by Leslie Gould
Gen nodded.
She lay on the hard bed with a towel over her eyes. Would God bring them to Vietnam only to have the adoption fail? Look what he had allowed with her mother. With Nhat. No, God, she prayed. Please let us take Mai home.
She considered how happy they were the night before, standing on the balcony of the hotel in Saigon. She had felt a perfect harmony as the scooters and cars buzzed by, as the rain fell and the ice cream music waltzed through the night.
Now she wanted to trust Jeff’s optimism and Maggie’s experience. Was she too afraid to trust God? Her throat thickened as she scrambled off the bed and hurried into the bathroom, retching into the toilet. She rinsed her mouth and stumbled back to bed. She should have asked Jeff to stay with her. Lights started to dance; she closed her eyes. The lights continued. She pulled the towel back over her head. “God, I trust you,” she whispered. “I do. It’s just that I’m so afraid, afraid of what you might allow.”
Later she heard Jeff’s and Maggie’s voices at the door, and then, later still, she was conscious of Jeff’s sitting at the table eating. When he came to bed, he reached for her hand.
Gen stepped onto the balcony overlooking the parking lot. The South China Sea sparkled in the distance, and closer in, early morning sunlight streamed through the palm trees. Workers bustled around a half-constructed building. Bamboo scaffolding lined the structure, and poles, barely bigger than sticks, supported the beams.
“How are you?” Jeff called through the open door.
“Fine.” Her stomach still felt upset, but the headache was gone.
“Want to go for a walk before breakfast? Maggie said she’d meet us at seven thirty in the restaurant. We have two hours.”
A half hour later they strolled along the beach. Children ran in the waves, fishermen strung nets along the sand, small black boats and blue and red vessels bobbed in the ocean. A woman walked by with baskets of bananas secured to a yoke that she carried over her neck. Her arms were covered with long sleeves; a conical hat protected her head.
“Last night I read in the guidebook about Vung Tau,” Jeff said. “It said that lots of the boat people escaped from here.”
Gen thought of junior high and high school, of Hoa and her other Vietnamese classmates. Had some of them escaped their homeland from here? Had they bobbed in tiny boats on the South China Sea until a ship rescued them or they made it to Thailand? Why hadn’t she asked more questions? Where had they lived in Vietnam? In a city? In one of the tiny villages between Saigon and Vung Tau? On one of the rice farms?
A woman unloaded a small stove, a pot, a stack of plastic bowls, and three kindergarten-sized plastic chairs from her baskets. Gen tugged on Jeff’s arm and slowed so she could watch. The woman put the pot on the burner, lit the flame, and then set the three chairs off to the side.
“It’ll be a while,” Jeff said. “The pot has to heat.” They picked up their pace.
“What did Maggie say last night?” A small bird scurried in front of Gen.
“She was worried about you.”
“What else was she worried about? Did she say anything about Mai’s aunt?” Gen stepped over a small stream of water that steadily cut a channel through the sand to the ocean.
“Are you sure you’re feeling okay? I don’t want you to worry more and get another migraine.”
Gen picked up a perfect shell with scalloped edges. She handed it to Jeff. “Just tell me what she said.”
“It’s not that she said a lot—she seemed a little evasive, actually—just that Mai’s aunt is probably the same woman Maggie used to work with who was involved in adoptions in the North.” Jeff slipped the shell into his pocket. “If she is, then both the U.S. INS and the Vietnamese are investigating her.”
“Did you ask if she’s the same facilitator involved in Daniel’s adoption?”
Jeff nodded. “Maggie just shrugged her shoulders.”
Gen stopped. “Did she say anything else?”
Jeff reached for Gen’s hand. “That Mercy for Children can’t afford to work with a facilitator who is under the least bit of suspicion. It’s too dangerous for the children and the adoptive families. They stopped working with this woman at the first hint of a problem.”
“Does she think that Mai’s aunt is corrupt?”
“She wouldn’t say,” Jeff said.
“Is she worried that the aunt had something to do with Mai’s adoption?”
“She said she wasn’t. She said that Bao handled all the paperwork on Mai and that the investigations, both of them, came out fine.” Jeff stopped walking.
