Everyone in Vietnam was talking about the moon landing. In the second part of July America was sending astronauts on a journey into space, and if they didn’t meet with some catastrophe, they would land and walk on the moon’s surface in three days’ time. Most of the people Mai knew were afraid. This was not the nature of things. America was tempting the gods, and the gods would punish them. They would meet with some disastrous misfortune if they disturbed the universe in this way. Others didn’t believe it and said they’d heard it would be staged to fool people into believing the event was real, which it obviously couldn’t be.
Mai was looking forward to watching the landing. One of the families in the neighborhood owned a television and invited everyone to their home. The day they were supposed to land, Mai was at work at the market. She was trying to find a comfortable sitting position when she stood up and water streamed down from her private parts.
“What is happening?” Mai asked.
One of the women cried out. “It is your time!”
“We need to get you home. Quickly,” the other woman said. “Your contractions will begin soon. And then the baby.”
“But I am to go to the doctor in the hospital.”
“There isn’t time. We will take you home in a tuk-tuk.”
During the trip home, Mai’s abdomen seemed to shift and heave, and sharp menstrual cramps stabbed her, so strong that she gasped and doubled over.
“No!” she shouted. “This is not right!” The woman with her peered at her with compassion.
Mai’s eyes widened. “It will get worse?”
The woman put her arm around Mai. “It is better if you pant during the worst ones.”
When the next contraction hit, Mai tried to pant but it did nothing to ease the pain. She wanted it all to stop. She’d made a terrible mistake. She should have had the abortion. She couldn’t go through with this. She wanted her mother. Even Tâm would do. Or Hạnh. But there was no one except the aunties who gathered outside as the tuk-tuk deposited Mai at home.
Luckily, several of the aunties said they were or had been midwives. They took her inside. One spread two clean sheets over her mattress. Another rolled up a small towel for Mai to bite down on. A third boiled water for the birth and brewed trà đắng, a bitter green tea, which was supposed to dull the pain. She lay down on her bed, knees up.
Despite their ministrations, Mai screamed and cried and yelled. “Make it stop. I cannot bear it!” Her body felt like it was being torn apart, ripped in two. One of the aunties gave her the towel to chew on, but Mai swatted it and the woman away. “Don’t touch me. I will choke. Please. Just make it stop!”
Another auntie stroked her forehead. Mai told her to get the hell away. The auntie nodded. Instead, she spooned tea into Mai’s mouth during the lull between contractions, but the pain intensified. Mai sipped tea, tasting salty beads of sweat that had formed on her upper lip. Spots of blood stained the sheets, which were now bunched up under her. She thrashed and twisted, contorting her body, when the contractions were at their worst, trying to make them go away.
At one point, Mai lost her mind. She had no idea what time it was, how many hours had passed, what she was doing, or why. Nothing existed except the unspeakable pain, the murmur of the aunties, a fierce heat, and the brief respites in between. After several hours of nothing but excruciating pain and her stubborn attempts to survive it, one contraction at a time, Mai felt the urge to push. “I need to push!” she screamed. “I need to get this out of me! Help me!”
One of the aunties inspected her between her legs. A victorious grin spread across her face. “I see the head! Now you push with the contractions!”
Mai started to push. The contractions weren’t weaker, but they had leveled off, and combined with the pushing, they seemed natural. It was then she noticed a few of the aunties darting in and out, filling in the others on what was going on with the moon landing.
“They have landed!” A young girl ran into Mai’s apartment. “They are on the moon!”
A swell of gasps and amazement rose from the aunties. “Bring the radio,” one said to the girl.
Mai didn’t give a damn about the moon landing. All she wanted was this thing to come out of her. She pushed and panted, panted and pushed. Sweat drenched her neck and hair, matting it to her head. She had been wearing a T-shirt, but the aunties helped her take it off, replaced it with a fresh towel, and tried to wipe down her sweat. The auntie who inspected between her legs nodded and urged her on. “Good girl. It is almost over. Keep pushing.”
The girl who’d run in earlier brought a radio and tuned it to the station that was broadcasting the landing.
Finally the auntie who was ministering to Mai held up her hand. “Stop. Now!” She reached her fingers inside Mai. Mai screamed, felt blood pour out of her, watched it seep into the sheets. When the woman’s hands emerged, they were holding a wet, bloody creature with eyes squeezed shut and scarlet cheeks. The auntie swatted him on his rear end, wiped inside his mouth, and made sure he was breathing. Then she took a pair of scissors and cut the umbilical cord. She swaddled him in one of the soft baby towels and handed him to Mai.
Mai’s son was born at the same time that Neil Armstrong pronounced, “One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.” As if to punctuate the words, a lusty cry came from the baby. Mai laughed. He had Mai’s black hair and a lot of it. But he had Sandy’s wide-shaped eyes and light coloring. His eyes were blue. “He will need glasses.” Mai said, still breathing hard, but now with a smile.
“Let him have your nipple,” the auntie said. Mai cradled him and guided his mouth to her breast. He took to it right away. The pulling, sucking sensation was strange, but not uncomfortable.
“What are you going to name him?” one of the aunties asked.
Mai was quiet for a moment. “I will name him Đêm Nguyệt, the bright moon at night.”
The auntie scowled, taken aback. “But Nguyệt is a girl’s name. And I’ve never heard of any name that includes the word ‘night.’”
Mai looked up at her. “He was born the minute men first walked on the moon. That will never be an ordinary event.” She smiled. “And so my son will never have an ordinary name. Đêm Nguyệt is the only name he could have.”