by Leslie Gould
They walked without speaking for a moment. Even in their silence, Gen felt at ease. She stretched her arms behind her back. “What plans do you think God has for you?”
“I hope this doesn’t sound boring”—Jeff smiled at her—“but I think he wants me to go back to The Dalles. Work with Dad in the orchard. Learn everything I can. I’ll get involved with my church there. Maybe work with kids.” He liked kids. She only liked guys who liked kids.
“I hope he has plans for me to have a family someday, a wife, kids.” He stopped.
She expected him to blush, but he didn’t, or perhaps it was too dark to tell.
He peered at her intently. “What do you think God has planned for your
She had the urge to tell him about the Vietnamese refugee camps in Thailand, about her mom’s friend Kim, about the nameless girl in Vietnam that she sometimes still prayed for. No, she wouldn’t tell him about all that. It wasn’t what God had planned for her. “I want to become a teacher,” she said. “After that I don’t know.” She often imagined herself teaching and living in Portland, available to her father when he needed her.
As Jeff told her good-bye in the lobby of her dorm, she stepped back, surprised by the affection she felt for him.
“Want to study together tomorrow?” He raised an eyebrow. “In the library?”
“Sure,” she answered.
“I’ll come by at six thirty.” He reached for her hand and gently squeezed it.
The next evening Jeff studied his horticulture class notes. “You should know that I’m not a good student. Not like you.”
Gen tilted her head. What does he mean?
“I’d rather be at home working now,” he said. “But my parents thought I should go to college.” He paused and then smiled. “And they were right. I’m glad I’m here.”
Gen took her developmental psych book out of her backpack. “Tell me about the orchard.” She gazed into his eyes.
As he spoke, she imagined the cherry orchards east of Portland that she and her father drove by one spring. The acres and acres of flowering trees had enchanted her. Jeff told her about his family, his great-grandparents who had homesteaded the land, his grandparents, and his father, Don. His mother, Sharon, loved being a mom. His brother, Jake, was graduating high school in June and going to Willamette University in the fall. “He’s really smart,” Jeff said. Their little sister, Janet, ran sprints and hurdles in track and played varsity volleyball as a sophomore.
When Jeff asked about Gen’s family, she glanced at her watch and said she needed to get back to her dorm. That night, sitting on her bed, she wrote in her journal that she thought she could marry a man like Jeff someday. He was kind, and he had a plan and an optimism that calmed her. He knew what he wanted, yet he desired what God wanted. The Dalles was only ninety minutes from Portland, from her dad. Jeff wanted a family; she wanted a family.
A week later in the library Jeff asked if Gen’s mother planned to come for the special Mother’s Day tea. Gen thought of Mothers’ Weekend the year before and how unprepared she was to see her dorm mates walking through the halls with their moms.
“Earth to Gen.” Jeff smiled at her from across the table. “Mothers’ Weekend. Is your mom coming down?”
Gen shook her head. “No. I’m going home that weekend.” He looked disappointed. “Look, Jeff”—she drew in a deep breath—“I lost my mother.” She hated the euphemism, as if Mom had simply been misplaced, as if one day they’d stumble across her in a box in the basement or in the neighbor’s garage or hidden in a junk drawer in the kitchen. Why was it so hard to say, “My mother died”?
“When?” He seemed shocked, as if he thought it might have just happened.
“It was a long time ago. I was nine.” Gen tried to smile a little. She didn’t want him to feel uncomfortable.
Jeff leaned toward her, his hands folded on the table. “How?”
“An airplane crash.” She picked up her pen and clinched it tightly.
“Where?”
She took a deep breath. “Asia.”
“Asia?”
Gen nodded. Why had she said Asia? She could have at least said Southeast Asia instead of just Asia, just the largest land mass in the world, just the largest, vaguest geographic answer possible.
“Where in Asia?” His voice was soft.
“Vietnam.” It was so hard to say the word.
“Really? Why was she there?” Jeff placed his strong hands flat on the table.
“She was taking care of orphans.” Soon she would tell him about Nhat, about the little boy who almost became her brother. And about Kim and about her father’s broken heart. But not now. She would save that for later.
