by C. L. Hoang
“No, no, no. He exaggerated. I did no such thing,” I reply, blushing. “All I did was get him some first-aid care the one time he went into shock. And the other time, it was sheer dumb luck we couldn’t squeeze in the doomed bunker. That’s how we gave the Grim Reaper the slip, not because of heroics on my part. But that aside, how’s life been treating him all these years?”
“Very kindly. He’ll be the first to tell you. He runs his own practice in town, is married to a wonderful lady who’s given him four beautiful children, and, get this, is about to become a first-time grandfather any day now. Can you imagine? The Kid—Gramps? Hell. I keep forgetting how old we are.”
We all laugh. I’m relieved and happy to hear that Paul survived his time in Southeast Asia, physically and otherwise, and came home to build the life he’d always dreamed about, in his own corner of paradise tucked away in Iowa’s “Little Switzerland.”
Dean continues. “He debated coming to California with Elise and me, in the chance we might be able to get in touch with you. But with the baby arriving any day, he couldn’t risk it. When I called him with your news last night, he insisted we all get together soon. After the grandkid’s here, that is. San Diego, Decorah, or Washington, doesn’t matter where, he said. But we’ve got to plan it ASAP. He can’t wait to see you.”
Dean’s eyes drill into me, his voice softening. “We’ve all missed you, kiddo. What’s been happening with you all these years?”
I gaze down at the floor. “I know . . . I’ll tell you all about my boring life in a minute. But first. I’ve been afraid to ask you. Did they—did they ever find out anything about Dick?”
One by one, the rusty gates to the past have been kicked open. There’s no stopping now.
Dean exhales, leans over with his elbows on his knees.
“Nope,” he utters. “Not a trace. Even to this day. It’s been a terrible ordeal for his family, to not know what happened to him or where his remains might be. His parents passed away a few years back, without closure.” I can hear Dean catch his breath.
“There were other journalists who died or disappeared in Cambodia around the same time,” he goes on, slowly rising again. “Sean, the son of actor Errol Flynn, and Dick’s own buddy, Kyoichi Sawada of UPI, the Pulitzer Prize winner, to name just a couple. But unless their bodies were recovered on the spot, the probability of going back and finding them later was slim to nil. The ‘killing fields’ were about to destroy all tracks beyond hope.”
He heaves a weary sigh. “Sorry, guy. No cheerful news there.”
Such is life, I know. The same way the internment camp of Manzanar, an isolated and lonely childhood, the curse of falling in love with an impossible illusion, and the heartbreak of losing that love to war had all been part of life for my friend Dick Hayashi. Up until now, I’ve made no effort to find out what happened to him, fearing the worst, but deep down I’ve always held out a glimmer of hope. That there might be justice left in this world after all, and the star-crossed pattern might be broken for once to allow for a different, happier ending to his story.
But that, as Dean has just confirmed, was not to be.
“I couldn’t bear to face his folks when I was still living in Lone Pine,” I mumble, feeling the burn of guilt on my neck. “I had one hell of a time coping with his news myself. It would’ve been too easy to let the wrong words slip in their presence, which would have hurt them even more.”
Dean nods in sympathy. “I gathered as much. His sister Suzy clued me in on how you had become the town’s recluse after your return. Pretty much shunning the whole social scene to stay holed up in your home or office, was what I understood.”
“You spoke with Suzy?”
“I met with her, and the family,” Dean replies, his voice weighed down with sad memories. “It had always been my intention to pay a visit to the Olsens and the Hayashis first thing after I came back. But you know how quickly time got away from us. It wasn’t until spring 1970 that I had the first chance to come out west, on short TDY at David Grant Medical Center at Travis. So one weekend I got out the maps and the old address book, hopped in the car and drove down to Lone Pine, figuring I should be able to catch either you or the Hayashis at home. I did get to meet Dick’s family to pay my respects and tell them what a true friend their son and brother had been to me in Việt-Nam. But you’re right. The situation was still too fresh and too painful for all of us. Their sorrow was beyond any comfort simple words could bring.” Dean stops and raises the glass to his lips to take a sip, long enough for everyone to blink back emotions.
