The Past and the Future

Mekong Delta, 2016

In the car, Dan studied Linda’s knees. They were still swollen, and he felt as if Linda’s pain was his, slow and burning. He took out the Bengay cream, massaged it onto her knees, and she let out a sigh of relief. They had been walking a great deal, up and down the steps of Khmer temples in Sóc Trăng and around a village known for its ceramics. In another village, they’d learned how to make rice paper and coconut candies. The trip had energized him and Linda in a way he hadn’t imagined. It made them curious about the world again, brought out their creative sides, and gave them activities to enjoy together.

But the weight he’d felt became heavier since yesterday, when they visited an orphanage where he’d met children affected by Agent Orange. Some had missing or crooked limbs. Some had gigantic heads. Some were unable to speak and could only make gurgling sounds. As Linda embraced a young girl whose head was twice the size of her chest, he went out to the garden and wept. He recalled the times when he’d accompanied C-123 Provider aircraft from Operation Ranch Hand on their spray missions. He recalled the many color-coded drums at Biên Hòa and Tân Sơn Nhứt Airports. Drums marked with orange, green, pink, purple, blue and white stripes. Much later, he would learn that these stripes gave these so-called Rainbow herbicides their names: Agent Orange, Agent Green, Agent Pink, Agent Purple, Agent White, and Agent Blue. Like his peers—but not his damn superiors—he was ignorant of the effect of these chemicals, but still, he should have asked questions. He should have known anything that killed plants would kill people. Or worse.

Later, inside the orphanage, when he held the children and gave them the toys Linda had bought, he kept thinking that he could be the cause of their suffering, and that one of those children could be his grandchild.

Leaving the orphanage, he’d felt angry with himself. He should have returned earlier, done something. Thiên said many veterans had come back. They volunteered at orphanages, helped build schools and hospitals. There were veterans who settled in Việt Nam, even retired here.

Last night, during the follow-up counselling session with Dr. Hoh, he’d told her about Thanh, Thanh’s father, Thiên, the orphanage, and the fact that many people here didn’t have access to psychological support. “Then we really need to do something about it. Let me find out how,” Dr. Hoh had said. She’d noted down Thanh’s number and promised to call him.

A mobile phone rang.

Linda sat up, rubbing her eyes.

“It’s an unknown number,” Thiên said, glancing at his phone.

Dan hoped the person who called was Kim. The seat pocket in front of him held three issues of the Tuổi Trẻ daily newspaper, with his search notice for Kim printed on them. He and Linda had had a long talk with Thiên; they had agreed that a brief newspaper notice would be safe: Kim could reach out if she wanted to.

Thiên cut through lanes, and pulled over to answer the phone. Dan cocked his head to listen. Thiên spoke rapidly. With the phone against his ear, he reached under the front passenger seat, retrieving his backpack. He held up the itinerary, read from it, then scribbled something down.

“He’s speaking to a woman,” Dan told Linda, and could see how nervous she was. He held her hand in his. If Kim answered his ad, their lives would never be the same.

Thiên finished his call and turned around. “It’s Phong’s wife.”

“Who?” Linda and Dan asked in unison.

“Phong . . . He was with his wife and children when they saw your search notice. His wife just called. They don’t know Kim but they’d like to talk to you.”

“We need to talk to them, too,” Linda said.

“We’re heading in the direction of their hometown. I asked them to go to our hotel tonight.”

“We should pass by some shops, buy books for the children—” The phone’s ringing interrupted Linda.

Thiên answered, turning to look at Dan. His eyes were wide with surprise.

“Who is it?” Dan mouthed, but Thiên shook his head and kept talking while writing on the itinerary.

Dan’s throat prickled with nervousness. He looked out of the window, at the stream of vehicles. While people were moving on with their lives, he felt mired in his past.

Thiên finished talking. He stared at the phone before putting it down. “A woman. . . . She read the notice and wants to meet us in person. I asked if she was Kim but she wouldn’t say.” Thiên turned to Dan. “She said she knew you. And she remembers that you come from Seattle.”

Linda brought her palm to her mouth. “The notice didn’t mention Seattle. It could be her.”

Dan sat back in his seat. He didn’t think he had told any other Vietnamese woman he was from Seattle, he’d only told Kim about his family. But he could be mistaken. It’d been a long time ago.

“She gave me her address. She lives in Cần Thơ—it’s about an hour away. Remember the big city we passed, the one with the huge bridge?”