Gen turned toward him. “What do you think?”
“I think the sooner we can get Mai and get out of here the better, but I’m not worried.” He squeezed her hand.
They turned and headed back toward the hotel. The woman with the portable soup restaurant had two customers sitting in the tiny chairs, slurping broth and noodles with spoons and chopsticks.
“It must be pho,” Gen said. “Mom used to talk about eating it for breakfast.”
“Amazing, isn’t it?” Jeff said. “It’s seven o’clock in the morning, and all of this is going on. All of this hard work to make a little bit of money, to keep things going for another day.”
“I think of Mai’s birth mother every time I see these women, especially the younger ones. I keep searching for Binh.” Gen scanned the beach, looking north and then south. “They could be here on the beach right now.”
Maggie stood as they walked into the restaurant through the open french doors. “Good news!” she said as they approached the table. “I just talked to the orphanage director. Mai’s birth mother brought her back last night. We can go see her after breakfast. I also talked with Bao. He said we have an appointment at the Justice Department for the Giving and Receiving Ceremony at one o’clock.”
“That’s great!” Jeff put his arm around Gen. “We really should be able to get home in two weeks. We’re off to a great start.”
“Lord willing,” Maggie said. She turned toward Gen. “Are you feeling better?”
“Much, thank you.” Gen asked the waiter, who spoke near-perfect English, for an omelet; Jeff ordered a bowl of pho. “Next time I’ll just get it on the beach,” he joked.
“Make sure it’s boiling and all the meat and greens have been dunked under the hot liquid,” Maggie warned. They would need to boil the water for Mai’s bottles. Maggie said the hotel would have a hot water pot they could use.
Gen tore in half the small loaf of french bread that came with her omelet. “So what’s the deal with Mai’s aunt? Do you think she could be the facilitator for the little boy we met in Saigon?” Gen glanced at Jeff and then back at Maggie. “His name is Daniel. His dad’s name is Bryce Gordon.”
“She could be.” Maggie took a sip of french coffee. “I know that she’s been investigated regarding a couple of different adoptions. Thankfully, none of them were through us.” Maggie lifted her cup again.
“What do you think Mai’s aunt is doing here?” Gen pretended to concentrate on buttering her bread, giving Maggie time for another drink of coffee.
“I don’t know.” She put the cup back on the saucer. “She’s probably just visiting her sister and mother. I hope that’s all.”
“Will you try to see her?” Gen asked.
“No. We settled everything between us last winter in the North. Besides it wouldn’t be wise for me to have contact with her right now.”
“What’s her name?” Gen asked.
“Gen, some things are better left unknown. What if the United States INS finds out she’s here and starts asking me questions and then you? How much information do you want to have?”
They walked along the veranda of the orphanage to the baby room. “She’s sleeping,” Bao said to Gen, “but her caregiver said you can see her.”
Gen carried the backpack filled with diapers, clothes, toys, and bottles; Jeff carried the camera in one hand and the video camera in the other. They passed
a room with the windows opened, an office, probably where the director worked. They passed a half-open door; three sets of bunk beds with a foot-wide walkway between them filled the room.
A door opened at the end of the veranda. A woman smiled at them. “That is her caregiver, Lien,” Bao said. He stepped back and let them enter the room first. A row of hammocks hung from the ceiling. Two babies slept in some; in others, just one. Lien pointed to the last hammock. Mai slept alone. She wore a yellow cotton onesie. Her dark hair stuck straight up.
Gen knelt; the knotted twine framed her daughters face. Mai stirred, stretched an arm, and opened one eye. She made an O shape with her mouth and opened her other eye. Jeff clicked the camera. The caregiver spoke in Vietnamese to Bao. “She says you can pick her up. She’s napped long enough,” Bao translated.
