Listen, Slowly (24 page)

Dad is about to translate, but I stop him.

“I can listen, Dad.”

I don’t think Dad has ever looked at me deeper, longer, or gentler.

“I can wait. Let’s do this for Ông Bà.”

Back in the village, we hold the ceremony the next day in the cool dawn hour. Just the three of us at the family plot. Bà chooses a spot in between Ông’s parents, and Dad digs a small hole. In it Bà places a knotted handkerchief holding the clump of clay and a piece of blue tile. Not much, but enough.

Dad covers the hole, pouring a little water into the dry earth to pat it down.

Neither Bà nor Dad say anything because really, what is there to say?

We each light an incense stick. With their red tips glowing, the incense releases swirls to aid Bà in her chant. A low, throaty chant that lasts just long enough. We each bow three times before pushing the woody ends of our sticks into the damp spot. They all hold.

Bà stands still for a little while longer, then turns to go, with me and Dad on each side escorting her home.

Bà goes back to bed after breakfast. I don’t think she’s tired but likes lying in the room with the blue goddess, from which she has packed a few tiles to take home.

Out back, Dad slams me with the news. “I still have fourteen patients who have waited a year and they are simple cases. I’ll wait and make my originally planned return flight. You go home with Bà. Call Mom. She’ll arrange it.”

I stand there waiting to get mad, but I can’t. Why shouldn’t he stay and follow through with his promise? For some reason I ask, “Does Bà want to go now?”

“We can’t have you fly home alone, so she’ll go with you.”

With my family the answer is never easy. I’ve got to pull out the pertinent information, like a tug of war. “Just say it, Bà would rather wait and fly home with you, wouldn’t she?”

“You’ll have to ask her.”

“But she probably won’t tell me, the way you and Mom won’t tell me how you left here or what life was like as refugees or anything that’s not perfect.”

Dad sighs. I expect he’ll get mad. But he reaches out and side hugs my shoulder. What has happened to all our tempers? Are we going to be one of those lovey-dovey families? He turns my face to his. “My flaw is in wanting to present a flawless world to my only child, but you’re old enough to listen. When we flew out at the end of the war I knew I was lucky to be on an airplane. Millions of others did not have that. I looked out my airplane window and saw a boy not much older than I was dangling from a helicopter. I watched him hang, then drop into the sky. I’ve always felt guilty—why him and not me? I’ve never been able to answer that: why does one human being have too much and another human cling to life in desperation? I wanted to present a clear view of a good life to you, but I’m finding out that’s impossible.”

“What are you talking about?”

He laughs. “That life is easy and hard, beautiful and ugly.”

“You get philosophical like this when you don’t eat enough.”

He hugs me some more. “Don’t sit here listening to your old man. Go find Út, go play.”

“I’m not a kid, Dad. I haven’t played since Montana and I were in grade school.”

“That Montana, don’t worry, she’ll find her way too.”

“To where?”

“When she gets there, she’ll know. Go on, go do your thing.”

I have a weird dad, but at least now he’s really nice to me. I saved him this summer, he’s said so over and over. I rock, oh yeah.

He’s already gone, left before Bà even got up from her early nap. Dad said if I want to know about Mom’s life, I have to listen, not so much to what she says but to what she doesn’t. Listen to her sighs, the wishes in her eyes, the truths she’s hiding, even from herself. Okay, that’s a bit much. I’ll work on that later.

Now we’re getting ready for a good-bye lunch at Cô Hạnh’s. I will hand out presents, and email Mom to discuss travel plans. I don’t know whether to leave or stay.

Right now, Bà and I are working on getting to Cô Hạnh’s, my ninja gear fully on. It’s slow going. Halfway there, Bà stops in the village center to rest on a bench under
cây đa
.

Bà hasn’t been talking much, which is understandable. Years and years of waiting finally ended with a clump of clay and pieces of blue tile. I hope that’s enough.

We sit facing the tree, and Bà leans into me, bony and light. She reaches out and traces the tiny crevices in the bark. Her translucent finger glows against the dark trunk. She’s smiling a slow, quiet smile.

