If You Lived Here (40 page)
“
Xin m
o
i,
” he says, inviting me to eat. He holds the bowl with two hands and passes it to me as if it were a precious gift.
“
Cám
ê
n,
” I say. Thank you. After all those weeks of practicing Vietnamese with Mai,
thank you
is the only phrase I never forget.
I also recognize the word
em bé
—baby—and they say it so often in the next few minutes that it would take a dolt to miss the fact that they’re discussing my future. Next to me, Binh’s hand makes slow progress toward his father’s beer. I watch the others eat and, following their leads, hold my bowl in one hand, lift the spring roll to my mouth with the other, and take a bite. It’s long and fat, solid as a banana, and doesn’t deflate like the egg rolls we used to eat thirty years ago at Joy Young’s—oily, balloonlike things, full of wilted lettuce and only good as missiles aimed at distant objects
“Binh,” I say, nudging him. “Which one works at the ministry?”
The boy has half a spring roll in his mouth. He motions with his chopsticks toward the man sitting across from him: the teenager, the child. “How old is he?” I ask.
“He my cousin Quang. He nineteen year old.” At twelve, Binh is clearly impressed.
The pimply-faced Quang listens attentively to the conversation, his eyes flicking back and forth as he follows the discussion of his elders. He looks excited and somewhat tense, as if he’s finally allowed to sit with the grown-ups and he doesn’t want to blow it. Even the way he drinks his beer makes the gesture seem new and thrilling. Unlike the others, who grab their glasses and swallow without looking, he pours carefully, watches the foam subside, fingers the glass.
“What’s his job at the ministry?” I want to know.
Binh answers through another mouthful of spring roll. “Driver!” he says. “Driver?” Okay. Maybe not a problem. Maybe there’s a connection to
the real minister here. “Who does he drive?” I ask. “Worker bus! You know, worker bus?”
“Yes, sure,” I say. For this, we are here? I look at Lap. His plans are ridiculous. Maybe he’s only brought me here because I’m an interesting object to invite over for dinner. A conversation starter. Something new.
The older woman, who I guess now is Duc’s wife, leans across the
table to put fresh spring rolls in people’s empty bowls. She announces something, tipping her head to indicate the front door or the street outside.
The others speak at once, motioning to the door, nodding, pointing. “What?” I want to know, but Binh is too focused on the conversation
to notice.
The older woman nods. She points to the telephone. She seems convinced of something.
Lap claps his hands together, looks at me as if he has a prize to offer. “What?” I ask again.
Binh looks at his father, then at me. “The neighbor daughter,” the boy explains. “She sixteen year old and pregnant. Her father very angry. Her mother very angry. Whole family, very unhappy. What to do with baby?” A brief exchange ensues between Binh, Lap, and Duc’s wife. She makes a gesture with her hand at her stomach that I take to indicate late
stages of pregnancy.
Binh looks at me. “Very soon,” he says.
The room grows quiet. Seven pairs of eyes on me. I’ve heard of private adoption. It’s rare, and somewhat complicated bureaucratically, but people do it. A couple in my adoption support group back in Wilmington met a child in Guatemala, completed the paperwork on their own, and six months later that kid was a first-grader at Wrightsville Beach Elementary. Before I got into this process, putting an adoption together without the help of Carolyn Burns or Mrs. Huyen would have seemed impossible, but now, I think, who needs them?
Lap grins. Despite his debatable reasons for bringing me to his cousin’s house for dinner, I know that my predicament disturbs him. He seems to think he’s solved it now. So I feel a little bad that I have to disappoint him. I shake my head at their hopeful faces. “No. I don’t think so, thanks.”
You don’t have to speak English to understand what I’m saying. Lap’s eyebrows bunch together in confusion. His hands fall open on his lap. Why not?
I don’t know how to explain that the idea of adopting some faceless infant has no appeal to me anymore. Two months ago, I merely wanted
to be a mother. Now I want to be a mother to Hai Au, this little boy who hoards food, likes cats, enjoys the feel of grains of rice rubbed across his face. He needs me. My son. My child. If I can’t bring him home with me, I’ll go alone, and I’ll stop trying. I feel sure of this fact, though I’ve only just recognized it.
The food lies forgotten on the table. Everyone sits watching me, waiting for an explanation. I say, “I want Hai Au.”
Binh translates and my answer sucks all the energy out of the room. Lap toys with his noodles using the tip of a chopstick, but can’t seem to remember to put the food in his mouth. The women start to collect the dishes, dumping leftovers onto the empty spring roll platter, stacking the bowls, grabbing up the chopsticks in their fists. Duc gets up and flicks on the stereo. The first few notes of “I’m on the Top of the World” float across the room. The old man scowls and rubs his ear; the teenage bus driver jiggles his knee like someone ready to disco. I sip my whiskey. Your love’s put me on the top of the world.
Lap tips his head in my direction, says a word to Binh. “You feel okay, Mrs. Shelley?” the boy asks.
I manage to nod, but I’m woozy. I realize I’m slouching in my seat and I try to sit up. “What time is it?” I ask.
Before I have a chance even to wipe my mouth with a napkin, Lap is standing, keys ready, helping me up, grabbing the bag of clothes, and ushering me out the door. One of the women finds my shoes. Good-bye is a set of nods, waves, and smiles, both anxious and sympathetic. My son’s culture, I tell myself, is a warmhearted and generous one. At least, the ones who want to help.