“I’m sorry, really sorry, that she died.” He didn’t say it the way most people did. Gen opened her French notebook. Jeff retrieved an orange highlighter from his backpack. He glanced up at her and smiled, holding the pen like a cigar. “Want to hang out with me and my mom that weekend?”
“No, thanks, I really did promise Dad I would go home.” But even as she spoke the words, she wanted to change her mind.
After Mother’s Day, Jeff went to The Dalles every weekend to help his father get ready for harvest. Then, as soon as his last final was over, he headed home, stopping to tell Gen good-bye. He kissed her and said, “I’ll call.”
He did call, not as much as Gen would have liked, but at least a couple of times a week. After harvest ended, he drove to Portland, and they played miniature golf, and then her father took them out for Chinese food. Gen poured tea for the three of them from the blue ceramic pot as her dad ordered, first asking the waiter about the seafood, how fresh it was and where it came from. Gen played with her chopsticks. What if Dad and Jeff didn’t like each other? What if Dad didn’t approve? What if Dad had the idea that she would come home after college, teach in Portland, and take care of him? He’d been sick again; just last month he’d had a blood clot in his leg. Fortunately he’d gone to the doctor in time and gotten on medication that dissolved the clot. Still, he was pale and tired.
The waiter announced each dish as he brought it to the table, delighting in the interest Gen’s father showed. Jeff seemed at ease as he enjoyed the dinner—won tons, orange chicken, salt-and-pepper squid, tempura shrimp, pork fried rice. Her dad seemed relaxed as he asked Jeff about living in The Dalles, about the orchard business, his church, and college. Gen picked at the food with her fork.
After dinner Jeff headed back to The Dalles, and Gen and her father sat on the patio, their chairs turned toward the setting sun.
“I like him,” her dad said. “I like him a lot.”
“Do you think we’re too young?”
“Too young for what?” he swatted at a mosquito.
Gen pulled her legs up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her knees. “Too young to get serious.”
“Are you getting serious?”
Orange and pink streaked the sky, broken by the silhouettes of the towering Douglas fir trees on the golf course below. She shook her head. “Not yet.”
“But you think you might?” Her father swatted at another mosquito.
“Maybe. I don’t know yet.” The night was unusually humid; sweat trickled down the back of her leg.
“Let me know when you do know.” He stood and took a step, limping slightly. “I’m going inside before I’m eaten alive.”
“Will you be okay if we do get serious?”
He glanced down at her and chuckled. “Oh, Genni. Don’t think your getting married someday will change how I am. I’m fine.” He turned, opened the screen door, and then muttered as he stepped inside the house, “Mostly.”
After school started in September, Gen and Jeff drove to Portland in his old Chevy pickup and went to Saturday Market. It was a warm, Indian summer day, and after lunch Jeff suggested they go for a hike. They drove east along the wide Columbia River. The leaves of the deciduous trees were yellow and orange against the dark evergreens. Ahead, the hills rose up fro
m the river in shades of blue and gray, fading from dark to light against the hazy sky.
“Do you know much about the Columbia Gorge?” Jeff turned on the pickup’s headlights as they sped into a tunnel chiseled through the rocky hillside.
Gen shook her head. How many times had she been up the Gorge? Just the one time to the orchards of the Hood River Valley and a few other times with her father to Multnomah Falls where they stopped to have hot chocolate in the lodge.
Jeff turned and smiled at her. “Three catastrophic events created the gorge.” Catastrophic events. Gen hated the sound of the two words. “Volcanic eruptions, the flooding of ancient Lake Missoula, and then landslides that blocked the river channel and changed its course.”
Gen studied the rock formations along the wide, wide river. Life was like that: one or two catastrophic events could totally change its course.
Jeff exited the freeway and turned onto the Scenic Highway, stopping at the Horsetail Falls trailhead. They climbed out of the pickup and gazed up at the falls, just a few yards from the road. “Let’s keep going. Ponytail Falls is just up the trail.” He talked about his family while they hiked through the dense forest filled with Douglas fir, mossy rocks, and lush ferns. The falls were less than an hour from his home.
