by Leslie Gould
She’d forgotten a hat. Her ears burned from the cold. “That’s not fair,” was the cry she despised the most at school. She explained over and over to her students that life wasn’t fair, that making the best of what one had was most important. But, in truth, she felt the words “that’s not fair” deeply. The death of her mother. The infertility. Their baby who died.
Gen headed back to their little house. When they moved into the cottage, Gen had imagined the bassinet beside their bed. They could easily convert the mud porch into a bedroom for the baby later. She was sure Jeff’s parents would have moved into their rental house in The Dalles by now and turned over the larger house to Jeff and Gen if they’d had a baby.
Conflict with Jeff made her anxious. He was the one person she depended on, counted on. She was used to him agreeing to do what she wanted. Until now. Why was he holding back? Does he really want to try in vitro? At what cost? She jogged out to the road and back toward their house and then across the corner of her garden where pumpkins still clung to the vines. A row of dried corn stalks stood guard over the squash. All I want is a baby, God. All these years that’s what I’ve wanted.
Jeff had been playing his guitar again, and last night, while she read in the bedroom, she heard the chords to “You Can’t Always Get What You Want.” The last song he played before coming to bed was “I Want to Hold Your Hand.”
We’ll go to the meeting. See what the adoption people have to say. Maybe it’s not as risky as Jeff fears. She headed into the house to shower before leaving for work.
Jeff picked her up at school. She dozed on the way into Portland, and when she woke, gray clouds filled the sky as the day turned to dusk. They stopped in Troutdale for dinner and then drove the rest of the way into inner Northeast to the Boys and Girls Club of Portland. Gen hurried down the hall, Jeff a step behind her. She glanced at her watch as they entered the room. They were nearly ten minutes early, but the room was full. All the other wannabe parents at the adoption meeting appeared to be professionals, city professionals, and older than Gen and Jeff. A few wore suits—accountants, engineers, and lawyers, she was sure—and had obviously just rushed in from work.
They presented themselves as sophisticated and prepared, as if their four-bedroom, three-bath, two-car-garage homes on the west side of town were more than ready for a baby. Gen pictured them as just the kind of couples young women would choose to adopt their newborns. Jeff and Gen found two vacant seats at the front of the room.
The social worker started the meeting right on time. After outlining the adoption process, she asked if anyone had any questions. One of the men wearing a suit asked how often the birth moms changed their minds.
“It does happen,” the social worker said. “I don’t have any statistics on how often, but I’ve been involved in cases where the adoption isn’t completed.”
A woman asked how many of the babies tested positive for drugs.
“That happens too,” the social worker answered. “Again I don’t have statistics.”
Jeff asked about the cost.
“It varies widely, depending on the birth mothers physical, emotional, and medical needs, plus loss of income, the lawyer’s fees, the baby’s needs, and travel expenses.”
“What if the birth mother changes her mind?” Jeff clasped his hands as he spoke. “Is the money refundable?”
“That would be a question for your lawyer.” The social worker took a stack of papers from her briefcase and passed out sheets listing attorneys who specialized in adoption and organizations that facilitated adoptions. She suggested those interested in adopting domestically put advertisements in newspapers to catch the attention of women looking to place their children. Finally she scanned the room. “Any more questions?”
Gen glanced at Jeff; he studied the piece of paper.
As they drove along the Columbia River on the way home, a torrential rain kept Jeff focused on the freeway. Gen thought of the mud forming in the orchard, of the snow falling on Mount Hood.
She balanced the packet of adoption papers on her knees. Out the window Multnomah Falls, lit up in the darkness by spotlights, crashed through the rocks. The ribbon of white water sped down the cliff. She caught a glimpse of the bridge across the waterfall. It was gone in an instant.
She turned to Jeff. “What do you think?”
“I don’t know if we could handle a drug baby, not for our first.”
Gen shifted her weight on the seat. Could she handle a birth mom changing her mind? No, that would be worse than the infertility, as bad as the tubal pregnancy, probably worse.
