Darkroom

by Joshua Graham

  For the first time in this journey, Dad puts his arm around my shoulders, warming my heart as nothing else can. He points to a vacant hut, with a kerosene lamp glowing in the window. Leaning into the security of his strong shoulder, I nod and take a moment to consider the significance of this place. Both to him and Mom.

  “We start at daybreak.” He takes our bags and approaches the hut. “Let’s settle in.”

  As I follow him into the hut, an unexpected irony arises: I’ve never traveled so far just to say good-bye. But I am glad to have made the trip. Mom would be pleased.

  This was her wish.

  2

  GRACE TH’AM AI LE

  Thirty-Five Years Ago

  Binh Son, Vietnam: January 7, 1973

  I always knew the war would come to the South. Before the Communists sent the Vietcong back down the Ho Chi Minh trail, before the Spring Festival attacks during Tết Nguyên Đán, I knew. I had seen it all in my dreams. I even foresaw my parents’ deaths, which left me and my brother orphans, forcing us to flee to the village of my aunt and uncle.

  Some of the boys in Bình Sơn, on this side of the Mekong Delta, had expressed interest in joining the Vietcong, my brother included. Everyone else feared this would eventually draw a confrontation to our otherwise untouched hamlets.

  And so it had.

  The trip back from Saigon was only 120 kilometers, but it was like going from one world to another. At first glance, you would not imagine a war was taking place. Abundant green mountains, flowing waters of the Mekong, all resting under cotton clouds and sunlit skies.

  Amongst the countless generations of farming families, I was the first girl, if not the first person, to leave and go to university. Now, upon my return, my entire life had changed.

  At the bottom of the dusty road, where the foot of Bình Sơn touches the water, all that remained of the huts in the neighboring village were charred embers. Not a soul stirred. I could only hope that everyone had escaped.

  Higher up, I looked to the hills where once I lived. Where Huynh Tho still lived. Perhaps, because it was hidden behind bamboo and palms, it had been spared. So quiet were the mountains. But for the whispering wind, nothing stirred. Not even a bird.

  Off the road’s side, I walked under the shade of the trees. I had to find my brother and quietly bring him back to Saigon before it was too late.

  Quietly. How do you take an angry young idealist who espouses the goals of the Vietcong away from his village quietly? The thought of an argument with Huynh Tho made me as anxious as did the war itself.

  I stepped toward the path leading to our village. Each snap of a twig jolted me, as if it were a gunshot. But there was no one in sight. The utter quiet unsettled me.

  Without warning, less than ten meters from the path, a terrifying explosion threw me to the ground. Through the ringing in my ears and the clouds of dust and smoke, I could tell. A battle had just erupted all around me.

  “Huynh Tho!” Disembodied and hollow, my voice sounded as though I were underwater. Flashes of light, thumping explosions reverberating in my chest, the tat-tat-tat-tat of gunfire. Too frightened was I to lift my face from the dirt.

  But that is what I had to do. For if I remained, I would surely die. And Huynh Tho, who was only sixteen, would be left alone with nowhere to go. Disregarding the fear that clutched my heart, I crawled to the most remote part of the woods.

  This proved a terrible mistake.

  In hopes of hiding behind the trunk of a tree, I got up to run. Someone began shouting. My English was not so good at the time, but the little I had learned at university sufficed.

  “Get down!” cried the American, from somewhere I could not see. “Lady, get down!”

  I spun around, seeking the direction from which the desperate voice called. In that instant, a whisking sound rushed toward me. A sharp twinge knocked me back, as if struck by a stone.

  Then came the searing sensation below my collarbone, which I shall never forget. A spot of blood spread on my shirt. My head grew faint. My body became too heavy for my legs. Down I went.

  The world around me blurred.

  I began to shake.

  So cold …

  3

  SUZANNE COLBERT-COLSON

  Colbert Estate

  Napa Valley, California: October 2008

  Until recently, I had never cared for his line of work, or his career aspirations. Politics was never my cup of tea. But one thing I’ll say for my husband: if there’s anyone who can do the job right and get this country back on track, it’s him.

