My mother-in-law said that Thoai was about twenty-six years old back then. Her hair was long and silky black, and her skin was as white as a freshly peeled hard-boiled egg. About two weeks after Thoai visited her husband in the hospital, she started feeling dizzy and nauseated and knew immediately that she was pregnant. The news cheered up her family. Her father went straight to the garden and began cutting bamboo to make a cradle for the baby, and her mother bought special pregnancy foods at the market. Then suddenly Thoai began to bleed as if she were having a miscarriage. In the middle of the night, her father ran to get a nurse while her mother sat by her bed. The entire family was worried about Thoai—they thought she might die, or at least lose the baby. My mother-in-law was the only one who knew the real cause of the bleeding. That morning, she’d seen Thoai climb to the roof of her family’s house and fling herself to the ground like a bird that had been shot. At the time, my mother-in-law didn’t understand what Thoai was doing. She just screamed and put Thoai in bed, where she continued to bleed.
Once Phuong was released from the military hospital, he was allowed to return to the village to visit his family. He spent his leave caring for his wife. Again their wedding room was full of co co flowers. Phuong sat by his wife’s bed all day long. Thoai’s face was pale, and Phuong could see the protruding blue veins running up and down her delicate neck. All she was able to eat was a little plain rice porridge.
Phuong rarely spoke during his leave. On the last day, he went to town and bought some fabric and silk at the market for Thoai to make clothes for the baby. As he packed up his things, he tucked their wedding photo into his rucksack. The moon was full again, like on the nights after their wedding day. The village felt calm and full of white light. In the distance, Phuong could hear the laughter of young men and women echoing from the rice paddies. His throat felt sore. For the past few days he’d been trying to swallow an invisible, bitter thing. It was time for him to speak up.
“How many months along are you?” he asked Thoai finally.
“Three,” Thoai replied.
“And who’s the father?” Phuong asked.
Thoai began to cry. Her face looked fuller under the bright moonlight.
“Just tell me the truth and I’ll forgive you,” Phuong said. His voice sounded melancholy, like the sad, desperate song of a lone heron lost above the rice paddies.
“Please forgive me!” Thoai said in a choked voice. “I beg you a thousand times! Please …”
A few months later, Thoai gave birth to a son. When Phuong heard the news, he sent Thoai a long letter, along with a request for a divorce in which he informed his family that he was not the father of Thoai’s child. The entire Co Lieu village talked about what had happened. Some people said Phuong hadn’t been a faithful husband. Others gossiped about Thoai’s supposed “night trips.” No one knew for sure what the truth was. After the divorce, Thoai’s party membership was revoked and all of her cadre titles and positions were terminated. Thoai and her son eventually moved back in with her mother, and the villagers saw her less and less.
My mother-in-law said that Ms. Thoai’s life went downhill after that. Sometimes she’d see Thoai carrying firewood on her back; she looked so skinny and wasted away that it took her a while even to recognize that it was Thoai. Ms. Thoai would often pull my mother-in-law aside and ask her about Phuong.
“Dung,” she’d say, “does Phuong still send letters home?”
“Yes, but not very often.”
“How is he doing?”
“He’s doing fine.”
Thoai asked a lot of questions; my mother-in-law didn’t remember all of them. But always at the end of these conversations, Ms. Thoai’s eyes would turn red and she would start to cry. She’d talk about how her life was over and about how she felt sorry for Phuong because his life wasn’t complete. My mother-in-law said that whenever Mr. Phuong came home on leave, Ms. Thoai would crane her neck dangerously far outside her window to try to catch a glimpse of him.
Ms. Thoai was remarried the following year, unfortunately to Lo, who was often drunk and a jealous man by nature. He was in the habit of beating Thoai brutally. He would tie her hair to the leg of their bamboo bed, strip off her clothes, and beat and berate her: “You’re a whore! Do you hear me? You’re lucky that I even married you.”
Phuong was very sad when he heard about Thoai’s situation. One time, when he was on leave back in the village, he went to the market to look for Thoai, who was selling vegetables there. When she saw Phuong, Thoai’s face turned red and her heart started beating fast, like the time she’d received his first letter after he left for the military.
Phuong asked her, “How’s your son doing? I have a gift for him.”
He handed Thoai a package. Then he was silent for a while.
“You shouldn’t argue with Lo, otherwise he will keep beating you,” Phuong said finally, sighing.
They were standing in the middle of the market. Tears began to stream down Thoai’s cheeks.
That was all Phuong said. Then he left.
That night, when she left the house, my mother-in-law found Thoai hiding behind the hedge of a Chinese tea tree. Thoai immediately came running toward her. She was holding a package.
“Dung, please give this to Phuong for me,” she said, her voice desperate. “Is he leaving tomorrow?”
“Yes,” my mother-in-law replied. “I heard that he’s leaving very early tomorrow morning.”
“You don’t need to cook anything,” Thoai said. “I’ll prepare some
