The Reeducation of Cherry Truong (44 page)

The night of the accident, after leaving Cherry at the hospital, Sanh and Tuyet came home to find that Lum had set out all seven of his credit cards, his driver's license, checkbooks, and bank account information on the kitchen counter. Sanh saw that his devastated son blamed himself entirely. But while Tuyet could still embrace the boy, Sanh was not ready to comfort, to forgive, not while Cherry still lay in the hospital.

Many of Tuyet's relatives lived in Orange County. Sending Lum to his Uncle Viet in Texas, another gambler, was asking for further trouble. France was out of the question. His relatives had enough to deal with. His uncle and aunt Tran in Saigon were decent, compassionate people. Sanh remembered how frustrated his father had been at their refusal to escape with them, but the Trans had been determined to make their lives in the new regime. Their sons already buried from the war, the Trans didn't want to be far from their graves. When Sanh called his uncle, he kept the details of Lum's transgressions brief and vague. The Trans did not press for details. They promised to care for Lum as their own son.

Sanh approached the dining table, and picked up some crumpled linen napkins. Lum looked up, blowing his hair away with a puff of his breath. He and his sister both did that.

“Thank you for letting me stay,” Lum said, his voice devoid of the arrogance that had contaminated him for the last two years. Sanh willed himself to breathe. His heart rate had not accelerated, his head felt clear. Perhaps it was the appropriate time to talk.

“You should thank Grandmère,” Sanh said.

“How is Cherry?” Lum asked, helping his father gather the empty plates into a stack.

“She's recovering.” At the sight of his son's relieved smile, Sanh immediately regretted the admission. “That doesn't change anything.”

“I know,” Lum quickly said. “Believe me.” He looked so vulnerable, so much like his mother, that Sanh's shoulders momentarily relaxed.

“Have they been treating you well?” Sanh asked.

“Granduncle and Grandaunt? They've been very gracious.”

Sanh nodded, as he followed Lum into the kitchen with an armful of glasses. “I'm glad.”

“But it's not home,” Lum said. He eased his pile of dishes into the sink and turned to face his father. “It's not where I'm supposed to be.”

Sanh winced. “Lum, we agreed: six months.”

“You agreed. It's been two weeks, the longest two weeks of my life.”

“And ours. You're supposed to be thinking about what you've done.”

“I have,” Lum said. “All I do is wait for you or someone from home to call. All I think about is my sister, and how I'm not there to help her, when I'm the one that caused all of this—”

“What do you think you can do?” Sanh asked. “You're not a doctor. You can't heal her. You barely graduated from high school—”

Lum closed his eyes. “I talked to Bac Van. He said I could come back to the flower shop. I can go right from the airport, if you want.”

Sanh shook his head. “It's not about the money. You know that.”

“I want to help. Let me prove to you that I can.”

“I told you, the best thing you can do right now is to stay away.”

“How is that helping? Does it only help you, so you don't have to look at me?”

The floor creaked, and Sanh and Lum turned to see Madame Bourdain standing in the living room. “Excuse me,” she mumbled, her eyes trailing the floor. “We're leaving, and I needed my purse.”

They silently watched as she found her bag on the sofa, and hurried out of the apartment, high heels clicking as she walked away.

“We can't go back,” Sanh said softly. “You can't make this better, at least not right now.”

“I can. You just won't let me.”

“It's too late. I told you, the best thing you can do is to leave us alone.”

Sanh left Lum in the kitchen. His mother was waiting for him in the living room, a grave look on her face. Sanh hadn't heard her coming in. Had she passed Madame Bourdain? Had the nosy woman warned his mother?

“He is not a monster,” Hoa said, following Sanh out the door. “He is your son.”

“Cherry could have died,” Sanh quietly reminded her. They descended a flight of stairs to the middle floor, and he opened the door to his parents' apartment.

“But she didn't,” Hoa said. “I know my grandson. He will never let anything like that happen again.”

“You weren't there,” he said, walking toward the closet. “You don't know.”

“You have always been hard on him,” Hoa said, as he dug out his coat. “This is not how you treat your child.”

