Darkroom (15 page)

The little boy was wiping his eyes and crying. I could see the smoke pouring into the room. If I ran now, I might be able to save myself. But how could I leave them?

With my elbow, I smashed the glass, cut and burned my fingers disengaging the brass lock, then opened the window and climbed in. Right away, the boy ran into my arms. But no matter how much I shouted, the father would not awaken.

The air became so hot and filled with smoke, I began to cough violently. I found a pitcher of water on the night stand and splashed it on the father’s face. I did not expect it to work, but I thought I must at least try. Imagine my surprise when the boy’s father blinked, shook his head, and sat up. “What—”

“The window, quickly!”

He got up, staggering slightly, and took the boy as I climbed out. Then he handed the boy to me through the window as he, too, climbed out. “Down on the ground, we must crawl. Follow me!”

The father held his son to his chest and crawled forth. Behind us, a heavy beam fell, sending sparks and embers into our safe corridor.

By the time we reached the end, the wall of flames had grown.

“We’re trapped!” the boy’s father said. The flames from the fallen beam had also erupted and now raged hotter on our backs than before.

“This is the only way out,” I said.

“We cannot go through!”

I could not have come here with this providential knowledge only to die from indecision. “We must. We’ll die if we wait in here. Follow me.”

“How can I know for certain you are right?”

“You cannot. You can only believe.”

For a while he didn’t answer. Then finally, “Take my boy with you.”

I took him in my arms, wrapped him in my sweater with my arms around him. Then before I could convince myself that I was crazy for running headlong into a path of fire, I ran.

The heat and smoke forced my eyes shut, but I knew I must not stop. Finally, a rush of cool air filled my lungs. I opened my eyes and fell to my knees.

The little boy ran into his crying mother’s arms. “Mama, Mama!”

Peter rushed over to me and checked to see if any of my clothes were on fire. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, but—”

“Lanh!” The woman stood, clutching her son to her bosom, shouting for her husband.

Right away, I turned and called out to him. “We’re all right! Your son is fine. Don’t look at the fire. Think of your wife and child, then run!”

A wall collapsed into the chasm. Even more flames rushed out.

“Lanh!” his wife cried. “Oh please, Lanh! Hurry!

Emboldened, Peter got up and rushed toward the fire. I grasped his arm. “No. It’s too late.”

“But I might be able to—”

“I saw it. There’s no way to get in now.”

The mother must have heard me because she began to sob. “No, no! Lanh, no!”

Was this what Huynh Tho’s final moments were like? But he had no family around to call for him, no one to run in after him. Holding his cross, which I now wore around my neck, I could do nothing but pray.

And while my eyes were still closed, I saw a young woman, someone who looked strangely familiar, reaching down into a dark pit.

She strains and struggles and at times is even pulled down toward the darkness. And the strangest part is that, strapped over her neck is a camera like Peter’s. Finally she gives one last pull. The strap breaks, and the camera falls into the pit. But from it, she rescues a man. I can only see the back of his head and his gray hair.

“Lanh!” His wife’s weeping turned to shouts of elation. I opened my eyes. From the midst of the deadly conflagration, he leapt out. His clothes were on fire as he hit the ground and rolled. Peter removed his jacket and covered him, putting out the flames.

Lanh was hurt, but alive.

I was shaken. It was not like me to act so rashly, so heedless of danger. All because I saw something in my mind and believed it to be true. I don’t know what it was, but I am glad I listened to the prompting in my heart, because Lanh and his son will live to see another day.

Too many others were not so fortunate. Peter came across an Australian war correspondent and a French photographer who tried desperately to help one family whose five-year-old daughter had been burned and torn to tatters by iron shards. She was alive and in torment. A policeman held her frantic mother away. They told Peter that her head could not even be lifted from the corrugated iron that fell from the roof, because her hair had been stuck to it by mortar that had turned to wax from the heat.

