Things We Lost to the Water: A Novel

by Eric Nguyen

  “I always liked you,” she said, “you and your family.”

  Inside, Tuấn let out a sigh of relief.

  “And I wondered what happened to y’all.”

  “People change,” he told her anyway, and they spent that evening, and evenings after, catching up on how much they did change.

  They became friends quickly after that.

  Now, he wonders what took him so long, why he didn’t have his eyes open. They’ve been together for two years now.

  “When’s your mom coming?” she asks.

  “Soon.” He throws more clothes into the suitcase.

  Addy walks over. “You’re doing it wrong,” she says, taking out what he’s packed. “Only what’s necessary.”

  * * *

  —

  The AC is broken. It’s stuck on high and it won’t turn off. Since the night is hot, the windows fog up. Vinh stops the car, wipes the windshield with his hand. Everything is still blurry.

  “Can’t we go any faster?” Hương asks.

  “I can’t see a thing,” says Vinh.

  It has begun to rain harder, not the sprinkling they’ve been having all night. It’s like a different storm and it sounds like nails falling.

  Vinh begins to drive again.

  “High-speed winds expected like you’ve never seen before. Rain, too,” says the radio. “Get to higher ground. Stay indoors.”

  Hương licks her lips and turns up the radio. Though he wouldn’t say it aloud, Vinh knows Hương likes emergencies. She thrives on figuring out how to avoid danger, how to stay alive. Once, the news reported an earthquake in California. When Hương got wind of it, she went to the grocery store and bought emergency supplies—flashlights, a portable radio, batteries, a flare gun. “In case we get stuck in the wreckage,” she had said. It didn’t matter that it was two thousand miles away; she would save them all if it came down to it.

  “I feel bad about Bà Giang,” says Hương. “She wouldn’t come. I tried to drag her. I literally tried to drag her. That’s why it took so long. My, that woman’s gotten fat.”

  “She’ll be safe. That woman’s a survivor,” says Vinh.

  “That’s what she said,” says Hương, “but what if she’s wrong? I can see it now, the winds blowing the apartment away. They’d find her stuck up a tree somewhere.”

  “Now that’s funny.”

  “Not if it really happens.”

  Vinh speeds up. The streets are empty. Everything’s closed up. All the buildings have plywood boards covering the windows, the doors.

  “Take a left up here,” says Hương.

  “Are you sure?” asks Vinh.

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  * * *

  —

  Ben sits on a bench with a thermos, a notebook, and a pen.

  Today, Ben is sure, he will write. But what? He wanted to write about his life here over the last five years (he couldn’t believe it, either; it just happened that way). There was plenty enough to write about, several books’ worth of stories. About his time with Michel and the other communists. About how the police kicked them out. (Other than a mattress thrown out from the third floor along with a bottle of wine, it was rather anticlimactic, but words could bring it to life.) About struggling in Paris and the various jobs he had—first as a recycling collector (he kept telling Tuấn it was recycling, not trash, though he didn’t seem to know the difference); then for a while he worked as a housekeeper for a lycée; and now he cleaned dishes at a restaurant and wrote articles at night for a website for tourists and English product descriptions for an online clothing company. He was sure he could find something to say about all of this, something of importance.

  Yet, if he were honest with himself, everything here was boring. He thought he would find some connection to his father and in that way his past as well. At the very least, he thought he would have a good time and learn to live life passionately, the way the French supposedly do so well, and live it on his own terms.

  Yet he had none of these. He had nothing. He regretted his decision to stay with Michel and in Paris. Michel was a kind enough man who once had big ideas. But nowadays he co-taught geography to middle schoolers. How people changed, he thought and wondered if he had changed, and, if so, how much.

  But there was no time to worry about that. That was the past. He had to think about the future and what he would do now.

  * * *

  —

  “I’m sure we would’ve passed it by now,” says Hương. “Maybe we should’ve turned back there.”