“Why don’t we call her back?” Linda told Dan. “I’m sure you can tell if it’s her, after some questions. We could lose two hours of driving . . . and this traffic is giving me a headache.”

Linda was right. They had to be cautious. Yesterday two women had called. One claimed to be Kim but wasn’t able to answer the most basic questions. She said she had to work at the bar because her whole family had been killed by bombs. Another woman was certain she was Dan’s daughter. She said her psychic feelings told her so; she didn’t believe the Vietnamese couple who’d raised her were her parents. Thiên had called her on video chat and confirmed that she looked 100 percent Vietnamese, and the woman couldn’t show any proof that she was adopted. Afterward, Thiên admitted that he sometimes received phone calls from people who claimed they were related to Americans.

“I don’t want to drive back, either,” Thiên said, his eyes on the chaotic traffic. “But something tells me the woman is real. She refused to answer questions. She said she had things to tell Mr. Dan, things that can’t be discussed on the phone.”

The car had taken them to the outskirts of Cần Thơ, to a residential area, green and quiet. Houses lined up along the road, their doors and windows opened as if ready to welcome faraway guests. Dan half expected Kim to be standing outside waiting for him, but there was hardly anyone on the street.

It may not be her, Dan told himself as fear and nervousness pinned him to his seat.

He had imagined seeing Kim again countless times, each time with her reacting differently. And now all those possible reactions were running wild in his mind: she rushed to him, telling him how much she’d missed him; she slapped him, screaming he’d killed their child; she introduced his child to him, pushing their grandchildren gently toward him; she told him coldly that she’d given their child away and didn’t know where his child was.

He wasn’t sure he was ready to face Kim. He wasn’t sure this wasn’t a big mistake.

“Hey . . . it’s going to be okay,” Linda said. “We’re here to make amends.”

He pulled her into him, overcome with gratitude. The day that he went to Việt Nam in 1969 was also the day that Linda became a soldier, and she hadn’t stopped fighting. He had to make sure whatever happened next would not wound her.

The car slowed, then stopped. Thiên checked the address. “We’re here.”

Dan blinked. They were in front of an impressive entrance gate, framed by yellow bell flowers. Thiên drove through and into a spacious yard. Dan clambered out of the car to find himself in front of a large brick house with a deep blue door and matching window frames; a pristine, brilliantly white Vespa was parked outside.

Thiên called out a greeting. No answer. Dan snuck a look inside the house through a half-opened window and saw pots of white orchids, as well as polished wooden furniture. He continued looking on his tiptoes, but didn’t see anyone.

To his right, a mother hen was busy scratching under a grove of banana plants, clucking for her chicks to come. Above the chicken hung three huge banana flowers, red and magnificent. Dan hadn’t been aware of their beauty until this trip, when he saw them displayed in restaurants and hotel lobbies. His favorite dish was now banana flower salad, thinly sliced, tossed with shrimp, mint, and roasted peanuts. Behind the bananas was a garden filled with lush trees, from which many types of fruit dangled: mangoes, papaya, grapefruit, durian, and jackfruit. A marble table and two long benches stood deep inside the garden under a shady mango tree.

“Lemongrass!” Linda exclaimed, and Dan cast his eyes across neat rows of vegetables and saw tall bushes that ran along the garden fence.

“We need to tell Mr. Thien’s wife.” Dan squeezed Linda’s shoulder.

Thiên called out again.

This time, the house’s door opened and a woman appeared. She made her way toward them, across the veranda and through the yard. Dressed in black pants that rippled when she walked and a light blue shirt that glowed in the afternoon light, she was slender. When she neared, Dan bowed his head in greeting, then studied her face. She looked to be in her sixties. Though she wore no makeup, he could tell that she’d once been beautiful. He searched for a small scar above her right eye, but couldn’t see one.

Without a glance in his direction, she spoke to Thiên .

“She invites you take a seat,” Thiên said. As they walked to the marble table, the woman headed for the gate. She closed and latched its solid wooden doors. Dan was anxious to ask his questions, but the woman went back inside the house. Whoever she was, she appeared to be well-off. This was certainly not a scam.

“Is it her?” Linda whispered, fanning herself with her notebook.

Dan sat down next to his wife. “I don’t know.” Perhaps Kim had skillfully covered her scar.

Dan’s gaze stayed fixed on the house. Perhaps the woman wasn’t the one who’d called. Perhaps Kim was inside, figuring out how to deal with him now that he’d shown up with Linda.

