by Leslie Gould
Maybe he didn’t need her the way she had always thought, the way Aunt Marie insisted.
She had one more question. “What do you think Mom would say about Jeff?”
“I think your mother would adore him.”
She couldn’t stop smiling. “I think Jeff will make a good husband and a good father.” She paused, watching his face. “That’s what Mom used to say about you. That you were a good husband and father.”
He stood. “I think she was talking about money. That I could provide for a family.”
“I don’t think so.” Gen stood with him, took his hand, and squeezed it. Gen opened the passenger door of the pickup, sat down on the bench seat, and looked at Jeff. “He wants me to be happy. He doesn’t expect me to take care of him.”
Jeff nodded. He knew that. “Are you okay then?” His smile was as wide as hers.
She nodded.
He took a deep breath. “Will you marry me?”
“Yes.” He was what she wanted. She thought of the little house in the orchard, of Jeff caring for the trees, of Sharon and Don as grandparents. She wanted it all.
That night Gen sat on her bed, stretched out her fingers, and turned her diamond in the light. Jeff would graduate in three months and move back to the orchard. They would plan to marry in a year in her church in Portland with Janet and Jake as attendants. They would live in the little house in the orchard, and she would do her student teaching in The Dalles.
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, saying a final good-bye to the refugee camp, to the motherless babies, to the hungry children, to her mom’s friend Kim, to the girl she prayed for. Life was full of choices, of losses and gains. Gen held her hand open, palm up. She could make out the tiny reflection of her face in the shiny gold metal of her ring.
Where was the carving of the Vietnamese girl holding the doll? How long had it been since she had seen it? She searched her bedside table, then her dresser, then her closet. She couldn’t find the carving anywhere. Why hadn’t she taken better care of it? She put her hand up to her neck and fingered the jade cross. At least she still had her mother’s necklace, but where was the little girl?
Chapter 12
You need to find another man.” Mother sat hunched in front of the altar, her long hair, streaked with gray, falling out of the bun that she hadn’t bothered to undo the night before.
Lan ran the comb through six-year-old Hangs hair, pulling out the nits and lice. Mothers argument was at least five years old. Hang held Chinh’s Bible in her lap. She liked to look at the words even though she couldn’t read.
“I’ll pray about it,” Lan said. Usually she said nothing to Mother’s suggestions. Her stomach sank. Why had she said she would pray? It had been months since she had even recited the Lord’s Prayer. For years she had believed that Chinh would send for her. She prayed every day. Over and over she imagined his joy when he found out about Hang. At first she thought of Chinh in a refugee camp—perhaps he was forced to stay for a year or two or even three. Then she imagined him immigrating to America. He would have to learn the language and get a job. As the years went by, it became harder to pray, and the peace that had sustained her slowly left. If this God cared about her, if he would never leave her, then why hadn’t she heard from Chinh? Was he alive and in America? Or dead, drowned that first night at sea, or, worse, killed by pirates?
Lan tugged on the comb. “Ouch,” her daughter squealed. Lan held her hand against Hang’s head to ease the pull. She needed to hurry; she needed to sell as much fruit as possible today. Her frustration grew as she looked up at Mother.
The old woman coughed and then shook her head. “Don’t bother to pray for a man. Do you think your God cares about such a little thing? It’s not up to him; it’s up to you. You’re the one who must take care of your child. A mother does what a mother has to do.”
Lan quickly divided Hang’s hair and braided each half. “Put the book away,” Lan said to Hang. “We need to get to work.” She rose to her feet and pulled the comb through her own hair. In the years since Chinh left, several men had shown interest in her. The last one laughed when she told him she was married. “Ha,” he had said. “Your man has a new woman in America. A new family. Why would he waste his money on a poor Vietnamese wife when he can have a rich American woman?”
Had she been a fool to dream that Chinh would send for her, that her life would get better?
“What’s for breakfast?” Mother turned from the altar.
“Rice,” Lan said. “It’s in your dish on the table.”
“Bring it to me,” Mother said to Hang. The girl quickly obeyed.
