by John Shors
Minh stood up, nodding vigorously.
“See that?” Mai asked. “Of course he feel the same as me. We must go now. Tam need us.”
“Can you tell me how to get to the hospital?”
“It not hard.”
“Get dressed, then. I’ll meet you at the scooter.” Noah glanced around the room, his eyes settling on a bottle that held fresh flowers. “And, Mai, grab a flower for her, will you? I think she’d like that.”
“And where Dung?”
“Dung?”
“Her doll. She want her doll.”
“Oh, she’s got Dung, and her blanket.”
“Okay. See you downstair.”
Noah nodded and hurried to the stairwell. He proceeded down as fast as he dared, grabbing the scooter’s key from where it lay near Iris’s computer. Outside, the moon had moved higher. To Noah, it had never seemed so ugly. He started the scooter as Minh got on behind him. Minh put his good arm around Noah’s waist, shortening the space between them. Carrying the bottle and flowers, Mai sat at the scooter’s rear.
Eyeing her load, Noah asked, “You won’t fall off, will you?”
“I never fall from scooter. Impossible.”
Noah switched on the headlight and twisted the throttle. As the scooter edged forward, he hardly felt the weight of the children, though he was aware of Minh holding his belt. “Please try to smile at Tam,” he said as they gathered speed. “Try to make her happy. She’s really sick. And she hurts. And we need to let her know how much we care about her.”
Minh pinched Noah’s side, telling him that he understood and agreed.
“Will she die?” Mai asked, for she’d seen two of her friends die and she didn’t want Tam’s eyes to go blank.
“No,” Noah replied, increasing their speed. “No one’s going to take her from us. Not Tam. Not today.”
“And Minh and me?”
“No one’s taking you away either.”
Minh shook his head, wondering how Noah could say such words. Too many things had already been stolen from them for him to believe that Tam couldn’t also be taken. He’d lost his hand, his family. Mai couldn’t remember what her mother looked like. And she didn’t laugh as much as she once did. For the first time since he’d known Noah, Minh didn’t believe him. Anything could be taken from Tam, from Mai, from any of them. Noah should have known that.
Minh had seen Tam earlier that night and knew she had little left to give. Too much already had been stolen from her. Noah could promise no such thing.
THE WALLS, THE CEILING, AND EVEN the bed frame were green. Tam had never seen so much green. She thought the color looked like the water that surrounded islands. Though she hadn’t set foot on such a place, she’d seen photos of islands that rose from emerald bays. Maybe whoever painted her room had been born on an island, she thought. Maybe she missed her home.
Tam took a long, shallow breath, using her strength to draw air into her weary and aching lungs. She clutched Dung tightly at the pain that this movement caused, as if her doll could somehow share her burden. Tam knew that Dung would help her if she could. Dung was good at that.
Looking around her bed, Tam saw that Qui, Thien, and Iris were gathered nearby. Qui was the closest, sitting beside her, stroking her face. Iris and Thien were speaking with a woman in a white dress. Why is Miss Iris angry? Tam wondered. Why are she and Thien crying?
Tam watched Iris turn away from the woman in white and lift a blanket from a nearby shelf. Iris must have known that she was cold, because that blanket felt so warm on her legs and body. Tam tried to thank her, but suddenly her pain was so vast that the green walls seemed to fall upon her. Though she felt her mouth move, no words came out. She squeezed Qui’s hand. She closed and opened her eyes.
The woman in white stuck a needle in the back of her hand. Tam didn’t like the needle, but when she tried to pull it out, Iris and Thien held her still. Attached to the needle was a clear thin tube that ran to a bag. A frightening coldness emerged from the bag, as if liquid ice were being forced into her. Again she struggled. But soon, mercifully soon, the coldness turned to warmth. The aches in her joints and lungs vanished as if a magic man had taken them away. Tam could breathe. She was very tired, but she could breathe.