During the drive home, I focus on the blur of lights and the honking. Lap and Binh help me into the Lucinda. Even in my drunken state, I sense that this man is worried about his job, bringing his charge home drunk and reeling, and so I do my best to stand tall and walk efficiently. For some reason, at that moment, I remember the original goal of the evening. “And the minister?” I ask. My voice sounds loose and far away.
Lap looks at his son, who doesn’t seem to understand. “The minister?” I want to know. “Can he help?”
Father and son confer for a moment. “It’s possible. Don’t worry,” little Binh says.
My wave is kite high and circular. “Don’t worry,” I tell them, spinning toward the stairs. “No problem.”
“Tomorrow. Nine
A
.
M
.?” Lap asks in English. Given the demands of his job, he is capable of scheduling. “See Hai Au!”
“Yes!” I say, all loud and peppy. Linguistically, Lap and I have almost nothing in common, but we understand each other very well. We’re both committed to confidence, if only because hopelessness is too pathetic.
I am drunk enough to consider throwing myself off the balcony, but not so drunk, perhaps, that I would do it.
Upstairs, I find the door unlocked. I can hear Mai in the bathroom, running the water. I stumble inside, drop the bag of hand-me-downs onto the floor, then lower myself back against a pillow and close my eyes. Mai must have just come in herself. Her bed looks untouched. When the water goes off, I call out, “I’m back. I ate dinner with Lap. I’m drunk.”
I hear the sound of water being poured from a bottle, the creak of the bathroom door, a step. I open my eyes. Martin stands above me, a glass of water in his hand.
“Here,” he says. “Drink this.”
Any observer witnessing the interaction that takes place in my room over the next few minutes would not mistake it for a reunion of long-separated lovers, or even for that of a no longer ardent but still affectionate married couple. We hug, but only briefly and because it would feel even more awkward if we didn’t. I sit back down on my bed and drink the water he’s offered me. Martin sits on the chair by the window, gazing at the building across the street. His face looks thin and exhausted, his hair tousled, his cotton shirt bearing all the wrinkles of too many hours on airplanes. We talk, but our conversation focuses not on the purpose of Martin’s journey here, but its mechanics: flight itineraries, fatigue, the details of bringing Carl in from retirement to help at the office. Other than the fact that we
are discussing such matters in Hanoi, and that I’m still slightly tipsy, we could be sitting in my office in Wilmington, arranging burials.
Besides simply trying to absorb the shock of his arrival, I’m also distracted by the realization that I can, after all, take Hai Au home. If someone had prepared me for this moment in advance, I might have expected the joy to hit me suddenly, like a cool splash of water on a hot day. But, in fact, it seeps through my body drop by drop, moving from my brain to my neck and shoulders, into my heart and back out through all my veins to my fingers, to my toes. I am nothing but happiness, sitting on this bed. I lie. I am happiness, and more. I am grateful to Martin, and angry, too. Should I apologize for leaving him? Should he apologize to me? Who, exactly, is responsible for the mess that we’ve made of our marriage? The air in the room fairly swirls with guilt and anger, but no firm
emotions seem able to take root in either one of us.
Finally, all other topics spent, I allow myself to ask: “Martin, why did you come?”
At first, he merely shrugs, stretching his feet in front of him and staring at his shoes. Then he says, “I didn’t want to ruin your life.” His voice is firm and without emotion, but not unkind.
“What about the letter? What about everything that happened to you here?”
He slides his hand through his matted hair. “It helped some, just to write it down. After I sent it, I thought about how little it would take, really, just to travel over here. It wouldn’t kill me. All I have to do is sign the papers and go home.”
I’m grateful that the room is dim, that he refuses to look at me. I whisper, “Thanks.”
“Mostly,” he continues, “I didn’t want to have to live with the fact that you lost another baby because of me.”
He lets his head fall back against his chair and closes his eyes. I am full of wonder over what he has done for me. I remember some TV documen-tary we watched years ago, maybe on the History Channel. A scholar was talking about courage among soldiers during World War II. She said that
almost every soldier she interviewed had experienced fear. Courage wasn’t lack of fear, she argued. It was the willingness to go on, despite the fear.
I say, “I think you’re brave.”
Martin laughs, but there isn’t much pleasure in it. He pulls himself up from the chair, then looks down at me on the bed. “I’ll let you sleep.”
“Where are you going?” I try not to sound frantic. “I’ve got a room upstairs.”
“Oh.” I don’t know what I expected. There’s not space for all of us here. But I’m not ready for him to go yet. “Do you want to get something to eat?” I ask, starting to get up.
He shakes his head, waving away my offer with his hand. From down on the street, I hear the now familiar sound of one of the vendors who wander the streets with glass cases full of popping corn and horns that blare the tune “Lambada.”
I remind myself that I am happy. Really happy. I would like to throw open the window and yell out to all of Hanoi: “I’m getting my boy!” I would like to rush down the stairs and tell the old babysitter ladies who sit in the lobby that I could, if I wanted, book them tomorrow. I would like to pick up the phone and give my news to the useless Mrs. Huyen. Part of me also wants to cry, because I have lost Martin.
He opens the door. “Okay, then. Good night,” he says, already stepping out into the hall.
“Martin?” I can’t bear to see him go already.
He turns halfway around, but keeps his hand on the door. His eyes are guarded. “What?”
I don’t have anything to say, actually. He looks at me, waiting. “Okay, then,” I say, forcing myself to sound enthusiastic. “Good night.” Then I shut my eyes tight so that I see nothing but black.