“I'm trying to protect my children,” he said, slipping his arms into the jacket. The sleeves felt too loose. Inhaling sharply, he realized he'd grabbed Lum's by mistake. He quickly shrugged it off.

“Where are you going?” she asked, when he finally buttoned his own coat.

“I need to walk,” Sanh said.

As he opened the front door, his mother reached for his other hand. Sanh paused. “You don't have to be like him,” she said. “Your father could never forgive, but you are better than him. I have faith in you.”

Sanh didn't respond. As he descended the last set of stairs, Sanh noticed the door to the ground apartment had closed. He imagined his brothers and their families inside, relieved from all the guests, yet still grieving the loss of their father, taking comfort in each other. Sanh unlatched the front door and stepped outside.

The spring air felt cool, soothing on his face. He breathed deeply, allowing the air to fill his lungs, relieving the tightness in his chest. For a Sunday afternoon, the neighborhood felt unusually quiet, which Sanh welcomed. He didn't know where to begin walking, but it didn't matter. The freedom to turn any corner, cross any street, felt invigorating. Sanh loosened his tie, a pale yellow tie which all the men had donned for the funeral. It was a Truong tradition.

He found himself in an open-air market. At one stall, a mother and daughter sold large bouquets of lilies and tulips in shades of pink, violet, and white. He found an empty bench and sat, watching as the mother and daughter smiled and chatted with patrons. The two women shared more than the same hair color and cheekbones. Their facial expressions and body language mirrored each other so harmoniously; coexisting in elegant synchronization.

What would have happened if they'd moved to France all those years ago? Would Tuyet, Lum, and Cherry be sitting in the house with the rest of the Truongs, healthier, happier, safer? Sanh had promised to do better for his children. Yet, Lum's life was in shambles, and even Cherry, with her AP classes and college potential, seemed lost and unhappy. Despite all their intentions and efforts, Sanh and Tuyet had failed their children. He couldn't really blame Tuyet: her father had died when she was young, and her mother was a monster. And though Hung had been a difficult father, at least Sanh had his mother.

Hoa. Beloved, nurturing, long-suffering. And naïve. A mother during wartime, she only knew how to protect and forgive. Sanh didn't know how to explain to his mother that raising children in peacetime possessed its own difficulties, ones no one could have adequately prepared him for.

Despite their argument this afternoon, Sanh could recognize that Lum was already changing. His posture was no longer haughty and defensive. He listened when his father spoke. When Lum's addiction was at its worst, no one could reach him. But today, Sanh realized his words held influence over his son. They finally mattered.

Between the flowers, a man with a yellow tie walked away. Sanh sat up. For a moment, he wondered if his son was near. Perhaps Lum had decided on a walk as well, to clear his head. Maybe he was sitting in a park, or strolling through one of the public gardens in the neighborhood, or even walking through this market. Sanh could find him. He could then explain to Lum, outside of the claustrophobic confines of the Truong house, that just because he couldn't come home yet didn't mean his family had deserted him. It was just too soon. If Lum came home now, his opportunity to change, to improve, would disappear. He needed distance and time away from the evidence of his temptations and failures. Returning now would endanger any of the progress that two weeks had already yielded. Sanh loved him too much to let that happen.

Of course, hearing this would be difficult, but Sanh would find the right words to persuade Lum. He had to. If Sanh was ever going to be a true father to Lum, they'd have to make this sacrifice together. This was not a punishment. This was their redemption.

 

1984

Kim-Ly Vo
Galang Island, Indonesia

Wonderful news. The paperwork has been approved by immigration services. In a month, you will be joining us here in sunny, beautiful California!

We cannot wait for your arrival. The children are excited to finally meet their cousins, aunts, uncles, and especially you, their grandmother. You will see much of my beloved father in Lum. And I look forward to your help in raising Cherry. She needs you, most of all.

Next week, we are moving into a house to prepare for your arrival. It was a bank foreclosure—a very good deal. We will be within walking distance of Vietnamese grocery stores, and
pho
and
banh cuon
restaurants. It will be like Saigon before the war. I think you will find it better than Saigon ever was.

