Uncle Minh’s tired eyes acknowledged me as I fed him some water. I felt a silent cord that bound us. The cord of our ancestors’ lullabies that once Grandma had sung to him, and then to me.
“Hương, my daughter,” my mother introduced me, and my uncle’s eyes lit up. He opened his mouth, but my mother begged him not to speak. She told us not to ask him questions for now. Holding his hand, turning the palm up, she pressed her fingers against his wrist, feeling for his pulse.
Grandma tried to relieve us from the scorching heat with a paper fan. It was just mid-morning, but the sticky air clung to our skin. The tin sheets continued to crackle as if ready to burst.
“You’re in good hands, Son,” said Grandma as my mother reached into her knapsack. “Ngọc is an excellent doctor. You’ll be better in no time.”
My uncle nodded, the corners of his lips lifting. He gripped Grandma’s arm, as if never wanting to let her go.
My mother placed her stethoscope on Uncle Minh’s chest. She closed her eyes, listening as if her life depended on it. She checked his eyes, nose, mouth, throat, and back. When she was done, her face bore no expression. Her fingers trembled slightly as she folded the stethoscope, returning it to her knapsack.
“You must be in terrible pain,” she told Uncle Minh. “How about a shot to relieve you from it?”
He closed his eyes to say yes.
She wiped her hands with the alcohol she’d brought along and administered an injection to his thin arm. “Please . . . don’t talk yet. I’ll brew a pot of herbal remedy. It should clear the mucus in your lungs. But first, you need a good meal.”
Uncle Minh nodded then shook his head.
“Wait.” I rummaged my knapsack, fetching a pen and a notebook.
“Where are Thuận and Sáng?” Uncle Minh wrote.
“On their way,” said Grandma. “Son . . . your sister the doctor says you need to eat. The phở out there smells delicious. Can we bring you a bowl?”
“I’ll get it,” said Auntie Hạnh. She grabbed her handbag and left.
Uncle Minh gave a wrinkled banknote to Uncle Đạt. “Ice seller down the lane. Buy some to cool the room?” he wrote.
Uncle Đạt pushed the money back. “Pay me later, once you and I have come home to Hà Nội . . . with tickets to a soccer match.”
Uncle Minh smiled and nodded.
I wondered if my eldest uncle had a family. I studied the shack, but the only thing that told me about his past was the altar—a wooden shelf clinging to the rusty wall. On it stood a statue of a man nailed to a cross. My uncle had become a Christian?
I followed Grandma through the back door, which opened into an area shaded by a thatched roof and surrounded by the tin sheets of the neighbors’ homes. A clay stove sat on the earthen floor, next to a pile of firewood. A large, brown jar stood in the corner, half filled with water.
“There’re so many things I want to ask him.” Grandma cried into her palms. “I don’t understand why he hadn’t sent us any news. He could’ve tried to let me know that he was alive. All these years . . .”
“He must have his reasons, Grandma. He’ll be able to tell us soon.”
Scooping water out of the jar, we washed our faces. I soaked my washcloth, using it to cool Grandma’s back. It pained me to see her bones and the scars inflicted by Wicked Ghost.
Grandma filled a bucket with water. Carrying it inside, I saw my mother sitting next to Uncle Minh, going through a stack of papers. As Grandma entered, she quickly put the papers into her knapsack.
“Ready for a sponge bath?” Grandma asked. Uncle Minh smiled. Suddenly his body jumped with bouts of coughing. Glancing at my mother, I read the worry in her eyes.
The coughing eased. The front door opened, but instead of Auntie Hạnh, a boy came in, carrying a steaming bowl. I thanked him and fanned the phở.
Grandma washed Uncle Minh. My mother unpacked parcels of herbs. She weighed different ingredients, pouring them into the clay pot she’d brought along.
Uncle Đạt came back with a tray full of ice, which he placed next to Uncle Minh. He took the fan from me, flicking it, sending coolness around the room.
At the back of the shack, I kindled a fire. My mother poured water into the clay pot.
“How is he, Mama?” I fed the fire pieces of wood.
She pulled me to her, her lips against my ear. “Don’t tell Grandma yet. Your uncle Minh is dying. Those papers he showed me . . . cancer. It’s spread to his lungs and liver. He was hospitalized for months, but the doctors sent him home, said they could no longer help.”
