The Mountains Sing(81)

We pushed the chair closer to the table. Uncle ??t leaned his upper body forward, reaching into the basket. He held up a pair of large scissors. Grandma picked up a cardboard piece in the shape of a sandal’s base, placing it on top of a rubber chunk.

“Oh yeah.” Uncle ??t started cutting.

“What’s all this?” I asked.

“Your old uncle got a job.” Uncle ??t grinned. “Making sandals. Cool, right?”

“For the Thu?n Vi?t Cooperative,” Grandma added, and I understood. Uncle ??t’s only pair of rubber sandals had survived his tough six-month walk through the jungles. These sandals were sturdy, cheap, and getting more and more popular.

“As easy as eating porridge,” he said. “I used to fix them all the time.”

Uncle ??t’s breath no longer stank of liquor. Giving it up was not easy for him, though. He’d told us to throw out all of the liquor, only to search the kitchen, screaming when he found none. There had been days when he stayed in bed, refusing to talk. Luckily, Miss Nhung had been there whenever he needed her most. They spent a long time together in his room, and Grandma told me not to disturb them. Sometimes I heard soft moans coming through the closed door and felt myself blushing. I imagined Uncle ??t and Miss Nhung kissing, the way I wanted to kiss Tam.

Thinking about Tam, my body grew hot. When would I get to talk to him again? I’d had doubts about him, but Uncle ??t had said that men from Hà T?nh were honest. Honesty was what I needed most in a friend.

“I must get back to work,” said Grandma. “If you make a mistake, ??t, don’t worry. These tires are cheap.”

“My sandals will be better than theirs, let me assure you.” Uncle ??t’s eyes stayed fixed to the scissors.

“Be careful on the road, Grandma.” I pushed her bike out to the lane. I didn’t like how bossy she was but knew she was watching out for me.

“I’ll be back late. There’s not much food left, but we still have some dry fish.”

I tested the bike’s brake. “Dry fish is perfect, Grandma. I’ll cook tonight.”

A SHOWER BLANKETED the afternoon. My mother came home, a trembling leaf. I pulled her into our room, where her bed lay next to mine and Grandma’s. I helped dry her and urged her to change; my throat tightened as I watched how her ribs protruded. Her nightmares had come roaring back. During the night, Grandma and I took turns staying by her side, holding her as she shook violently, screaming.

And I wished I could hug her so hard, to squeeze out all the terrible memories.

But my mother didn’t let me pity her. As soon as she was dressed, she picked up my comb, untangling my hair. She asked me about school and told me about her day. She was glad to feel useful again. Her hospital was struggling with too many patients, few doctors, and even less medicine. There was much to do, and she regretted all the months she’d wasted by staying home, getting angry with everyone, and blaming herself.

In the evening, Miss Nhung came and sat with Uncle ??t at the dining table. He convinced her to join him in making rubber sandals, for extra income for herself. When I took a break from my studies and went to the kitchen, I saw a pair of brand-new sandals in front of them. They were working on another pair now, he talked and she listened, laughing softly.

I went back to my books, back to the lotus flower, whose petals glowed like Tam’s face.

My mother was on her bed, sorting out different types of dried roots, fruits, barks, flowers, stems. She put them into bags, labeling them.

I brought her a glass of water.

“These just arrived from the Institute of Traditional Medicine.” She indicated the bags. “I’ve been studying about them and need to get licensed.”

“Licensed for what, Mama?”

“For practicing herbal medicine.” She drank the water.

“You’re already a brilliant doctor. For sure your knowledge of Western medicine will help?”

“Yes, once we know how the human organs function, we can better cure them with medicinal plants.”

I nodded, picked up a root, sniffing it. A sweet scent lingered in my nostrils, but I knew it’d taste unpleasant. A few weeks earlier, I’d had a bad flu, and my mother brewed me a pot of herbal remedy. I recovered fast but would never want to drink a sip of that black liquid again. I shuddered at the memory of its taste.

“Somehow you look quite different today.” My mother grinned, her dimples deepening on her cheeks. “Your face glows. . . . Is there something you’d like to tell me?”

“Oh, Mama,” I moaned in embarrassment.

“You don’t have to say anything.” She lifted a tiny scale, weighing some brown bark, putting it into a bag. “You just look so happy, I thought I should ask.”

I nodded. “I’m very happy. The happiest in a long time, Mama.”

“Good.”

“I’m happy because you’re home, and Uncle ??t is getting better.”

“And because of some boy?” My mother continued to smile.

I thumped her back with my fist, hiding my face behind my palms. “Is it written all over my face?”

“Yes, it is.” She giggled. “I was your age once, remember?”

“He . . .” I hesitated. “He’s the one who gave me the lotus flower.”

“He did?”