Hà Nội, 1973–1975
The bombings had stopped. I was surprised by how blue the sky was, even when it was raining.
Grandma and I knelt on the site of our collapsed house, piling broken bricks into a pair of bamboo baskets. Our hands became the color of brick; so did our clothes. Nearby, a bomb crater was half-filled with rainwater. It gazed at me with its single murky eye.
I thought about the American pilot. Did he drop this bomb? What had happened to him, and did he have a daughter like me?
The baskets were full. Grandma reached for a bamboo pole, balancing it on her shoulder. She bent, hooking the pole onto thick ropes that held the baskets. I winced as she stood up, hoisting the baskets onto her skinny frame, staggering toward the bomb crater, the toes of her bare feet splaying out. I caught up with her and helped her dump the baskets’ contents into the murky eye. Water splashed up.
Around us, men, women, and children, with torn clothes and ghostly faces, were doing the same thing, filling the eye from hell with the remains of their homes.
“Mẹ Diệu Lan ơi, Hương ơi!” A voice called out to us.
The brick shards fell away from my hands. My mother. She was back.
I stood up, stumbled, and ran forward. In the afternoon’s failing light, my mother was pushing a bicycle; something perched on its back saddle.
“Mẹ!” I cried out for her.
We got closer. My eyes found her face, and my feet stopped. It was my aunt Hạnh, not my mother.
Auntie Hạnh leaned her bike against a pile of rubble and rushed toward me. She knelt, taking me into her arms. Her tears trickled on my face. “Oh, Little Hương. Hasn’t your Mama come back?”
I shook my head, burying my face into my aunt’s chest, searching for my mother’s warmth. Auntie Hạnh was Grandma’s fifth child, eight years younger than my mother. She lived far away, in Thanh Hóa Province, in her husband’s hometown.
“Hạnh.” Grandma arrived, embracing us both.
“I was insane with worry.” Auntie Hạnh touched Grandma’s face, body, and arms as if to make sure nothing was missing.
“Ah, you silly girl. It’s not easy to kill this old water buffalo.” Grandma laughed. Her voice leaped upward, free. I felt myself smiling, too.
Helping Auntie Hạnh push the bike forward, I eyed the brown sack on the back saddle. Hunger gnawed my stomach, but I shouldn’t expect my aunt to bring us food. Her husband, Uncle Tuấn, had gone to war. She taught at a primary school and worked alone in her paddy field; whatever she earned had to stretch thin since her children were young and her parents-in-law sick.
“How long did it take you to cycle all the way here, Hạnh?” asked Grandma.
“Just a little over a day and a night, Mama.”
“Don’t do it again, please. It’s long and dangerous.”
“You once walked more than three hundred kilometers, remember, Mama?”
As we approached the bomb crater, our neighbors stopped us, asking Auntie Hạnh many questions.
I didn’t hear what they said because I lagged behind to study my aunt from the back. She looked just like my mother then, with velvety hair flowing down to her slender waist. Oh how I longed to run my fingers through my mother’s hair again. We’d always washed our hair together, under the shade of our bàng tree. Those days seemed like a dream away; even our beloved tree was now just a memory.
“Who’s taking care of your kids, Hạnh? How are little Thanh and Châu?” Grandma asked once we were by ourselves again.
“They can take care of themselves fine, Mama. You should see how tall they are now.”
We reached the pile of rubble that had been our home. Auntie Hạnh rested her bike against the broken bàng trunk. Grandma had planted this tree when she built the house. The bàng had decorated our front door each spring with emerald buds, each summer with tangy fruit, each autumn with red leaves of fire, and each winter with a web of slender branches. Now its roots protruded into the air like raised, burned hands.
“Oh my tree. My home.” Auntie Hạnh caressed the torn bark.
“Trong cái rủi có cái may,” said Grandma. Good luck hides inside bad luck. “We’ll plant another tree and build another house.”
Aunt Hạnh dried her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt. “So, where have you been sleeping?”
I pointed toward the patch of dirt, our former backyard. Grandma’s friends had cut away some bàng branches, hammering them down into the earth like tent poles. The branches now bore the corners of a plastic sheet, to make the roof of our shelter. A tattered straw mat made the floor, three unbroken bricks our cooking stove, a tin bucket our cooking pot. I’d been gathering dry twigs and leaves for fuel.
Auntie Hạnh shook her head. She unhooked the rubber cord that tethered the brown sack to her bike. “Just some rice and sweet potatoes.”
I helped her free the bundle, my mouth watering at the thought of food.
“You have many mouths to feed, Hạnh,” said Grandma. “Hương and I, we have our food stamps.”
“But Mama, people say many government stores have been destroyed, that there isn’t much food left to buy.’’
“Well, you have your children and parents-in-law to feed. Don’t bring anything next time.”
I stole a glance at Grandma. Every morning she woke up before the sun, standing in long lines in front of government stores. Mostly she returned home empty-handed. If we were lucky, she’d come back with a handful of manioc. Rarely could Grandma get us a cup of uncooked rice, and even then, it was often stale and infested with insects.
Grandma helped Auntie Hạnh carry the sack into our shelter. I ran ahead, straightening the straw mat. Putting the sack down, Grandma reached for a bottle of water, handing it to my aunt, who took a long drink.
Rummaging through the sack, Auntie Hạnh winked at me. “Look what I have for you.”
A book! Tô Hoài’s Adventures of a Cricket.
“One of my favorites.” Auntie Hạnh smiled.
“It’s wonderful, at least not a work of propaganda,” said Grandma.
I was tempted to start reading straight away, but Auntie Hạnh pulled another package out of the sack, giving it to me.
“Cookies?” I gasped, wanting to rip it open but not daring. I told myself not to show my aunt I was hungry.
“Your uncle Tuấn brought these back for us.” Auntie Hạnh stretched her legs. “Cookies from Russia, can you believe it?”
“Tuấn came home for a visit? How is he?” Grandma asked as hope swelled in my chest. Perhaps my parents and uncles would soon be back to see us, too.
“Skinny as a firewood stick, but he brought some good news. He said we’re negotiating with the Americans, to restore peace to our land. Mama . . . on the way here, I heard about the Paris Peace Accords from the public radio’s broadcast.”
“Yes,” said Grandma. “It’s great, but . . .”
“But what?”
“The war will only end once all of our loved ones are home.”
I looked away, the longing for my parents and uncles heavy in my chest. Something that felt like fear churned. Many of my friends had received bad news from the battlefields. Such news ignited more anger. Some boys at my school, those too young to enlist, had cut their hands, using their blood to write letters to the Army, volunteering to become soldiers. I hoped the war was really ending, bringing home my parents, uncles, and everyone I knew.