  In his first term as one of California’s senators, Rick had been widely acclaimed as a no-nonsense, tell-it-like-it-is legislator who produces results, not just talk. It’s a testament to his worthiness of the US presidency.

  And, yes, he’s an independent. How about that? Not since Ross Perot has the nation perked up its ears and listened like this. When my husband looks the nation in the eye and promises change, they believe him.

  And they ought to.

  I know better than anyone that Rick is a man who never accepts defeat, who always keeps his word. Just look at his service record. He doesn’t like my bragging on him like I do, but I am proud of him. He’s a decorated hero who saved many lives during the Vietnam War.

  I’m sure whatever shred of privacy we’ve enjoyed will soon be obliterated when Rick wins the election. But that loss of privacy doesn’t frighten me in the least. We’ve lived a very open life for the whole world to see. No secrets, unlike our opponents whose pasts keep coming back to haunt them.

  Despite the efforts of those slimy politicians to defame him—both Republicans and Democrats—no one has ever been able to dig up any dirt on Rick. You know why? Because there isn’t any. So what will the public find when they scrutinize the life of President Colson?

  They’ll find a loving father who never missed a game his star quarterback son played before going off to Princeton. They’ll find a devoted husband who stood by me for three decades, even after I became wheelchair bound with MS. I can count on the fingers of one hand how many times he couldn’t come with me to doctors’ visits and PT sessions. He always kept family a priority, wasn’t afraid to say no to his career. I think it’s his integrity and unwavering principles that have garnered him the reputation and respect he now enjoys.

  I’ll never forget the day I found out I had MS. Jack was eight months old and learning to walk. The news caught me by surprise. Besides fatigue, which all new mothers experience, I thought I was fine. But when I got the call to see my doctor as soon as possible, Rick made the appointment. You see, he had noticed the symptoms before I ever did. From the day I got pregnant, he always had his nose in medical books and journals, researching and monitoring my health.

  When we got the news, I broke down and cried. It was supposed to be the happiest time of our lives. Jack was our pride and joy, Rick had just been elected deputy district attorney, and his political career was taking off like a rocket.

  Rick took me in his arms and just held me for the longest time. When I calmed down, he said, “We’re going to beat this, Suzie. Don’t you worry. I promise, I will do everything in my power.”

  I wanted to say, “Who are you? God?” But he was so sincere, I didn’t have the heart to suggest he was just saying things to make me feel better. Well, I was wrong. He wasn’t just saying it. Did I mention that one of Rick’s greatest strengths is that he can look tough decisions in the eye and face them down?

  He took a sabbatical to take care of me and Jack. A year out of his career at its height. And whatever free time he had, he spent talking to medical experts, going to the library, you name it.

  Sure, there were some rough days where I wished I could just curl up and die. But I have to say, because of the love of this beautiful man, every day of my life has been worth living. None of the billions of dollars I’ve inherited could ever make me feel this way. Because in the end, what do you take with you? Not the money, the houses, or yachts;
not the fame of being the heiress of the Colbert Media empire. Judging by the way Rick’s lived, he never cared for those things anyway. No, what you take with you into eternity is the love of those who’ve sacrificed themselves for you.

  We now have two beautiful boys, Jack and Gary. I call them boys, but they’re really fine young men, both attending Ivy League schools on full scholarships. Rick is on his way to the White House, and I, though frail, am the luckiest, most blessed woman on the face of this planet.

  Lest you roll your eyes or gag from the sweetness of it all, I’ll confess Rick isn’t perfect. In fact, he’d be the first to admit it. There are times he gets so involved with his responsibilities that he’ll allow himself to get overwhelmed. And those are the times he just sort of vanishes for a few hours. Okay, sometimes it’s a day or two. But when he comes home, he’s left it all at the office and it’s as if nothing’s happened. He’s able to give us his full attention again.

