speak, either. Everyone is trying to cope in their own way.”

  I shook my head. What more could I have done to deserve my mother’s trust?

  My uncle pushed the books away. “These are all so boring, don’t you have an interesting one?”

  “I think my mother killed somebody. A baby. That’s why she doesn’t want us to know.” Words blurted out of my mouth.

  Uncle Đạt stared at me.

  “I heard her say it. In her sleep.”

  “Don’t mention such a thing! Whatever happened, I know your mother didn’t intentionally kill an innocent person.”

  I picked up my school bag, heading for the door. I didn’t say good-bye to my uncle. I’d expected him to help me, but there he was, telling me off.

  Several days passed. I tried to listen to whatever my mother said to Uncle Đạt, but heard nothing new. She remained cold and distant. A stranger among us.

  And why didn’t Grandma do more? Whenever she was home, she buried her nose in her cooking, cleaning, and washing. As if all those chores could heal my mother.

  I dreamed of leaving, of abandoning the stuffiness of our home, the secrets, the dark history. I knew where Grandma hid her money and I could take some, to buy a bus or a train ticket and food for the road. I’d go from North to South by myself, and I’d search for my father along the way. I could find him, and if not, đi một ngày đàng học một sàng khôn—Each day of travel earns one basketful of wisdom. Once tired of traveling, I’d stay in Sài Gòn with Auntie Hạnh. Perhaps under the light of my aunt’s lucky star, I could be free from the bad omens that seemed to cling on to our family.

  But the thoughts of leaving vanished as soon as I saw how deep the wrinkles were on Grandma’s face. It was as if each of her children’s returns had given her nothing but those wrinkles. She was the one who’d shielded me from the bombs, and perhaps it was now my turn to help her survive those weapons’ impact, years after the moments they were dropped onto our lives.

  So I didn’t leave. And I tried to find ways to get to know my mother again. Still, she’d closed all the doors into her world and refused to hear me knocking.

  The week after my mother’s return, I headed to her room to tell her dinner was ready. Pushing against the door, I saw her on the bed, her head bent over a notebook, the pen in her hand scribbling across the page.

  As she looked up, her mouth opened. She hid the notebook behind her. “You should have knocked.”

  “Come and eat.” I turned away.

  From then on, whenever my mother was out of the house, a fire was ignited in my stomach. I found myself passing her bedroom often, but Uncle Đạt was there all the time. I tried to appear helpful. As I brought him another glass of water, some more liquor, a bowl of peanuts, or another book, I looked around. My mother’s bag was on the floor. A bamboo cabinet stood, the lips of its mouth—its two doors—tightly closed.

  I wished Uncle Đạt would go out. He’d been an engineering student before he was drafted. Without any work experience, a degree, or his legs, nobody wanted to hire him. Grandma had talked to countless people about him, but it was all in vain.

  “I’m going to clean your room, too dusty,” I told Uncle Đạt two days later, when he was by the dining table, listening to his portable radio.

  Inside the room, I reached for my mother’s bag. She hadn’t unpacked her clothes, as if she needed to be ready to depart any day. No notebook. I opened the cabinet, my hands running frantically among Uncle Đạt’s belongings. I looked under the two beds. Nothing.

  How stupid of me to have hoped. The notebook was small, my mother could have brought it with her.

  Days passed, bringing me only frustration.

  One afternoon, I returned home to see Uncle Đạt’s message on the table. His friends had come by, bringing him to the funeral of a former teacher. I raced to the front door. The lock was secured, yet there was no inside latch. My mother and Grandma could come in at any time with their key. I pushed a chair against the door, piling another chair on top. Should someone enter, the crashing sound would be my alarm.

  I searched my mother’s bag. This time, it contained a worn-out notebook. I held my breath as my fingers opened the pages. Rows and rows of my mother’s handwriting, not as neat as I remembered, but tottering, as if the words were rice plants bashed by a storm.

  Names of trees and herbs and detailed notes on their medicinal qualities. Pages and pages of them. Recipes for treating different ailments. Many plants bore strange names, and my mother even sketched their trunks, branches, and leaves.

  I flipped to the last page, which contained more notes on herbal medicine. Some of the words had been smeared with drops of water. They’d been written a while ago, perhaps in the jungle. But from whom had she learned these herbal treatments? I didn’t remember her having anything to do with our traditional medicine.

  I closed the notebook. For sure she was recording something else the other night, something she wanted to hide from me. On another notebook, smaller than this.

  I was tired of not knowing. Perhaps my mother had met my father on the battlefield and something terrible had happened between them.

  Pressing my stomach onto the floor, I l
ooked under the beds. Dust had gathered into a thin layer. Sneezing, I stood up. Putting aside my mother’s pillow, I peeled her straw mat away, searching among the bamboo slats that made up the bed’s frame. Nothing.

  I eyed the pillow. It looked a little crooked. I picked it up, squeezing it. My heart dipped as my hands made out something hard. Here it was, the smaller notebook, hidden inside the soft cotton. It was rather new, bound with a rubber string. I opened the first page. My mother’s handwriting. As tottering as I’d seen on the other notebook.

  16/5/1975

  My son,

  Would you ever forgive me? There’ve been countless nights when I dreamed about you. I dreamed about your blue face. The blue face that is now buried under the earth. Oh my baby, please forgive me. Forgive me. . . .

  The diary left my hand, falling onto the bed. My mother had a son. With whom? I stood up, pacing back and forth. I wanted to continue reading, but feared that what I learned would tear my family apart. My mother had started writing down her thoughts recently, after she’d moved to Auntie Duyên’s home.

  I almost laughed at myself. Here I was, thinking that I’d found the key to my mother’s secret, yet once I opened her door, I wanted to lock it and throw the key away. Sometimes something is so terrible that you need to pretend it doesn’t exist.

  The wall clock struck five times. My mother, Grandma, and Uncle Đạt could be home anytime. I eyed the diary’s cover. I had caught a glimpse of my mother’s sorrow, I had to see what type of a monster it was. Besides, my world had already been shattered, ignorance couldn’t save it now.

  I turned to the second page.

  18/5/1975

  Hoàng, my darling husband, where are you? Now the war has ended, many soldiers are returning home. Why haven’t we heard from you?

  Oh my darling, I used to believe that my love for you would be strong enough to help me overcome the bombs and bullets, so that I could find you, to tell you how sorry I am. I’m so sorry. I was a coward for pushing you to go to war. Only when you left did I learn you were my life. The jungles I passed, the rivers I crossed, did you ever set foot there? I desperately hunted for news about you. Oh my love, don’t stay away from me. Please come home. Please forgive me. I beg you to forgive me. Last night in my dream, you looked at me sternly. Your eyes told me I’m no longer worthy to be your wife. I’m sorry . . . I’m so sorry.