“Ah, Guava.” Auntie Hạnh tickled me. “No sharing?” She eyed the package in my hands.
I tore off the wrapping. The cookies lay in neat rows, each engraved with delicate patterns.
I offered them first to my aunt and Grandma, then ate as slowly as I could, letting each bite dissolve on my tongue. Years later, when a friend asked what sweet food tasted like to me, I thought about those cookies and said: Happiness.
In our makeshift home, Grandma and my aunt seemed to forget about their worries. They chatted about old times, giggling together. Around us, wisps of smoke rose from our neighbors’ shelters, entwining into the red glow of sunset. Out on the neighborhood lane, some of my friends were chasing each other, their laughter spiraling above the smoke. They called me to join them, but I didn’t. With Auntie Hạnh by my side, it felt almost as if my mother were back.
That night, I slept between the two women, their soft voices drifting me into a dream. In it, my mother was running toward me, my father alongside her. As I called their names, my mother bent down, scooping me up. She smelled just like Auntie Hạnh. My father embraced us both, laughing, saying he’d never let us out of his sight again.
I woke up to find myself blanketed by Grandma’s clothes. It was cold; the moon was out, trembling above the mist. Grandma and Auntie Hạnh were clearing away the rubble. They were humming a song. Their voices felt like summer on my face.
Every day, Grandma urged Auntie Hạnh to go home, but she stayed and worked. She worked as I went back to school and Grandma to her class. She worked until the debris had been cleared away and our shack built. Thanks to the kindness of those we knew and those we didn’t, we now had a better shelter: rusty tin sheets over bamboo poles. We no longer had to sleep outside in the whipping rain of winter.
Once my aunt was sure Grandma and I would be all right, she wiped her tears, leading her bike out to the dirt path. To prepare for her journey, Grandma had stayed up the night before, cooking a small bucket of rice, pressing the rice into balls, sprinkling them with crushed peanuts and salt. I didn’t know how Grandma managed to find those peanuts; they were as rare and valuable as gold.
We watched Auntie Hạnh cycle away.
“Be careful, Daughter,” Grandma murmured, only for her and me to hear. She lifted her face up to the sky, as if fearing bombs would be dropped onto the roads where her daughter would be traveling.
I lost myself in Adventures of a Cricket. I wished I could be Mèn the cricket, leaving his nest to venture out into the world, to see the vastness of nature, meet all types of people, have a taste of independence, cause mischief, and make new friends. In the world of Mèn, there was no war. It seemed only humans waged wars on each other, making each other suffer.
More than a week after Auntie Hạnh’s departure, I walked home from school with Grandma, gossiping about my friends along the way. She still didn’t allow me to go anywhere without her; she’d picked me up after her class.
Our neighborhood lane stretched out in front of us, filled with soggy mud, dotted by pieces of broken brick. We advanced slowly, stepping onto whatever brick islands our feet could find. Grandma gripped my hand in case I slipped.
“Bà Diệu Lan,” someone called Grandma’s name. I turned to see our neighbor Mr. Tập waving at us. “Two soldiers came looking for you,” he said. “I sent them to your house. I thought you were home.”
Grandma thanked the man, gripped my hand tighter, and hurried forward.
In front of us stood a yard—our communal washing area—the only place in our neighborhood where we could collect clean water that dripped from a slimy tap. Kids and their empty buckets made up a long line. As we approached, the children sprang up. Abandoning the buckets and jostling each other, they hurtled toward us.
Sơn, the boy who won most of our racing games, pulled at Grandma’s shirt. “Grandma, the soldiers asked about you. They—”
“They said they wanted to wait for you,” my friend Thủy interrupted. Several voices buzzed up around us like bees.
“Wait. One person at a time, please,” said Grandma. “Now, where are the soldiers?”
“Over there. Over there!” Several hands pointed at Mrs. Như’s shack, which sat across from ours.
I struggled with my plastic sandals. Thủy dragged me forward. Grandma was already rushing ahead. She slipped on the mud, tried to stand, and fell again. When I arrived at her side, two soldiers were already pulling her up. We helped Grandma wipe off the mud, but she brushed our hands away, telling us she was fine.
The soldiers stood tall and thin in their dark green uniforms. One was older, with deep wrinkles around his eyes. The other one was young, as young as the high school boys who’d just left my school for the battlefields.
“Dạ, xin chào,” the older soldier offered Grandma his polite greeting. “We’re looking for the family of Comrade Nguyễn Hoàng Thuận.”
Nguyễn Hoàng Thuận was Grandma’s fourth child. My Uncle Thuận.
Grandma clutched my hand, leading the soldiers toward our home. The neighborhood kids followed, their whispers mushrooming around us. The older soldier reminded them about their water-collecting duties. They understood his hint and scattered.
“Tell me later . . . about the news they bring.” Thủy breathed her words into my ear before dashing away.
Inside our shack, I fetched a towel for Grandma and spread out the straw mat, wondering whether the soldiers knew my parents and other uncles.
Grandma invited the men to sit. They bowed their thanks, taking off their rubber sandals. I eyed the footwear, appreciating the secret of their sturdiness: my father had told me soldiers’ sandals were made out of thrown-away tires.
Sitting cross-legged on the mat, the men undid their hats, placing them onto their laps. The hats were the color of their uniforms and each had a brilliant gold star on the front. My parents and uncles wore the same when they went south.
Grandma poured some water into the bucket, placing it on the three bricks. I kindled a fire.
She took a deep breath before turning back to the soldiers. “I hope you didn’t have to wait long.”
“It wasn’t that long, Mother,” one soldier said. He called Grandma “Mother,” just like my uncles did.
The soldiers were now asking for my name and my grade.
“I’m Hương. I’m thirteen and in grade six, Uncles.”
“Ah, you’re tall for your age,” exclaimed the older soldier.
The younger one laid down a dark green knapsack. It looked full, and I hoped it contained a letter from Uncle Thuận. Grandma had told me there was rarely any postal service from the battlefields, so our best chance of getting some news from my uncles and parents was when one of their comrades returned to the North, bringing us a letter or depositing it into a post box somewhere.
“I must be crazy!” Grandma gave out a sudden laugh. “I’m trying to make tea, yet we have no tea leaves. This has never happened . . .” Her voice quivered with nervousness, but I didn’t know why.
“It’s fine, Mother. We just had a drink at your neighbor’s.”
Grandma fumbled for the water bottle. “Sorry, we only have one cup.”
I turned to the stove, feeding the fire a couple of twigs. It roared, sending tiny sparks into the air. We couldn’t waste such a fire, I told myself, reaching into Auntie Hạnh’s sack, groping around for the last handful of rice. This would be sufficient for two bowls of watery porridge. I released the rice into the bucket, watching it slide through a curtain of steam.