  Sure, I’m biased. I haven’t got even a fraction of the knowledge of pundits. But no one knows this man as I do. And I’ll put whatever days I have left into supporting him.

  I believe in him.

  4

  XANDRA CARRICK

  Binh Son, Vietnam

  If for most of your life morning begins with the din of car horns and garbage trucks, bucolic quietude comes as something of a surprise.

  Across the room, Dad’s empty cot lies bathed in golden sunlight pouring through the open window. Perched on the wicker nightstand, a salamander tilts its head. I reach out and let the little guy crawl onto my hand and up my arm.

  It lingers for a moment, then climbs down the bridge of my fingers back to the table. Dad stands outside by the edge of the river, gazing at the hills. The urn in his hands seems heavier than it ought to.

  “Dad!” I wave at him through the open window.

  He turns and nods. So severe, yet dignified in a way that projects strength and constancy. Good to see that again.

  I haven’t adjusted my watch, but judging by the angle of the sun, it’s probably near eight thirty.

  It’s time.

  After washing up, I go out to join my father by the river. I’ve prepared my backpack with everything I’ll need. Dad is not aware of the fact that I’ve brought the Graflex Speed Graphic along. Considering his reluctance to talk about his past—especially his Vietnam days—I have a feeling he might be less than pleased.

  But it seems only right that I brought the very camera that helped make his career back to the place where it all began. And besides, it’s been mine ever since I left for college.

  “In my day,” he had told me, “it was the camera of choice for the press. You just don’t get the subtlety, the finesse, those infinite shades of gray, with all the bells and whistles of these digital doo-hickeys these days. It’s more work, for sure, developing film and enlarging photos in the darkroom. Large format is old-school even for analog photographers. But greatness is not a thing to be had instantly, like microwave popcorn.”

  Indeed. And if this Graflex could talk, oh, the stories. He’ll forgive me for bringing it when he sees the amazing pictures I take of this day, a day we’ll never forget.

  Dad paddles our boat, glancing every now and then down at the urn. He whispers silently, his eyes ever returning to the hills. I must have taken twenty shots of the fishermen wearing cone hats and mending their nets.

  A river dolphin follows us and peeks up with curiosity. Vibrant white-tailed douc langurs call down from tree branches. The earthy scent of life clings to the warming air. Everything Mom described and more.

  We’ve stopped. Clutching the backpack with the Graflex, I’m excited about using it here. But how will Dad react when he sees it? He pulls the boat ashore, and for a moment, sitting here as his strong arms pull the rope, I’m five years old again. And he’s still my superman. If he only knew.

  Tears welling up, his eyes are fixed on the urn. He doesn’t see me. My loss is twofold, shifting between each rueful prong: the loss of my mother and the loss of the father I once knew. My own tears begin.

  It’s been just over thirteen months now. Haven’t I already traversed the steps of grief? I’ve watched Dad fall apart and pull himself back together, but never quite back to his original self. Now, it’s all coming back to me. As if this entire year never happened. The grief, the void—it’s all coming back. I realize now that it’s never really left.

  If he only knew.

  Dad chokes, sniffs, and points to the urn. “Would you?”

  “Of course.” Shaking with emotion, I’m afraid if I don’t hold on strong enough, I might …

  With a deep, wet breath, I clutch the urn to my heart. “Mom … you’re finally home.”

  5

  Mom had suffered from chronic headaches. She finally went to the doctor, expecting to find nothing more than lack of sleep, poor diet, and poor exercise habits as the cause. Instead, she left his office with a death sentence.

  From the day she’d been diagnosed with a malignant primary brain tumor to the day she died, she remained cheerful, though more pensive than usual. Even though she outlived the doctors’ predictions, her passing blindsided us emotionally.

  Then came the funeral, the relatives, all the official business with lawyers and insurance companies. During the entire time, Dad withdrew into a shell of silence. It was a few days after the funeral before he could even speak to anyone.

  The presence of relatives, especially my cousin Janine and my favorite nephew and niece, brought some degree of comfort. But the truth is, with all the logistics that fell upon me alone, there was hardly any time for me to cry.

