Thoai stayed up all night preparing Phuong’s favorite dish, sticky rice wrapped in areca leaf. The moon was full and bright again in the night sky. It illuminated the verandah of Thoai’s house with a sparkling light as she cooked. It was the same intensely bright moonlight as the season when she and Phuong had gotten married, but the light felt empty and bland to Thoai now, as if it had lost its sparkling magic. It had been ten years. Crouched on her verandah in the bright moonlight, Thoai stared at the dancing blue flame of the cooking fire. She thought of the morning after their wedding day. It had been a beautiful morning. Phuong had teased her because Thoai had put on her shirt inside out. She wanted to hear his laughter again after so many years of living in sadness. She pictured Phuong’s laughter like an arc of light that illuminated some hidden part of her consciousness and then vanished suddenly.
Once the rice was done cooking, Thoai went to the garden and cut a fresh areca leaf with her pocketknife, and neatly wrapped the sticky rice inside. Then she used a handkerchief to clean the outside of the leaf. The handkerchief was a keepsake Phuong had given to her when they first started dating. Seeing a few stray pieces of rice stuck to the handkerchief, Thoai began to sob.
My mother-in-law said that the following morning, when it was still dark out and a light rain had started to fall, she saw Thoai outside in a raincoat, standing again next to the Chinese tea tree. She looked frail and pitiable. My mother-in-law was surprised to see her there and said to Thoai, “I thought you knew—a car came to pick him up at midnight. Last night, he said he was going to go visit you …”
Ms. Thoai’s voice, when she spoke, sounded broken. “Oh, really … really …?” she said. It seemed like she might suddenly collapse there in the rain. Trembling, Thoai handed my mother-in-law the package. “Dung,” she said, “please give this to Phuong as soon as possible.”
“Come inside for a minute to get out of the rain,” my mother-in-law pleaded with her.
“No, thank you,” Thoai replied. “I’ve got to go home now. If Lo found out, he would beat me.”
Eventually, Thoai and Lo got a divorce. Thoai ended up remarrying three more times, but she wasn’t ever happy with any of her husbands. Her last husband was paralyzed and had a dozen children from his previous marriages. Every day, Thoai worked long hours in the rice paddies. Her skin became darker and her body frail and bony, and her hair turned gray. But her eyes stayed the same—black and deep, and extremely intense when trained on someone, like two burning fires.
The South was liberated in 1975. Phuong, who had been a second lieutenant, was promoted to major. He was still single, and immediately after the war ended he returned to the battlefield and the headquarters of his unit. His only joy came from being with his fellow soldiers. The younger soldiers called him “Dad,” jokingly. Mr. Phuong loved a young private named Son the most. Son’s real father wasn’t around and his mother was still young and beautiful, so sometimes, when Son would notice that Phuong seemed melancholy, he’d say, only half serious, “Dad, why don’t you just move in and live with my mom? You know, she used to be a beauty queen. And she can cook sticky rice better than anyone.”
One day, Son and his mother surprised Phuong with a visit. Mr. Phuong’s heart jumped into his throat when he saw Son’s mother. She looked so similar to Thoai, the way she walked, her oval face, and her deep, intense eyes when she smiled. It seemed like it had been so long since Mr. Phuong had had a genuinely happy day. But nothing happened between Phuong and the young soldier’s mother. Looking at the woman’s neatly braided hair and her full shoulders, Phuong knew that he could never forget Thoai. She was all he’d ever had and all he’d ever wanted in life.
Mr. Phuong died in 1984 at his unit’s outpost near Battlefield K. He’d been ill for several months. A few weeks later, my mother-in-law received a package back in Co Lieu village that included a diary, a wedding photo, a savings account booklet, and a letter. In the letter, Phuong wrote: “Dearest Dung, I know I won’t live much longer because of my illness, so I am writing you this letter. The diary I’m sending contains the record of my entire life. I cannot take it with me, so please keep it in a safe place for me. The savings account contains the money I was able to save from my military salary. It is not a lot, but is still a big sum of money in our village. Please do me a favor: give this savings account to Ms. Thoai so she doesn’t have to live a hard life as she gets older. Send my greetings to Thuan and your children. P.S.: I almost forgot. Please keep the wedding photo and don’t give it to Thoai. I don’t want her to get in trouble. The savings account should already be in her name.”
Mr. Phuong’s diary was very thick. It seemed like extra pages had been added and that it had been meticulously rebound several times. I turned to the first page, which had a hand-drawn picture of a flying dove. On the subsequent pages, Phuong had written:
I’d just returned from patrol when I received Thoai’s letter. Even though I was exhausted, I read it right away. Thoai says she is not expecting. This news upset me a bit, but I know we can do nothing about it. Some of my comrades stole the letter from me and read it in secret. I know they laugh about our private business. Dear Thoai, please be patient. I miss you so very much.
It’s been