“I want a baby. Believe me, Genni, I do,” Jeff said. “But I still don’t know what we should do.” He gazed intently into the rainy night. “What about in vitro?”
Gen thought about frozen embryos being stored in Portland for years and years. “I feel more certain about adoption.” She stared through the window into the dark forest. She would pour herself into teaching. Maybe they could go to Hawaii for a vacation. There had to be more to life than desperately wanting a baby.
“What about international adoption?” Jeff kept his eyes on the road. “It seems less risky than domestic adoption.”
“There are lots of children here who need a home.” She concentrated on the silhouettes of the trees. Why not international adoption? Mom … Nhat … Moms friend Kim … the Vietnamese girl I used to pray for. Maybe Vietnam was what was wrong with international adoption.
Jeff wanted to try in vitro. She wanted to adopt domestically. The adoption packet fell from her knees to the floor of the pickup.
Jeff glanced over at her. The rain eased. “Let’s pray about it,” he said. “Is that okay?”
She nodded and put her left hand on his shoulder.
“Lord,” he prayed softly, simply, “please show us what to do.”
Chapter 16
Hang stopped in front of the church. “We must hurry,” Lan said. “Let me peek inside.” Hang ran up the stairs, and Lan followed. A group of boys dressed in white robes held candles and followed a priest down the aisle. Lan and Hang stepped inside. The church was nearly full, with men on one side and women on the other. The smell of incense thickened the already humid air. A statue of an Asian Mary, unlike the French Madonnas Lan remembered from her childhood, stood beside the altar.
The priest began to pray in Vietnamese: “Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.”
“Mama, its your prayer,” Hang whispered over the priests words.
“Give us this day our daily bread. Forgive us our trespasses—”
“We must go,” Lan said. “Cuong will give us a ride if we hurry.”
They ran down the stairs. “Did my father go to a church like this?” Hang asked.
“No,” Lan answered. “He went to an underground church. The government approves this big church. His wasn’t approved.”
“Why not?” Hang asked.
“I don’t know.” Lan felt impatient. “Some are, some aren’t.”
Cuong sped around the corner on his new motorcycle. Sunlight sparkled on the red tank. He slowed to a stop and pulled a cigarette from his pocket as Lan and Hang climbed on behind him. As they accelerated, the smell of smoke, the odor of sewage, and the exhaust from the traffic fell away, coming only in quick whiffs instead of oppressive layers.
Lan had met Cuong in the fishing village when Binh was an infant. The baby was a month old and hungry all the time, and she had decided to take him to the orphanage, but Cuong talked her out of it. “Things are getting better in Vietnam,” he had said. “Don’t send the little one away. He’ll help Hang take care of you when you are old.” He gave her formula for Binh and took her to the pagoda to beg for money.
Cuong traded on the black market—cigarettes, beer, whiskey, and Cuban cigars. After Lan had known him a few months, he gave her merchandise to sell, and soon she left the fishing village. Some days she sold hats and T-shirts for one dollar American and sets of fake jade Buddhas for three dollars
American.
Hang and Binh called Cuong “Uncle,” and he was nice to them, although he had little patience with Binh’s busyness. Lan wondered if, in time, he might beat the boy She often saw him with other women, all younger. Still he gave her extra money, and the work he provided earned far more than turning fish.
Cuong wove through the traffic toward the Giant Jesus statue on the hill. The tourists were mostly weekenders from Ho Chi Minh City and other parts of the country, but travelers from China, Japan, Australia, New Zealand, France, and even America came too. She’d seen middle-aged American men, probably soldiers from the war. Some had built an orphanage on the outskirts of the town. She’d also seen American couples with Vietnamese babies. “Baby so lucky,” she would say in English and think of Binh, who was now three. He would be better off if she had taken him to the orphanage; he would be in America now with plenty of food. Mother insisted over and over that Lan was stubborn and selfish to keep Binh. Lan laughed when Mother called her selfish; stubborn she could accept, but not selfish.