  Eventually, everyone went home. For the next eight weeks, I lived with Dad in Del Mar. The emptiness of his house resounded like a phantasmal void.

  A week after the funeral, the duty of retrieving Mom’s ashes fell upon me. Dad had accompanied me, but it was I who handled the entire transaction, while his vacant gaze hovered. For most of my time with him this past year, I had to lead him by the hand like a child.

  That my own life required attention escaped me. I had just returned from Iraq, having completed an assignment covering the families most likely to be targeted for female suicide-bomber recruits. The assignment had been cut short by Mom’s diagnosis, and, needless to say, I never completed it.

  But the time away afforded me opportunities to reconnect with Dad.

  Somewhat.

  We had always been close when I was younger. And according to Mom, my following in his footsteps had made him proud. But things started to change when I became an adolescent.

  I must have been twelve when I first begged him to teach me photography. My first camera was a Pentax K1000, a beginner’s 35mm single-lens reflex, which was not too shabby if you knew what you were doing. So, I persisted with determination that I apparently inherited from Mom.

  Instead of endearing me to him, it seemed to make him uneasy. “You really don’t want to do this,” he’d say. “Photojournalism isn’t the glamorous profession you think.”

  “I don’t care, Daddy, I’m going to be just like you. Oh, and I love pretty pictures.” At twelve years old, you haven’t got all your priorities straight. Nor do you notice or properly interpret the gravity of your parent’s tone. Not when dreams of becoming like your hero fill your head.

  Never one to be discouraged, I simply taught myself whatever Dad didn’t have the time to. Lots of mistakes, spilled chemicals, and broken equipment. What can I say? Dad and pretty pictures. It was a no-brainer.

  In retrospect, I suppose it was more of a calculated fiscal decision for Dad to start teaching me. My mistakes were costing him too much.

  Mom would gently guilt Dad into taking me out to the beach, into the city, and, when I was older, out on assignments when he traveled on the weekends. “You’re a Pulitzer Prize winner, and you won’t teach your own daughter?”

  That was the kind of all-expenses-paid-round-trip-first-class guilt trip she’d send him on. I, none
the wiser, only smiled as he relented and got over himself.

  Even now, standing next to him, holding the ashes of his departed wife, I struggle to understand his misgivings toward my emulating him.

  A warm breeze brushes through my hair like Mom’s fingers whenever she spoke of Vietnam’s beauty. Dad lifts the urn from my hands and points his chin up the hill. “Up that path, behind that stand of bamboo trees.” He puts one hand behind the small of my back, gently urging me. But it’s the warm, maternal breeze whispering against my neck that compels me forward.

  To my surprise, when we pass the wall of trees, the ground is level and clear. Charred black, the skeletal frames of several farmhouses shudder, as though one strong gust could blow them away like dandelion spores. The rest are simply dirt pads where other homes once stood.

  “Before the war, hardly anyone knew this place existed.” Dad sets the urn on a rock and removes his courier bag. He sits on a fallen tree trunk, wipes his nose, and sniffs.

  “So this is where Mom grew up.”

  Dad nods and heaves a weighty sigh. He’s fatigued but not from the climb. It’s a weariness from bearing the weight of unspoken burdens. And he’s worn this look for as long as I can remember. Over the years, it has etched lines into his forehead, turned his chestnut hair silver.

  Sitting next to him, I lean my face into the crook of his neck. His bristly jawbone tickles me. “You okay?”

  Why doesn’t he answer? How I wish he’d just tell me what’s troubling him. Maybe it’s more than just letting go. But of what? I have to ask. “Dad, is there anything you want to talk about?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “You seem—I don’t know—distracted.” I didn’t want to say it, but he almost seemed afraid. “Like there’s something out there.”

  “You’re seeing things that aren’t there. Did it as a kid, doing it now.”

  “And you’re shifting everything over to me when, really, this is about you. You’ve been doing that since I was a child. Mom always—”