Our years of suffering are soon coming to an end. They have taught me a valuable lesson: families are not supposed to be separated. While our circumstances were dictated by war, we are free to do as we choose in America. Our family shall never be apart again.

Tuyet Truong

Westminster, California, USA

 

Chapter Twelve

CHERRY

S
AIGON
, 2002

The baby looks like Grandpère. Which means he resembles Lum, but given the arched hairline, the scrutinizing, alert eyes, the way he already grabs fistfuls of anything within his reach, Cherry can only see her grandfather. Frequently, obsessively, she reaches over to pinch Anh's chubby feet. His reaction is delightfully predictable: a squeal, a gummy grin, a frenzy of leg pumps. Anh is wily, even at seven months. Though he cannot yet crawl, he wriggles and twists in Cam's embrace, determined to see and touch what he pleases, a trait, her cousin Xuan predicts, clearly inherited from the Truong family.

“He's doomed,” Xuan says, a ghost of a smile on his face. “He'll never be satisfied with anything in life.”

Lying back on the floor, Cherry realizes that her cousins liked being in the old house. They want to say good-bye. She lifts her head to find Xuan still tracing his eyes over the ceiling. Cam and Anh's cooing echoes off the bare walls and floors. Cherry attempts to follow Xuan's gaze, wondering what he is seeing, imagining. When nothing comes to her, her eyes wander back to her cousin's face, which is growing more and more into Uncle Yen's—noble, aloof, even unfriendly when he isn't smiling. And while Cam has evolved into an attractive blend of her parents, her breezy gestures and mannerisms all point to her mother. Cherry wonders who she reminds people of. It disconcerts her, how their looks, even their words, can seem merely reminders of their parents. She already hates that her voice can reach the breathless frenzy of her mother's animated demeanor.

Her cousins brought a package from Grandmère when they arrived in Saigon. That evening, Cherry opened the box to find a lavender-and-cream crocheted blanket and a rubber-banded pack of letters. Grandmère had attached a note, explaining that the letters once belonged to Grandpère, and that they had been returned from the mistress's family after Ba Cuc's death. Grandmère didn't want them—hadn't even looked at them—but perhaps Cherry did. Stunned, Cherry folded up the note, replaced the rubber band, and buried the letters at the bottom of her bag.

A sticky hand clamps down on her shoulder. Anh beams at her, softly patting her face, and the letters, the expensive airfare, and marathon flight feel far away. She isn't sure how it is possible for one tiny person to fill her with such calm and happiness. She doesn't ever remember feeling such peace, and it makes her dread the day when she must fly back to California. Just one week before her medical school orientation.

Xuan and Cam scheduled their trip with Cherry's return departure in mind. Upon hearing that the Trans planned to sell the Truongs' old house, Xuan and Cam knew this was their last chance to visit their childhood home. After a week in the city, they planned to travel through central and northern Vietnam until reaching Hai Phong, the hometown of Grandmère's ancestors. They wanted Cherry to come with them. Lum agreed before Cherry had a chance to decline.

“As much as I know you enjoy watching Anh sleep, eat, and spit up all day,” Lum said, “you're still young. You need to get out of this house.”

Lum and Tham's choice for the baby's given name came from the Trans, whose first son was named Anh. For a middle name, they chose Hung to honor Grandpère, but Cherry's parents still grumbled over the choice. They raised Lum for over twenty years. Why weren't they consulted beforehand? Despite this show of disrespect, Cherry's parents sent over six care packages of diapers, baby bottles, and swaddling blankets. They want to visit, but have to wait until their father retires from the plant in November.

“Maybe I'll move back,” Xuan murmurs, breaking the silence. His cousins look over at him, skeptically. “Lum did it; why can't I? They could probably use another engineer.”

“You're not leaving me,” Cam says, as Anh lunges over to rake his chubby fingers across the floor.

“Then come, too,” Xuan suggests.

Cherry shares a raised eyebrow with Cam. Her cousin shakes her head. “He's in mourning. His boyfriend broke up with him and now he thinks he needs a continent between them.”