I live in a small apartment in Rosemead, California with my
two sons and my daughter. I had another daughter once – she would have been the oldest.
But she died a few days after her birth. She wasn’t meant to be. I remember the
night before she died - she had been very sick. I told her, “If you do not
belong to me, please go. I will let you. In return, when I release you, please
protect the rest of my children. Your future brothers and sisters. All my love
goes to you, Hao. May you never forget, Girl Not of Earth.”
We are poor, my family. My husband works as a cloth maker in
Hanoi, near one of the bridges bombed by the war long ago. We were young when
that happened. Thankfully. My children and I live in a two-room apartment, unit
2B, on the 2nd floor. My daughter sleeps in my bed with me and the
boys share the other room. My daughter, Minh, is 14 and the oldest. Then there
is Jat and Tim, who are 11 and six. Tim is the only one with an American name,
thanks to the pleading of Minh. She hates her name. Jat loves his.
My husband sends money home every month. I work as a
seamstress in an El Monte sewing factory. Every morning, a co-worker’s husband
takes me to work. It’s tiring, repetitive work but it keeps my mind busy.
We have been here six years. Today, my husband will join us.
He went to school at night, preparing to become a technician. Minh has a
friend at school whose father is an engineering manager. He promised to sponsor
my husband when he finished his training. I am excited to have my husband back
in my life. But I’m also scared. Years have passed and the unfamiliarity of a
stranger lurks and the feeling shoots up my spine when I don’t expect it.
I speak slowly and carefully, choosing words with caution
and deliberation. My voice is light and airy, which belies the substantial
weight I’ve put on since coming here. When I speak, I sometimes struggle with
my words and I may now always choose the right ones. But people humor me and
they usually understand what I’m trying to say.
From now on, our life will be better. My husband will have a
new job and will provide for us better. He tells me I will no longer need to
work. But I need to. Minh and the boys will go to school and I don’t want to be
home alone. I know how it will be. My husband will sleep on the floor at first
and Minh will stay on the bed with me. It will be a while before I grow
comfortable again.
I am happy right now. What do I think about? Lately, I’ve
been thinking about Hao. I see her. Baby in the Forest. Baby from the Forest.
Baby of the Forest. And she grows before my eyes. Small and gentle. Light brown
eyes. And I see that my eyes are no longer black. She can see through them. She
smiles and floats, gliding above the forest ground.
I think about the first and last days of her life. I remembered
the day she died. I was squatting outside, near our home. I was mashing
medicinal home remedies in one boiling pot and cooking soup in the other. At
the moment, I was dreaming. Of painting like I used to. Long ago. And I would
paint her. Endlessly. Endlessly. Endlessly. But it was never enough.
I drift off and grab Minh’s arm in my stupor. She startles.
I look at her. She is scared but smiles and falls back asleep.
My husband will come today. The future is the present. And
my past has come back to envelop me.
