by Leslie Gould
Almost a month later Gen put the ginger chicken in the oven for Jeff’s birthday dinner. Sharon and Don were coming for dinner. She had invited her father and aunt, but her dad had a meeting at his church about the youth group’s upcoming trip to Kazakhstan, and Aunt Marie didn’t want to drive to The Dalles alone. Her father planned to chaperon the youth groups trip; he had called last week to explain his decision. It was so unlike him. Here he was seventy-one years old, and he hardly ever left Portland except to drive to The Dalles. At first his decision troubled Gen, but then it made her feel lighter, ready to make a decision of her own.
She closed the oven and climbed the stepstool, opened the cupboard above the sink, and pulled out the box of place-card holders. Since her dad wasn’t coming, she would use the Vietnamese figurines.
Jeff’s mother would find the carvings quaint. His father wouldn’t notice. Jeff would.
The tires of Jeff’s pickup rolled across the gravel driveway. He had been spraying the upper orchard. She hurried into the kitchen and then out to the mud room. He climbed the steps as she opened the back door. “Happy birthday!” His hair curled around his baseball cap. He bent down to kiss her as he stood on the door stoop.
“Go get your shower,” she said. “Be quick, okay?” Sharon and Don would arrive soon. Gen felt her before-company anxiety rise.
Jeff sauntered through the kitchen door into the back hall singing, “Splish splash, I was taking a bath” as Gen headed the opposite direction through the swinging door into the dining room. Sharon and Don had left the oak table and eight chairs because they couldn’t fit the antiques into their house in town. Gen counted out four goblets and four plates from the china hutch. She quickly set the table and then took the dad, mom, grandma, and grandpa place-card holders out of the box and put them around the settings. Everything was in position. She glanced from figurine to figurine, one by one, on the table. That was what she wanted. A family She wrote their names on index cards and slipped them into the holders.
She turned her attention to the jar filled with daffodils, cut the stems, and placed the flowers in a crystal vase. Jeff’s great-grandmother had planted the original bulbs eighty years before. The daffodils almost always bloomed for Jeff’s birthday
Gen heard the bathroom door open and checked her watch. Jeff’s parents were scheduled to arrive in five minutes. They were notorious for being early. She hoped Jeff was almost ready.
The front doorbell rang. His parents never rang the bell.
Gen peeked out the living room window, across the porch and through the white railing. There was a silver Buick in the driveway. Just like Dad’s car. She stopped with her hand an inch from the knob. It was Dad’s car.
She opened the door, thinking of the figurines on the table.
“Dad! You came!” She looked behind him. “And brought Aunt Marie.”
“Didn’t you get my message?” He raised a bushy brow. Aunt Marie bustled through the door. Before Gen could answer that she hadn’t checked her voice mail, he said, “The meeting was canceled. So I came and brought Marie.” Her father gave her a quick hug, and Aunt Marie kissed her cheek.
“Marshall, you made it!” Jeff said, swinging through the kitchen door. His long legs quickly covered the room. He stretched out his hand to his father-in-law. “And Aunt Marie.” He turned toward her with a hug. “How nice of you to come for my birthday dinner.”
Aunt Marie smiled and blushed slightly Jeff made her happy.
Gen opened her eyes wide and leaned her head toward the dining room table, willing Jeff to gather up the figurines, to make them disappear. She had told him when she brought them home that her father didn’t want to see Mom’s things. Jeff should know she wouldn’t have put them out if she had known Dad and Aunt Marie were coming. Jeff smiled back at her with his light-up-the-room smile. His wet curls framed his face.
Jeff’s parents started up the porch steps. “Oh, look at the daffodils!” Sharon said as they came through the door.
Gen’s dad shook Don’s hand. Both were tall and thin, but Jeff’s father was now completely bald in contrast to Gen’s father’s full head of white hair.
“And these figurines!” Sharon exclaimed, walking toward the table. “Gen, where in the world did you get these?” Jeff turned toward the table. Sharon picked up the mother carrying the baby. The place card that read “Gen” fell to the floor. Aunt Marie stared at the table. Dad let go of Don’s hand.