Down the tree-lined trail they took a turn farther into the forest and came to a creek where the bridge had washed out. Maidenhair ferns grew along the banks. Moss covered the rocks along the creek. Gen breathed in the cool, sweet air.
“Climb onto my back.” Jeff grinned as he gave her a little bow. A laugh bubbled up from deep within her as he carried her piggyback across the water, jumping from boulder to boulder. She wrapped her arms around his neck, felt the warmth of his back, and leaned against him, unafraid.
She trusted Jeff intrinsically, as much as she trusted that the water flowing beneath them would find its way to the Columbia River and then on to the Pacific. She felt, perched on Jeff’s back, as if the scale of her life had finally balanced. She knew as she slid to the ground on the other side of the creek that she would marry him.
Chapter 10
Lan sat inside the hut with Mother and waited for Mr. Vuong and Chinh. She fingered the snag in the ao dai, her wedding garment that she held in her lap.
“The silk is cheap,” Mother said, nodding at the outfit. “It’s so like Mr. Vuong to give you the worst that he has.” Mother picked through a basket of rice, sorting it with her fingers.
“It’s fine.” It’s the best I’ve ever had. She would change into the silk tunic and pants after she and Mother prepared the wedding meal.
“Chinh’s mother decided not to come for the wedding.” Mother spread out her fingers and watched the rice flow back into the basket.
Lan nodded. Chinh had told her last night.
The People’s Committee had granted Mrs. Vuong permission to move to Ho Chi Minh City. If Chinh weren’t marrying Lan, Mrs. Vuong would attend her son’s wedding.
His family didn’t approve of Lan. Although Chinh wouldn’t say that, he implied that they had wanted him to wait to marry until he saved some money. It wasn’t just Mother who made them think she wasn’t good enough for their son; it was Lan’s lack of education, her poverty, her life with no future.
“Mr. Vuong still plans to send Chinh to America.” Mother leaned closer toward Lan, whispering. She smiled, showing her blackened and missing teeth. “As his wife, his family will send you, too. Tell Chinh that I must go with you. You and I cannot be separated.”
Lan stood, hung her ao dai back on the peg, took the comb from the shelf, and quickly pulled it through her hair as she turned toward the door. She couldn’t imagine Mr. Vuong’s paying her way to America, let alone Mother’s. But maybe his heart would soften if Chinh insisted. Then she and her husband would work hard and send for Mother as soon as possible.
She knew several people who once worked in businesses around the market who had disappeared; it was rumored that they had escaped with their families to America. Their cell leader reported that Thai pirates raped the women and then murdered those who attempted to escape. The few who made it to land were kept in filthy camps and were never allowed to emigrate. Lan didn’t believe the cell leader; she knew of those who received money from their extended families in America.
“Mr. Vuong and Chinh should be here by now.” Mother dragged the basket over to the rice pot. “They’d better bring a pig to roast. The fire is ready.”
Lan picked up the bag of ingredients to make salad rolls and took them to the low table in the yard. The coals in the open pit burned hot; Lan had started the fire in the middle of the night. Mother would cook the meat, and then the women from the market would come to celebrate.
Mother followed Lan into the yard and turned on the spigot to fill the pot. “Our luck has changed,” she said as she turned off the water. “Associating with Mr. Vuong all those years has finally paid off. Chinh will take care of us.” She walked to the edge of the yard and peered down the street. Mother was thin, and the outline of her shoulder blades showed beneath her blouse. She coughed as she squinted down the dirt road. Mother had been thirty-six when the war ended; now she was forty-eight. She needed someone to take care of her.
“Here they come!” Mother’s face brightened.
“Don’t be a fool,” Mr. Vuong shouted above the roar of a motorbike on the road as they came into the yard. “Of course you must go alone—”
“Lan!” Chinh called out over his father’s voice. They carried a pig on a pole between them.
Lan bowed her head. Go alone.
“Put it on the spit.” Mother motioned toward the fire.