Lan worked her own hair into a single braid. “I’ll bring your medicine, Mother. Make sure to get some fresh air.”
Hang stood at the entrance to the market and rubbed her stomach with one hand; the other she extended with the palm turned upward. After all these years more tourists were coming back to Vung Tau. The Japanese woman turned to her husband. He shook his head.
“Little one,” Lan called to Hang from the fruit stall. Sheepishly she walked away from the couple. If she held out her hand and the person put money in it, Lan did not call her back. Hang knew then to bow and smile. If the person seemed irritated, Lan quickly summoned Hang to her.
It had been a slow day. Lan still needed more money for Mother’s medicine and for their dinner.
“When will I go to school?” Hang squatted beside Lan. The sun was straight overhead. Lan swatted at a mosquito on Hang’s arm and then pushed her daughter’s hair away from her face. When would she go to school?
“Maybe next year.” Lan didn’t have money for the uniform and books, for the paper and the pencils. Most of her money went to caring for Mother.
A horn honked. Mr. Doan smiled as he zipped around the corner on his scooter. He often bought fruit at the market. During the day he delivered goods on his motorbike—pineapples, chickens, eggs, kegs of beer, tools, bicycle parts, whatever needed to be moved from one place to another. He was lucky to have the scooter. Lan had seen him with a woman, she presumed his wife, in the market. Still he smiled at Lan every day, but she cast her eyes down and did not respond.
Some in Vietnam were doing better. The fall of the Soviet Union had caused the Vietnamese government to open up trade with other countries. More goods were being imported, including black market items from Cambodia and Thailand. More Vietnamese had been allowed to immigrate to the United States, which meant more people were sending money back to their relatives. It seemed everyone was better off than they had been five years ago—except for Lan, Mother, and Hang.
“I’m tired.” Hang glanced up at her mother.
“There, there.” Lan clucked her tongue as Hang curled up at Lan’s feet and closed her eyes. Lan sold fruit from street to street during the morning and late afternoon, but during the early afternoon she watched the stand in the market for Mrs. Le. She pulled her hat over her eyes and relaxed against the plastic chair. It was her favorite time of the day. Her eyes grew heavy, and flies buzzed around her face. She heard a motorbike come around the corner and stop. She halfway wished the driver would visit another stall—the basket seller or the vegetable vendor or the noodle soup lady Lan pushed her hat from her forehead and sat up straight, ready to smile. It was Mr. Doan.
“How are the grapes?”
“Try one.” Lan reached forward, twisted a large purple grape off a stem, and handed it to him.
“Good,” he said, after he’d swallowed it and spit out the seeds. “I need a big bunch for my children.”
“How many do you have?” Lan pulled a plastic bag from the cardboard box beneath the table, stepping around Hang to reach it.
“Four that I know of.” He smiled. She half expected him to wink.
He peered over the table at Hang. “Is she yours?”
Lan nodded.
“Who else is in your family?”
“Just the two of us and my mother.”
“I thought so.�
� He paid her for the grapes, smiled again, and then climbed onto his motorbike and sped away.
Lan settled back against the hot plastic as she watched Mr. Doan drive around the corner. She repositioned her hat over her brow. What did Mr. Doan want from her?
Lan heard the motorbike again. She peeked out from under the brim of her hat at Mr. Doan grinning as he sped by, headed in the opposite direction.
“He’s trouble.”
Lan turned to see Mrs. Le. “Do you know him?”
“He’s married to my cousin’s girl.” Mrs. Le pulled out the cashbox from under the table and then counted the boxes of fruit on the table. “Tsk, tsk. You’d better get out there. You’d better find some buyers on the street. If they won’t come to us, you’d better go to them, or the fruit will rot, and you’ll go hungry tonight.”
Lan stood to fill her baskets.
Mrs. Le stepped over Hang and sat in the chair. “Take the girl. I can’t have her underfoot.”