We finally made it back to the Caravelle, where many non-American journalists and reporters stayed, all nervously awaiting word from the American Embassy as to evacuation instructions.

I can only imagine the totality of the destruction caused by the rocket that ripped through Cholon today. It has been more than three years since Saigon has been attacked like this. I thought I might have forgotten how terrible it was. But two more such rockets hit the city today. I am certain they won’t be the last.

35

XANDRA CARRICK

Dad’s flight has been delayed due to a heightened terror alert in San Diego announced just before takeoff. He’s going to have to reschedule. That was all he said on my voice mail, while I was in the shower.

Now that I’ve sent Kyle away, gotten dressed, and warmed up a can of Healthy Choice soup, I’m calmer. But not much. I’m still shaken by that dreadful intuition I got from the bathroom mirror experience. I know that feeling. It’s from the darkroom.

There’s probably no point in avoiding it. I know that it’s going to nag me until I face it. It’s inevitable. I have to go to the darkroom and confront the images that haunt me, even though I’ve not yet seen them in full.

I’m surprised to find my darkroom in good condition after the police have searched it. Thankfully, they haven’t confiscated any of my negatives.

Lights out.

Let the visions begin.

Somehow, expecting that I will see something puts me at ease. So much fear comes from the unknown. For the first ten minutes,
niente
. Now, as I develop another set of prints from the abandoned village in Bình Sơn, even before any image comes up, that familiar sense approaches. It’s not so much fright as it is suspense,
because I expect to see something extraordinary. Something related to truth. And if experience has taught me anything, it’s an important truth that may not be widely known or understood. Such as the location of Stacy’s body or the fact that she was seeking me out.

Now, it appears. Everything I remember at the site where we scattered Mom’s ashes, just a week ago. But there’s much more here than uncovered by a superficial glance.

As expected—and yet, not—a ghostly layer of images floats in the solution over the print, as though it were a transparent overlay. It appalls me more than anything else I’ve seen here in the gloom.

Where the tall grass stands, the image of a ditch, dug into the ground, comes up. Though I can perceive it with my eyes, it’s more like seeing it in my mind. A memory that will be forever etched there.

And piled in that ditch … Oh, this is horrific … the bodies of villagers, too numerous to count. It’s a mass grave. Corpses not only of men, but of women and children as well.

It’s so inexorably vivid that I don’t even need to write this down in my notebook. Yes. This is that same image that loomed behind the fogged mirror in the bathroom. I sense it. Gruesome as it is, I know I’m supposed to see this. But why?

Outrage and grief course through me. It’s as though I know these people. They were innocent, helpless. And the children. Something terribly wrong with their deaths—perverse, violating, cruel!

I want to cry, and at the same time bring raging justice to the monsters who did this.

The developer solution shimmers in the tray, and in a corner, behind some of the tall blades, the most disturbing part of this image emerges.

No …

36

He’s standing there, behind the stalks, a young man in combat fatigues, yet not a soldier. Holding the very Graflex camera that he will give me two decades later, he hides. “Dad?”

As soon as this realization hits me, the image vanishes. All that is left on the sheet is the placid hillside where we scattered Mom’s ashes. I have to talk to Dad.

When I call him, I get his answering machine. “Dad? It’s important. Call me.” Next, Dad’s cell. Voice mail. My frustration levels rise to threatening peaks.

With my mind racing at the speed of light, the logical thing to do is to assess all these things the darkroom has revealed. Straight to the laptop. I type in Google.com.

A large blue circle with the letter “i” shows up on the page and the error message:

INTERNET EXPLORER CANNOT DISPLAY THE WEBPAGE

Most likely causes:

• You are not connected to the internet.

• The website is encountering problems.

• There might be a typing error in the address.

“Oh, not again.” I’ve seen this before. It means my cable modem service is down. The TV remote is just within reach, and I turn it on. It says, “This cable box is not authorized to view this program, please contact your cable provider.” Both internet and cable have been cut off. But it makes no sense, I’ve paid the bill.

