Listen, Slowly (13 page)

Lots of urgent talking behind the door. I’m feeling hopeful. After all, there’s a Vietnamese grandmother behind that door, doing what Vietnamese grandmothers do best—getting their way while smiling and patting.

Út and I listen and wait. We have time and more time.

Anh Minh finally appears, not at all surprised when we pop up to attention. Decked out in crisp, clean, blue pants and a white button-down, he walks. We follow, strapping on ninja gears because it’s getting toward sunny late morning, and spies will report back to Cô Hạnh.

“Did the glow spots blink on and off or were they steady?”
Út lifts her mask to ask, keeping up with Anh Minh on one side.

I’m right there on the other side, lifting my mask, “Do you know where she is?”

He frowns at Út.
“I have been arranging a most urgent matter, without interest or time to attend to your needs.”

Wow, what’s happened to my good-natured translator? But then Út can be so annoying. I’ve tried to convey that to her, but was she paying attention? Noooo. My approach is much more nuanced, subtle.

“You have to tell her, today. She deserves to know.” I say it in a fun, jolly manner, flapping my mask up and down, but he gets even more frowny.

“As for you, miss, I need to discuss a lie with you, but later; I must attend to an urgency.”

“What lie?”

Without answering, Anh Minh walks fast, way ahead of us, and we have to run after him.

We follow Anh Minh to Cô Hạnh’s house, where bunches of girls are smooshed into the front room and spilling out into the yard. Then he disappears.

I squeeze into the crowd, trying to stay close to Út, who has a look of dread and is slithering toward the back. I have a very bad feeling about the gathering. Somehow Út’s mom, Cô Tâm, materializes and grips Út’s arm. This same moment, a hand grips me. Cô Hạnh smiles and drags me toward Út. Is a really strong grip a trait among Vietnamese women? PBS never mentioned it. At least we got to remove our hats and masks.

Cô Hạnh hands me over to her sister’s grip, goes toward the kitchen, and comes back with a huge bowl covered with a cloth. She steps on a stool. This is serious.

“Everyone, listen.”
Cô Hạnh holds the bowl high. Is this a taste test? Why does Út look that sickened? She’s not a picky eater. I’ve seen her tear through roasted pigskin.
“Go in pairs and wet your hair out back. I hope each has remembered to bring a towel.”

I’m beginning to panic.

“Each should use enough paste to cover every bit of your partner’s hair. If we keep suffocating each potential lice egg before it hatches, we should never find crawling black specks.”

LICE???? EGGS????

Everyone follows directions, except for the anxious Út and the in-shock me. Út’s mom puts her face right on Út’s, still gripping us.
“You thought you were so clever two months ago, but not this time. Remember, if you shave your head again your father will take you to his shrimp camp and you’ll have the same future as the boys in the village who do not study well. Do you want that?”

Út can barely hide her smirk. She’s already told me Froggy keeps her here, but if someone were to force her to go play in the ocean air and be elbow deep in hatchlings, it wouldn’t be the end of the world.

“Now put on the medicine and sit and chat like every girl here. It stings a little, but the result is worth one hundred times the inconvenience.”

IT STINGS????

We are steered to the back. There are towels for those who forgot, of course. We bend forward and pour warm water over each other’s head. It feels surprisingly good. Cô Tâm hovers behind us.

Back inside, Cô Hạnh takes over.
“I’ll manage you two. Bend your head forward, like this, I need to see your nape and behind your ears especially.”

My eyes water just smelling what’s in the bowl. Grainy, smashed something is steeped in a clear potent broth, smelling like it would catch on fire if there’s an open flame all the way in the next room.

Smeared, eyes rimmed red, Út gets her head wrapped in a plastic bag. My turn. I back away, but what good does that do?

“What do you do for lice in America? Here, I mix rice wine with the pounded seeds of
quả na.” Cô Hạnh holds up a fruit with thumbprint circles all over its green skin and lots of beany black seeds. Mom would be so proud that nothing has been wasted. I wonder what Cô Hạnh does with the green peel? It has some medicinal purpose, no doubt, and, please, let me never find out.