Eventually he continues, his eyes staring off into the past. “Suzy was really nice. She didn’t want to get her parents more upset than they already were, so she waited until I took leave and followed me to the door. We stood outside under the pine tree in the front yard and spoke at length about her brother, and you. She was grieving for Dick, of course, but seemed realistic and resigned about his fate. But she also expressed concern for you, Roger. How you had withdrawn into your own world and not seemed interested in the least in reemerging.”
Shooting a glance in my direction, Dean hurries on to save me from having to explain. “I’d had an inkling about you already, since my last few letters to you went unanswered. What Suzy told me that day only reinforced my thinking that it might be best to leave you be and allow things to run their course. Time heals all, so they say, but there’s no speeding it up, as you well know. Sometimes a little solitude can help quiet down the mind.
“Elise and I have maintained contact with the Hayashis over the years. Once in a while, when memories stir us, Suzy and I would call each other on the phone and we’d reminisce about Dick. In fact, it was through her that we learned you’d moved to San Diego.”
I drop my head in guilty silence, at a loss for what to say. Looking back on that dark period, I would have done a number of things differently, starting with the fact that I should have stopped in to say good-bye to Suzy and her family before Debbie and I moved away from Lone Pine. But it was a stressful and emotional time for us back then. We both wanted to get through the move as quickly and painlessly as possible, even as we tried to downplay the significance of it to friends and relatives flabbergasted by our decision. In the end, amid all the hubbub, Debbie and I slipped out of town without bidding farewell to everyone.
“How have you been doing, Roger?” Elise’s voice is soothing, though full of concern.
I square my shoulders and proceed to fill them in on the big happenings in my life over the past decades. My marriage to Debbie, and our life together in Lone Pine then in San Diego; our disappointment and sadness over the absence of children; our decision to retire early, followed by Debbie’s illness and her passing. I choose to leave out my recent diagnosis so as not to add more gravity to the conversation.
“And now you’re all caught up—the good, the bad, and the ugly,” I say in conclusion.
“Oh, sweetheart. We’re so sorry about Debbie,” says Elise in earnest, while her husband nods in concurrence. “I just wish we had been there for you.”
I shake my head. “Thank you for your kind thought. I should’ve done a better job keeping in touch, no question about it. But what’s done is done, and the important thing is you’re both here now. I can’t tell you how much it means to me.”
We’ve been going nonstop since they arrived, and the clock shows it’s long past lunchtime. I suggest we take a break and invite my guests to lunch at my favorite local eatery. “It’s a hole in the wall, a little Vietnamese restaurant run by a family of former Boat People,” I explain. “I like their food a lot. But I’m curious to get your opinion on it, Elise.”
She seems to hesitate, casting a glance at Dean, who speaks up for the group. “We’d love to, kiddo, but we need to hit the road pretty soon to get a jump on rush-hour traffic. Our flight leaves early in the morning, and there are some last-minute errands we need to ru
n when we get back to Orange County. How about we settle for a rain check?”
All morning I’ve been on pins and needles waiting for her name to crop up, but with time quickly running out, I can no longer hold back the one question burning on my mind.
“Have you heard anything about Lee Anne?”
It might as well have been a grenade dropped in the middle of the room.
Everyone freezes, suddenly clamming up. Nervous, meaningful glances dart back and forth between my three visitors, whose expressions have turned solemn. And then, over the growing drumbeat of my heart, I hear Elise’s voice, fragile and quavering,
“Roger, dear. We didn’t know how to tell you.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
My temples throbbing, I look up at Elise.
The color has drained from her face. Her eyes open wide in telltale panic.
“Oh, sweetheart . . . I’m so sorry. I didn’t know how to tell you.”