Binh was a wild one, just as he had been while he was inside her. She worried about his being home with Mother during the day. Would Mother doze? Would Binh run off?
Cuong leaned his bike around a corner, and Hang tightened her grip around Lan’s waist. Lan patted her daughter’s hand. Hang could hardly control Binh either. She was back in school now, one year behind the other children her age. She needed a new uniform shirt, and Lan hoped to have the money by next week. Every day she worked hard; from sunup to sundown she scurried to earn a living, to buy food, to buy medicine for Mother. Every night she collapsed, exhausted, her children curled against her on the sleeping mat.
“Some friends and I are getting together tonight. We’re going to have a few beers. Want to join us?” Cuong glanced over his shoulder at Lan.
“Maybe.” Lan looked ahead at the water buffalo in the road. Cuong swerved around it at the last minute.
“I’ll be back in two hours.” Cuong pulled into the parking lot and idled the bike. Lan and Hang climbed off and stared across the street at the Giant Jesus looming above them. Lan spotted a group of Americans, she assumed, starting up the steps. It was a long hike to the top.
“They’ve come to adopt babies,” a T-shirt vendor said. “That’s their van.” He nodded at a blue vehicle with curtains on the windows.
“Where are the babies?” Lan reached for Hang’s hand.
“At the orphanage. They’ll get them tomorrow. They don’t want to bring the babies here. It’s too hot. They’ll buy from you when they come back,” the vendor said. “Relax. You’ll have a good sale.” He climbed onto his scooter and pulled out onto the road. Lan sat on the curb and watched the people grow smaller and smaller as they climbed closer to Jesus. They returned an hour later, red faced and sweaty, even the women. None of them bought from Lan when they came back to the van. Instead, they climbed in and pulled the curtains across the windows so Lan and Hang couldn’t peek inside.
Cuong idled his motorbike in the yard while Lan and Hang entered the shack. Binh sat on the sleeping mat, and Mother squatted beside him with a bowl of rice. “Binh was naughty again today. He walked to the market while I napped.” Mother shoved the spoon into Binh’s mouth and then looked up at Lan. “And that’s not all. An official from the department of industry came by today. He said a manufacturing plant is going to be built … here.”
Lan glanced from Mother to Binh and then around the shack to the altar with Father’s proud military face and Second Brother’s smile, the same smile that now lit up Binh’s face. Older Brother helped the people of Vietnam but not her and Mother. Dead or alive, Chinh was gone from her forever.
“I forgot something,” she said to Mother. Her legs carried her toward the door. It was as if she couldn’t stop herself, as if her body belonged to someone else. She couldn’t stay in the shack another minute. “I’ll be back after a while.”
Binh cried out, “Mama!”
Hang reached out her hand. “Don’t go.”
Lan hurried toward the sound of the motorbike, toward Cuong. She would not think about Binh running off, about the coming factory, about the need for a new home. It had been so long since she’d had any fun.
Part 2
December 1999-May 2001
There are three things that are never satisfied,
Four never say, “Enough!”:
The grave,
The barren womb,
The earth that is not satisfied with water;
And the fire never says, “Enough!”
PROVERBS 30:15–16
Chapter 17
A child’s voice drifted from the balcony of the condo next to theirs. Gen shook her head. “What’s up?” Jeff asked.
She smiled, just a little. “It’s nothing.” She had hoped that six days on Maui would be a distraction from the baby aisle at the grocery store, invitations to baby showers, and seeing babies everywhere she turned. She and Jeff could be a couple and think about each other, not about their baby impasse. But in a second, the sweet voice of a child brought it all back, and Gen stepped onto their balcony to see if she could spot the little one. A tiny Asian girl pointed out to the ocean. “Swim, Mommy?”
“In a little bit, sweetie,” her mother said.