“We do this every month, and in years we have not had lice in our village. You have to kill the possibility of even one egg. If allowed to hatch, we would have to shave our heads and burn all the hair. Prevention is so simple, but Út shaved her head because she would rather sit in the pond with her pet than here with us. Her mother screamed so loud that the next village heard and would have thrown that frog into the fire pit if I hadn’t intervened. She wants her girls to be beautiful. But she did not know to get braces for Lan until it was too late, just a slight overbite, no big flaw on Lan’s beauty, but to her mother . . . She did get braces in time for Út, then to have Út turn herself into someone ready for a Buddhist nunnery, oh.”

Why is she talking so smoothly to someone who isn’t supposed to understand? A distraction, a trick, so I won’t . . . OWWWW! IT STINGS!!! Tears. Lots of tears. No wonder Út shaved her head. I’m thinking about it too.

“Take a deep breath, breathe out, it’s over
.”

The sting does lift. Is she a magician? My head feels tingly and cool. Still, if she’s going to market this potion, she has got to tone down the initial shock.

“Go sit,”
Cô Hạnh directs me toward Út, pouting in a corner. I join her in pouty protest. She lets me.

I
t’s been the longest day ever and it’s just nap time. Út disappeared as soon as she washed her hair, and who knows where Anh Minh went. I had to walk back to Bà’s all by myself with the lunch basket. Usually, Út and I bring it and eat with Bà.

Neither of us wanted lunch today. Now that I’ve joined Bà inside the net, my stomach decides to grumble. How can I be hungry after eating my body weight at breakfast? Very spoiled, this new appetite of mine.

Bà gets up from the bed and I follow. In the basket sits my and Út’s favorite,
bánh ít
, steamed sticky rice cakes with mung beans and pork wrapped in a banana leaf. The best part is peeling off the leaf, which imprints the rice with the color of light jade and the smell of spring. I have to bring one to Út.

Bà knows. So excited, I lead Bà back to bed, tuck her inside the net even though she doesn’t believe in afternoon mosquitoes, grab two
bánh ít
s, and run as I ninja-up.

In Cô Hạnh’s back pond, Út is not under our willow tree, where Froggy usually naps in the water just offshore. Of course Froggy is gone too.

I look across the pond. In the heat, in certain half-shade, half-bright spots, vapors rise into nothingness. I have an urge to walk across the water and hold onto the vapors, as if that could ease the loneliness I feel. The rice cakes call out, promising fresh-leaf, springtime mellowness, but I would never eat mine without Út.

Wait, is that a canoe? Someone is leaning over, face almost in the water.

I scream, “Út, Út,” and run to the landing plank. I wave her over, offering the cakes as bribes. Is she paddling away? How rude! To think, I was fuzzy with warm thoughts about her. Well, I will go out there. How different can canoeing be from paddleboarding? There just happens to be a wooden canoe nearby, pulled up on mud. I push it into the water, throw the cakes in, jump in myself, never mind that I’m muddying Chị Lan’s silky flowy pants. Later, I will scrub them, but right now I’ve gotta row. I actually go forward. Bonus.

Almost side by side, I throw a
bánh ít
into her canoe. Of course, she picks it up. Who wouldn’t? My canoe bangs into hers. Shushing me, she points to the other side of her canoe. I can’t see so I stand up and step into hers. She’s shaking her head. Calm down, I want to tell her, I’ve paddleboarded on waves.

In the water, Frog lounges on a lily pad shaded by weedy plants and is more enormous than ever, sinking the broad leaf underwater. So that’s who Út’s been talking to. No wonder she’s so obedient to Cô Hạnh, who owns Froggy’s true home. This must be where Út found her froggy sac.

Next to Froggy sits a frog with the same slimy brown-green skin but much thinner. How sweet, Froggy has a friend. Are they wrapping their short front legs around each other? I have to lean over to get a closer look. Út yells something like
“Ðừng, đừng,”
which sounds almost like “don’t, don’t,” and before my brain can translate it the canoe is rocking big-time and
PLOP
.

Of course I can swim; I’m a beach girl. But not in ninja gear. I realize I’m swallowing POND WATER, which Dad said is full of bacteria, parasites, invisible worms . . . all foreign to my body.

“HELP!” I hold one arm high while treading water, like I learned in swim class. Another gulp. The water tastes exactly like diluted rotting plants, earthy and sluggy and a bit bitter. A hand rips off my mask, then my hat. I’m pushed above water. I love air! Where’s the lifeguard float? I see a blurry fat frog, then realize there’ll be no float. So I yell louder. Someone grips me, hard. It’s Út, dragging me toward one of the canoes. We hold on and she paddles us to shore.