She breaks down, unable to continue. Dean slides onto the sofa next to her and wraps one arm around her shoulders, his free hand patting hers in comfort.
Out of the fog of confusion, I hear Lan’s voice for the first time since we were introduced earlier—hesitant, trembling with emotion.
“Dr. Connors. I’m . . . I’m really sorry. Auntie Liên is no longer with us . . .”
I stare at Lan with my mouth open. No sound escapes.
Tears roll down her cheeks. She dabs them with a handkerchief but can’t seem to stem their flow. There’s no mistaking what I’ve just heard, since everybody is crying now. Even Dean has discreetly turned his face away.
From a distance, I hear Lan’s voice again, tripping over her words.
“She . . . Cô Liên—Auntie Liên—passed away a year ago.”
I’m suddenly freefalling through a dense fog. My body cold and numb.
And then, in the dark void of my mind, I see it again. The same vision that came to me this morning, of an ageless Lee Anne in her white áo dài strolling up the front walkway amid ribbons of sunlight.
Then, just as fast as it appeared, the scene bursts into a storm of light so bright it blinds my eyes, about the same time my lips register the warm, salty taste of tears.
Dean is standing next to my chair, his hand resting on my shoulder, Elise by his side.
“I’m awfully sorry, buddy,” he says in a pained voice. “We just couldn’t . . . we didn’t know how to break the news to you.”
I wave my hand wearily. “How . . . what happened?”
“Congestive heart failure, due to idiopathic DCM. It could have been hereditary or from an earlier infection of some kind. Just no way to tell. It was diagnosed a few years back, but there wasn’t a whole lot they could do for it. We were all devastated.”
I search their eyes for an explanation. You cannot be serious. Dilated Cardiomyopathy? All these years I lived in fear of receiving news that Lee Anne and her family had fallen victim to the war. Never would I have guessed she’d mustered enough resilience and gumption to survive the damned scourge, only to succumb in the end to an obscure heart disease.
“Roger,” says Elise in a nasal voice, “Lan here is a close relative of Lee Anne’s. She can tell you more about what happened.”
Dean brings the small chair over next to mine and motions Lan to sit down. I turn, reaching for her hand in heartfelt sympathy. The words tumble out, pathetically inadequate. “I am so sorry for your loss. For our loss. Lee Anne was a very dear friend to all of us.”
Lan nods, her mouth covered in her handkerchief, and takes a minute before speaking.
“Please forgive me for getting all emotional. I lost both my parents when I was very young, and Auntie Liên had always been like a mother to me.
“She worked hard all her life, poor Auntie. So it wasn’t a big surprise when she first told us she was getting tired and out of breath more frequently. But when the symptoms got worse, even after she had taken a break from work and had plenty of rest, we became worried and took her to see the doctors. That’s when they diagnosed her heart condition, four years ago this summer. As Uncle Dean mentioned, the doctors advised us at the time they could try to treat the symptoms to some extent, but they couldn’t reverse or even slow down the condition. From then on her health went downhill pretty fast, to where she needed to rest most of the day and was no longer able to go about her daily chores. I begged her to come stay with us, me and my husband, so we could look after her during the final two years—”
The plain fact finally struck me. “You mean, up there in Orange County?”
“Yes. We’d always lived near each other even before Cô Liên moved in with us, in the neighborhood known as Little Sài-Gòn, in Westminster. There’s a big Vietnamese community in the area, with all kinds of shops, restaurants, and business offices. Before she became too weak to get out and about, Auntie used to go there on the weekend to do all her shopping. It felt almost like home, she always said.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Lee Anne—living barely a hundred miles up the road from me, perhaps for years, without my knowing it. It’s not inconceivable we might even have passed each other a time or two on the busy highways. Yet all this time I thought we were an ocean, if not a world apart, with no remote chances of ever crossing paths again. Never once have I had an inkling I could have easily been there for her, if only to hold her hand and whisper one last good-bye. A mere hundred miles removed, and the chance of a lifetime squandered, right through my fingers. In a matter of minutes, against all odds, I have found her and then lost her all over again, this time forever.
