When Heaven Fell

by Carolyn Marsden

  Di shrugged. “There’s only me.”

  Binh knew what everyone had to be thinking — this house in America had plenty of space for her whole family. In fact, it could hold several Vietnamese families.

  “Aren’t you lonely?” Ba Ngoai asked. She sat so close to Di that loose strands of her hair brushed Di’s cheek.

  “I’m never lonely. I see lots of people at the school where I teach.”

  “But you have no children, no husband,” said Ba.

  “I like living alone.”

  Alone? Binh looked at Di to see if she was serious. If she liked living alone, what would she do with all of them?

  “And here,” Di said, turning to another page, “are my Vietnamese friends. The ones I learn Vietnamese from.”

  Three women posed in front of a bush of yellow flowers, wearing Western clothes.

  “This one is a teacher at my school,” Di said, tapping the face of the woman on the left. “I met the others through her. This one is an eye doctor. And this one has her own beauty salon. She does fingernails. But not mine.” Di laughed and held out her hands, showing the plain nails.

  Binh ran her thumb over her own short ones, glad suddenly that hers were just like Di’s.

  “These are pictures of my school,” she said.

  This place was even bigger than Di’s house — two stories tall, made of yellow brick, as large as buildings Binh had seen in pictures of Ho Chi Minh City.

  Binh looked closely. So this was how a school looked inside — rows of desks and chairs. Instead of the blue and white uniforms of Vietnam, the children were dressed in regular clothes. Didn’t they have money for uniforms? And such plain clothes . . . plain like Di Hai’s.

  A few of the children had black hair. Just a few had narrow, brown eyes. Most had round eyes. Some hair was light brown like Di Hai’s. Other hair shone like the sun. One girl had hair the color of the orange cat that visited Binh’s cart.

  Binh had an urge to put her finger on one of the desks in the front row of the classroom. She would sit right there. The teacher would hang her work on the wall.

  “Tell me about these girls,” Binh said. “Tell me all about American girls. Do they all have cell phones?”

  Di laughed. “Most do. Other than that, they’re a lot like you, Binh. They like friends. And clothes. They have schoolwork to do. . . .”

  Binh bit her lip. Schoolwork. How would she catch up with those American girls? She didn’t even speak English. Instead of sitting in that front row, she’d be hiding in the back. She’d have no work for the teacher to hang.

  As Binh looked away from the pictures of the school, Ba Ngoai, glancing at her, said, “It’s time for us to visit the house of the ancestors.”

  Plans had been made to take Di Thao to the house of the ancestors the morning after her arrival. All the relatives wanted to accompany her on the trip down the highway and up the hill on the other side of the river. They were waiting under the arch of bougainvillea in the yard, beneath the spreading tree. The men stood with their hands clasped in front of them, and the women leaned close to chat, crossing their arms and tucking their hands into their sleeves.

  Children chased each other wielding long juicy stems notched so they snapped like whips.

  Cuc, in a yellow dress with white dots and the hem let down, asked Binh, “How is your auntie?”

  Binh paused. How was Di Thao? “She’s doing well,” she replied.

  “Did she give you anything more?”

  “Not yet.”

  Cuc made a face. “Why isn’t she more generous?”

  Binh thought again of her silly blue rock. “She showed us photographs,” she said.

  “Pictures?” Cuc wrinkled her nose. “What can you do with a picture?”

  Binh couldn’t explain how each photo opened a window in her mind, windows she looked through to places she’d never dreamed existed.

  But she also thought of how instead of placing the photos of her parents on the ancestral altar, Di had slipped them back into the plastic and put them away.

  She thought of how Cuc had given Di Hai her bit of gold silk. All for nothing.

  Binh found Di Hai standing beside the big table, gazing at the baskets of tiny bananas, translucent yellow star fruit, and the purple lilies that Ma and Ba Ngoai had prepared early in the morning. “So beautiful,” she murmured to Binh.

  The relatives whispered among themselves, glancing at Di Thao from time to time.

  “Why do they all keep staring at me?” Di asked.