Lan glanced up and smiled at Chinh. Would he stand up to his father?
She turned her head away from her groom. It was no use. She and Mother didn’t have the money to pay their way. Chinh didn’t have the resources either. Mr. Vuong would pay for his son only; he had nothing to gain by sponsoring her and Mother. Their only hope was that Chinh would make it to America and then send for them.
Six hours later Chinh and Lan shared tiny cups of tea during the traditional ceremony while Mother and Mr. Vuong watched and the market women gossiped in the yard. The silk of the ao dai felt cool against Lan’s skin. Her hair fell halfway down her back. Chinh’s eyes searched her face. Lan glanced out the door to the women gossiping and then back at Chinh, and they smiled at each other. Lan saw the future in his eyes. America. A home. Children. A strong man to help with Mother. Maybe even a garden someday. She would enjoy every minute with her husband until he left and then hope that she, along with Mother, would soon have a future in America.
Three months later Mr. Vuong asked Chinh, Lan, and Mother to gather in his shop after closing. Mother was suspicious and clucked her tongue at Mr. Vuong.
“What is it?” Chinh asked.
“Come into the back room.” Mr. Vuong spoke softly. “I have something to tell you.”
They gathered around in a circle, squatting low to the ground. “I have good news,” he said. “I’ve been given permission to live in Ho Chi Minh City.” Lan concentrated on not smiling. She and Chinh could manage the shop together. A woman’s touch would bring in more customers. They would be out from under Mr. Vuong.
Her father-in-law ran his hand through his greasy hair. “And that’s not all!” He clapped his hands together. “Chinh is to emigrate. I’ve arranged for a boat. When he gets to the U.S., he will send for my wife and me.”
Lan turned her head toward Chinh. He whispered, “I’ll send for you, too.” His eyes were earnest.
“I’ve been a fool,” Mother said.
“Chinh will send for both of us,” Lan said softly, taking her mother’s hands. She searched Chinh’s face; he nodded. Behind him Mr. Vuong shook his head.
The next day Mr. Vuong hired a van and loaded half of the merchandise from his shop, leaving the rest to give the appearance that the store would stay in business. He left for Ho Chi Minh City by late afternoon.
That
night Lan and Chinh took their sleeping mats from Mother’s shack to the back room of the shop. Lan bought the last catfish from the fish vendor and cooked dinner in the alley on Mr. Vuong’s charcoal stove. After they ate, Chinh wrapped his arms around her and kissed her. Happiness filled her, for a moment.
“I want to go with you,” she said. “I don’t want to live without you.”
He took Lan’s hand. “I wish more than anything that I could take you with me, but I can’t. I will send for you as soon as possible. I’m sorry I don’t have the money to take you now, and I’m sorry I can’t tell you more about when I’m leaving or where I’m going, but I don’t want to bring trouble to you. We will stay here until I leave. One night when you come home from work, I won’t be here. Take our things and go back to your mother.”
Lan nodded.
“Take this too,” Chinh said, pulling his small Bible from his bag of clothes. “I want you to have it.”
Lan took the book from her husband and opened it. How long had it been since she had read? The ink seemed to swim on the pages. She closed the Bible.
“Lan, my wish for you is that you would learn to love Christ most in life, more than yourself, more than me, more than our future children. He is the One who will never leave you.”
Chinh had told her stories from the Bible, stories about Moses and Jonah, about Jesus feeding the hungry, being nailed to the cross, and rising from the dead. Some of the stories she remembered from the nuns. Could she love God with all of her heart, mind, and soul? Could she love God more than she loved her husband? She wasn’t sure what it meant to love that way. Maybe God would show her.
“Christ forgives our sins and shame,” Chinh said.
Lan nodded. She understood. Notre Père. God, our Father, from the prayer she had recited for as long as she could remember. He forgave.
She prayed with Chinh. Peace moved in alongside her happiness, alongside the wedge of fear she had for a future without her husband, alongside her hope for a better life. They talked late into the night. Chinh said that he would pray for her every day. A cricket began to chirp in the alley, then a second one joined, and soon a choir serenaded them.