It was quiet, except for the chicks’ chirping and leaves rustling. What a beautiful sanctuary, Dan found himself thinking. If Kim lived here, he would be glad for her. In all the times he’d imagined this moment, Kim had been poor and desperate. Only now did he realize that she might even be more well-off than him.

He turned to Thiên, who shrugged.

Finally the woman came back, carrying a lacquered tray on which a ceramic pot and several glasses rattled. At the table, she poured a golden green liquid into the glasses. Her nails were painted light pink and a large diamond twinkled on her right hand. She said some long sentences and Thiên smiled.

“She knows Americans love soft drink,” he translated, “but she prefers to make her own, from boiled corn and pandan leaves.”

The woman distributed the glasses around the table.

Dan took a sip. The liquid was cold, fragrant, and tasted refreshing. “It’s really good. Try it,” he told Linda, who nodded, but didn’t pick up her glass.

The woman sat down next to Thiên. Her hands, placed on the table, started to form fists. For the first time, she looked at Dan. Their eyes locked. He shuddered when he caught the glint of hatred in her expression.

Thiên said something and she nodded, exchanging words with him. They spoke for a short while.

“I introduced you.” Thiên told Linda. “She asked if you’re Mr. Dan’s wife, and I said yes.”

Dan shifted in his seat. Sweat rolled down the back of his shirt and his hands were damp. He opened and closed his mouth. He wanted to ask his many questions but feared he would say the wrong thing.

The woman talked to Thiên.

“She welcomes you, Madam Linda, to her home,” Thiên said.

“Please thank her for having us,” said Linda.

“Thanks for the drink.” Dan smiled nervously at the woman. “Do the corn and the pandan leaves come from your garden?”

Thiên translated and the woman’s lips curled up. But she didn’t smile. She told Thiên something. Her face remained cold and her hands were still clenched.

“She said it’s a pity she can’t speak English anymore. Many years ago in Sài Gòn, she spoke some,” Thiên said. Dan wondered if Thiên had translated correctly because the woman didn’t answer his question.

The woman looked at Dan and said something. He could make out the words “Seattle” and “Tân Sơn Nhứt.”

“She wants to confirm that your name is Dan, you’re from Seattle, and that you were a pilot at Tân Sơn Nhứt Airbase in 1969,” Thiên said.

“Yes, that’s me.” Dan looked at the woman, met a fire in her gaze, but didn’t avert his eyes. “Are you Kim?” He couldn’t believe he needed to ask. Wouldn’t he recognize Kim after having been so profoundly intimate with her?

“You met Kim at the Hollywood Bar. Correct?” The woman said and Thiên translated. She referred to Kim in the third person. Perhaps she wasn’t Kim, but one of the women who’d worked at the bar.

“Yes, I met Kim at the Hollywood,” he said. “She used to call her mama-san the tiger madam.” He smiled as Thiên translated. He hoped the woman would smile, too, but her face remained cold.

“And later you rent apartment for Kim?” the woman continued to ask.

“Yes . . .” Dan nodded. The question made it clear that the woman knew him, which was good, but it must be inflicting pain and humiliation on Linda. He turned to his wife. “I’m sorry you have to listen to this. I already told you . . . about renting the apartment.”

Linda nodded. She stared at the table.

“Where was the apartment? You remember?” the woman asked.

“Around fifteen minutes’ walk from the bar. I can’t recall the street’s name . . .” Dan rubbed his palms against his jeans. He hated it that they were so sweaty.

Thiên translated, and the woman refilled Thiên’s glass.

“Mr. Thien,” Dan said, shifting in his seat, “please ask if she’s Kim.” He wished he’d spent time refreshing his Vietnamese. It wouldn’t be too difficult for him to learn simple phrases such as “Are you Kim?,” “Where is Kim?,” “Take me to Kim.” All his life, he’d expected people from around the world to know English, to translate their life experiences to serve people like him. Why should they?

Thiên told the woman something, with the word Kim in it. Once again, the woman’s lips curled up, but she didn’t smile.

“She said you met her at the bar,” Thiên said. “She knew you well.”

“What bar? The Hollywood?”

Without waiting for Thiên’s translation, the woman nodded.

“You knew me well? And you knew Kim?” Dan gazed at the woman. He wished the language barrier between them would disappear.

The woman stayed silent. Behind her, under the grove of banana plants lit up by their red flowers, the mother hen was spreading her wings, protecting her chicks. Dan reached out for his wife’s hand. Whatever truth he discovered next, he was determined not to let it hurt her.