  Vinh steadies the wheel. The wind. He feels the car whipping back and forth. He is unsure if he can hold on to it, control it.

  “These houses,” Hương says. “They all look the same. Are we even in the right neighborhood?” They must have taken a wrong turn somewhere, but it’s too dark to tell.

  “Should I turn back?” he says.

  “Just take this street and go around the block,” says Hương.

  Vinh slows down. There are no lights on this street, though there should be. There must have been a blackout.

  Before Vinh can turn around, he realizes it’s a one-way street and a car is coming toward them. He slams on the brakes but at the last minute decides to dodge it. He feels the wind pushing the wheels, spinning the car. He sees a lamppost, he sees a mailbox, then a wall comes toward him and disappears.

  He hears the crash before seeing it, feeling it. The airbags deploy, smash against his face. He feels his teeth biting his cheek, tastes the metal in the blood.

  “What happened?” he hears Hương say. “Vinh? Are you okay?” She sounds far away, as if she’s outside the car.

  He reaches over. There, that’s her arm. Here’s her elbow. Here, there’s blood, warm and sticky.

  “Trời ổi, are you okay?” he asks.

  “Em không biết. My head hurts.”

  Vinh squeezes her arm. He realizes the water’s coming in. He reaches for the car door. When it doesn’t open, he pushes—pushes as hard as he can. It’s impossible to open. He pushes harder. Maybe they’re in water, he’s thinking, but it doesn’t look that high. It couldn’t have flooded so quickly. He uses his shoulder and tries again. This time the door opens a crack, but it’s enough for him to slide through.

  When he climbs out, he sees the full damage. The front is smashed in, the windshield cracked. The door on his side is dented, but Hương’s door is stuck against a telephone pole. He sees her struggling to open it and rushes over.

  “Can you open the window?” he asks.

  When he doesn’t hear an answer, he repeats himself and leans in closer. He hears her pressing the window button, releasing it, pressing it again.

  Vinh pulls at the back door, but, like the other door, it’s stuck. He pulls with both hands until it opens but only a crack.

  “Can you get to the back?” he asks.

  He sees her moving, climbing over to the backseat. She pushes at the door.

  “You have to go through the crack,” he says.

  She says something he can’t hear. She pushes again. He pulls. She hits the window.

  “Back away,” he hears her say, muffled.

  He backs up. Hương hits the window with something, but it bounces back.

  Seeing what she can’t do, Vinh begins looking around for something heavy. He walks several paces before he sees a piece of wood from a tree. He heaves it up, tells Hương to back away, and hurls the wood through the window, which breaks into pieces. Hương smashes the flashlight at the remaining jagged edges and climbs out.

  Already, Vinh notices, the water’s rising. They must get to higher ground soon. He pulls her up. He sees a bluish bruise on her forehead.

  “We have to go,” he says. “Somewhere safer.”

  “But Tuấn,” she says.
She tries to gather where they are. “We have to get Tuấn,” she says.

  “We don’t have a car anymore.”

  “His house,” she says. She pulls away and starts running.

  “Hương!” he calls. Vinh runs after her. He is soaked. He sees the water dripping in front of his eyes. The air, he feels, is getting colder. “We should find shelter,” says Vinh, trying to catch up. “Tuấn will be fine.”

  At the intersection, Hương pauses. “We missed a street,” she says. “We must have missed a street,” she repeats before running off.

  * * *

  —

  On the radio, the mayor says, “This is the storm of the century.” A clip they’ve been replaying all day. In the background are reporters, clicking their pens, scribbling on notepads. “Mayor Nagin, Mr. Nagin, Mayor Nagin,” they all say at the same time.

  “It’s getting late,” says Addy.

  They sit by the window even though they both know they shouldn’t. Addy presses her face against the glass pane.