“Is this your way of saying yes?” Jeff’s eyes met hers. “On my birthday!” Gen glanced from her husband to her dad and pressed her lips together.
“Its obvious that you didn’t get my message,” her father said.
“Gen!” Sharon took a step toward her daughter-in-law, her arms stretched wide. “Have you two decided to adopt?”
Gen wondered if Jeff had told Sharon they were considering international adoption. Did Sharon realize that the child wouldn’t look like any of them? Oh, stop. “We’re thinking about it. Tell you more later, okay?” She kept her voice low, hoping her father really was growing as hard of hearing as he claimed.
Aunt Marie crossed her arms.
Gen’s father quickly regained his composure. Jeff took two more china plates and goblets from the hutch while Gen hurried to collect napkins and more silver. She reached for the place-card holders.
“Gen,” her dad said, his hand on hers, “leave them. It’s okay.”
When she called everyone to the table, her father sat at the place with the carving of the old man with the white hair and beard. He took the card with Don’s name on it and put it in the middle of the table. After grace he chatted with Don about the cherry crop, complimented Gen on the ginger chicken, and asked Sharon how Jake and Janet were doing. Sharon explained with a sad face that Jeff’s sister was now in Arizona getting a doctorate in education while her husband stayed in Texas. Gen ate silently, thinking about Janet and Sharon, about mothers and daughters, and trying not to think about her father. Aunt Marie stared at her off and on throughout the meal.
Jeff put the figurines in the mahogany box while Gen finished loading the dishwasher. “What country do you think we should adopt from?” Jeff turned toward Gen.
She knew the answer. She felt the door to a far-off room in her heart ease open. “Vietnam.”
“Are you sure?”
Gen nodded and then opened the box to look at the figurines before she put them away. The grandfather was missing.
A thin woman moved to the lectern and turned to the five couples and three single women sitting with Gen and Jeff around the long metal tables. “Hi, I’m Maggie. Welcome to Mercy for Children’s spring preadopt class.” She wore a denim jumper, a red blouse, and navy clogs. Her gray hair hung loose around her shoulders, framing her pale face and confident smile.
The adoption agency was located in an old Victorian house in northwest Portland.
“I’m the director of Mercy for Children,” Maggie said, “I’m also the Vietnam program coordinator and the mother of four children. Two were adopted from Vietnam.”
Jeff caught Gen’s eye and winked. “Just you wait,” he had said as they drove into Portland that morning. “I have a good feeling about this. It’s going to go our way. It’s going to be a snap.”
“We also have programs in South Korea, China, Russia, and Guatemala,” Maggie continued. “Families from all over the United States adopt through our programs.”
Maggie passed out a binder to each family unit. Gen glanced at the tabs along the side: DECIDING. PARENTHOOD. FAMILY. ISSUES. BONDING. MEDICAL QUESTIONS. POST ADOPTION. RESOURCES.
Maggie outlined the process on a whiteboard affixed to the wall: three Saturday morning preadopt classes, paperwork, a home study, and a background check. They needed to be fingerprinted and go to INS in downtown Portland. A dossier would be compiled, the papers would be sent to Vietnam, and a referral would be made.
“Referral?” A single woman at the end of the table leaned forward. “What does that mean?”
Maggie smiled. “A referral of a child. You’ll get a photo and all the information we have about that particular boy or girl. Then you make the decision to accept the referral.” Accept the referral. It sounds so cold.
“What about gender requests?” the same woman said. “Are we allowed to choose?”
“We want you to request what works best for your family. But keep in mind, most adoptive families want girls, which means there are more boys available. China is the exception. Because of their one-child policy, far more girls are available for adoption. Even in Vietnam, more girls are given up for adoption, but because the majority of American couples request girls, more boys are available.”
Gen and Jeff had already talked about the gender issue. “I want a baby,” Gen had said. “I don’t care if it’s a boy or a girl. I want God to decide that.” Their decision not to request a girl would most likely mean adopting a boy.
A man in his forties across the table from Gen tapped his mechanical pencil on the binder. “How about the birth moms? Do they ever change their minds?” His wife ran her hand through her long blond hair and bit her lip as they waited for Maggie to answer.