“But you, Mama, your medicine can do magic.”
“I’m afraid it’s too late. The cancer is too advanced. The results of his tests . . .” She bit her lip. “I’ll try, but I think I can only help to relieve the pain of his last days.”
My chest hurt for Grandma. How could she cope with such awful news?
I turned to the fire. Human lives were short and fragile. Time and illnesses consumed us, like flames burning away these pieces of wood. But it didn’t matter how long or short we lived. It mattered more how much light we were able to shed on those we loved and how many people we touched with our compassion.
I thought about Tâm and how his love had brightened my life. Whenever I felt low from missing my father, he’d been there to make me laugh. I wished he were here now to hold me and tell me everything would be all right.
The medicine bubbled, its thick scent woven into the air. My mother reduced the heat.
Uncle Đạt came out, dousing his face in water.
“Is Hạnh back?” My mother squinted her eyes against the smoke.
“Not yet,” my uncle whispered. “I saw her chatting out there with the neighbors. She must be asking them about Brother Minh.”
Inside, Uncle Minh was once again Grandma’s child, opening his mouth as she fed him the noodle soup. He chewed with difficulty and winced as he swallowed, but his eyes glowed.
While he ate, Grandma told him briefly about her walk to Hà Nội. We had a wonderful house, she said, and as soon as he was well enough, she’d bring him home.
She talked about Uncle Đạt, his happy marriage to Auntie Nhung, and their three-month-old baby who was chubby like the Laughing Buddha. She didn’t tell him how much we’d feared the little boy would have problems. The first thing Grandma did after the baby’s birth was to count his fingers and toes. When the doctors said the baby was perfectly healthy, Grandma brought her forehead to the hospital’s floor, thanking all the Gods she’d prayed to. Uncle Đạt and Auntie Nhung named the baby Thống Nhất, which meant “Unification,” a fiery wish of many Vietnamese from North to South throughout the war.
Grandma told Uncle Minh about my mother’s well-respected positions at both the Bạch Mai Hospital and the Institute of Traditional Medicine. She didn’t tell him, though, that my mother had taken Grandma and me on a trip. In front of my baby brother’s grave, she wept as Grandma and I chanted prayers, blessing his soul with peace. It was Grandma’s turn to sob when we arrived at Trường Sơn Cemetery, where Uncle Thuận had been laid to rest with thousands of other soldiers. Rows of graves stretched to the horizon, as far as our eyes could see. Many of those graves were marked “Unknown Soldier.” I’d wondered that day whether one of them held my father’s bones and his love for me, the love that I knew would not stop burning, even when buried under the cold earth.
Grandma told Uncle Minh about Uncle Sáng steadily climbing the Party ladder, that he was now an important official in the Central Propaganda Department. And about Auntie Hạnh and her family doing so well in Sài Gòn.
Uncle Đạt went out to get more phở for all of us, which I ate, sitting on a straw mat spread on the floor while listening to Grandma. She now went on and on about the good marks I’d gotten from my first year at university, and that local newspapers had published some of my poems. She talked about Tâm, who was working toward a degree in agriculture and had been my boyfriend for three years.
“I gave him a hard time at first, but he earned my trust,” she told Uncle Minh. “You’ll like him, surely. He comes from the middle region, like us.”
Uncle Minh looked truly happy for me. Some color had returned to his face. He scribbled in the notebook.
“About me?” Grandma laughed and said she was doing fine, that she liked her job trading in the Old Quarter. She’d made many friends and had many more regular customers.
My uncle raised his arm, smoothing the wrinkles on Grandma’s face. The hard work had made her look much older than her fifty-nine years of age, though she was still a graceful woman. Through the years, I’d seen men coming to our home. Grandma had sent all of them away with her indifference. I knew the river of her love for my grandpa had never stopped flowing, and I saw how I’d turn out like her and my mother, loyal to one man.
“I’m perfectly happy now, having found you.” Grandma rested her face against her son’s hand. She tilted the bowl, pouring the rest of the soup into the spoon. “Well done, my child. Finished.”