As she relaxed into her bed, her tattered and beloved blanket tumbled from her grasp. Iris bent down to retrieve it, placing it atop her hand. To Tam’s surprise, Noah, Mai, and Minh entered the cramped room. She was so happy to see them. Her friends had come. Her family was gathered close by. Everyone was present except for her mother. “Little Bird?” she asked weakly, pulling on Qui’s sleeve.
“Yes, my sweet child?”
“Is this . . . Is it a holiday?”
“What?”
“Everyone . . . is here.”
“Yes.”
“Why, Little Bird . . . why are you crying?”
“Do you feel better, my sweet? Is that medicine helping?”
“Where’s Momma?”
“She’s . . . she’s on a bus. She’s coming, Tam. She told me to tell you how much she loves you. She’ll be here . . . she’ll be here soon.”
“Don’t . . . don’t cry.”
“Do you hurt?”
“I’m fine. Tired is all. So tired. Like that fat cat . . . who always slept near the river.”
“Your friends . . . they want to hug you.”
Tam watched as Iris leaned close. Iris licked her tears when they reached her lips, but a few still fell on Tam. Iris whispered something as she held her, but Tam didn’t understand what was said. She could only understand Vietnamese, the sounds that she’d heard since birth. Noah came next, holding her tight. Tam remembered how he had carried her through the rain. She’d felt so lucky to be in his arms. How strong he had been.
Thien’s embrace reminded Tam of flowers. Tam wondered if she’d ever smell like Thien. She hoped so. Next came Mai and Minh. They leaned close and hugged her. Their heads touched hers and Tam saw herself in their eyes. She hoped that their mothers were coming for them too, that they’d all play again on the elephant that went up and down.
As a deeper, more powerful weariness began to grip Tam, she watched everyone but Qui leave the room. Qui sat near her, stroking her cheek.
“Where . . . where did they go?” Tam asked, her voice nothing more than a whisper of wind.
“They’ll be back. The doctor wanted to talk with them. And I wanted to be alone with you. Just the two of us . . . like old times.”
“Why are you crying?”
“Because I don’t want you to leave. Please don’t leave.”
“But I’m tired. So tired.”
“I know.”
“I’m going . . . to the new world, remember?”
“I do.”
“Father will be waiting. Like you said.”
“He’s there. Waiting. With his arms held out for you.”
Tam glanced at the clear medicine, which no longer seemed to be working. She sought to breathe, pulling what felt like wet, heavy air into her lungs. “Are . . . are you going to take me . . . to him?” she whispered.
Qui repressed a sob, her body shaking as if a leaf in a storm. “I’ll carry you, my sweet child. I’ll carry you to him.”
“You’ve always . . . carried me.”
“Not always. But for a long time.”
“Will the sun shine there?”
“Yes.”
“Will children laugh?”
“Yes.”
“What about . . . me? Will I be able . . . to run?”
“You’ll run, my love. Like a girl . . . playing soccer.”
“So fast?”
“Even faster.”
“Can I bring Dung . . . and my blanket?”
“Of course.”
“I’ll miss . . . my new family. My soft bed.”
“The beds are soft . . . so soft, where we’re going.”
“Tell me . . . please tell me more. Before we leave. I’m so . . . so tired.
But I . . . want to hear.”
“Oh, Tam.”
“Please . . . please don’t cry, Little Bird. Don’t cry like that.”
“I can’t . . . I can’t stop.”
“Tell me more . . . about where we’re going.”
“The birds. They . . . always sing.”
“Will we . . . ever have to sell books?”
“No. Never again.”
“Good.”
“Never again, sweet child.”
Tam tried to nod, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. The room seemed to be filling with water—the green-blue water of island lagoons. “Little Bird?” she asked, trying to stay awake.
“Yes?”
“Thank you . . . thank you . . . for loving me.”
“You’re so easy to love, Tam. Nothing in my life . . . has been easier. Or better.”
“Thank you . . . for carrying me.”
“I would carry you anywhere. To the moon. To the stars.”
The water rose higher around Tam. “So warm,” she whispered.