The older soldier cleared his throat. “Mother, we heard about the bombing but didn’t think it was this bad.”
Silence followed. I added water to the pot. The fire bathed me in its warmth.
“Mother, we’re here with news about your son, Comrade Nguyễn Hoàng Thuận.”
“How’s Thuận? Is he well?” Grandma gripped the hem of her shirt, her fingers trembling.
Instead of answering, both men got up, kneeling. The younger soldier unlaced the knapsack. With both hands, he lifted a soldier’s uniform while the older man held up several letters.
“Mother . . .” They offered the uniform and the letters to Grandma.
“No!”
“Comrade Nguyễn Hoàng Thuận was brave.” I could only catch these few words. Everything around me spun into a blur. I crawled toward Grandma. She was crying, her shoulders heaving.
“We’re sorry, Mother. Comrade Thuận was ambushed. He fought courageously.”
Grandma reached for my uncle’s uniform. She buried her face in his clothes. “Thuận ơi, ơi con ơi. Con về với mẹ đi con ơi!”—she wailed his name, asking him to come back to her.
I clung onto Grandma. My Uncle Thuận was dead. Uncle Thuận, who’d tossed me into the air and tickled me until I rolled around laughing. Uncle Thuận, who’d climbed countless sấu trees to pick the ripest fruit for me, who’d made the most beautiful paper kites for me to fly.
“Mother, we know how terrible you must feel. But we assure you your son didn’t die in vain. We, as his comrades, will wipe out the enemy.”
Grandma shook her head as if not wanting to hear more. “Did you . . . did you know Thuận well?”
“We belonged to the same unit, Mother. Comrade Thuận was a brother to us. He was kind to everyone.”
Grandma ran her fingers over the letters, tracing the handwriting of her son.
“There’s one more.” The older soldier held out another letter. “For his girlfriend, Miss Thu.”
Grandma cupped the letter in her palms. She swallowed hard. “Thuận wanted to marry her. I was already saving for their happy day. Our happy day.”
“We know, Mother. Thuận told us he couldn’t wait to hear you sing at his wedding.”
“I’ll go see Thu tomorrow,” Grandma said. “Would you . . . would you like something to eat?”
“Thank you, but we need to go.” The older man smiled weakly. “We’re here on a training course, Mother. Our commander asked us to see you first.”
Grandma nodded. “Stay safe . . . so you can see your families again.”
The soldiers bent their heads. Outside, a strong gust of wind ripped through the air, clashing against our tin roof. On the neighborhood lane, a young boy called for his mother, his cries fading into the distance.
I turned back to the fire. It had dwindled, leaving behind half-burned, smoldering twigs. I could hear nothing now, and felt nothing except for the tightening grip of winter.
Grandma and I set up an altar for Uncle Thuận. We no longer had a photo of him. His knapsack and clothes sat in front of his incense bowl. Grandma stayed up three nights to pray for my uncle’s soul to reach Heaven. Her murmurs, the wooden bell’s rhythmic chime, and incense smoke filled our hut.
I woke up after the third night to see Grandma in front of our home, gazing up at the sky, Uncle Thuận’s letters in her hands—letters I’d learned by heart. I only needed to close my eyes for his words to appear before me, leading me into Trường Sơn jungles where he journeyed under tall trees, where butterflies flittered and monkeys jumped from one branch to the next, where his laughter rose as he caught fish from streams and picked tàu bay plants to eat. There was no fear, no fighting, no death in his letters. Only hope, love of life, and the longing for home. He was just a young man who believed his future was ahead of him.
I went to Grandma, embracing her. The sky was as clear as a mirror, and I sensed Uncle Thuận was up there with my ancestors, watching over us.
We’d hoped for the war to end, but it continued. If Grandma was sorrowful and fearful, she never let me see it again. One day, after looking long and hard at my thin body, our cold kitchen, and our ragged home, she told me she wanted to quit her teaching job, which paid next to nothing. At first I thought I’d heard it wrong, but then her students started appearing, pleading with Grandma to change her mind.
“Please, Grandma, don’t quit!” I insisted the next day as she picked me up from school.
“Shh.” She put a finger to her lip, eyeing the teachers who stood close by.
At home, she lowered herself onto the straw mat. “Now we can talk. But let’s keep our voices low.”
“You can’t quit teaching, Grandma. Don’t you see how much your students love you?”
She reached for our comb, running it through my hair. “Yes, I’ll miss my students. But I can’t stand brainwashing their innocent minds with propaganda. We aren’t just teachers, we’re servants of the Party.”
“But where will you work, Grandma?”
“Can you keep a secret?” She brought her mouth to my ear. “I’m going to trade on the black market, to buy us food and rebuild our home. To save for the return of your parents and uncles. And I’ll be free, no longer somebody’s servant.”
“You’ll become a con buôn—a trader? But that’s . . . that’s bad. . . .” My eyes widened, the words of my ethics teacher ringing in my ears: “As a socialist country, we honor workers and farmers. We must sweep bourgeoisie and traders away from our society. They are leeches living on people’s blood.”
“Ha, it seems you’ve been brainwashed, too.” Grandma snorted. “There’s nothing wrong with being a trader, and you can bet I’m going to become one. In fact, I’ve already traded my gold earrings for some stuff to sell.”
I reached for her ears and gasped. Her only valuable belonging, which she’d saved for Uncle Thuận’s wedding, had disappeared.
“You traded the earrings for what, Grandma?”
“Let me see.” She counted her fingers. “Sandals, towels, batteries, soap, bicycle tires. Best-selling items on the black market.”
“But where are they?” I looked around our empty shack.
“At a friend’s house. In the Old Quarter. They’d be confiscated if I carried them around.”
“But isn’t it illegal, Grandma? I heard only government stores are supposed to trade—”
“Guava.” She interrupted me, taking my face into her hands. “I’m not going to do something bad, believe me.”
I looked into Grandma’s eyes and saw determination. But would her new job get us into trouble?
“We need food,” Grandma told me. “People need these items. Besides, we have to prepare for the future, for the return of your parents and uncles. We can’t live forever like this.” She patted our bed, the straw mat. It looked miserable, glued to the earthen floor.
“Grandma, but if something happens to you—”
“Nothing will. I’ll be very, very careful.” She kissed my hair then pointed at a pot dangling from the roof of our cooking area. “Guess what I have for us?”
“Rice?” My stomach rumbled.
“Better. Wait and see.” She winked at me. “I got you a gift, too, but can’t remember where I put it.”