Gen stood and put the backpack against the wall. Her eyes met Jeff’s as she lifted their daughter from the hammock and pulled her close. She felt the soft skin of her legs, the way her bottom fit into the crook of her arm. Gen trembled slightly and smiled. She held the baby to her face and breathed deeply. She smelled of sour milk and urine, not powder and baby shampoo. But still, she smelled wonderful. Jeff clicked the camera again. Gen sat in a wooden chair against the wall, cradling Mai in her arms, gazing into her big eyes. Mai made the O shape with her mouth again and relaxed it into a hint of a smile before her lips went straight. She glanced expectantly at Gen and then was startled as Jeff took another photo. Gen couldn’t breathe deeply enough. She wanted to pull it all in—her baby, Jeff’s smiling face, the happiness that filled the room.
Maggie came into the room with the director. “Oh, these are my favorite moments.” She clasped her hands together. “Jeff, give me the camera. Stand beside Gen and Mai.”
Gen patted Mai’s bottom; the T-shirt hung loosely, and there was no padding.
“No, they don’t use diapers in the orphanage.” Maggie laughed as she took a photo. “Most children in Vietnam never experience a diaper.”
“What do they use?”
“Thin cloths. Moss in the country. Rags if they’re available. By the time a child can walk, they usually run around naked in the yard. It makes for fast potty training.”
Jeff pulled a chair next to Gen. She handed Mai to him. The baby turned her mouth down.
“She hasn’t been around men much, if at all,” Maggie said. “Let alone tall men with curly hair.”
Jeff bounced his leg. Mai smiled a bit and then began to cry. Gen reached for her. “There, there,” she said. Mai stopped crying and gazed into Gen’s face.
“She already recognizes your voice.” Maggie snapped another photo. “The three of you are beautiful.”
Gen snuggled the baby against her shoulder and patted her back. Jeff folded his arms around both of them. He whispered into Gen’s ear, “Are you happy?”
“So happy. How about you?”
“I never imagined it would be this wonderful.”
Maggie snapped another photo. “These will always be your happy-baby photos. There’s nothing like this moment.”
Jeff’s smile filled the room. Gen imagined it filling the orphanage, spreading through the city of Vung Tau, along the coastline, through the entire country of Vietnam. Could Jeff’s parents and her dad, seventy-five hundred miles away, feel his smile? She thought again of the carved figurine in her backpack. She felt the way she had all those years ago before her mother left for Vietnam the last time. She felt optimistic, remembered by God, chosen. Part of a family.
An hour later Jeff, Gen, and Maggie sat on the landing of the Justice Department, waiting for the Giving and Receiving Ceremony. “Not everyone understands that this isn’t really a ceremony,” Maggie said. “It’s really a formality to sign the papers. There is no giving or receiving. Not now. I hope you can take Mai in a couple of days. It depends on how quickly we get the two documents we need. You’ll sign the first one today. Then the Vietnamese officials will complete it along with the Decision on Adoption. Mr. Tran seems eager to get this done.”
“Tran. That’s Mai’s last name,” Jeff said.
“It’s a very common family name, one of the most common next to Nguyen. There aren’t as many last names in Vietnam as in most other countries.”
Gen thought about the words giving and receiving She had thought that this was a ceremony. That they would “give” their commitment to care for Mai. That they would “receive” the blessing of the Vietnamese government to do so. Gen folded her arms against her chest. She longed for Mai.
“Mr. and Mrs. Taylor,” a voice called out from the doorway. A light shone behind the figure, and Gen had a hard time distinguishing his face. “Please come into my office.” His English was good. Gen and Jeff stood. Maggie remained seated.
“Aren’t you coming with us?” Jeff asked.
Maggie shook her head. “You’re on your own. Sorry. In fact, I’m going to catch a taxi to an Internet café. Bao will be back in half an hour to take you to the hotel.”
Jeff and Gen sat in the wooden chairs on the other side of Mr. Tran’s desk. He stood facing them with his hands behind his back. He was quite tall, with black hair and a solid, square face. He wore a perfectly pressed green uniform. Gen’s shoulders tensed.
Mr. Tran sat in a wooden chair and cleared his throat. “What makes you think you will be a good mother to Mai, Mrs. Taylor?”
“Because I love Mai.” The words flew from her mouth.
“How can you love a baby you do not know?” the official asked, picking up his pen.
“I’ve loved her since the minute I saw her photo.”
He tapped the end of his pen on the desktop. “You can love someone from a photo?”