Later that day Jeff and Gen saw the little girl on the beach and struck up a conversation with her parents. The little girl’s name was Joy, and she had been adopted from China. She was two years old. Gen made a sandcastle with her on the beach. It helped that Joy wasn’t an infant. Still the overwhelming desire for a child filled her.
They saw Joy with her parents several more times during their vacation. One time Jeff and Gen watched the family on the edge of the beach under a palm tree, from a distance. Jeff finally took Gen’s hand and led her in the opposite direction for a walk beside the waves.
Jeff turned to her as they flew home from Hawaii. “Would you reconsider international adoption?” He took her hand and stroked the scar at the base of her thumb. Gen sensed the caution in his voice. The timing was right, he explained. They had money in the bank, and his parents were moving into town the first week of January. They would finally have the big house. International adoption would mean less chance of getting a drug baby and no lastminute decision by the birth mom to keep the baby.
When Gen didn’t answer, he continued, “We wouldn’t adopt from Vietnam or even Asia if that is what’s bugging you.” Still she didn’t answer. “Genni, this is about us, about our family, not about your father or your mother or Nhat.”
“I know.” She met his gaze. “I know that it’s about us. It’s just so hard to keep it separate.”
The word Vietnam stayed in her head. At first it was just a whisper in the clouds high above the Pacific, but it grew louder through the January fog and the early February rain. Vietnam took her mother and broke her father’s heart, yet it was more than that to her. It was the geckos Mom talked about, the lepers, the open-air markets, the family of place-card figurines, the mangoes, Mom’s friend Kim, the nameless girl Gen had prayed for all those years ago, the orphans. Somehow, although she wasn’t sure exactly how, God was a part of Vietnam. Maybe it was Mom’s faith. Maybe it was God’s plan. Gen wasn’t sure. What she knew for certain was that the word Vietnam stirred both awe and fear deep inside her.
Gen pulled two lamps, a coffee table, and two end tables into the middle of the dimly lit storage room in her fathers basement. She and Jeff needed more furniture for the farmhouse, and her dad had invited her to take what she wanted from his collection of outcasts. It was Presidents’ Day, and Gen had decided to drive into Portland and get serious about furnishing their big house.
She found a flashlight by the door and ran the beam along the boxes on the shelves. Each box was neatly labeled: “Kitchen,” “Garden tools,” “Past taxes,” “Christmas.” The musty smell reminded Gen of how frightened she had been as a child to go into the basement alone. She needed Mom by her side. She swung the flashl
ight up to the top shelf. Tucked in the corner were two boxes labeled “Sally.” Gen put the flashlight down and stood on her tiptoes, pulling the first box toward her. She balanced it carefully as she eased it to the floor and then opened it. On the top was the mahogany box of place-card holders. Gen lifted the box out, sat on the floor, opened it, and carefully examined each one—the boy riding the water buffalo, the father holding a scythe, the mother with a baby strapped to her back, the grandmother squatting in front of a basket of mangoes, the grandfather with the white beard holding a perfectly carved cane. The little girl she had played with and loved was missing.
“Gen.” Her father stood in the doorway. He flipped a switch and a fluorescent bulb bathed the room in light. “Do you need some help?”
Gen quickly turned off the flashlight.
“What did you find?” he asked.
“Mom’s stuff.”
He scowled at the Vietnamese figurines and then winced just a little as if suddenly the light was too bright. “I should have given those to you years ago. Take what you want.”
“I’ve thought about these place-card holders recently,” Gen said. “Actually, I never stopped thinking about them.”
“Just do me a favor,” he said. “Don’t put them in your house where I can see them.” That was exactly what she wanted to do—put Mom’s things where everyone could see them. They had been boxed up for too many years.
“I’m a silly old man,” he said. “But seeing them still makes me as sad as if it were twenty-five years ago.”
Gen had planned to talk to her dad about Jeff wanting to adopt internationally but decided not to. The timing was wrong. She didn’t want to bring up more sad memories. She carried the two boxes of her mother’s belongings to Jeff’s pickup. Her father helped her with the tables and lamps.