I jumped up and peeled away the straw mat. Nothing. I looked under our pillows. There was nothing under our clothes and among our bowls and chopsticks, either.
“Look harder.” Grandma giggled.
Finally, I found my gift, wrapped and hidden under the pile of dry branches for cooking fuel. A book. Pinocchio, the Adventures of a Little Wooden Boy. Squatting on the mat, I opened the pages, which transported me to Italy, where Geppetto the woodcarver discovered a piece of wood that could talk.
A delicious smell rose from the kitchen. I lifted my eyes. Grandma’s thin body bent down to the fire. She’d always encouraged me to read far and wide, unlike my friends’ parents who pushed their children to memorize textbooks. She’d always done the best for me. I was a bad granddaughter for doubting her.
I came to her, eyeing the pan. Beef. Paper-thin slices of it were sizzling.
“There’s one thing I don’t like about becoming a trader.” Grandma squinted her eyes against the smoke. “I won’t be home often to look after you.”
“I can look after myself, Grandma. Remember how you panicked the other night? It wasn’t necessary.”
As Grandma turned around to chop more onions, my fingers became a pair of chopsticks, lifting several slices of beef, ferrying them into my mouth. My tongue burned, my eyes watered, but my stomach cheered.
I quickly wiped my mouth before Grandma could catch me. She tossed pieces of ginger and onions into the beef, her chopsticks danced, mixing them together.
“I’m sorry.” She added a dash of fish sauce into the beef. “But I’d gone to Thủy’s house and her mother said she hadn’t seen you.”
“I was playing in her backyard, Grandma. Please, stop worrying about me.”
“Guava, I promised your mother to take care of you. I can’t let anything happen—”
“Don’t you see how big and strong I’ve become?” I pulled her up, showing her that the height of our shoulders matched. “And should somebody try to kidnap me, I’d kick their buttock.” I poked my finger into Grandma’s stomach. Quick as lightning, she jumped back, her hand blocking mine.
I kicked into her groin. She raised her leg, blocking my leg.
“All right, all right. I shouldn’t have forgotten I’ve taught you the moves of Kick-Poke-Chop.” Grandma laughed. “Let me finish cooking, or else everything will burn.”
Grandma’s new job gave me freedom. She was gone most of the day, and I didn’t need to be home. After school, I spent most of my time with Thủy, skipping ropes, lying in her hammock gossiping, venturing out to see different parts of Hà Nội. We even walked all the way to the Red River, dipping our feet into the water, the wind whistling in our hair.
As Grandma turned into a professional con buôn, the Old Quarter became the maze of her secret operations. She had no stall, nor did she carry any of the goods with her. With a nón lá resting on her head, shielding her from the sun, she hung around government stores, looking for customers. Negotiations were conducted in whispers. Once the price was agreed upon, Grandma took her customer somewhere else, where the item was handed over and money paid. All the while, everyone involved had to be watchful. They would scatter and abort the sale whenever a policeman or government guard appeared.
By now, American planes had vanished from Hà Nội’s sky. Grandma made the most out of the opportunity by working day and night. Dark rings appeared around her eyes. Her skin was scorched by the sun, and she had blisters on her feet. In exchange for the danger she faced, she brought home food, clothes, and books for me. And whenever she was home, she sang.
“As long as I have my voice, I’m still alive,” she had told me as she recounted how she’d carried Uncle Sáng three hundred kilometers to Hà Nội, on foot. My uncle was a baby then. He was a soldier now. Where was he fighting and was he surviving? Were my parents surviving?
“Grandma,” I asked one night. “How come Auntie Hoa hasn’t visited us for a while?” Auntie Hoa was Uncle Sáng’s wife and lived in an apartment near the Hà Nội Opera House. Her parents were high-ranking Communist officials.
“I think we won’t see her for quite a while longer.” Grandma was eating her dinner after a long day of work. It was nearly midnight. She picked up some water spinach with her chopsticks, dipped it into fish sauce, and popped it into her mouth.
“How come? Isn’t she supposed to take care of you when Uncle Sáng is away, Grandma?”
“She belongs to a different class. A higher class. So I guess she isn’t bound by any rule.” Grandma shrugged as her chopsticks ferried a couple of tiny shrimps, which I’d cooked with juicy star fruit.
She smacked her lips after chewing. “Delicious, you’re becoming a chef.”
“Grandma,” I insisted. “I know Auntie Hoa holds an important Party position, but we’re still her family, right?”
“Right, but it doesn’t mean she’s allowed to show us compassion. Rumors travel far these days, and she knows I’m trading. I’m sure she won’t visit us for a while. People could run into trouble if they’re caught associating with me.”
“That’s why our neighbors don’t visit us anymore, except for Mrs. Nhân. I don’t mind but when it comes to Auntie . . .”
“It doesn’t matter, Guava. Nothing matters when I have you.”
A few days later, I went to Thủy’s shack, bringing her a small plate of bánh cuốn Grandma and I had cooked together. These crepes—thin layers of steamed rice flour wrapped around minced pork and finely chopped mushroom—were her favorite.
“She’s not here,” her mother said before I could step inside.
“I’ve got something for her, Auntie.” I lifted the bánh cuốn.
“We already ate.” She turned away, leaving me desolate in her yard. I tried to think of the reasons for her rudeness. Perhaps I’d forgotten to bow my greetings when I last saw her?
Next day at school, Thủy avoided me.
“What’s going on?” I caught up with her on the way home.
She kept on walking.
I blocked her path. “Did I do something wrong?”
She tried to get around me but I reached for her arm. “I saved some bánh cuốn for you—”
“I don’t want your food.” She pulled herself away from me. “Please, you shouldn’t visit me anymore.”
“It’s your parents, isn’t it? They don’t want us to be friends because of my Grandma’s job. . . .”
She bent her head. When she looked up, a proverb spilled out of her mouth, “Cá không ăn muối cá ươn, con cãi cha mẹ trăm đường con hư.” Fish failing to absorb salt spoils; children defying parents ruin themselves hundreds of ways.
As she left, I wondered whether she expected me to defy my grandmother to earn her friendship.
That night, I planned to try to convince Grandma to quit trading, only to see her come home with a smile as wide as a river. “A book from America,” she told me, unwrapping a bundle, revealing more than a hundred pages of text, all hand-written. “It cost quite a fortune, but I thought you might like to read it. The novel is called Little House in the Big Woods, very famous in America.”
“Why should I read something from the country that bombed us?” I looked toward Thủy’s house, hoping she’d change her mind.
“You know . . . not all Americans are bad. Many have been demonstrating against the war.” Grandma picked up the first page, reading it out loud. The book began with “Once upon a time,” just like a fairytale, and brought me immediately into the mysterious world of an American girl called Laura and her house made of logs, surrounded by great, dark forests where wolves, bears, and deer lived.
