by Leslie Gould
Gen hurried down the stairs the next morning, dressed in her new bellbottoms and her paisley blouse, ready for school. It was Friday. Perhaps on Saturday they would drive to Seattle and pick up Nhat. Maybe Mom would be there by then too. Her heart raced at the thought.
Her father sat frozen on a chair in the middle of the kitchen, the pink phone balanced on his knee, the receiver pressed against his ear. He wore his gray-striped flannel pajamas, and he hadn’t shaved. Why wasn’t he ready for work?
Gen walked into the den and turned on the morning news. She watched a Tide commercial and then heard the words “Tragedy in Vietnam.” She moved closer to the TV. A plane, loaded with babies, had crashed at Saigon’s Tan Son Nhut Airport; the first plane had landed in San Francisco. The newscaster said that the South Vietnamese officials couldn’t confirm why the plane had crashed, but authorities were investigating the possibility of a missile attack by the Viet Cong.
She sat down on the shag carpet and stared at the dark paneling that covered the walls until her father came into the den and turned off the TV.
“You saw?” His face appeared almost gray, the craggy lines around his eyes deeper than usual.
She nodded, biting her lip.
He folded his body down to the floor and sat beside her. “The call was from the U.S. Embassy. Mama died in the crash.” He put one arm around her and squeezed her tightly. Gen fell against him. Mom dead? Not her mama. Daddy began to pat her back, softly at first, then harder, jarring the sob that lodged between her heart and throat. Still the tears didn’t come.
Her father didn’t cry when he talked about her mother, but he did cry when he talked about Nhat. “Sally would want me to take him, I know. But I can’t. A child needs a mother. Nhat needs a mom.”
Why did he call her little brother Nhat now instead of Nathaniel? It scared her to watch her father cry. Why couldn’t Nhat come live with them anyway? Her chin started to tremble, but she ducked her head to hide her tears.
The day of the funeral Aunt Marie worked hard to brush the tangles out of Gen’s hair. Finally she smoothed the top layers over the knot at the base of Gen’s neck. Neither Daddy nor Gen cried during the church service; they sat in the front pew, hanging on to each others hands. Aunt Marie sat beside Gen and dabbed her eyes with a tissue. At the burial they huddled on metal chairs under a canopy, the black coffin in front of them, the open grave on the other side.
“Of course it won’t be an open casket,” Aunt Marie told a friend the day before the funeral. Overhearing the words gave Gen nightmares. What did her mother’s body look like? What was left? How badly had she been burned? Panic surged through her now as she stared at the casket.
“Dust to dust,” the pastor said. Gen shivered, holding tight to her father’s hand. The spring mist turned to rain. The group of mourners, hunched under umbrellas beside her mama’s grave, stared at Gen and her daddy.
Afterward, people filled the house. Aunt Marie pushed Gen’s bangs out of her eyes and then headed to the kitchen with the other women from their church. They seemed to multiply.
“Sally was so headstrong, so impulsive, so unsatisfied. It’s a good thing Genevieve is such an easy, practical child.” Aunt Marie’s words floated around Gen’s head as she stood in the kitchen doorway, feeling lost.
“It’s a pity that she looks so much like her mother though, small with that dark hair and those dark eyes—it will haunt Marshall,” said one of the church ladies. The women spoke in quiet voices but not low enough that Gen couldn’t hear.
“How could she have thought it was safe? Sally’s the only person I know who would do something like that. Shame on her for going to Vietnam in the first place.” Aunt Marie’s voice grew louder with each word.
No, Mama did the right thing. She and Daddy wanted Nhat. We all did. Gen had prayed for a baby brother for years. If only the plane hadn’t crashed. If only Mama and Nhat were here with her now. She walked into the living room and stood in front of the mantel, staring up at a picture of her parents. Her mother wore her hair in a french roll; her father’s eyes smiled. They stood side by side in front of their Dutch colonial house that overlooked the Rose City Golf Course.
Gen felt empty inside. Her throat thickened.
Her father knelt beside her. “How are you doing?”