Now I have to go through the painfully slow process of using the web browser on my cell phone. I was never good at text messaging, which becomes painfully clear as my fingers cramp up from typing in every character of my search.

I nearly drop my phone when it buzzes in my hand with an incoming call. It’s Dad.

“Dad, where are you?”

“I’m sorry, Xandra, I tried to call. Are you all right?”

“Out on bail.”

“Thank God. We’re going to get this straightened out. Now, what exactly are they charging you with?”

“You haven’t heard?”

“I have, I just can’t believe it.”

“The cops, the DA, they’re crazy. They’re actually trying to pin the murder on me.”

Dad swears quietly.

“Are you coming?”

“Yes, but there are no flights till tomorrow. Sure you’re okay?”

My thoughts are too jumbled now to fully process what I’m feeling. I’m so focused on getting answers, I just come out and say it. “Dad, what really happened in Bình Sơn?”

37

“What are you talking about?” His tone is awkward. Somewhere between trying to make light of the question and trying to evade it.

“You heard me, Dad. For the longest time, I knew something was bothering you. Mom always told me not to ask about your past, because it would upset you. And the way you behaved when we were there …”

“Your mother was right. And you should honor her memory by heeding her advice.”

“Look, I know it might be hard to talk about, but I really need to know.”

“Where’s all this coming from?”

“Something really bad happened during the war while you were there.”

“People die in wars. That’s bad.” He exhales sharply. “You think you can just come out of the blue and—”

“Dad, please. It might have something to do with what’s happening to me.”

“It has got nothing to do with you! Now quit looking for things that aren’t there.”

“It’s really important to me.”

“Why?”

“Because …” Why indeed? Because I had these ghostly revelations
in the darkroom? Am I going to tell him this? Would he believe me? “Because …”

“You’ve got some nerve, young lady!”

“I’m sorry, Dad.” I hate that he can reduce me to a child with his words whenever I approach this dangerous topic. This is the furthest I’ve ever dared push it. I want to get mad at him, but … “I just need to—”

“This discussion is over. I’m sorry you got yourself in trouble, Xandi, and I’ll do everything I can to help you. But we are not going to bring this topic up again. Is that clear?”

All I can do is let out a slow, shaky breath.

“Is it?”

“Yes.” It’s not. Not by a long shot. But how else can I answer him?

“I’ll call you tomorrow with my itinerary.” His voice softens. “Get some rest. And stay out of trouble.”

38

RICHARD COLSON

Campaign Headquarters
Manchester, New Hampshire

“She refuses to speak with you, sir. I can’t—”

“Just put the damn phone to her ear, Cecilia!” It’s late, and I’ve been so busy I missed dinner. I feel like slamming the receiver down on the desk repeatedly to punctuate my request. After a short pause and some hand-muffled dialogue on the other end, Suzanne finally gets on the line.

“Rick?”

“Oh, thank you, your highness, for granting this lowly peasant an audience.”

She laughs, and then sputters. “What time is it out there?”

“About quarter to eleven.”

“This is the third time you called today! How are you going to win this election if you don’t concentrate?”

“I had to find out. So?”

“I guess it wasn’t as bad as I thought it’d be.”

“You see? That’s my girl. We’re going to fight this to the bitter end. And we’re going to win.” I don’t think it wise to mention that for many, the first wave of chemo is not so terribly unbearable compared to the subsequent treatments. Why plant anxiety in her mind?

“Well, anyway. It’s done.” Her voice is distant.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. You just concentrate on your speech tonight. New Hampshire’s a key state.”

“Is it about the chemo?”

“I tried it, like you asked me to.”

“So you’ll keep doing it, right?”

“Did you ever think about life after I’m gone, Rick?”

The question clenches my heart with jagged claws. “Of course not.”

“Maybe you should.”

“Never.”