I sit stunned with the cruel realization, grappling helplessly with fresh loss and regrets.
Elise’s voice reaches me from beyond the grayness. “If it’s any consolation, Roger, she passed away peacefully in her sleep, at Lan’s home.”
I shake my head, the bitter taste of sorrow on my tongue. “No one even let me know.”
As soon as that slips out, however, I recognize how immature and unfair it must sound, and regret it. But the damage is done, and Elise turns to me with agonized pleading in her eyes. “Oh, sweetheart. Lee Anne wouldn’t let us. She made us promise not to bother you.”
Then Lan speaks up again. “Dr. Connors, I brought you a package Cô Liên had left for you. I believe there’s a letter inside. Maybe it will help explain some things. Sorry it has taken me this long. I should have asked Uncle Dean and Auntie Elise to help me get in touch with you sooner.”
Something is pushed in my hand. It’s a small package wrapped in brown paper, with my full name drawn on it in flowing cursives in black ink. A shiver runs up my back as I realize I’m looking at Lee Anne’s handwriting just a short time before her death. It’s beautiful and attentive, though somewhat unsteady. Next to my name, printed in a different, smaller handwriting, is a phone number.
“I wrote down my number,” says Lan, “in case you have questions for me after you get a chance to open the package. I’ll be glad to hear from you any time at all. But please don’t feel you have to call. That’s not the intention.”
I get up and give her a warm hug. “Thank you so much, Lan. I can’t tell you how much all this means to me. But we’ll talk again, soon. I promise.”
Dean approaches with his hand extended. “Looks like you could use some time to yourself now. We’ll get out of your hair and let you be. But we ain’t saying good-bye. Elise and I will be in touch in the coming week, and we’ll need your help to plan a get-together with the old gang, okay?” Then, with a wink, “With any luck, we won’t have to wait another thirty years for it.”
I shake his hand. We reach and grasp each other by the shoulder. Then I walk over to Elise, who is standing off to the side with a brave smile despite all the tears. She steps forward to meet me. We share a long hug.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper in her ear. “I had no right to take it
out on anyone. It was my own damned fault for not staying in touch. I know you miss her and you’re hurting just as much as I am.” She nods, hugs me tighter before we part.
I walk them to the door, and within minutes they’re gone, vanishing around the corner.
As soon as the door closes, I drag myself to the big chair, all my pain and grief finally let loose. It’s a good thing my visitors have left, for I can’t hold back a moment longer.
Eventually the furor subsides. For the first time in my life, I recognize with undeniable clarity the true depth of my feelings for Lee Anne. After three decades of trying to forget, my heart still breaks at the mere mention of her.
I slowly sit up and reach for the wrapped package on the table by my chair. Again, a slight tremor crawls up my back at the sight of her shaky handwriting. With a lump in my throat, I drag my fingers back and forth over this last vestige of hers, hoping somehow to feel her touch, her presence. Even in her final struggle, she didn’t forget me.
With great care so as to preserve all the writings on it, including Lan’s contact number, I remove the brown paper to reveal a cardboard container the size of a shoebox. My curiosity piqued, I ease it open and pull out a couple of books and a sealed envelope.
I recognize the books, a hardcover edition of For Whom the Bell Tolls, and a paperback imprint of Gone With the Wind. My brother Jerry shipped them to me at Biên-Hoà AFB at my request, and I gave them to Lee Anne to help with her study of American literature. They both look in exceptional shape with hardly a stain or a wrinkle to them, except for some yellowing due to aging. I flip open the covers and find inscriptions in her lovely handwriting in purple ink that has faded somewhat over time: “From Dr. Roger Connors, Sài-Gòn, Christmas 1967.” And right below them, in faint pencil, a brief annotation that said it all: “Excellent reading!”