Uncle Đạt and I insisted that Grandma eat. She joined us on the straw mat. I went to the bed, picking up the fan. My mother came out of the cooking area, asking Uncle Minh to take a nap. He shook his head and held up the pen. “Ngọc, tell me about Hương’s father?”
My mother sat down and massaged Uncle Minh’s legs. It was a story I had asked to hear many times. “I met Hoàng when I was eighteen, at the Mid-Autumn Festival,” she began.
It was a magical night, the sky adorned by the full moon. Around the Lake of the Returned Sword, thousands of paper lanterns lit by candles gathered for a parade, their lights bobbing like scales of a dragon to the rhythms of songs and drumbeats. My mother, too old to carry a lantern, chased her friends, racing past the lit-up figures of stars, animals, flowers. As her friends disappeared from her sight, she ran faster and tripped on a sharp rock. She fell, blood gushing from her foot.
She cried out in pain, but her voice was swallowed by the songs and drums. No one seemed to notice her. As she grew desperate, a young man emerged from the mass of people. He knelt down, took off his outer shirt, tore it up, and bandaged her foot. He brought her home and on the way, he made her laugh so hard, she forgot about the pain. They’d been inseparable from then until the man—my father—joined the Army.
I showed Uncle Minh the Sơn ca. “My father carved this for me.”
My uncle studied the bird. “It’s beautiful. Where did your father fight?” he wrote.
“I don’t know. We never got a letter from him.”
“I gave up looking for Hoàng,” said my mother, “but recently there was this story in the newspaper. A soldier had been injured in an explosion and lost his memory. At the beginning of this year, he listened to the radio and heard a poem about the river that runs through his village. The poem evoked such powerful emotions that he remembered his way home. His family had no news from him for nine years, and then he turned up. Can you imagine how happy they were?”
I thought about the work I’d published. I longed for my father to read it and find his way back to us.
Auntie Hạnh appeared. Uncle Đạt met her at the door. She told him something and he frowned. I was desperate to know what was going on, but didn’t want Uncle Minh to see us whispering.
Grandma returned to the bed. “Get some sleep, Son. We’ll talk more later.”
Uncle Minh nodded, but the pen scribbled across the page, “Mama, how are Grandma Tú, Mr. Hải, and his son?”
“Mr. Hải and his family are fine. They can’t wait to see you. As for my beloved Auntie Tú . . . I’m sorry, Son . . . she died by the time I could return to our village. People said she’d committed suicide, but I don’t believe it.”
Uncle Minh gripped the pen tight. “You think someone killed her?”
“Yes, to take over our land. She was defending it so fiercely.”
“Those evil people, they’ll rot in hell.” The pen trembled in my uncle’s hand.
“What about Brother Thuận, Mama?”
Grandma was distraught. As my mother held her, I talked about the bombings and the two soldiers who’d brought the news of my youngest uncle.
“Thuận, oh my little brother . . . ,” Uncle Minh howled. He thumped himself in the chest. He reached for Grandma’s hand, tears flowing down his cheeks. “Mama, I’m sorry. You’ve suffered so.”
“But my life is filled with blessings, too,” Grandma choked. “It was a great blessing when I received your telegram. How did you have my address, Son? And why didn’t you contact me any sooner?”
Uncle Đạt and Auntie Hạnh stood beside me, anxious for the answers. Uncle Minh wrote something, only to blacken it with the ink. He flipped to a new page, only to hold the pen with his eyes closed.
I flinched when he threw the pen and the notebook onto the bed. He struggled to sit up, then crawled toward Grandma. He kowtowed to her, his head touching her feet. “Mama . . . forgive this useless son.”
“Minh.” Grandma reached for his shoulders, pulling him to sit up. “If someone is to blame, it’s me. I failed to keep our family together.”
“But I haven’t—” Violent coughing interrupted my uncle. He clutched his chest as my mother patted his back. Once the coughing eased, she gave him some water.
My uncle nodded his thanks. He peeled away a corner of his straw mat. Underneath was a swollen envelope. With both hands, he gave it to Grandma.
I leaned forward, catching a glimpse. “Gửi Mẹ Trần Diệu Lan, 173 Phố Khâm Thiên, Hà Nội.” The envelope was addressed to Grandma. There was no sender’s name.
