According to the Chicago telephone directory, Sandy still lived in Rogers Park. At least Mai was pretty sure: his middle name was Frederick, and there was only one A. F. Bowden listed. She wrote down the address and asked Hoa to substitute for her the following Monday. It was a mild February day, but she bundled up and made sure Đêm Nguyệt was wearing a hat, scarf, and gloves. Đêm Nguyệt had started to call himself “Witt,” an approximate pronunciation of his Vietnamese name. When Mai balked, he said it made him feel American.
“All the kids have nicknames,” he said.
“But you were named for the American moon landing. You were born when the first man walked on the moon. It is an important, a historical name.”
Đêm Nguyệt scowled. “I don’t care. I want to be Witt.”
He was right, one of her clients at the nail salon said. “Back in Vietnam, we showed our affection by giving them carefully chosen names, but here they shorten those names to something that’s easy.”
In some ways he reminded Mai of herself. Only six years old, but he already knew what he wanted. She shrugged and said okay. In a way she was behaving like her mother, who raised Mai to think she could have it all. Her mother was wrong, but her intentions were loving. Mai wasn’t sure she wanted Đêm Nguyệt to think the same way, but what else could a parent do? He would learn, like she did, that the world was not that generous; with luck his spirit would not break, as hers almost had.
Now they took the el then walked a few blocks to West Morse Street. Mai found 1156 across the street. It was one of several narrow redbrick rowhouses with one shared wall between them. Evergreen bushes flanked the edge of a tiny yard. A concrete path led to a stoop with three steps up to the front door. This was the house Mai might have lived in with Sandy, she thought. Regret tugged at her.
She took a breath, squeezed Đêm Nguyệt’s hand, and was about to cross the street when the door opened and a little girl and boy scampered out. They both looked younger than Đêm Nguyệt, the girl four, the boy maybe five. Like Witt, the boy wore glasses. He had the same color hair as Sandy. The same pointed chin. A woman, blond and petite, followed them. The little girl had her coloring. The woman was walking a dog of some kind.
They turned right and walked down the street. Mai shaded her eyes and spotted a playground on the next block with swings, a slide, and small children playing on the equipment.
Witt pulled on her arm. “Can I play with them?” He pointed. “On the playground?”
Mai deliberated. She could take Witt to the playground. She could tell the other mothers she had just moved into the neighborhood. She could even chat with the children’s caretaker. Was this woman his wife? A babysitter? Or perhaps his sister, bringing her children to the park? She should find out. She hadn’t come this far just to be thwarted by the appearance of another woman. There were a multitude of possibilities. Perhaps Sandy had moved away and this wasn’t his family. Whatever the situation, Mai had the right to know. Witt was Sandy’s son.
Still, Mai felt rooted to the sidewalk. The woman had to be Sandy’s wife, just as the little boy was clearly Sandy’s son. When had Sandy met this woman? Did he know her before he met Mai? Could he have been married or promised in marriage to her before he came to Vietnam? Was he lying when he claimed he wanted Mai and no one else? Was he deceiving her—and this woman too—the entire time he and Mai were a couple? Did he leave Vietnam early because of Mai’s pregnancy? That would make him a liar and a coward.
Mai looked down at Đêm Nguyệt, still tugging on her arm. Đêm Nguyệt was the love of her life, the reason she had worked herself beyond exhaustion. The reason she had become a prostitute. She had to provide for him. So he would have the chance to build his own future. And she had done it. All by herself. Well, mostly.
And yet, here she was, tethering herself to the past, when this man, her first love, had deceived her. Broken her heart and moved on. She had come all this way, kept him in her heart for years, only to see that he was, in all likelihood, taken by someone else. She squeezed her eyes shut. How was that moving forward? Embracing the future? She was Đêm Nguyệt’s family. Not Sandy. Anh Vinh had been more of a father to Đêm Nguyệt than Sandy. His birth father was just that. Nothing more.
Mai wrenched herself back to the present. “No,” Mai said. “Not this time.” She glanced down at Đêm Nguyệt. She would never have known love like this if she hadn’t become pregnant. In another world, in another time, perhaps she would be grateful to Sandy. It was because of her pregnancy that she had been forced to grow up. To realize she wasn’t the center of the universe. It had been a rocky journey, but it was worth it. Her son, her cherished son, had taught her how to love someone more than herself. And Sandy had made it possible.
For now, though, she took her son’s hand, tucked it in hers, and brushed away a tear with her glove. “I made a mistake, Witt. These are not the right people.” They took the el home.