“Very seldom,” Maggie said. “In fact, I’ve never had it happen in the Vietnam program.” Birth mom. Gen hadn’t thought about a birth mom. She had imagined a baby whose mother had died or a baby who had been abandoned and left on the steps of the orphanage. “In fact,” Maggie continued, “in Vietnam the adoptive parents often meet the birth mothers. That’s really a wonderful thing.”
Wonderful? It sounded unbearable.
During the break the blond-haired woman introduced herself to Gen. “I’m Robyn.” She extended her hand across the table. “This is my husband, Sean.” Jeff shook Sean’s hand.
What was their story? Had they tried in vitro? Considered domestic adoption? Robyn seemed to be Gen and Jeff’s age. All the other prospective parents, including Sean, appeared to be older.
“What program are you interested in?” Sean studied their faces.
“Vietnam,” Jeff said.
Sean met his wife’s eyes before turning back to Gen and Jeff. “Really?” he said. “I think we’re leaning toward that one too.” Robyn nodded.
Jeff drove over the Broadway Bridge above the Willamette River. The docks and railroad yards spread out along the banks. Gen held the adoption packet. The blue sky covered the city like a promise as they sped along. Hope grew inside her.
She saw the flash of a freight train pick up speed as it headed south in the railroad yard below. Nine months, Maggie had said. Nine months and they would have their baby—if all went well. Gen realized she was holding her breath and let it out.
“I really like Maggie.” Jeff downshifted and slowed for the stoplight by Memorial Coliseum.
Gen wanted to like Maggie, wanted to trust her. Would Mom be like Maggie now if she had lived? Mom had been idealistic. Maggie seemed pragmatic. Maybe idealism grew into pragmatism.
“I hope she’ll travel to Vietnam with us,” Jeff added. “Wouldn’t it be great if Sean and Robyn went with us too?”
Gen nodded. She didn’t want to talk about traveling to Vietnam yet. She wanted to fill out the paperwork, have the home study completed, buy furniture for the baby’s room, and try not to think about the Vietnamese woman who would give up her child.
“What do you want to eat?” Jeff said.
“How about Vietnamese food? Yen Ha is on Sandy, not far from Dad’s.”
Jeff glanced at Gen and grinned. “Let’s call your dad and see if he’ll go with us.”
“We can call, but he won’t want Vietnamese food. We’ll have to go somewhere else.” He’d say it was too spicy. But he ate Mexican and Chinese food all the time.
Gen dug in her backpack for the cell phone.
“Hi, Dad. We’re in town. How about lunch? We were thinking about the Vietnamese place on Sandy.” She winked at Jeff as she listened to her father. “Sure, sure, Chinese is fine. Zien Hong would be great.” She winked at Jeff again. “We’ll meet you there in ten minutes.”
“You were right,” Jeff said, turning right. “When do you want to buy a station wagon?”
Gen couldn’t think about buying a station wagon. First they had to tell her father they were going to adopt from Vietnam.
“What are you in town for?” Her dad glanced at Gen over the top of his menu, peering above his wire-framed reading glasses, a shock of white hair hanging over his forehead.
Gen exchanged a look with Jeff.
Jeff cleared his throat. “A preadopt class.”
“Really? It sounded as if you were headed that way at the birthday dinner.”
Jeff nodded.
“What agency?” Her father set down his menu and focused on Gen.
“Mercy for Children,” she said.
“Domestic?”
“International,” Jeff said, pouring tea for the three of them.
“What country?”
“They offer programs through Russia, South Korea, China, Vietnam, and Guatemala.” Gen rushed her answer, aware of how she’d buried the word Vietnam in the list.
Her father raised his eyebrows.
Outside the window, up and down Sandy Boulevard, the yellow and red striped flag of South Vietnam fluttered. It was mid-April, halfway between the twenty-fifth anniversary of her mother’s death on April 4 and the fall of Saigon on April 30. The flags, hung by expatriates whose businesses lined the street, commemorated the fall of their country.
“We plan to adopt from Vietnam,” Jeff said to his father-in-law.