“Yes,” she answered.
“And you, Mr. Taylor”—Mr. Tran glared at Jeff with intense eyes—“can you, too, love a baby girl from a photo?”
“Yes.” He smiled gently at Mr. Tran.
“And did you love Binh when you saw his photo?”
Gen’s head began to hurt. Why was he asking about Binh?
“Yes,” Jeff said calmly, “we did.”
“And you?” Mr. Tran turned his head toward Gen.
She nodded. What was he getting at?
“Were you asked to pay for the baby and for Binh?” Mr. Tran leaned forward.
“What do you mean?” Gen sat up straight and held her shoulders back.
“Answer the question.”
“Of course not.” Gen felt a wave of panic. “We’ve paid the adoption fees and our travel fees, but no one has asked us to pay for Mai or for Binh.” Was he going to deny the adoption? She clenched her hands in her lap.
“I’m afraid you were asked to buy them both but didn’t want Binh badly enough to pay the additional money.”
“No!” Gen hardly recognized her own voice. Her head began to pound. She wanted to flee the Justice Department and rush back to the orphanage; she wanted Mai in her arms. She wanted to beg the director to let them take their daughter. Please, God. She struggled to breathe in the thick air. Sweat trickled down the small of her back.
“We did want Binh, but the birth mother made the decision not to relinquish him,” Jeff said calmly. “We did not pay money for Mai.”
Mr. Tran drilled them with his eyes. Finally he spoke, looking at Jeff. “What do you do for a living?”
“I’m a cherry grower. We own an orchard in Oregon.”
“Cherries. Really? Did you know ‘Mai’ means cherry blossom?” Mr. Tran glanced from Jeff to Gen.
Jeff’s eyes questioned Gen. She shook her head. Why hadn’t she looked up the meaning? Cherry blossom—Mai was meant to be theirs.
“Are there cherry trees here, in Vietnam?” Jeff asked.
“In the North. Of course, it is too hot here in the South.”
Jeff nodded in agreement.
“Do you live among the trees?” Mr. Trans eyes softened.
“Our house is on the property.”
“Do you own the land?”
“Yes,” Jeff said.
“Do you earn a sufficient amount of money?”
“Yes.”
Mr. Tran opened a desk drawer and pulled out a file. “I’ve struggled with this case, but I’m going to go ahead and get the paperwork started. Either everyone is lying, or no one is. Rarely do so many people agree. I’m afraid I’ve reached a dead end, and I must leave for Ho Chi Minh City tomorrow for a week of meetings.” He turned the papers toward them. “This is where you sign.” His dark eyes softened. Was he smiling? Gen wasn’t sure. She unclenched her hands. At least he wasn’t frowning or drilling them with those black eyes. “I have all the paperwork here. The documents for Binh, too. To show your good faith, that you truly were willing to adopt Binh, would you sign these, too?”
“Even though the birth mother changed her mind? Even though there’s no chance that Binh will be our son?” Gen asked, the pitch of her voice rising. She could feel red blotches forming around her collar.
Jeff put his hand on Gen’s leg. Her head began to pound. She folded her hands in her lap. It was a test; Mr. Tran was testing them. What did it matter if they signed the papers? She picked up the pen and read the words translated from Vietnamese into both French and English. Socialist Republic of Vietnam. Independence-Freedom-Happiness. For delivering and receiving adopted children between Vietnamese citizen and foreigner. It listed her name and birth date and the same information for Jeff
“Sign here,” Mr. Tran said. Representative of the receiving party, she read. She signed the document. “And here,” he said. She signed again, on Binh’s document, and passed the pen to Jeff.
“Let’s go up to the Giant Jesus this afternoon,” Jeff said as Bao pulled up to the hotel. Gen had been silent since they’d left the Justice Department. Jeff and Bao had talked about the traffic, the vendors, the shrubs shaped into dragons.
“It’ll be hot,” Gen said.
“Do you feel up to it?”
She nodded; she was determined not to get another migraine.
They took a taxi from the hotel to the landmark, a statue like the one in Rio. They started up the steps. Lush vegetation lined the stone walkways and stairs. The back of Gen’s neck burned.