Her lips began to tremble. He took her hand and led her out the front door to the porch steps. She tried not to cry for Mom. Tried not to cry for Nhat. If she couldn’t have her mother, why couldn’t she at least have her brother?
Her father patted her back.
“There, there,” he singsonged. Gen buried her face against his shoulder and began to sob.
The day after the funeral, Aunt Marie took Gen to the old-lady hair salon and told the beautician to cut Gen’s hair short, to get rid of all the tangles. Gen left with a pixie, a haircut that not even a six-year-old would wear. When they returned home, Aunt Marie cleared the stacks of papers out of the den. When he arrived home, Daddy scanned the den and nodded.
Then he noticed Gen and smiled faintly, without the twinkle that she loved. “Your hair looks good short. I like it.”
Gen ran to the mirror. She hated it. But it made her look less like her mother; maybe that’s why her father liked it.
Later that night he boxed up her mother’s things, including everything from Vietnam, even the family of place-card holders, except for the figurine of the girl that was propped against Gen’s lava lamp.
A week later her father pulled her mother’s dresses and her silk ao dai, the long Vietnamese tunic and trousers, out of her closet. Gen sat on her parents’ bed and held the garment in her arms. She breathed in her mother’s lilac scent. “She thought there could be peace, now, on this earth,” her father said. “She thought she could save the world.”
Gen nodded, pretending to agree to please her father, to ease his grief. She fingered the cross at her neck. She would wear it forever.
“She named you Genevieve because she thought it meant peace. It’s a lovely name, but it means white wave.” He sounded angry. “It was one of her many illogical decisions.”
Gen let go of the cross.
The correspondent on the CBS news reported the plane hadn’t been shot down; something had been wrong with the door. More than half of the three hundred passengers had been killed. Gen overheard her father tell Aunt Marie that Mom had been in the nose of the plane taking care of the babies, and that Nhat had gone to a family in Michigan.
The last Babylift took off on Saturday, April 26, 1975. Altogether, twenty-seven hundred children were evacuated.
The next day during Sunday school Aunt Marie, who taught the class, said, “All things work together for good to those who love God, to those who are the called according to his purpose.” She said it was a promise in the Bible.
Aunt Marie didn’t think that Gen’s mother had been called according to God’s purpose, so she probably meant that Gen had better be, otherwise things would never work out. When her mother quoted Bible verses, it sounded like poetry, like hope, like something good. When Aunt Marie quoted verses, it sounded like something bad was going to happen, something worse, something evil.
After Sunday school ended, Gen clicked her heels on the brown linoleum outside her classroom and thought about Aunt Marie’s words. She clicked her shoes again, this time harder. Gen liked the sound of her shoes in the hall. Aunt Marie walked toward her, wagging her finger. Her father said his sister was a pillar of the church, which made Gen imagine a statue of Aunt Marie holding up the sanctuary ceiling. The image made her smile and almost forget the scowl on Aunt Maries face.
That evening Gen watched the news again with her dad. The Viet Cong were launching rockets on Saigon. Gen watched the people on the roof of the U.S. Embassy trying to cross the barbed wire, trying to reach the helicopters, trying to get out. Her father shook his head. “Why couldn’t your mother have been content?” His voice was soft.
Gen nodded out of habit. She hoped that her mo
ther’s friend Kim had made it out, hoped that she was safe.
Three days later she watched the news alone. Walter Cronkite’s face filled the screen. “That’s the way it is, Wednesday, April 30, 1975.” She turned and saw her father standing in the doorway.
“It’s all over.” Gen stood and picked up her spelling list off the vinyl hassock. The war was over, but she felt no peace.
That night she frantically shook her Etch A Sketch. She couldn’t stop. She had to make the whole staircase go away. The faded lines that she had drawn weeks before, the night the first Operation Babylift flight took off, had set in the sand. She hit herself in the forehead with the toy, and the red plastic split her skin.
Gen’s father reached for her, pulled her into his arms, and held her tight while blood dripped onto the wide collar of his dress shirt. She cried against his shoulder. The war was over, but there was no peace. No peace. No Mama. No Nhat. Her father washed her forehead, pressed a butterfly bandage over the wound, and then wrapped his arm around her as they sat silently on the couch in the den.