Qui crawled into bed beside her granddaughter, turning so that her back was against Tam’s chest. She gently pulled Tam’s arms forward and put them around her own neck, as if she were carrying Tam. “I’m . . . I’m taking you . . . to the new world,” she said. “Where . . . you’ll ride elephants every day.”
“Good.”
“It’s close . . . my love. Do you see it?”
“Yes.”
“What do you see?”
“Streets.”
“Streets?”
“Clean streets. And our shadows.”
“We’re walking?”
“Will you . . . always love me?”
“Always, Tam. Nothing can take that away. I’ll love you forever.”
“That long?”
“Always, my precious child. You and I . . . we are one.”
The water reached Tam’s face. It remained warm, even as it filled her mouth, her lungs. Tam tried to speak, but her voice had gone. She felt Qui carrying her, and she squeezed the wrinkled hands that had so lovingly touched her cheeks. Somehow Qui brought her forward, through the water, toward a distant island.
Tam closed her eyes. And a miracle happened then—because she saw her own feet. And they started to move beneath her, bearing her weight, taking her to the new world.
QUI TURNED WHEN SHE FELT TAM go limp, turned so that she could face her granddaughter. She held Tam’s hands, trying not to sob, not wanting her to hear such wails. She could feel Tam’s hands growing cold, feel her going away. Qui had never been apart from Tam and couldn’t imagine or endure such separation.
Reaching into her pocket, she removed a plastic bag that contained all of Tam’s pain pills. With trembling hands she stuffed dozens of pills into her mouth. She swallowed some. She chewed others.
Qui edged closer to Tam, kissing her forehead, her eyes. She began to tell her a story, the story of how a young girl brought joy to an old woman, filling the old woman’s heart with so much love that it almost burst.
Soon Qui’s voice slowed. She felt herself growing tired. “I’m . . . I’m coming for you . . . my love,” she whispered, her fingers gently tracing the contours of Tam’s lips. “I’m going . . . to find you. Oh, Tam, I’m going to find you. You’ll never be alone.”
Qui closed her eyes, holding Tam tight, looking for her, peering through haze, through memories. She saw Tam smile. She reached for her.
And then their hands met and Qui was free.
SEVERAL HOURS LATER, IRIS AND NOAH sat on the steps leading to the hospital. Though the sun had risen and cast its red glow across the sky and into the city, Iris didn’t want the light. She thought darkness should have prevailed for much longer. Dawn was a time of renewal, of promise. And dawn had no right to come so early, to intrude upon the mourning for Tam and Qui. As far as Iris was concerned, the world should remain black for weeks.
Wiping her eyes with a damp tissue, Iris stared blankly ahead. She was almost unaware of Noah at her side. Thien had left not long ago, returning to the center with Mai and Minh. Iris couldn’t go. Someone needed to handle the details that followed the deaths. Besides, Iris wasn’t ready to see Tam’s bed or slippers or anything to do with her. She couldn’t see these sights and remain strong before Mai and Minh.
Iris knew that hospital officials were waiting for her. They wanted to cremate the bodies, and she agreed. But she couldn’t move. She couldn’t talk about Tam’s death, because to Iris, Tam was still alive. She still brushed Dung’s hair. She went up and down on the seesaw. She smiled from her bed.
As the sun climbed higher, Iris closed her eyes. In this darkness she swore at God. She hated him. She told him that if he was going to steal little girls from the world she wanted no part of him. What a false world he had created. What a world of lies.
“Tell me . . . please tell me it’s all a dream,” she said, her throat and voice raw.
Noah turned to her. He’d seen too much death to try to deny what had happened. He knew that Tam was gone, knew that he’d never carry her again. And the weight of this wisdom bore down on him like tons of rock and sand. “You did your best,” he said softly.
“It . . . it didn’t matter.”
“Yes, it did.”
“I hate this world.”
“I know.”
“It’s not right . . . what happened to her. What happened to her for her whole life. It’s just not right.”
“It’s—”
“I wanted . . . to save her,” Iris said, putting her head in her hands, no longer able to hold back her sobs. As Noah embraced her, she wept and shuddered, tears flowing down her cheeks as if they were pieces of Tam and Qui that Iris was being forced to shed.