  “I don’t see them. I don’t see anybody,” she says. Rain whips the window. She can feel the wind on the glass, can feel it bend. She knows it will all be broken when they return. There will be plenty of cleaning to be done afterward. She imagines all the cleaning they will have to do later: sweep up the glass, remove the standing water, scrub and disinfect everything. But they will get through this, Addy is sure. Their families fled their lives in other countries and built new ones from scratch—out here in the swamp. They not only survived but thrived. They come from hardy stock, and this makes her proud.

  “Let’s get away from the window,” says Tuấn.

  “…mandatory evacuation of the city of New Orleans…” says Mayor Nagin.

  The lights flicker and turn off. The mayor stops talking. The buzz of electricity is gone.

  “Babe, are you okay?” asks Tuấn.

  “Yeah,” answers Addy. He’s a sweet man, she thinks. Rough on the outside but sweet under that shell. She just had to get to know him and, from there, how easy it was to fall for him. She hears Tuấn stumbling over furniture then lighting up a match.

  “Where do we keep the candles?” He walks to the kitchen.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t wait for them,” says Addy.

  “What?” says Tuấn.

  “I said, ‘Maybe we shouldn’t wait for them.’ ”

  “They’re on their way.” Tuấn returns with a scented candle. “I swear they’re coming,” he says. The flame lights up. He almost looks hurt at the suggestion of leaving without his mother.

  Sweet man, she thinks.

  The house begins to smell like lavender.

  * * *

  —

  Hương imagines the road is not asphalt but soft, wet soil. Where is Tuấn’s house? Why can’t she remember it when she needs it the most?

  She turns down another street. It’s familiar, though it’s all dark. All the houses look the same, all duplexes or shotguns. Like when she first arrived.

  She can’t tell where she is now. The rain makes everything blurry, and her hair becomes wet, heavy, matted. Running, she pulls her damp hair together. Not finding a rubber band on her, she shoves the ponytail down the back of her shirt.

  She feels blood rushing to her head, throbbing. The bruise is tender.

  Then comes an explosion. She sees it in the air, the sparks like fireworks. She wants to scream but stops herself.

  Guns, she thinks. Guns or bombs, guns or bombs, those must be guns or bombs, someone has a gun or a bomb.

  She imagines hoodlums with baggy pants raiding the city. She imagines tanks driving through the water. She imagines skinny shirtless men in paddy hats, shoeless in the rain.

  Then the thought: they need to leave the city now. They must leave and never return. This is her last night in the city, she is sure. She must leave.

  But her son.

  But my sons…Tuấn and Bình. Tuấn and Bình. Tuấn and Bình…Say their names. Keep them in your heart.

  * * *

  —

  Ben closes his eyes. And again he sees water. He sees it everywhere. His brother is screaming and his mother—she’s screaming as well, holding her stomach. He realizes now it is him in that stomach, him in that belly. So that boy is another boy. He didn’t drown. It was another boy.

  A man grabs the boy by the wrists. From where Ben watches, the boy sits in praying position, hands together, head toward the sky.

  “What are you doing?” a woman yells. It is not Ben’s mother, but another. Another mother. Another’s mother.

  The boat sways violently. There is a whirlpool. It is night. There is only night for miles in each direction. The boy lets out a yelp, but the man shakes him so the boy quiets, his cries sucked into a vacuum.

  “Sacrifice!” someone yells.

  “He’s the youngest,” says the man. “He’s not losing anything. He hasn’t anything to lose.”

  The woman stands up and moves toward her son.

  The man jerks the boy away from the mother’s reach.

  “Sacrifice!” someone yells.

  “Just a boy!” someone replies.

  “Sacrifice,” another person cries, and before another protest, before another word, the boy is dropped into the sea. The woman disappears into the black.

  Ben clenches his hands into fists. He feels something coming up through his throat, something bitter. He looks at his mother and brother. With her hands, she covers Tuấn’s eyes.

  “Murderer!” someone yells.

  “Sacrifice!”

  “Just a boy!”