“Who translated this book, Grandma?” I fingered the pages, touching the path that would lead me into the country I knew little about, although its actions were changing my whole life.
“A professor. He was sent to Russia to study American literature, to see into the minds of American people, to help us defeat their army. He practiced his English by translating this book.”
“This is his handwriting?”
“His family hand-copied it, to sell. . . .”
Little House in the Big Woods helped me forget about Thủy and allowed me to become friends with Laura, with whom I sat listening to her father’s music and stories. Just like my father, Pa was funny and enjoyed working with his hands. Just like my mother, Ma was attentive and loved to cook.
I adored Laura but also envied her. While my world was full of longing, hers was filled with the presence of her parents, her sisters Mary and Carrie, as well as her dog Jack. But just like me, Laura had her own angst. She feared for her father as he crossed the dark forest, went to town to sell furs and didn’t come back for an entire night. She was terrified for her mother when they ran into a bear, which could have killed them both.
I had heard rumors that American people liked to rule other races, that they didn’t have feelings like us, but now I knew they loved their families, and they also had to work hard to earn their food. They enjoyed dancing, music, and storytelling, just like us.
Toward the end of March 1973, news of American troops withdrawing from Sài Gòn reached Hà Nội. During class time, my teachers showed pictures of tall foreign men boarding their planes. We clapped our hands, singing songs of victory. It seemed the war was definitely ending, now that we’d defeated the American invaders.
At home though, Grandma wasn’t so excited. She knew from information circulating in the Old Quarter that fighting was still taking place. With the Americans gone, the war was now among Vietnamese ourselves, the North against the South.
Whenever I saw a soldier visiting our neighborhood, I was petrified. I tried to focus on my studies, read my books, and pray.
And I stayed close to Grandma. After dinner and homework, I’d take a little nap and wake up when she came home. While she washed up and ate, I was right by her side, telling her about school and hearing about her days. At government stores, she told me, there wasn’t enough food. Arguments often exploded as people fought for a place in the long lines. More and more people were getting up in the middle of the night to queue, then sell their places to others. People had to offer bribes to get a better cut of meat or some rice without the generous addition of maggots. Everyone around us was doing whatever they could to survive, to live.
Grandma and I saved as much as we could. Each night, I helped her count the coins and wrinkled notes she’d brought home. Each was black with the sweat of her labor.
One early evening, Grandma came home with a bicycle. Running my hands over its rusty handlebars, I laughed. In my neighborhood, only Mr. Lượng owned a bicycle, and he was a Party official. I hoped Grandma would let me use her bike sometimes; Thủy would faint from being jealous. She still wouldn’t talk to me, and I’d tried not to look her way. My friends were now Laura the American girl, Pinocchio the wooden boy, and Mèn the cricket.
Grandma showed me a certificate issued by the Hà Nội Department of Public Security that said she was the bike’s rightful owner. On the bike frame dangled a number plate made of metal, which read 3R-3953. We hugged each other, jumping up and down. To celebrate, Grandma took the evening off and rode me to Silk Street. The moon, round and bright, followed us. We rejoiced at the sight of the five-section wooden house. Under moonlight, it stood ancient and dreamlike—the wooden doors that bore exquisite carvings of flowers and birds, the ceramic dragons and phoenixes that soared atop the roof’s curving ends. Did the home of my ancestors survive the bombings, too? When would I be able to go there and touch the remnants of Grandma’s childhood?
Now Grandma could get around faster and serve more customers. She expanded her business to sell winter jackets, raincoats, and radios. Some of those were even imported from China and Russia.
Her trading job helped Grandma learn news about the war. She told me the Northern Army was advancing further south and winning battles. Yet I feared my parents would never come home. We’d heard nothing from or about them. Out of my remaining uncles, only Uncle Đạt had managed to send back a letter, saying how much he missed us. He was okay and heading to Sài Gòn. I wondered how hard it was for Miss Nhung, his girlfriend. She’d been together with my uncle since high school and worked as an accountant. She was one of the few who didn’t care about Grandma being a trader. Miss Nhung visited us often, and when Grandma wasn’t home, she taught me to ride her bike. I hoped Uncle Đạt would soon come back and marry her.
Months passed. I turned fourteen. Grandma worked and worked. One night, she pulled me close. “I think we have enough to build ourselves a very simple brick house.”
My eyes grew large. By now, our shack could barely stand against a strong wind. The tin sheets became blazing heaters during hot days and leaked whenever it rained.
“I might need to borrow, but we’ll be able to repay,” said Grandma. “Let’s plan for three bedrooms.”
“On this?” I looked around our small shack.
“We’ll build into the backyard. We need one room for your parents, one for Đạt and Nhung, and one for you and me, you see.” She smiled at me. “Do you want to draw a plan for our house? Just a simple one. What do you think we need?”
“A bomb shelter!”
“Oh yes, it’s most important. Shall we have it at the entrance of our bedroom?”
“But we need three, Grandma.”
“Ah, for the three bedrooms. Such a thinker you are. How about a living and dining room where we can eat and talk?”
“And a kitchen and a washroom?”
“And the best corner, somewhere light and airy, for your study desk?”
“That could be next to our bedroom window.”
Just like that, the two of us made the plan for our house. I sketched it and each night, Grandma and I refined it together. We made sure our windows were high up, to avoid spying eyes. Once our drawing was complete, Grandma brought it to the Old Quarter, where an architect drew a more complex plan based on ours. He added details for electric wiring and plumbing, even though we rarely had electricity, and no water could reach our house.
I couldn’t wait for it to be built. Thủy was still living in her shack, for sure she’d want to pay a visit.
A few weeks later, Grandma came back from work, grinning. “Found a team of construction workers. Got the permits to buy cement and bricks.”
“We need permits, Grandma?”
“Without them, materials would be confiscated on their way here.” She brought her mouth to my ear, her breath tickling me. “We need to build very quickly. The neighbors will be very curious. If anyone asks anything, tell them to come to me.”
I nodded.
“I’ve been to the People’s Committee Unit to get us the clearance to rebuild.” Grandma showed me a document with a fiery red stamp. “Had to beg for it. They wanted to know where the money came from. As they were grilling me, Trương—Thuận’s former classmate—walked in. Trương told his comrades to give me a break. He said I’d sent my four children to war to protect this country from the American invaders, and I should be allowed to rebuild my home.”
I looked up at Uncle Thuận’s altar. Perhaps his spirit had blessed us.
“Trương was helpful,” sighed Grandma, “but I should’ve told him he was wrong.”