“You gave her . . . something,” Noah finally replied, his vision blurring as his eyes also filled with water.
“No, I didn’t.”
“You gave her a family. You gave her joy. You gave it to Qui too.”
“It didn’t last. Nothing lasts.”
“For Mai and Minh . . . it can last.”
“I feel sick.”
“Just slow down. Breathe. In and out. And here . . . put your head on my shoulder.”
Iris did as he asked, wanting to be held, needing to be held. If she wasn’t held, she didn’t think that she could endure the pain, the knowledge that the world had lost Tam and Qui, a pair of angels who would never be replaced.
FIFTEEN
In the Footsteps of Dragons
The kitchen smelled of roasted garlic and shrimp, but no one seemed interested in the meal. Iris, Noah, Thien, Mai, and Minh sat around a wooden table and poked at their food. A stray shrimp was eaten but not tasted. A pork dumpling was dipped in sauce but then left idle. Several times Iris or Thien tried to start conversations, but words quickly became hollow, meaningless. Thoughts about anything other than Tam and Qui seemed traitorous, and thoughts about Tam and Qui were too painful to bring to life.
Though everyone around the table had experienced death, Noah had suffered its sorrows most often. And events of the previous night reminded him of those sorrows. Tam had been too young to die, just like his friends in Iraq. He’d seen too many of his friends perish—bright and brave soldiers who were young fathers and mothers, who had dreams that would forever go unfulfilled. His best friend, Wesley, had told him about such dreams. And now Wes was gone, just as Tam was—both beautiful souls that should have flourished for decades longer.
While Noah lamented the loss of Tam and Qui, and reflected on the war, Iris thought about the events of the past two weeks, asking herself if she should have done anything differently. Should she have gotten on a plane with Tam and taken her to America? Would someone at home have been able to save her? What if she’d come to Vietnam a year earlier with her father? Maybe she’d have met Tam and been able to rescue her.
Iris assailed herself for what she saw as failings. She had failed her father, and she’d failed Tam and Qui. They were al
l dead, and she’d done too little to save them. She thought repeatedly about how Qui had held Tam, at the end, and knew that this vision would always remain with her. Her tears came and went as she drifted between misery and self-condemnation.
Iris no longer believed God to be compassionate and caring. Those were lies told over thousands of years. If God existed, he was obviously indifferent to Tam’s sufferings. And Iris could never love such a being. Such a being deserved only her scorn.
And yet, her disdain for her fellow man and woman was stronger than her disgust at God. At least, she thought, God didn’t walk the Earth. He didn’t see and touch horrors and choose to ignore them. He didn’t buy massive diamonds or ride in limousines when children were sick and hungry. He didn’t watch Tam beg and hurry past without a second glance.
Hating the world, and the lies that were told, Iris looked up from her food and saw that Thien was also trying to hold back tears. The sight of Thien’s misery caused Iris to shudder. At that moment she’d have given anything to hear Thien sing and Tam whisper to Dung. Before Thien could cry, Iris gathered her will and said softly, “I think we should rename the center . . . after Tam.”
At first no one responded. To Iris’s surprise, Mai was the first to speak. “Sure, sure,” she said, holding Dung carefully, cradling the doll as if it contained Tam’s spirit. “This good idea. It make Tam happy. And it make other children happy.”
“Do we . . . do you know her last name?” Noah asked Iris.
“Tran. It was Tran.”
“The Tam Tran Center for Street Children?”
“Yes,” Iris replied, wiping her eyes. “That’s it.”
Thien took Iris’s hands in her own. “We could have a sign made with her photo.”
Iris nodded, thinking of the picture Thien had taken of Tam. “She’d . . . I’m sure she’d really like that.” Iris sniffed several times, the memory of the photo causing her grief to rise up as if the bonds holding it in place had snapped. Before she started to weep, she turned to Mai and Minh. “Why don’t you go outside and play? It’s such a beautiful day.”
Minh pretended not to see Iris’s tears. He put his stump in Mai’s hand.
