“When I was abroad,” he said, “I thought about that day on the river every night.”
“When I was in Truong Son,” May said, “I wrote your name on every page of my diary.”
They had had very different experiences during their separation. May had lived through bombings deep in a mountain military outpost, and San had enjoyed the peaceful beauty of falling snowflakes in a foreign country. But love and longing seemed to shorten the passage of time and narrow the space between them. Their love for each other was still there. They felt it suddenly rekindle for a moment.
San ground his fist into a branch of the pomelo tree and said, “May, we can start from the beginning.”
“Why are you saying that?”
“I’ll give up everything. We’ll live together.”
May was speechless. Overcome, she suddenly fell to the ground. San helped her get up and then sit down on a stack of firewood.
On the other side of the hibiscus hedge, Thanh, San’s new bride, was pacing back and forth, occasionally plucking a hibiscus leaf, which she wrapped nervously around her fingers.
What would happen next? Mai wondered anxiously. There was no wind blowing, no clouds flying in the sky. The trees in the garden were still. The air felt stale and suffocating.
“No,” May said, her voice breaking the quiet. She stood up and started toward the house, using her crutches. San ran after her. He took her hand. May stopped. She seemed out of breath.
“It’s going to be okay,” she said. “It’s too late now. Please leave.”
San seemed like he wanted to say something, but he didn’t speak.
“Don’t worry about me,” May said, sighing. “Everything has already been set and done. You should try to live a happy life with her.”
From the other side of the hibiscus hedge, Thanh called out, “Thank you, May! We’re very grateful!”
May said nothing and turned away from San. She headed into the house, threw her crutches on the ground, and began to sob like she had never sobbed before. Mai’s mother, who was also sobbing, helped her sister to the bed. May lay with her face turned to the wall.
The night felt endless.
Rats chased each other noisily on the roof of the house. One could hear the screeching sound of two bamboo trees twisting around each other in the wind. May sighed as she sat up against a wall, holding her knee. For a long time she sat awake next to a dim oil lamp. A blond-haired doll rolled out of her rucksack, a present she’d planned to give her nieces. She looked at the doll, then held it in her arms for a while, like a baby. When she got bored of this, she pulled out her diary and began flipping through it. San’s name was on every page. She brought the diary with her as she limped into the kitchen, then struck a match and began to burn the yellow-stained pages. Her face looked soulless. She sat like a statue in front of the flickering fire.
News of May’s return spread throughout Trai village, and soon people were stopping by the house to pay her a visit. May greeted them shyly. Around mid-morning, once the parade of guests had stopped, May took her rucksack and went to sit by the bank of the river. Mai went and sat next to her.
Quietly, Mai said, “Auntie, our family is very happy that you’ve come back. The most important thing is that you survived.”
May seemed lost in her thoughts, like she hadn’t heard what Mai had said. Her voice, when she spoke finally, sounded like a whisper.
“A long time ago, San and I used to sit in this same spot. The day we said good-bye, the pier was covered with red flower petals, like it is today.”
May sighed and looked off into the distance.
Mai’s father approached the riverbank. He seemed upset.
“May, please,” he said. “You can’t just sit here like this. The rest of the village will laugh at us.”
He angrily threw the oars into his boat and began to push off from the pier to go pick up some passengers on the other side of the river.
“Mai,” he said, before rowing off. “You can stay here with Auntie, but don’t swim in the river. There are unexploded bombs in the water.”
Mai said, “Dad, you worry too much. People drag their fishing nets through the water every day. Yesterday Ba was catching crabs and pulled up a piece of bomb shrapnel in her net. But it was okay, nobody was killed.”
Mai’s mother brought pomelo tree leaves out to the riverbank so she and May could wash each other’s hair. May’s hair was now thin and brittle, but before she’d joined the military it had been long and silky. Back then, she would often ask Mai to bring her a stool to stand on while she combed and washed her hair. Afterward, May would swirl her hair around so it would dry, and minuscule drops of water would spatter Mai’s face. San often hid behind the hibiscus hedge to spy on May washing her hair, and sometimes they would catch him and he’d be startled and embarrassed.
When it was lily season, May often took her niece to play along the riverbank. As they chased each other, May’s long hair floated like clouds in the wind. Mai had wished that she could have beautiful hair like her aunt when she grew up.
Her mother and Aunt May were very close, Mai knew. They talked a lot, though Mai wasn’t sure exactly what they talked about. Sometimes her mother seemed sad after they talked and would sigh a lot. She’d say things like, “Mai, you should study hard and help Grandpa and Auntie. Don’t go and play and leave them here all by themselves.”
It seemed like May was always sad, living with her father in the hut on the riverbank. She’d sit staring wistfully out over the water of the river, or up at the sky. She tried