  “They think your dress is pretty,” Binh answered, although the olive green dress hung plainly on Di’s tall body. She didn’t add that it wasn’t only the dress they talked about behind Di’s back, but also Di’s lack of husband and children, and her job teaching a useless subject.

  Cuc came to the table too. In fact, she pushed herself in between Binh and Di, taking Binh’s place.

  Binh noticed that Cuc’s yellow dress was ironed, making Binh’s dress look even plainer.

  Usually, Binh loved being with Cuc. But today her presence felt different, as though Cuc were trying to steal something that was hers.

  “Your mother wants you,” Binh said to Cuc.

  “Where is she?” Cuc stood on tiptoe, peering out over the sea of faces.

  “Over there,” Binh gestured vaguely. “She was waving and calling your name.”

  When Cuc had left, Binh seized Di’s hand in preparation for the procession. “We’ll start walking to the house of the ancestors soon,” she told her. “Ba Ngoai,” she called, “take Di Hai’s other hand.”

  Ma, Ba, and Anh Hai followed, carrying the baskets of fruit and flowers.

  Binh looked back to see villagers coming out of their shops and children running and bicycling alongside, trying to get a peek at Di Thao. Binh’s heart flamed with pride.

  And Cuc? Binh looked back until she glimpsed the yellow of Cuc’s dress. She was with Third Aunt, a safe distance away.

  Walking along the highway, accompanied by the relentless honking of traffic, they approached the school, protected from the road by high white walls.

  Binh heard children’s voices on the other side of the wall.

  Her hands grew sweaty. “It’s very hot today, isn’t it?” she said to Di as they passed the school gate. Di mustn’t look into the school. She mustn’t wonder if Binh attended.

  “Here at the equator the sun is extra bright,” Di replied.

  When they’d passed the white walls and headed toward the river, Binh let go of Di’s hand to wipe her palm on her dress.

  The procession crossed a foot bridge. Below, the river bubbled ferociously. The bridge was narrow and everyone crowded together, making Binh aware of the unfamiliar American scent of Di’s skin.

  On the other side of the river, with bamboo and big-leafed bushes growing thickly on either side, the path led up a small hill. Pebbles rolled underfoot. The sounds of the traffic grew distant.

  Binh looked up to see the ancestors’ house at the top of the hill, outlined against the sky. Painted a dull yellow, it was the size of her own house.

  A blue dragon made of broken bottles and bits of smashed plates extended across the front wall.

  As she and Di Thao and Ba Ngoai drew closer — all panting a little — Binh smelled the sweetness of the jasmine bush by the doorway.

  Ba Ngoai stopped, putting her face close to the white jasmine flowers, breathing in deeply. “The ancestors live in this house,” she said. “Just as we have a home, they must too.”

  Di snapped a photo and the yellow house magically appeared on the screen.

  Inside the open doorway sat a small table with a flickering candle and a bundle of incense. Binh lit a stick. “You do the same,” she whispered to Di.

  The air was soon full of sweet smoke.

  Di coughed.

  Ma arranged the star fruit on the altar, then took the bananas from Anh Hai, the lilies from Ba Ngoai. She placed the offerings in front of the photographs
of the ancestors.

  Ba Ngoai knelt to bow three times, touching her forehead to the floor.

  When Di bowed, she bent her neck to the side to peek at the others. When she got up, she tripped on the hem of her dress.

  The procession followed them home again. Another feast was being prepared, and the guests sat down once more along the table under the tree.

  Binh went to the kitchen to help Ma with the cold coconut dessert soup. When she came out, she spotted Cuc sitting close to Di.

  Cuc had held out her wrist and Di was examining Cuc’s bracelets one by one. Surely, Di would see the bracelets looked just like the one she’d been given. She’d think Cuc had given it to her. Which was true.

  “Your mother’s looking for you,” Binh said, coming up behind them.

  Cuc’s narrow eyes grew narrower. “You said that before. But she wasn’t.”

  “Well, she looked like she was looking. . . .”

  Cuc held out her other wrist to Di.

  “Binh, Cuc! Come help!” Ma called out.

  Binh smiled. Ma had chosen just the right moment.

  “Carry out the soup, please, girls.”

  Cuc got up slowly, leaving her hand in Di’s until the last second.