As soon as I climb onto Cô Hạnh’s back porch, I throw up in front of a huge, loud gathering. Isn’t everyone supposed to be napping? If there’s anything worse-tasting than scummy pond water, it’s vomit. Út, looking worried, slaps me on the back. Seeing this, the villagers slap me on the back too until Cô Hạnh makes them go home. She takes one arm, Út the other, and they escort me to the bathroom. I smile at Út to mean I’m glad you were there, and she nods back to mean of course.

Cô Hạnh gives me a clean pajama-ish set and I’m allowed alone time in the bathroom. I feel peaceful with the world, a little pond water is nothing. And yet something is tugging and tightening on my left calf. I pull up my pants. A gray lump pulsates, getting bigger and turning light pink. I take the end of a toothbrush and flick it off. It won’t budge. I poke it really hard. One end of the lump rises up and says hello with a stretchy, bloody mouth.

The room spins. I drop to the ground. My cheekbone hits first.

“Miss, wake up, please, the entire village is concerned with your well bein’.”

The voice darts into me, dragging along a twang. Yes, Anh Minh is here and he’s sorry.

The left side of my face hurts like it interfered with a swinging racket, leaving a tennis ball where my cheek used to be. I’m sure I’m black and blue. Is this enough of an emergency to get sent home? I’m so going to text a picture of the bruise to Mom.

I sit up really fast, remembering something much worse than a bruise. Somehow, I’m on a hard bed on the second floor where lots, I mean lots, of maybe-relatives have returned.

I poke an index finger around my left calf.

“No worries, miss, be assured your leech has been appropriately dealt with.”

I don’t want to know.

“Cô Hạnh rubbed on a bit of salt and your leech released instantly.”

Stop talking.

“Your leech had not attached for long . . .”

“It’s not MY leech!”

Of course, the supertranslator does his job. The crowd roars. Go away, now!

The crowd backs off. Wow, am I so powerful? No, they’ve parted a path for Cô Hạnh. She sits next to me on the hardest bed ever, holding a steaming bowl smelling of herbs and stewed bark, so basically compost in a cup. Oh, it’s going to be bad.

“Drink this and it will ease the cramps.”

I wait dutifully for the translation then announce, “I don’t have cramps.”

The room erupts with advice. I will be sick, they admonish, by tonight for certain, my stomach cannot fight such strong homegrown parasites, they warn, true Vietnamese guts would have no problems, they brag, but mine, oh . . . so much sweets in the intestines. I drink so the voices will hush.

BITTER. Throat-scorching, gag-inducing thick brown sludge that tastes like . . . where’s the perfect word when I need it? Cô Hạnh holds my nose and tilts my head back until I gulp for air and am forced to swallow every little drop. I’m bruised and possibly parasite ridden, why is she torturing me? She smiles and calls it herbal medicine. I call it child abuse.

“Nothing to eat, drink only hot water until your stomach expels the foreign elements,”
Cô Hạnh says.

I wait for the translation and turn to Anh Minh, “Tell her I have not eaten since breakfast. A little something?”

The whole room erupts in tut-tuts.

“Miss, we are in agreement you must not feed the source of your pain.”

“I don’t feel pain.”

More tut-tuts ring out as Cô Hạnh shoos everyone out of the room.
“Take a nap. You will need your strength.”

I feel fine, but I might as well lie here, daydreaming about the
bánh ít
calling my name from the bottom of the pond.

I
wake up, not that afternoon, but the next morning, starving. That sludgy med knocked me out. Bà always said the more bitter the medicine, the better its healing power. Why couldn’t Cô Hạnh stir in some sugar? Or honey, that’s all natural. Oh, it’s this kind of thinking that has turned my blood into nectar for the buzzers. Why is everything that’s good for me so painful?

I smell Chinese sausage, popping in its own fat. Yum. I swing my legs off the wooden plank, not dignifying it with the word
bed
. A
đi văng
is its official name, one of those words left by the French,
divan
. BTW, the French are responsible for all those pesky accent marks. Some time ago, Anh Minh started to tell me how and why but I blacked out.

This
đi văng
is made of solid ebony wood and is passed down to the child who nurses the parents through old age. Why would such a bed be a prize? All it does is make you hurt.

Before I can get up, Bà swoops over from somewhere and shakes her head.
“Listen to your stomach, listen to what it needs.”