After a long while, the woman looked up. “Yes, I know Kim well,” she said. “My name is Quỳnh. I am Kim’s sister. We worked at the same bar.”

The words stunned Dan. He’d never thought about finding Kim’s sister first. He didn’t remember much about her, except that she’d disliked him and refused to talk to him.

Quỳnh looked at him. Her fists on the table relaxed, then tightened again. Her face became flushed and her lips trembled. As she spoke, each word that came out of her mouth sounded heavy, as if she was spitting it out.

“You remember that when you left my sister, she was pregnant?” Thiên translated. “She was pregnant with your child.”

“Yes . . . I am so sorry.” Words tumbled out of Dan’s mouth. “I was young and irresponsible . . .”

“Young? My sister . . . she was just eighteen when you ruined her life. She trusted you and you were a coward! Do you remember this?” A tear rolled down Quỳnh’s cheek. She reached into her shirt pocket and handed Dan a black-and-white photo.

Dan stared at the faces of the couple in the faded picture. It was him and Kim at the zoo. They were standing next to each other, laughing, happiness alive on their young faces. He hadn’t even touched her by then; he’d been determined to stay loyal to Linda. But later, the impact of the explosion outside Kim’s apartment had shaken him. In a moment of vulnerability, he had kissed Kim. That kiss changed everything.

He’d denied it, but now, looking at the picture, he knew the feelings he had for Kim were real. They had found each other, and clung to each other amid the hurricane of war. Both had been torn from their families, both trying to do their best. Together they had erected a safe haven that protected them both. At least for a short time.

A sob escaped his throat.

“You had this picture taken at the zoo,” Quỳnh said. “You swallowed your promise to be there for my sister. Why did you leave her when she was carrying your child? Why didn’t you come back earlier? What do you want from her now?”

“I’m so sorry . . .” Dan said. “I can’t explain my past mistakes, except that I was irresponsible. But I’m here now, to meet my responsibilities as a father. Please . . . tell me where Kim and our child are.” Dan looked into the house. He could only see the orchid flowers. Their white petals were so pure; they reminded him of Kim when they’d first met.

“My sister, her real name is Trang.” Quỳnh took the photo back. “Her name means graceful, elegant.”

“Trang . . .” Dan whispered. “Trang.” He held on to the table. He didn’t know much about the woman with whom he’d fathered a child. He hadn’t even cared to ask for her real name, or her full name.

“Trang gave birth to a beautiful daughter and named her Thu Hoa,” Quỳnh’s voice trembled. “Thu Hoa means Autumn Flower.”

“Thu Hoa . . . Autumn Flower,” Dan repeated. He turned to Linda. “I have a daughter . . . a daughter.”

Tears welled up in Linda’s eyes.

“Please, where is Trang now? Where is Thu Hoa?” Dan stood up.

Quỳnh rose from her seat. “You want to see my sister? Come with me.”

The veranda was built from shiny ceramic tiles, decorated with the images of rising phoenixes. Following Quỳnh, Dan and Linda left their shoes on the front steps.

Inside, the living room was spacious, furnished with a wooden sofa, a coffee table, and four armchairs. A large glass cabinet displayed many types of exquisite-looking fabrics. On a long stand sat a large TV, surrounded by framed pictures of a young couple and their two children. Next to a door that opened into a corridor stood a small wooden altar. Dan’s heart leaped at the sight of the Laughing Buddha. “Kim . . . Trang,” he called. He gazed at the corridor, hoping for a shadow, a movement. Perhaps Kim was bedridden. It wouldn’t be rare for people her age to be sick. Perhaps she’d been injured during the war. He would not let himself think about the other possibility.

The woman turned and Dan saw an ancient-looking wooden cabinet, inlaid with mother of pearl. On top of the cabinet stood three incense bowls, a vase of flowers, a bottle of liquor, and a plate of fruits. Behind them were three framed pictures, their details obscured by the offerings.

The woman struck a match, lighting up sticks of incense. As the incense smoldered, she held it above her head, saying something.

“Elder Sister Trang,” Thiên whispered his translation, and Linda clutched Dan’s arm. “Dan and his wife are here to see you. Come back and say hello to them. Come back, Elder Sister . . .”

Dan stepped closer to the altar. He saw Trang’s diary. The diary from which she had read her favorite poems to him, as well as her own poems. She had penned her dreams, her hopes, and her longing for peace between those worn covers. And now, she was looking at him from one of the framed photos. Her eyes were still filled with hope, as if she never ceased to believe in him, and in a better future.