“Wrong? What do you mean, Grandma?”
“I didn’t send your uncles and mother to war, Guava. I nearly lost them when they were little. I didn’t want them out of my sight. Ever!”
I squeezed Grandma’s hands. We looked out to our neighborhood, where shanties sat silent in the dark.
“There’s a hurdle we have to cross. Trương told me, in private, that to ease the jealousy of those around us, we should do something for the neighborhood.”
“Should we offer them food?”
“Good thinking, Guava. But I’d like our help to last a bit longer. What do you think if we have a well dug and a pump installed where the water tap is?”
I jumped up, excited at the idea. “The line for water has been ridiculous. I bet our neighbors will be overjoyed.”
“Don’t bet on it yet. I’ll need to convince them.”
Several weeks later, Grandma came home early and hurried through dinner. I clapped my hands when she said I could come along to the weekly citizen meeting.
The People’s Committee Office used to be housed in a charming French-style villa with spacious balconies and large wooden windows. Flattened by bombs, it was now a box of cement and bricks. “Rebuilt in the Soviet style,” Grandma told me.
My neighbors poured into the stuffy meeting room and sat in rows of chairs. I looked over at Grandma, and her calmness quelled the butterflies in my stomach. She looked graceful despite her sun-roasted skin and bony frame. Her face glowed with confidence. Her long hair was rolled up and pinned behind the nape of her neck, revealing her scars.
“Thank you for coming.” Mr. Phong, the head of the People’s Committee Unit cleared his voice, and the crowd grew silent. “We have many items to discuss tonight, but first, one of our neighbors has a proposal.”
Murmurs rose as Grandma stepped up to the front.
“I’d like to thank you all for your kindness during the past years.” Grandma looked around the room. “When my children and I came here, we were country bumpkins, and you opened your arms to receive us. You helped make this neighborhood our home.”
Our neighbors stopped talking. I could see that they were drawn by Grandma’s sincere words.
“As you know,” Grandma continued, “our communal water supply has been giving us problems. We spend hours each day waiting in line, and there hasn’t been enough water to go around. I’ve been thinking about an alternative supply, so I asked a technician to visit our neighborhood. He gathered samples of our underground water, especially under the communal washing area.” Grandma passed a stack of papers around. “In your hands are results of the water tests. If drawn from more than fifty meters below the ground level, the water is good, safe for us to use.” She paused to give her listeners time to scan the papers. People started whispering again, but this time they were nodding their heads.
“With these results,” said Grandma, “I’d like to make a proposal. Instead of relying on the public water supply, we should have a system to draw underground water out for us. A well and a manual pump would do the job.”
“This sounds grand, but it costs a lot of money,” a neighbor said aloud.
“We don’t have enough to eat, how can we afford it?” another one asked.
Grandma raised her hand. “As a token of my gratefulness to this community, I’d like to pay for all the costs involved.”
Voices mushroomed all around us. At first, people’s eyes seemed to light up, but as they talked among themselves, their eyes dimmed. Heads began to shake.
“We can’t accept money from a con buôn!” Mr. Tân, an elderly neighbor sprang to his feet. “Bourgeoisie and traders are leeches that suck the life out of our economy.”
“Her money is dirty.” Mrs. Quỳnh, a middle-aged woman pointed her finger toward Grandma’s face.
“She can afford to throw her money away, money she earns without doing any real work,” said someone else.
I saw myself in the angry sneers targeted at Grandma. I’d held strong feelings about her job, only to have my eyes opened by her entrepreneurship, hard work, and determination.
I had to be Mèn the cricket who was brave and stood up for his own beliefs. I found myself on my feet. “Please, may I speak? My name is Hương. I’m Grandma Diệu Lan’s granddaughter. My parents have gone to the battlefields, and Grandma takes care of me. I live with her, and I’m aware of what she does.” I looked at Grandma and smiled. “Grandma Diệu Lan works harder than anyone I know. She barely sleeps. Just look at the blisters on her feet and they’ll tell you that she doesn’t exploit anyone. Every cent she wants to donate to this neighborhood has been hard-earned money.”
A tear rolled down Grandma’s face. Silence enveloped the room.
“Children don’t lie.” Mrs. Nhân stood up. She was the only person here who’d remained friendly to us. “Don’t think about propaganda, please. Think about the benefits this would give your own family. Your children will have more time to play. You will have more time to relax. The water will be much safer. No more lining up from four in the morning. No more fighting about who got a fuller bucket.”
People started murmuring together again.
“All right, all right.” Mr. Phong raised his hands to silence the crowd. “Let’s have a secret ballot. There’re paper, pens, and a box on the table over there. Write down your wish, yes or no to Mrs. Diệu Lan’s offer, and put it into the box. The majority decision will be the final one.”
As the neighbors made their way to the table, Grandma found me. “I guess from today I shouldn’t call you Guava anymore. You’re a young lady now, Hương.”
I beamed. “I love my baby name, but yes, Hương would be nice.”
I squeezed Grandma’s shoulders as Mr. Phong read the result aloud. “Out of forty-one people present here tonight . . . thirty-six agreed to Mrs. Diệu Lan’s proposal.” He turned to Grandma. “On behalf of our neighborhood, thank you.”
A few days later, a group of men built a well and installed a manual pump. Even little children could use it to fill their buckets. Instead of waiting for their turn to collect water from the slimy tap, kids now washed themselves in front of their homes, tossing rainbows of water over each other, laughing.
Construction materials started to fill our shack. Mrs. Nhân came by one late evening, bringing a book of astrology. She sat with Grandma by the oil lamp, scrutinizing complicated-looking charts, comparing them against our birthdays.
“The date of the Ox, the hour of Dragon is an auspicious start,” Mrs. Nhân said, and Grandma nodded.
Grandma stayed home to supervise the construction. Every day, returning from school, I had to push through a crowd of curious onlookers to be able to get inside.
The workers and Grandma labored day and night. More than two months later, our new house stood, gleaming under the sun. Grandma could only afford to build one floor, but all the rooms we’d planned were there, the way we’d mapped them out.
Grandma smiled as I dashed from one room to the next. There was so much light. I loved my writing corner, the bedrooms, and the living-dining room that opened into the kitchen. I adored the entrance door with its solid wood panels and the windows that let me see a piece of the sky.
I continued to share a bed with Grandma, leaving the other rooms empty. They were there for my parents and uncles to come back to.
Grandma brought home a young bàng tree. We planted it in our tiny front yard, on the same spot where the old tree once stood. Every day, I watered it and watched it grow. I couldn’t wait for my mother to return, for the tree to shade us as we washed our hair.