  “Murderer!”

  “Sacrifice!”

  “Just a boy.”

  * * *

  —

  With flashlight in hand, Addy walks out the door. Tuấn comes out with a backpack. He throws the flashlight into the bicycle basket. Addy climbs on the seat and sees Tuấn running back up the steps.

  “What you doing?” she asks. She feels her heart racing. The storm has gotten stronger. The rain pelts her skin. She pulls on the hood on her poncho. If it floods, she can swim, she thinks. She hasn’t swum since high school, but she’s sure it’s like riding a bike: your body remembers.

  “My mom’s not answering her phone,” Tuấn says. His hood blows off. “She’s coming. She wouldn’t leave without us.”

  “But honey, we need to leave.” The water is soaking her feet. The wind blows and she can barely keep their bicycle up.

  “I’m leaving a note. So she knows.”

  Addy hears the sound of heavy-duty tape ripping from the roll. She hears this several times until Tuấn is satisfied.

  “She’ll find us,” he says. “Told her to meet us at the Best Western across from Touro Hospital.” He gets on the bike and Addy leans against him. He stands on the pedals, presses down hard, and they start moving through the accumulating water.

  “That’s the farthest I’ll go without her,” he says.

  Sweet man! Addy thinks.

  * * *

  —

  “Tuấn!” she cries. “Bình! It’s your mother. We have to leave! We have to go somewhere else. Tuấn! Bình! Where are you?”

  Then she sees the sign for Ursulines Avenue and she turns the corner and sees the house, Tuấn’s house. She can tell because it’s the only duplex painted half red, half blue. The blue side is his side. They took a wrong turn, but they were close all along.

  “Tuấn ơi,” she yells. “Your mother’s here. We have to go. Bão tới!”

  She runs up the porch steps and notices his bike is gone. On the screen door she sees the note.

  “ ‘Ma,’ ” she reads, “ ‘meet us at Best Western, Touro Hospital.’ ”

  My boy, she thinks. He’s safe! She just has to get to him now.


  She runs down the steps. “Best Western,” she repeats to herself under her breath. “Touro Hospital. Best Western. Touro Hospital.” She runs. She will get there, she is sure, if only she’d run faster. But is it this way? She isn’t sure. She has to face south. South is where she needs to go to see her boy. “Best Western. Touro Hospital.” She picks up her pace, though the wind is getting stronger, the rain heavier. “Best Western. Touro Hospital.”

  Lightning breaks the sky, and she hears the distinct sound of a tree snapping and falling.

  Hương remembers the old man with the beard and a cigarette in his mouth. She remembers running through the jungle, the rain—it must have been raining, too, that night.

  Her heart races as she hears the sound of boots behind her. She tries to speed up because someone is out there.

  And they are after us. Again, they are after us.

  But her sons! Where were they? They must leave. They must leave immediately. Their lives depend on it. But where were the boys?

  “Tuấn! Bình!” she cries and picks up her pace, running as fast as she can.

  “Hương!” a voice screams. “Stop running!” She feels a hand grab her shoulder and her body spins around.

  “Công,” she nearly cries out until the lightning flashes and illuminates his face.

  “Vinh,” she says, panting.

  “It’s not safe. We have to find shelter,” he says, but she pulls her arm, tries to break free. Vinh pulls back. He can’t make out if the water on her face is rain or tears. He pulls her even harder, but it feels like the wind is ripping her away. He thinks of trees and their branches ripping apart in a storm. He plants his feet firmly and holds on to her arm tightly. He feels his feet soaked, but he also feels mud. It must be everywhere. Earthy and brown and dirty. He smells it, the mud. He pulls hard until Hương crashes into him and they crash together onto the flooding ground, her back on his front, her weight and the water’s weight on him.

  For a minute, the only sound is their breathing. They become an island. They become a stranded ship. They are a boat far from shore. He holds her tight. He swears, if only to himself, not to let go.