Lan walked down the dirt street to the shack, pulling Hang with one hand and supporting her yoke and baskets with the other. She walked slowly. Hang was too heavy for her to carry. It had been easier when Hang was a baby, safe in the sling against Lan’s breast.
“Faster.” Lan tugged on her daughter’s hand. “Stay with Grandmother. Play with the neighbor children. I’ll get money for dinner.”
They entered the shack. Lan stood for a moment as her eyes adjusted. Mother crouched in front of the altar holding a joss stick. Smoke and incense filled the shack.
“It that you, Lan? Did you bring medicine?”
“I brought Hang. I’m going out to sell more. I hope to have money before the day is done.”
“My cough is bad today, and my back and hands hurt.”
“I’m doing the best I can.”
“Ask the pharmacist for something stronger.” Mother put the joss stick on the altar.
Annoyed, Lan took a step toward the door. “Get up and get some fresh air. Move around. That will make you feel better.” Older Brother should care for Mother. I shouldn’t have to do it all alone. I should be able to use my money for Hang’s school for food, and for clothes.
Lan walked out of the pharmacy She had sold enough to buy medicine for Mother but not enough to buy food for dinner. She tucked the small bottles of medicine into her pouch and turned to walk home. Behind her a horn honked. She moved to the right. It honked again. She turned her head. Mr. Doan rode his motorbike on the sidewalk. He grinned. “Want a ride?”
She shook her head, remembering what Mrs. Le had said.
He reached into the plastic crate strapped to the back of his scooter. “I have some rice for you,” he said, holding up a brown parcel. “And fish and vegetables.”
Lan bowed her head.
“Come on,” Mr. Doan beckoned.
She smelled the rain a split second before it started. The sky opened, and the torrent began. Mr. Doan pulled two clear plastic ponchos from his crate and flicked them open, one after the other. “Come on.” He tossed the smaller one to Lan. “I’ll get you home.”
She hesitated. He smiled. A rain slicker. Food for Mother and Hang. A ride home. Was that what she was worth? Exhaustion and hunger welled up inside of her, spilled over into her muscles, flooded her stomach, seeped into her shaky bones. The rain cascaded over her hat and onto her shirt and pants, pressing them against her skin. Already she stood in a puddle of water.
She slid her yoke over her shoulders and lowered her baskets to the ground. She held out her hand for the poncho, pulled it over her head, and climbed onto the back of Mr. Doan’s motorbike. As he drove through the streets of Vung Tau, she balanced her baskets across her shoulders.
Chapter 13
Gen stirred as Jeff rolled away from her and then sat on the edge of the bed. The air conditioner in the window whirled in the hot night but brought little relief. “What is it?” Gen asked, stretching her arm to touch his back
“Someone’s at the door.”
Gen squinted at the clock—2:30 a.m. Harvest had started two days before. Exhausted, she fell back on the pillow. She patted her stomach. It was still flat. She was only nine weeks along. For five years they had tried to start a family. Finally she was pregnant.
“Genni.” Jeff’s voice tugged at her, pulled her out of sleep again. “Jose’s here. Marta is in labor, and they’re worried because the baby is coming fast. I’m going to drive them to the hospital. Could you follow me? Do you feel up to that?”
She kicked a bare leg out from under the sheet. “Marta’s going to have her baby?” Plump Marta with her round belly and gaggle of four daughters, who followed her everywhere, “She’s early.”
“At least two months early. That’s why José wants me to go along.”
She planted her feet on the worn, cool boards of the floor. A baby. She patted her own flat stomach again. They were waiting to share their good news, waiting until harvest was over, until she had reached the second trimester. All these years of trying had made them hesitant to share their news too soon. Trying. It felt like playing the lottery. She’d gone through tests, endometriosis, and surgery; she had found out that one tube was permanently blocked. She’d taken rounds of fertility drugs. Now, finally, a baby grew inside her.
Gen pulled on shorts, slipped on her bra, and wrestled a T-shirt over her head. She sat on the side of the bed and worked her feet into her sandals.