Uncle Minh picked up the pen. “I wanted to send it by post, but feared it’d fall into the wrong hands. Please, read it together,” he wrote.
“We’ll do that as soon as you’ve drunk your medicine.” My mother looked at her watch.
As Uncle Đạt adjusted the pillows behind Uncle Minh’s back to help him sit up straighter, Grandma stared at the envelope without opening it.
My mother returned, in her hands a bowl of black liquid. I winced at its smell. She fanned the liquid to cool and brought it to Uncle Minh’s lips. “It’s bitter but it will help.”
He took a sip, then shuddered. He drew his head back, sticking out his tongue, shaking his head.
“Brother, please, you have to drink all of it,” said Uncle Đạt. “Ngọc’s treatments did wonders for me. I drank at least fifty pots of her brew and look how strong I am.” He flexed his upper arms, which bulged with muscles.
Uncle Minh chuckled, coughed, then took a deep breath. He pinched his nose, swallowing the medicine in small gulps. Finally, he finished the bowl. We clapped.
“Now, you must rest.” My mother helped my uncle lie down. “Sleep. We’ll talk when you feel better.”
We sat in a circle on the floor, far away from the bed. “Keep your voices low,” my mother said.
The envelope stayed still in Grandma’s hands. Auntie Hạnh reached for it. As she opened the flap, pulling out the pages, an old-looking envelope slipped out.
A smaller letter. It was also addressed to Grandma, but bore the sender’s name: Nguyễn Hoàng Thuận—my dead uncle.
Grandma’s eyes flew open. “It’s Thuận’s handwriting. Oh, my son, my son!”
My mother held on to Grandma’s shoulders as I became dizzy.
“How the hell did he get this?” Auntie Hạnh voiced the question that was running wild in my mind. Uncle Đạt eyed the bed. Uncle Minh had turned away from us, his skin sagging from the bones of his back.
My mother took Uncle Thuận’s letter from Grandma and read it aloud to all of us.
Đông Hà, Quảng Trị, 15/2/1972,
Dear Mama,
On the doorstep of this New Year of the Mouse, I think about you. Oh how I long to be with you, and with my brothers and sisters. How I long to sit next to the bubbling pot of bánh chưng, the perfume of those sticky rice cakes warming our home.
How are
you, my dear Mama? How are Hương, Sister Ngọc and Sister Hạnh? Have you received news from Brother Đạt, Brother Sáng, and Brother Hoàng? If you haven’t, don’t worry. They’re strong and skillful. Soon they’ll join me in returning home.
Mama, I heard the bombings in Hà Nội are getting worse. Please take good care and stay in underground shelters. If you can, leave. Go to a village where it’s safe.
I dream about the day when I can come home to you, Mama. All over Việt Nam, hundreds of thousands of mothers are waiting for their sons and daughters to return from the war. Tonight, I see the eyes of those mothers and yours lighting up Heaven above my head.
How are you celebrating Tết this year, Mama? Could you manage to buy sticky rice and pork to make bánh chưng? Do people still sell cherry blossom branches on the streets? Oh I miss watching those red and pink flowers bursting out from bamboo baskets or on the back of peddlers’ bikes.
You would have loved our New Year celebration here in the jungle, Mama. We had a feast today, with fresh fish caught from a stream. You’d have enjoyed the tàu bay wild vegetable I cooked. And can you guess what I found yesterday on my trek? A branch of a yellow mai. Its budding flowers tell me this war will end, that I will soon come back to you. Come back to you and be your child again.
I miss you, Mama.
Your son,
Thuận.
P.S. My comrade is heading for the North on an assignment so I’m giving this to him. Please tell Hương, Ngọc, and Hạnh I’m halfway through my letter to them. I hope to be able to send it soon.
Tears stung my eyes. Uncle Thuận had loved bánh chưng cakes so much that he always insisted that Grandma make them for Tết. With him gone, Grandma had never made them again.
“My poor baby brother. He loved us and he loved his life,” said Auntie Hạnh. She bent forward as if someone had punched her in the stomach. “It’s people like him who killed Thuận.” She pointed at Uncle Minh.
The Mountains Sing Page 28