That night she dreamed about babies crying. Vietnamese babies who couldn’t stop crying. And blood dripping. She woke startled. The bandage on her forehead pulled the skin tight. If her mom were alive, Gen would tiptoe to her side of the bed, and her mama would reach out and pull her under the covers beside her. She might sing “Do Lord” softly. “I’ve got a home in glory land that outshines the sun …,” she would sing, and Gen would breathe in her lilac scent and feel Mama’s warm arms around her.
Gen closed her eyes and saw the dripping blood again. Her eyes flew open once more. “I’m the luckiest mother in the world,” her mother told her nearly every day. Gen would laugh and say, “No, you’re not.” Mama would answer, “Who? Who is luckier than I am?” And then Gen would relent and say she didn’t know, and her mom would laugh and say, “See? I am. I’m the luckiest mother in the world.”
Gen stared at her bedroom ceiling, at the outline of the crown molding in the dark. She reached for the figurine of the Vietnamese girl on the bedside table. “Mama, why wasn’t I enough?” She wrapped her fingers around the carving. “Why did you have to go to Vietnam? Why did you want another child?”
Chapter 2
Eight-year-old Lan sat on the frayed blue divan and glanced from Mother to Older Sister. Mother squatted on the floor and listened to the battery-operated radio. No trucks sped by on the highway. No planes flew overhead. No bombs exploded. Lan had never known such eerie silence. Older Sister, whose name was Cam My, stood staring out the doorway of their house toward the grove of rubber trees, her back to Lan and Mother.
The radio crackled, and Mother turned it off. “The war is over,” she called to Cam My Lan smiled and clapped her hands. Father would return, and Older Brother, whose name was Quan, would come home. There would be no more fighting, no more land mines, no more soldiers on the road, no more night visitors stealing food.
“Stop clapping.” Older Sister turned abruptly toward Lan. “We lost.” Tears streamed down Cam My’s face, smearing the mascara under her eyes onto her high cheekbones. She wore a fitted orange dress and high heels; she smelled of French perfume and cigarettes.
She took a step toward Lan. “I’m leaving.”
Lan sat up straight. Leaving?
“No.” Mother pushed the radio under the low table. “You must stay here with us.”
“We won’t be allowed to stay here,” Cam My said. “The Viet Cong will take the land and the house.” She flipped her auburn-streaked hair behind her shoulder. “Cam” meant orange sunset. “My” meant pretty. Older Sister was beautiful.
“It’s our home,” Mother said, standing. She wore her long black hair twisted into a bun at the nape of her neck.
Cam My shook her head. “Mother, don’t be a fool. I’m leaving before they make me leave or, worse, take me.” She headed to the back room.
Lan glanced down at the pleated skirt of the uniform that she wore. Her school had closed nearly a year ago when the nuns returned to France. Now Older Sister wanted to leave too. Mother sat on the divan beside Lan and put her head in her hands.
Cam My returned to the room, carrying a market basket and an armload of her belongings. She dropped everything onto the tile floor.
“What are you doing?” Lan bit her lip, watching her sister.
“Packing.” Cam My stuffed fancy dresses and high-heeled shoes into the bag. “The Viet Cong will be harder on us because of Father. Mother, you and Lan should come with me.”
Mother shook her head.
“Father will come for us. Older Brother will return,” Lan said. Leave the house? The family altar? The groves of trees? The ancestors and Second Brother buried by the river? Never.
Older Sister twisted her jade and gold bracelets from her wrists and buried them deep in the basket. “Father can do nothing to help us now.” She wedged her makeup and perfume among the clothes.
Mother took a deep breath, started to speak, and then stopped. Cam My pulled her dress and slip from her thin body and wadded them on top of the basket. She took a plain tunic and pants from the floor and pulled them over her lace bra and panties.
“Cam My, where do you plan to go?” Mother whispered.
“Saigon. Then to America.”
Mother shook her head “What will you do?”