As we now had a secure roof over our heads, Grandma came home from the market just after sunset once a week. We spent the entire evening practicing meditation and the swift moves of Kick-Poke-Chop self-defense.
“Calm your mind and build your inner strength,” she told me.
Grandma kept working extra hard. Gradually and secretly, she brought home pieces of furniture: my study desk and chair, a bookshelf, a wooden phản for the living area, three bamboo beds, and a dining set. They were old and rickety, but we treasured them. We kept the bookshelf next to my study corner and filled it with stories that would take me to faraway places.
“Do you want a job, Hương?” Grandma asked one night that summer as we unrolled our straw mat under the bàng tree. It was too hot to stay inside. The neighbors were also out on the lane, paper fans flapping in their hands.
I didn’t answer, fearing she’d ask me to become a trader.
Grandma flicked her paper fan. “A friend of mine is making quite a bit of money raising chickens and pigs. All in her little apartment. We have more space than she does.”
“Pigs and chickens? Here?”
“Why not? We can keep the chickens in the washroom and the pigs under the phản. It’ll work, believe me. My farming experiences will come in handy.”
To prepare for the animals’ arrival, Grandma had another window cut high up into our washroom’s wall, to give light and air. She had a multilayer bamboo shelf made. “For the chickens to sleep on and lay their eggs,” she explained.
I went with Grandma to pick up ten newly hatched chicks, who stood in a bamboo cage, chirping all the way to our home. The piglets were delivered to us during the night. As soon as I saw them, their names came to my mind. The white piglet with scattered dark spots was Black Dots, and the black piglet with the cute face was Pink Nose. While the chicks were confined to the washroom, we let the pigs roam around our living-dining area.
Now I no longer minded that Thủy had stopped speaking to me. The animals became my most loyal friends. The chicks sang for me when I picked them up, fed them, and cleaned their stall. Black Dots and Pink Nose rubbed their wet mouths against my feet and fell asleep in my arms.
Still, I missed my parents dearly. During the years that she was gone, I imagined seeing my mother again every day. I imagined disappearing into her embrace, into the river of her hair, into her soft breasts. I imagined our voices rising like kites from under the shade of our new bàng tree.
I missed how my mother had filled our home with her singing voice, how gracefully she’d danced, how she’d led me along by my fingers, twirling me around her so my shirt would flare. Whenever I was sad, I told myself to be strong, like my mother. She never cried or showed fear. Once we found a snake under our bed and, while I stood there shrieking, she bent and picked it up by the tip of its tail, flinging it out of the open window.
By the beginning of 1975, rumors spread that the war was really ending, and I imagined my mother flying me down the streets of Hà Nội on the back of Grandma’s bicycle. We would scream at the top of our lungs as the bike rushed us into a brilliant summer, into red phượng flowers, into purple bằng lăng petals that blossomed above pavements punctured by bomb shelters. We would stop at the Lake of the Returned Sword, delighting in the delirious coldness of Tràng Tiền ice cream.
In my dreams, my mother always returned with my father. He was tall and handsome. Sometimes he would rush toward me on his two feet; sometimes he struggled on a single leg, leaning on a crutch. Sometimes he embraced me with his two strong arms, and at other times he had no arms at all, just two lumps of soft flesh protruding from his shoulders. But he always laughed as he called my name: “Here’s Hương, my daughter.”
At the end of March 1975, our city was hit by an unseasonal storm. Heaven dumped bucket after bucket of water over our heads, turning our neighborhood lane into a twisting, blackish river.
Grandma and I sat on our phản, counting the money she’d made that day. Strange noises made us turn toward the door, noises other than the rattling of the wind and rain.
“What’s that, Grandma?” I asked.
The strange noises boomed again. Faintly, I heard a human voice. Grandma dropped the money, rushing forward.
I jumped down, too. My toes hit the snout of Black Dots, who squealed.
“I’m coming.” Grandma pulled the door open. In the dim light of our oil lamp, a thin shadow stood, its hair a tangled mess, its clothes dangling shreds of rags.
The wind tore in, snatching away the light of our lamp.
“Bà ơi.” I called for Grandma. The shadow must be a ghost whose grave was unearthed by the storm. The ghosts in the stories I’d been reading were hungry; they sucked people’s souls to fill their stomachs.
Grandma was saying something. The wind was howling louder, the ghosts cackling. I hung on to the phản, my body as stiff as a tree trunk. I opened my mouth to call for Grandma to come back, but words were stuck to my throat.
I heard the door closing, moans, footsteps. “Hương,” Grandma called. “Your mother is back. Give us some light.”
My mother? Could this be true? I fumbled in darkness, searching for the box of matchsticks. I struck one and a fire sprang up, wobbled, and died. I tried another. It didn’t ignite. For the third time, I struck three sticks against the side of the matchbox. Holding the fire, I turned.
A woman stood, her head on Grandma’s shoulder. Her eyes were closed. Her face was red and swollen, her hair glued against her skull.
“Hương, your mother is home. She’s home!” Grandma sobbed.
The fire ate into my fingers. I dropped the matchsticks onto the floor. I didn’t feel any pain, for I’d seen the deep anguish on the woman’s face. My mother’s face.
“Mẹ.” I struggled against darkness, rushing to her. My cheek was hot against her chest. My hands clung to her bony frame. “Mẹ, mẹ ơi.”
My mother’s fingers trembled over my nose, mouth, eyes. “Hương. Oh, my darling. Hương . . .”
The tears that I’d buried inside of me burst. I cried for the years we’d been apart, for Uncle Thuận’s death, for the deaths of my classmates, for myself and the fact that I no longer had any real friends.
Grandma relit the lamp. She pushed the money on the phản aside. I helped my mother lie down, drying her with a towel. She shivered under my hands.
As Grandma went to get a change of clothes for my mother, I kissed her forehead. A fever seared through her skin. She moaned.
“You’ll be better soon now that you’re with us, Mama.” I ran the towel along her legs, wiping away the mud, eyeing the large bruises imprinted on her skin. “How did you get home, Mama? Where’ve you been?” I wanted to ask about my father but feared the answer.
“Hương.” My mother opened her eyes. “Your Papa . . . Did your Papa come back?”
My heart paused in its beat. The lamp stopped flickering. “Mama, you didn’t find him? You didn’t see him?”
A tear slid out of my mother’s eye. As she shook her head, I stood up. I walked to the room Grandma had reserved for my parents, putting my face against its door. My mother had led me to believe that she could find my father and bring him back to me. I had believed she could do anything she wanted to.
“I’m sorry, Hương.” Her voice was a bare whisper.
The door was hard and cold against my forehead. I wanted to break it open.