“Ông có đây,”
she says, meaning Ông was here, had touched the same bark, years ago.

I reach out and trace the bark with her. Ông exists all over this village. I have a feeling Bà is not ready to say bye. She’s not sad though, holding her quiet smile; her other hand holds a piece of blue tile.

“At first the weight of loss was thrust upon me so harshly I could only take a short breath, just enough to endure the next few seconds, only to find I must inhale again. Every person in turmoil thinks the boulder on her chest will never lift. Yet the same boulder awakens an equally strong urge to live. The wind and the rain will wear the boulder down to manageable rocks, and those rocks will dwindle to pebbles, which will become sand and will grind yet smaller until it becomes dust and enters the blood. Yet it’s far from done. The cycle will recirculate, boulder to dust then dust to boulder. Sometimes taking years, other times in a matter of minutes. From the outside, there might be no trace of a wound but I still remember because the memories have become as necessary as blood
.

“I tell you of loss, my child, so you will listen, slowly, and know that in life every emotion is fated to rear itself within your being. Don’t judge it proper or ugly. It’s simply there and yours. When you should happen to cry, then cry, knowing that just as easily you will laugh again and cry again. Your feelings will enter the currents of your core and there they shall remain.”

I nod even though I’m just as confused by her talk as I was by Dad’s. Did they plan this? Why all this talk of life? Is there something different about me?

Just then, Út comes running up, lifting her ninja mask to say everyone is waiting for us. She takes one side and I take the other and we get Bà to where we all need to go.

Cô Hạnh has everything planned down to Bà’s every bite and sip of tea. Wonderful, I can take a break from caretaking.

Not just Bà, Cô Hạnh has planned everyone else’s minutes too. The older villagers eat at their own tables with chairs that have back support. The detective sits here, with his notebook that I’ve returned, reading to Bà. No doubt he can go on for days and days.

The middle-agers are drinking cognac mixed with 7UP. Even I know that’s a very weird mix, but everyone seems to like it.

The young-adult tables get the most meat because they’re growing. The boys are back from shrimp camp and they can eat. Cô Hạnh seats Anh Minh and Chị Lan together, and I hear them call each other “anh em,” so their triangle has cemented down to a solid pair. Don’t fear for Con Ngọc. Cô Hạnh has her sitting with a muscular man/boy and their story is about to be set too. She’s wearing
that fluffy pink skirt, and I hope something less surprising underneath. She would do very well in Laguna, BTW.

I wish Cô Hạnh would come to Laguna and arrange my life. No doubt, I would be going to spring dances, homecoming, and prom with Kevin. It feels okay to let his name escape now that he’s messaged me. Maybe that means something, maybe I won’t need Cô Hạnh after all.

Út and I are at a table with teens who would rather be elsewhere. Everyone eats quickly and off each goes. Út and I escape to the back porch.

I thought for sure I’d be spending the afternoon watching Froggy sleep, oh the joy. But to my surprise, Cô Hạnh has hooked up a mosquito net on the back porch and hung a double hammock inside. How cool is that? We get in and before we settle into the hammock I give Út the book I got for her, wrapped in a banana leaf because, I don’t know, just because.

Út flips through the pages, looking at each illustration. She is so slow. Finally, she gets to the section on North Vietnam and to the chapter on paa frogs (Genus
Paa
). She breaks into a huge smile and proceeds to read it in incomprehensible French-accented English.

I can’t handle it and take over: “Species in the genus
Paa
go by a variety of common names in English, including paa frogs, spiny frogs, and mountain bullfrogs.” Út listens enraptured. So we lie in the hammock with our heads in opposite directions and I read the rest of the chapter.

“Very good,” Út says. Let it register that she has complimented me, out loud, in English. Who knew such a thing was possible?

“Do . . . you . . . understand?”

“No,
but I listen
.”

“I could . . . teach . . . you . . . to . . . pronounce,” I say before thinking.

“Yes, now.”

What have I gotten myself into?