Gen pushed her chopsticks away from her place mat. What am I afraid of? Dad’s pain … his disapproval? After all these years?
Her father took off his glasses. “I’m just going to say this once,” he said. “This is your life and your decision. Choose China. Choose South Korea. Choose Guatemala. Choose the United States. Or how about Kazakhstan? I’ll find out about adopting from there. Don’t choose Vietnam. Only heartbreak comes from Vietnam.”
Chapter 18
Lan stood in the middle of the one-room apartment. She feared the concrete in the Russian-made building would crumble in the heat and humidity. Outside the open window a dirt yard ran the length of the building, and a single rusty slide offered amusement for the children. This morning a dozen little ones crowded around it. Binh would soon join them, swinging from its ladder.
Cuong carried a box of belongings into the room, and Mother followed him with a basket. Lan placed the fruit box used for the family altar in the corner of the room.
“One more trip and you will be moved,” Cuong said. Lan nodded. It had taken only three trips on a motorbike. She heard Hang and Binh racing up the stairs.
“This is so far from our grove,” Mother said. “From our land.” Lan clucked her tongue and touched Mother’s shoulder. She talked more and more about the past, about Father, about the land, about Older Brother and Second Brother, even Older Sister. It made Lan sad. What would their life be like if there had been no war? If they hadn’t been forced to leave their home?
Hang rushed through the door and lifted Binh into her arms. Her eleven-year-old body was still a child’s but strong enough to carry her brother.
“Come over tonight,” Cuong whispered to Lan.
She thought of the cost of the apartment. It was twice as much as she had paid for the shack. Lan hoped the tourists would want to buy more cigarettes and souvenirs or that Cuong would give her more money.
Lan walked to Cuong’s house after fixing rice and fish for Mother and the children. Cuong and several of his friends drank and gambled, barely touching their dinner from a nearby restaurant. After his friends left, Lan cleared away the beer bottles and joined Cuong in his bed.
Long after midnight she said it was time for her to go. “Spend the night,” he said, stroking her hair, working it out of the braid. She shook her head. Matter-of-factly Cuong said that he might have to be gone on business for a month or two. Lan kept silen
t. “Someone from the commerce ministry has been snooping around,” he said, “asking about smuggled goods. I’m going to go to the city to see if I can work for a cousin who manages a sugar refinery.”
Who will I work for? Who will help me? “When will you come back?” she asked.
“I don’t know.” He rolled away from her. “You should hook up with Truc.” He spoke slowly, as if he were almost asleep. “She said she needed someone to help her sell.” Truc was a businesswoman that Cuong traded with sometimes.
Lan sat up against the wall and did not move until she heard Cuong’s breathing quiet. She slid off the low bed, dressed, rebraided her hair, and then tiptoed around the one-room apartment, collecting food into a plastic bag—half a plate of salad rolls, a bowl of orange rice, leftover chicken with lemongrass, and three steamed mooncakes. The food would be her family’s celebration for tomorrow’s midautumn festival. She slipped out the door and hurried down the open stairs into the night. Staying in the shadows, she walked quickly back to the apartment.
They wouldn’t be able to stay. Cuong had given her money off and on for the last two years—money for medicine, for Hang’s school, sometimes for food. Her heart raced as she hurried up the three flights of stairs to the apartment. She opened the door and peered down at her sleeping children.
She knelt beside them and recited the prayer, the French prayer—it had been so long since she had said it. She lingered on the words Donne-nous aujourd’hui notre pain de ce jour. Give us this day our daily bread.
“Lan.” Mother swung her feet out of the hammock. “Lan,” she said again. “We can’t stay here. I’d rather live under a tarp. The air is thick; I can’t hold a breath. The building steals oxygen from me.”
“Shh. Go to sleep.” Mother was worse than a sick child waking in the night.
“Promise me, Lan; promise me that we’ll find another place.”
“Yes, Mother. I promise. We can’t stay here.” Lan opened the shutters wide. She would talk to Truc tomorrow about work and somewhere else to live. Lan had seen Truc’s home once when Cuong had dropped off a case of whiskey for Truc to sell. Her dilapidated shack seemed like something Lan could afford.