“Now the war is ending, Hoàng will be back any day. He’ll be back,” Grandma’s voice said.
“Did you ever get a letter from him?” my mother asked.
“Not yet, Daughter. Perhaps he found no way to send it.”
“How about my brothers, Mama?”
“I’m sure they’re fine, and they’ll be home soon.” I turned to see Grandma sitting my mother up, giving her a glass of water. I looked up in the direction of Uncle Thuận’s altar, feeling thankful for the darkness: it had concealed the truth from my mother, for now.
As I helped Grandma change my mother, I eyed her protruding ribs. The bruises were not just on her legs, they marked their presence on her back, chest, and thighs. What had happened to her?
Grandma brought a towel and a pail of warm water. As I cleaned my mother’s face and hands, she lay there, her eyes tightly shut, her body shuddering. I turned away. I didn’t want to look at her, nor pity her. Where had my strong and determined mother gone? She didn’t ask about Grandma and me, how we were doing and how we’d survived the bombings.
“Let her rest,” Grandma whispered, pulling a blanket to my mother’s chest. As she started cooking, I went out to our young bàng tree. The rain had died into the earth. A half-moon dangled from the sky. I closed my eyes and saw myself as a child, my mother combing my hair, her singing voice the wind in my ears.
Grandma came out. She embraced me, her arms felt as solid as tree roots, holding me up. “I’m sorry your Mama isn’t well, Hương. We must be the pillars for her to lean on.”
“She used to be my pillar, Grandma.”
“I know, but you’re a strong woman now. . . . She needs you.”
I looked up at the moon and tried to let its soft light calm me. Perhaps it was wrong of me to feel disappointed at my mother. At least she’d tried to find my father and bring him back. Grandma had said that it was an impossible task.
“Don’t tell her about your Uncle Thuận yet,” said Grandma. “When she sleeps tonight, I’ll bring Thuận’s belongings into our room.”
I nodded and buried my face into Grandma’s hair. Years later, looking back through the journeys of my life, I understood the fear Grandma must have carried, not knowing what would happen the next day to her children. Yet she had to appear strong, for only those who faced battles were entitled to trauma.
That night, after Grandma had fed her a bowl of phở, I sat guarding my mother. I thought that if I watched her closely enough, she wouldn’t disappear again. I believed that if I told her how much I’d missed her, she’d once again be the mother I knew.
But as a fifteen-year-old girl, I couldn’t imagine how the war had swallowed my mother into its stomach, churning her into someone different before spitting her out. I couldn’t understand how she could scream so loud in her sleep, about bullets, shooting, running, and death. There were words I didn’t understand. And I couldn’t understand how my father’s name could sound so sad on her lips.
In the days that followed, several neighbors came to visit my mother. To my surprise, she didn’t get out of bed or sit up. She only nodded or shook her head at their questions, her face sad and empty. She did the same with her friends and colleagues from the Bạch Mai Hospital. After a while, they all left, whispering that she was exhausted and needed to rest.
But I knew it was more than that. Sometimes when I was alone with her, her shoulders trembled. She must have been crying, but still, no sounds emerged. They only came during the night, when she slept, her body shaking with nightmares.
Fearing my mother would hurt herself in her sleep, I moved into her room. She didn’t want me to be on the same bed, so I unrolled a straw mat onto the floor. I’d been a good sleeper, but no longer.
Once, deep into the night, I heard her whispering in jumbled sentences about a baby. Hair stood up on the back of my neck as she said she’d killed it. I covered my ears. For sure my mother wasn’t a murderer. For sure she’d helped deliver the baby, who didn’t survive.
The next morning, I told Grandma what I’d heard. She pulled me close. “Your Mama is a doctor. Accidents happen. Don’t think too much about it.”
Grandma and I tried to nurse my mother back to her own self, by cooking the food she used to love. Yet she ate as if she were chewing sand. She said she was tired when we attempted conversations with her. She turned away whenever I came into her room. She was home, but not home, for she was so lost in the war, she forgot I was her own daughter.
I gave her the recent letters I’d written to her and my father, but she left them there, unopened, next to her pillow.
Grandma had to return to her job. I stopped going to school, to stay close to my mother. There was enough dry food for me to cook, and Grandma often brought us meat, fish, and vegetables early in the morning.
Our days passed quietly. There was no laughter, no talk as I’d hoped.
“Go with her for a walk, she’ll feel better,” Grandma told me.
But my mother shook her head whenever I suggested the idea. “Let me sleep.” She turned away from me again.
One afternoon, as the sun pulled its light across the sky, I held a comb in my hand. Crawling over to my mother who lay on the phản, I wondered if she’d push me away.
Her shoulders quivered as I touched her. Untangling the stubborn knots in her hair, I talked. I told her about the books I’d read. I chatted about her friends, who still lived in temporary shacks across from us. Their children had such hungry eyes, sniffing the smell rising from our kitchen. They were the same children who refused food whenever I brought it to them, saying their parents didn’t allow them to receive anything from us.
My mother stopped shaking when I finished combing, but her back was still turned toward me. I swallowed my disappointment, moved to the kitchen, and started a fire. Instead of cooking dinner, I found myself grilling a bunch of dried bồ kết fruit. Their perfume reminded me of our happy times when my mother and I washed our hair under the old bàng tree.
The bồ kết sizzled, flowering their fragrance into the air. From the corner of my eye, I saw my mother turn. Her gaze followed my hands as I filled a pot with water, crushed the roasted fruit, and dropped them into the pot. She watched as I broke dry branches, feeding them to the fire, keeping the stew from boiling over.
“Thank you, Daughter.” Her whisper startled me. I turned to see her behind me, the stove’s flame dancing in her eyes.
“For you to wash your hair, Mama.”
She nodded. “I can take care of it now. Go outside and play.”
I didn’t want to go, but my mother’s eyes told me to. Standing under the bàng tree, I felt abandoned. Tiptoeing to the entrance door, I peeked inside.
My mother was lugging a bucket into the kitchen. It looked heavy, and I knew it was half-filled with cold water. She lifted the pot of bồ kết from the stove, pouring the liquid stew into the bucket, sending steam swirling up around her. She mixed the hair wash, testing its warmth with her elbow.
My mother looked her old self when she sat in a stream of sunlight, tilting her head forward. She scooped up the mixed bồ kết stew, letting it run through her hair. A river of light wove its way down a river of black.
Enthralled by the scene, I was stunned when her sobs came, so suddenly and unexpectedly. Her hands clutched her shoulders. She rolled into a ball on the floor, her body shaking.
My fingernails dug into my palms. I didn’t care what war meant. I just wanted it to return my mother to me, give me back my father and my uncles, and make our family whole again.