She doesn’t know yet, that Bà and I might be leaving in a day or two. But Út should have guessed because we’re at a good-bye party, hello. Út is Út, so she probably didn’t care to find out. What if I stayed another twelve days and flew home with Dad? He’d love it because he wouldn’t have to pay three hundred dollars, or four bicycles, to alter the return date for me and Bà. Four of Dad’s patients would be getting new bicycles. That’s something.

“Teach me,” Út says.
“I will be taking an examination to qualify to study with a scientist who lives deep in the jungle to collect data on frogs. I have to say the scientific names in English.”

I read another chapter to test my level of interest. Could I really spend twelve days reading about frogs and salamanders and newts? Út would love it. Bà too would love to have more time to spend with the tangible objects Ông had touched. I have a feeling she would be visiting his little spot in the family plot and watering the mound holding the clump of clay and the chip of blue tile.

Maybe I can stay and maybe I would enjoy it. What’s in Laguna that’s so urgent? Mom is exhausted with her trial and I will see Kevin when I see him. As for Montana, I can wait.

Út shakes the book in my hand. “Read.”

“Why? . . . You . . . don’t . . . understand.”

“That’s why I must listen.”

“Identification of all paa frogs remains challenging because the spines are both seasonal and restricted to mature males (though some adult female Yunnan paa frogs also have spines on their fingers). Complicating matters, the current taxonomy . . .”

I look up and Út has her eyes half closed, dreaming. She’s going to want me to pronounce every word in this dense, thick book. Maybe I can’t do this.

“Keep reading,
why have you stopped?
”

“I . . . can’t . . . stay . . . all . . . summer.”

“Everybody knows. Twelve more days, twelve more good-bye parties.”

“For . . . real?” I have to admit, I’m flattered. Cô Hạnh has planned twelve parties for us. I wonder what we’re eating next.

“Read.”

Can I deal with bossy Út in two languages for twelve days?

“If I . . . read . . . what . . . do . . . I get?”

Út sits up, rocking the balance of the hammock. I’m sure she’s searching high and low for something to counterbargain with. I mean, I’m reading a textbook about frogs and other slimy stuff, what does she have?

“You name
one of my glowing frogs
.”

Hmm, Út just spoke in half English, half Vietnamese and her offer is not bad.

“
Mày có
, what else?” I too can speak half and half. Notice how I used “mày” for good friends.

“I let you open quả sung
and feed my frog
.”

Hmm, that is intriguing. I could video the episode and entertain Mom. Her case is not going any better.

“What else?”

Út looks at me, twisty browed, then lies back down to think. I lie back too. Each of us has a leg off the hammock, and when one pushes, the other lifts her leg, then vice versa. A rhythm happens, push, rest, push, rest, and soon Út starts talking in Vietnamese to herself about how it’s her dream, like dream dream, to go into the jungle and study frogs. I have to admit it’s soothing and sweet just lying here listening. The hammock keeps swinging, Út keeps talking, and soon half asleep, I start talking in English about the first time I heard Kevin speak.

“We were discussing this poem that ended with the line, ‘Nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands,’ and Kevin out of nowhere said maybe he loved her so much that—”

Út interrupts, “e.e. cummings.”

I shoot up and stare at her. “
Mày
know?”

“Good poem.
We heard a recording of it over and over in class
.”

How can she possibly have memorized a poem I just read last year, with help in English class?

“If I . . . pronounce . . . every . . . word . . . in the entire . . . book,
mày có
teach . . . me to read . . . in Vietnamese?”

Út knits her brows, no doubt plotting the precise steps for my language acquisition. She stares hard, perhaps assessing my brain’s potential, then announces, “Eel.” I know she means “deal.”

Right then, I decide to stay.

To Tara Weikum, who knows all editing things,

to Rosemary Stimola, who knows all things in general,

to Janine and Caden Robinson for Laguna Beach tidbits,

to Amy Wilson, Chris Schmidt, Jonna White, Suzanne Weeks, Lori Ganz, Kara McCormick-Lyons, and Diggy Moneypenny Cockerham, who kept my daughter busy during deadlines,

to Brianna Lai for letting me ask too many questions,

to my An, who inspired this novel,

to my mother, whose sentences really do land in drops of bells, and of course, to my Henri, who makes a writing life, and thus life, possible,

thank you
.