  Binh lifted the clay pot by one handle, Cuc by the other. They had to move with care. Binh imagined letting go. Cuc would stumble and the sweet coconut would splash her polka-dotted dress.

  They set the pot on the long table near Di.

  “I just love all this Vietnamese food!” Di was saying to Second Uncle. “It reminds me of when I was a little girl.”

  “Then why aren’t you eating any of the raw vegetables?” Second Uncle asked, tucking his beard out of the way.

  “I . . .” Di began, her cheeks suddenly red. “When someone isn’t used to the food, it can cause stomach problems.”

  “You must try the eel. It’s very tasty.” Second Uncle slipped a strip onto Di’s plate.

  Di dropped a pill into her glass of drinking water. The water turned yellow.

  “Your water looks dirty,” Cuc said over Di’s shoulder.

  Di laughed. “The pill is iodine. It kills the germs.”

  “But we’ve never gotten sick from the water,” Second Uncle commented.

  “You’re used to it,” Di said, swirling the water as the pill dissolved.

  Binh glanced around. If the other relatives saw Di’s dirty-looking water, they would whisper again. She frowned at Cuc, as if daring her to tell the secret.

  “In America,” Di said, “our water is very clean.”

  Binh stood where Di could see her. She looked longingly at the sky where the planes to America flew. “America sounds more and more wonderful. I wish I could go there.”

  “Maybe someday you will,” Di answered.

  Binh stirred the dirt with her toe. Maybe. Someday. Di hadn’t said, Don’t worry, little niece. I will take you.

  That night, lying next to Binh, Di tossed on her mat.

  “Aren’t you comfortable?” Binh asked.

  Di sighed and tossed again. “I’m just not sleepy. I live on the other side of the world, Binh. The sun is shining there. My body still tells me that it’s daytime, not time for sleep.”

  Binh tried to imagine living on the other side of the world. People would be standing upside down.

  “Then tell me about the war,” Binh whispered. “Tell me everything you remember.”

  Di sighed in the darkness. “I hardly remember anything. I was so young. I forced myself to forget.”

  “But you used to live here. . . .”

  Di turned so her face was close to Binh’s. “Okay. I remember the smells of the food cooking, the plants and trees. The soft feel of the air. But I don’t have many memories of things happening. The only thing I remember is when I had to leave Ma, when the people took me away from her.” Di grew silent.

  “Tell me about that,” Binh demanded.

  Di sighed. “I remember the man taking me out of my mother’s arms and into the airplane. It didn’t have seats like most airplanes. Inside there was just a big dark space with crying children. I know now it was not a place for people to travel in. It was where they usually put cargo. Not children.”

  Binh leaned up on her elbow. Were the others sleeping or listening?

  “When they shut the door, I saw Ma for the last time. She was crying and waving.”

  Ba Ngoai tossed on her mat.

  A lump grew in Binh’s throat, as if she’d swallowed a mango seed.

  “I missed her, Binh, I missed her,” Di whispered in Binh’s ear.

  In the bushes, the crickets began their nightly song.

  “Good night, Di Hai,” Binh whispered back. For once, she’d heard enough. She listened for her own ma’s breathing and scooted a little closer.

  “Do you think she will really take us to America?” Binh asked Ba Ngoai as they carried bowls of rice flavored with fish sauce to the dogs.

  “Not right away. Arrangements would have to be made,” Ba Ngoai answered, setting down the bowls. “I wouldn’t go. I couldn’t leave my home here.”

  Binh thought of Ba Ngoai combing her hair when she was small, mending her blue dress, giving her a packet of red hair ribbons last Lunar New Year. “Oh, Ba Ngoai, you have to come!”

  Ba Ngoai shook her head.

  Binh’s heart contracted like a flower closing at sunset. She kicked at the ground. “And the dogs, could they go?”

  Ba Ngoai laughed. “They would stay with me.” She laid her hand on Binh’s shoulder. “I don’t think Thao has plans to take anyone.”

  “We’ll see,” Binh answered. Her foot moved close to a bowl of food and a dog nipped at her sandal.

