When Mai woke up she was in a private room at Evanston Hospital. Witt and Hoa, the manager of the Rogers Park salon, were at her bedside.
“What happened?” she asked in a quiet voice.
“You fainted at the salon,” Hoa said. “The doctor wants to do some tests.”
“No tests,” Mai said. “I will be fine.” She tried to sit up.
Hoa shook her head. “You need to find out what is going on. Did you really think I did not notice how tired you look? All the time?”
“Yes, Mama. I want you to be well.”
She turned to Đêm Nguyệt. “All right, son. Since it is you who ask, I will let them do their tests.”
It didn’t take long for the diagnosis. A few days later, Dr. Standish, a white-haired man with a solemn expression, came into her room. She was alone.
“You have advanced ovarian cancer, which has spread to your uterus and kidneys. “We could have done more if you’d come in sooner. Surely you had symptoms before now,” he said.
Mai nodded.
“You are a smart, successful businesswoman, Mai. Why didn’t you see a doctor as soon as the symptoms appeared?”
Mai wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“What is it?” he asked.
Mai sighed. There was no reason not to tell him. “You know I came here from Vietnam. Back then, during the war, I had to support my son any way I could. I became a prostitute for about two years. I am sure that is how it started, and I was ashamed.”
He was quiet for a moment. Then: “We don’t know where cancer comes from. It is far from certain your—your activities were the cause. What about Agent Orange? Did you ever come into contact with that in Vietnam?”
“Yes. The Americans sprayed our land with it. Often.”
“That is more likely to have something to do with cancer than prostitution. Plus all the years you spent in the nail salons. You know how toxic those chemicals are.”
“What?” She searched his eyes, horrified.
“The toluene in nail polish is quite hazardous if you’ve been exposed to it over a long period. Formaldehyde, too. And acetone as well, which is in nail polish remover.”
“I did not know this.”
The doctor must have realized he’d said the wrong thing, because his expression changed, and his tone became gentler. “But, as I said, we don’t yet know the cause of cancer.”
Mai looked away again. “How much time do I have?”
“Probably six months or thereabouts. The end will not be pleasant. I suggest you come here when you know it is time. We will deal with it together.”
“My people will want a học viên y tá, a nurse practitioner, to take care of me. And I have a sister.”
“Mai, I respect your culture. And your customs. But I can assure you, when it’s time, we can make you more comfortable here. You will not feel any pain.” He rubbed his nose with his hand. “For your son, at least—please take my advice.”
Đêm Nguyệt! When he was little he’d played at the salons. He still worked at the one in Rogers Park. Was he going to get cancer too? What had she done? Her chest tightened, and she had trouble breathing. Everything she had done, said, and accomplished since his birth was for him. Everything. If she had poisoned her son—even unintentionally—she would carry the shame and guilt of it forever. How could she make it up to him? The answer was she couldn’t. And the worst part of it was that neither she nor Đêm Nguyệt would know if she had planted a time bomb in her son that would kill him before his time.
She looked back at the doctor. “I need to go home.”
The next afternoon Mai took a long walk over to Lake Michigan. In the middle of autumn, the trees were dressed in their finest: blazing reds, oranges, and yellows. The deep blue sky matched Đêm Nguyệt’s eyes, and the puffy white clouds looked playful. She sat on a bench with a view of the curving Chicago skyline.
The city was a good fit for her. There was a unique energy in Chicago, a sense that anyone could make it there no matter where they came from. The key was to have goals and work hard. That was Mai. Even though she had arrived with a misdirected dream of reuniting with Sandy, she never confused her feelings with ambition. She’d succeeded on her own. But what was it all worth if Đêm Nguyệt would pay the price?
Why? Why did the Buddha or God or whatever they called him give and then take it all away? She was only twenty-six. Tears streamed down her face and she railed against the unfairness of it all. Why, after all the sacrifices she’d made? The perfect son she’d brought into the world? He had so much life ahead of him. A wonderful life in a new world. If he survived. Why were the spirits so fickle?
The modern-day Mai knew there was no answer. Life—and death—was random. Look how many Vietnamese had lost their lives. How many children had died during the war. She’d been spared; she didn’t know why. But she was afraid. “Dirty Rabbit” had not been powerful enough to keep her safe.
Birds swooped and soared in the distance. Behind her cars sped by on Lake Shore Drive, drivers in their own world with their own worries. No one cared about a young Vietnamese refugee now dying of cancer. But she didn’t care about them either.
Eventually her thoughts turned to the practical, as usual. There was much to do. She needed to ensure that Đêm Nguyệt was in good hands. He had only asked about his birth father once. She’d told him his father was an American, and he was her gift from their newly adopted country. He would want to know more and it would be soon. He’d heard her speech at the Vietnamese Refugee Center, but she would write him a letter explaining it all. She would trust that Tâm would give it to him when the time was right.
Vinh had been more of a father to him than any man. A sad smile poked through her tears. She still thought about him. The sweetest, most loving man she had known. A caring, and, as it turned out, loyal husband trapped in a loveless marriage. She still had the emerald necklace Anh Vinh had given her back in Saigon. It was now in her safe-deposit box, and it was worth a lot of money. She would have it appraised, sell it, and use the proceeds to set up an account for Đêm Nguyệt’s college education. What did they call them here? Trust funds. Combined with the sale of the salons, which she had decided to put on the market right away, those funds would give him options. If he did get sick, he could be able to afford the best care.
Also in her safe-deposit box was Freddy’s purple heart, along with Joe Hunter’s address in Munster, Indiana. She would send the ribbon back along with a letter telling him that she would love him to meet her son. Assuming he wanted to. What was the word the Americans used? Role model. Perhaps, if it worked out, he could be the American man Đêm Nguyệt—Joe would call him Witt, of course—looked up to.
And, of course, there was Chị Tâm. It was time to forget about risks and dangers and close ranks. They needed to be a family again. For Đêm Nguyệt’s sake, if no one else. Mai dried her tears. She had to make sure the circle was complete. Somehow, somewhere, Tâm had lost her footing and, along with it, her confidence. But that was beginning to change. Mai had to make sure it continued before she died.