The Mountains Sing(63)

“What’s going on with her?” I asked Uncle ??t the following day after my mother and Grandma had gone to work. He was sitting at the table, going through the pile of books Grandma had selected from our bookshelf.

“I have no idea.” He flipped through the pages of a book. “She doesn’t want to talk yet. Give her time.”

“Everybody tells me to give her time. How much longer does she need?”

“I don’t know.” He dropped the book, picking up another one. “Many of my friends aren’t able to speak, either. Everyone is trying to cope in their own way.”

I shook my head. What more could I have done to deserve my mother’s trust?

My uncle pushed the books away. “These are all so boring, don’t you have an interesting one?”

“I think my mother killed somebody. A baby. That’s why she doesn’t want us to know.” Words blurted out of my mouth.

Uncle ??t stared at me.

“I heard her say it. In her sleep.”

“Don’t mention such a thing! Whatever happened, I know your mother didn’t intentionally kill an innocent person.”

I picked up my school bag, heading for the door. I didn’t say good-bye to my uncle. I’d expected him to help me, but there he was, telling me off.

SEVERAL DAYS PASSED. I tried to listen to whatever my mother said to Uncle ??t, but heard nothing new. She remained cold and distant. A stranger among us.

And why didn’t Grandma do more? Whenever she was home, she buried her nose in her cooking, cleaning, and washing. As if all those chores could heal my mother.

I dreamed of leaving, of abandoning the stuffiness of our home, the secrets, the dark history. I knew where Grandma hid her money and I could take some, to buy a bus or a train ticket and food for the road. I’d go from North to South by myself, and I’d search for my father along the way. I could find him, and if not, ?i m?t ngày ?àng h?c m?t sàng kh?n—Each day of travel earns one basketful of wisdom. Once tired of traveling, I’d stay in Sài Gòn with Auntie H?nh. Perhaps under the light of my aunt’s lucky star, I could be free from the bad omens that seemed to cling on to our family.

But the thoughts of leaving vanished as soon as I saw how deep the wrinkles were on Grandma’s face. It was as if each of her children’s returns had given her nothing but those wrinkles. She was the one who’d shielded me from the bombs, and perhaps it was now my turn to help her survive those weapons’ impact, years after the moments they were dropped onto our lives.

So I didn’t leave. And I tried to find ways to get to know my mother again. Still, she’d closed all the doors into her world and refused to hear me knocking.

The week after my mother’s return, I headed to her room to tell her dinner was ready. Pushing against the door, I saw her on the bed, her head bent over a notebook, the pen in her hand scribbling across the page.

As she looked up, her mouth opened. She hid the notebook behind her. “You should have knocked.”

“Come and eat.” I turned away.

From then on, whenever my mother was out of the house, a fire was ignited in my stomach. I found myself passing her bedroom often, but Uncle ??t was there all the time. I tried to appear helpful. As I brought him another glass of water, some more liquor, a bowl of peanuts, or another book, I looked around. My mother’s bag was on the floor. A bamboo cabinet stood, the lips of its mouth—its two doors—tightly closed.

I wished Uncle ??t would go out. He’d been an engineering student before he was drafted. Without any work experience, a degree, or his legs, nobody wanted to hire him. Grandma had talked to countless people about him, but it was all in vain.

“I’m going to clean your room, too dusty,” I told Uncle ??t two days later, when he was by the dining table, listening to his portable radio.

Inside the room, I reached for my mother’s bag. She hadn’t unpacked her clothes, as if she needed to be ready to depart any day. No notebook. I opened the cabinet, my hands running frantically among Uncle ??t’s belongings. I looked under the two beds. Nothing.

How stupid of me to have hoped. The notebook was small, my mother could have brought it with her.

Days passed, bringing me only frustration.

One afternoon, I returned home to see Uncle ??t’s message on the table. His friends had come by, bringing him to the funeral of a former teacher. I raced to the front door. The lock was secured, yet there was no inside latch. My mother and Grandma could come in at any time with their key. I pushed a chair against the door, piling another chair on top. Should someone enter, the crashing sound would be my alarm.

I searched my mother’s bag. This time, it contained a worn-out notebook. I held my breath as my fingers opened the pages. Rows and rows of my mother’s handwriting, not as neat as I remembered, but tottering, as if the words were rice plants bashed by a storm.

Names of trees and herbs and detailed notes on their medicinal qualities. Pages and pages of them. Recipes for treating different ailments. Many plants bore strange names, and my mother even sketched their trunks, branches, and leaves.

I flipped to the last page, which contained more notes on herbal medicine. Some of the words had been smeared with drops of water. They’d been written a while ago, perhaps in the jungle. But from whom had she learned these herbal treatments? I didn’t remember her having anything to do with our traditional medicine.