  Binh peeked into the kitchen, with its black walls and orange fire, to see Di and Ba Ngoai squatting side by side while they sliced vegetables into the soup. Their shoulders touched.

  The kitchen cat slept by the fire.

  Holding up a sprig of herb, Ba Ngoai said, “This is good for the stomach.” She held up another. “This for a cough.” She looked up and saw Binh. “Come in, chau, little granddaughter. You can teach your auntie to grind spices.”

  Binh squatted close to Di Thao and took the mortar and pestle from the low shelf. She dropped a handful of dried red chili into the stone bowl and pounded it with the cylindrical pestle.

  “Let me try,” said Di.

  When the chili had been ground to a smooth powder, Di shook it into the soup.

  The soup simmered, then boiled, and Ba Ngoai moved it to the edge of the flames. Then, tilting her head, trying to look into Di’s face, she asked, “Was it hard for you in America, con?”

  Binh settled back for a story.

  Di fiddled with the hem of her T-shirt and said nothing.

  “Was it hard?” Ba Ngoai repeated.

  Di let go of the shirt and said slowly, “At first . . . at first America was very hard.”

  Hard? Binh hadn’t expected to hear that. “How was it hard, Di Hai?” she asked. “Was it all that gunfire?”

  “Oh, no.” Di laughed briefly. “It was hard being an Asian child with white parents. Thirty years ago there weren’t many Vietnamese in the southern part of the United States. I looked so different from my parents.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Everyone always knew that I was adopted. They felt sorry for me. I hated being different from the others.”

  Binh thought of how she too felt different when the schoolchildren came by her stand. But it was hard to imagine her auntie feeling left out and pitied in the heaven of America.

  “Oh, Thao, I’m so sorry,” said Ba Ngoai.

  In the silence, the cat stretched, unfurled its pink tongue, and fell back asleep.

  “Until coming here,” Di sniffed, “I didn’t understand how anyone could give me up.”

  “She had to . . .” Binh began, but Ba Ngoai frowned and said, “But now you understand?”

  “I do. Life is hard here. And thirty years ago it was even harder
. . . .”

  “Yes, dear Thao.”

  “In America, I wasn’t Vietnamese anymore,” Di said so quietly that Binh had to hold her breath to hear. “And I didn’t feel American either. I didn’t belong in America. I had a hard time.”

  Binh thought of Vuong, who was also not Vietnamese or American. Vuong was never invited into anyone’s house. When he delivered water, some people threw money at his feet instead of putting it in his hand.

  As silence fell over the kitchen again, Binh uncrossed and crossed her legs. Would life be hard for her in America? Would she, like Di Hai, not feel like an American?

  The soup began to smell of sweet, hot spices.

  “And now I don’t belong here either,” Di said, her words like bruised flowers. “Here in Vietnam, I’m not Vietnamese. I’m not anything.”

  You’re my lai, Binh thought. Less than dust.

  Di suddenly started to cry. “Why did you give me up, Ma?” Her eyes closed, the tears trickling out, she reached for Ba Ngoai. “I wanted you.”

  Ba Ngoai held Di then, tiny against the giant child in her arms.

  Binh stood up and slipped past them. Di Thao’s words confused her. Although there was a lot of shooting in America, no movie had ever shown life there as so sad.

  At Binh’s sudden movement, the cat leaped up and darted outside.

  Binh and Di Hai walked up the hill to the ancestral house, alone this time with no procession following them.

  In her pocket Binh carried a small bottle of glue. She also carried a ganh hang, the bamboo pole across her shoulders, each dangling a bucket full of water.

  “Oh, let me,” Di had said, but Binh had insisted. She was used to carrying the water. Plus, the ancestors expected it of her.

  As Binh walked, the water slapped the sides of the buckets.

  At the top of the hill, faced with the yellow house and with the quiet spreading around them, they paused.

  Binh wondered if the ancestors were confused by Di. Did they almost know who she was, but not quite? Were they scratching their heads?

  Binh set down the ganh hang and followed Di into the ancestral house.

  When Binh’s eyes had grown used to the dark interior, she lit a stick of incense. She removed the wilting purple lilies from the vase. The tiny bananas and star fruit, once offered, had been eaten by the living.