“I’ll figure out something.” Cam My cinched the drawstring of the pants around her thin waist.
“I’m going to make tea.” Mother headed down the hall. Cam My followed her to the kitchen. Lan sat back on the divan. Everything had changed after the Americans left. Father stayed in Saigon, but his army checks stopped. Mother sold the furniture, except for the divan and table. Father sent bags of rice and sugar with the words “U.S. ARMY” across the front. Mother sold what they didn’t need, causing Older Brother to protest and say, “Why should we have food and money when others are starving?” He left the house more and more during the night to meet the Viet Cong. One morning, before Cam My took her daughter, Chi, to the orphanage, he did not return. The Viet Cong had lured him away.
Older Sister had been moody since she gave away baby Chi, with the round eyes and light skin of her American father, two years before. “I sent her to America where she’ll have a future,” Cam My had said back then. Chi had just learned to walk; Lan had held her dimpled fists.
Lan loved baby Chi. All she wanted was for all of them to be together, but Chi brought shame. Lan heard it in the clucking of the neighbor women, saw it in the furtive glances at the market, felt it one day when the boys from the village hurled rocks at them and called Older Sister names.
Older Brother loved Chi too, but he was ashamed of Cam My, ashamed that she had a baby when she wasn’t married, and doubly ashamed that the father was an American.
“Lan!” Cam My called out. “Have you seen my carton of cigarettes?”
“They’re behind the fan, beside your sleeping mat.” Lan missed the way Older Sister was three years before, when she was quick to laugh and smile. Back then her dark eyes danced, and her steps were light as she raced across the courtyard.
Mother carried the steaming teapot and three cups into the room, followed by Cam My, who clutched her cigarettes. Mother poured the tea. “Wait a few weeks,” she said, handing Older Sister a cup.
Cam My took a sip of hot liquid and then shook her head. “The sooner I leave, the better.”
“We need to take care of each other,” Mother said. “That’s what families do.”
“Then come with me.” Cam My held her teacup close to her face like a shield.
“What would we do in the city?” Mother’s eyes drooped at the corners.
“Father,” Lan said. “We can find Father.”
Older Sister gave her a sad look. Lan sank into the divan.
Father had come for short visits over the years. He would often beat Older Brother and Second Brother when he came home. Handsome Older Brother with his thick, jet black hair and square chin ha
d played the role of protector to Lan. He carried her on his shoulders, shared his food with her, and played with her in the grove of trees. Older Sister’s American boyfriend, the man with hair the color of sand and eyes as blue as the sky, cared for Lan too. He taught her English words and brought her gum and candy.
Cam My’s teacup clattered across the low table. Mother’s hand came down on top of it and stopped its spin before it fell to the tile floor. Older Sister pulled her basket of belongings to her side, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it with an American lighter.
“I’m not going to miss another opportunity.” Cam My waved the smoke away. “I’m not going to wait and let the Viet Cong decide what to do with me.”
Mother filled Cam My’s cup again.
“No.” Cam My held up a hand, palm out. “No more tea.”
The sun set. Older Sister promised to wait until morning to leave. As Lan drifted off to sleep, she heard Mother’s voice rise and fall and then Cam My’s sharp retorts until finally they were quiet.
Lan sat up and straightened her skirt in the dim morning light.
“The Viet Cong are here,” Mother said.
“Where is Cam My?” Lan’s eyes darted around the room, searching for Older Sister’s basket.
“Gone,” Mother said.
“Come out!” A man’s voice called out from the courtyard. The engine of a truck sputtered and then stopped.
Lan stood.
“No,” Mother said. “Sit down. Don’t move.”
Mother slipped through the front door. Lan stared at the white paint that peeled in chunks around the doorframe. Mother’s voice floated through the window followed by a mans deep voice. Lan’s stomach growled. She pulled a strand of dark hair between her fingers and toward her mouth, pulling it in with her tongue. Mother hadn’t braided her hair in weeks. The shutters stood open to the morning, and a slight breeze tiptoed into the house and then left, as if it were afraid to stay.