The gears of the old pickup ground as she shifted and turned onto the highway. At the hospital, after Jeff talked with the emergency-room doctor, Gen sat beside him in the waiting room. “I just want to make sure everything is okay before we leave,” he said. Gen curled up in the chair. José and his crew had helped with harvest for over a decade, and she knew Jeff would do anything he could for José and his family. She shivered in the air-conditioned room and reached for Jeff’s arm, hoping to draw some warmth from it.
When she awoke, a flannel sheet covered her, and José stood in front of them talking. “It’s another girl.” He grinned. “They say the baby is fine. Even her lungs are healthy. But she’s small. Only four pounds.” Jeff stood and shook José’s hand.
Gen sat up straight. Jeff handed José the key to the old pickup. “Stay here as long as you need to.”
“I’ll be out this morning.”
“No, no,” Jeff said. “Take today off. We don’t need you today.”
“I’ll be there.” José tossed the key to his other hand. “And, boss, thank you.”
Jeff smiled and nodded.
Gen slept during the drive back to the orchard. “You okay?” Jeff asked as he parked the pickup.
“Just tired.” The first light of morning tiptoed over the knoll. Pickers holding plastic buckets crowded around the yard and waited for their assignments.
“Go back to bed. Sleep for a few more hours. I’ll let you know when the truck is ready to drive to the plant.” Gen nodded and squeezed his hand, too tired to talk.
She drove the truck for the next two weeks and napped in the cab with the air conditioning on whenever she could.
Late one afternoon she stretched out under the willow tree on Sharon and Don’s lawn. The heat of the day had forced the pickers out of the orchard. The fruit was too delicate to risk bruising in the one-hundred-degree weather.
Sharon came out the back door and sat beside her. Marta started toward them and called out, “Buenos días.”
“She says hello,” her six-year-old daughter translated. Gen nodded with a smile. Marta held the baby out to Gen. She stood and took the little one in her arms, noted the flutter of her eyelids and the slightly pursed lips. She held the tiny, tiny baby against her breast, squeezing slightly. Tears filled her eyes.
Sharon stood. “Are you okay?”
Gen smiled and blinked quickly. Jake had a girlfriend but no plans to marry. Janet had married three months before and was getting her masters in education in Texas. She had said adamantly that it would be years before they started a family. Gen knew she
and Jeff were Sharon’s only hope for a grandbaby anytime soon. Her mother-in-law patted her back in sympathy. Gen nearly told her the good news. This time her tears were not from sadness.
The bleeding started that evening. A month before, Gen had had some spotting but not enough to be abnormal, according to the doctor. But this was bleeding. “Put your feet up, and call us if you start to cramp,” was the answer from the gynecologist on call. At 4:00 a.m. she gasped at the sharp pain in her side. She woke Jeff, and he called the doctor.
At 10:00 a.m. the ultrasound technician ran a wand over Gen’s lower abdomen, sliding it through the sticky jelly. Jeff stood beside Gen and held her hand. They both stared at the screen as the faint image of the fetus appeared through a fuzzy forest of gray shapes.
“Is that our baby?” Gen whispered, overcome with relief. An hour earlier the doctor explained that the baby might have implanted in a “horn” of the uterus, a sectioned off area, or it could be an ectopic pregnancy or severe pain due to Gen’s endometriosis.
“My guess is that you’re further along than nine weeks,” the technician said. “More like fourteen weeks.” Jeff squeezed Gen’s hand. The technician repositioned the wand, and the image grew clearer. The baby began to move, pushing out with arms and legs.
“We need to do a laparoscopy,” the doctor said that afternoon, “and possible surgery.”
The tears started. Gen had been determined not to cry, not to jump to the worst-case scenario. “Surgery? But the baby seemed so active during the ultrasound.”
“We won’t know for sure until we send in a camera. I’m scheduling the procedure for seven o’clock tomorrow morning.”
“What do you think is going on?” Jeff scooted his chair closer to Gen’s and reached for her hand.
“There’s no way to know until we take a look.”
“Will it hurt the baby?” Gen swiped tears from under her eyes with her free hand.
