The Mountains Sing(91)

I looked for the number I’d learned by heart: seventy-two. It could be written on any of the battered shacks bordering the two open gutters along our path. An intense stink swelled into the thick, hot air. A woman sat on the steps of her home, beating her palms against soapy clothes that filled a bucket. She shouted at some kids who were following us. They scattered like birds.

A group of men sat by one gutter, small cups of clear liquid, probably rice liquor, between them. Their Southern accents floated lazily on the heat. They stopped talking as we went by. Lifting their faces, they followed us with sleepy eyes.

We hurried past a noodle seller whose gigantic black pot and red-coaled stove bulged into the lane. Droplets of sweat streamed down Grandma’s neck. Her hair had more white strands than black. She held up a telegram, which contained the address we were looking for. Arriving at our home three days earlier, the telegram’s two simple lines had caused Grandma to faint. When she came to, she insisted that we leave Hà N?i immediately.

My mother walked in front, carrying a knapsack swollen with dried medicinal plants. Four years after her return, she was still so thin, I feared a strong wind could lift her up and blow her away. The search for my father continued, and her nightmares continued. At least we’d just heard from Uncle Minh, but the news might not be good.

Grandma broke away from me, rushing toward a shack. Rusted tin sheets made up its roof and walls. Scrawled across its rickety door was the number seventy-two.

We joined her in tapping on the door, calling out for Uncle Minh.

No sound came back, just the tin sheets crackling under the intense heat.

“He’s home. Just let yourselves in,” the noodle seller called, standing in the middle of the lane, the children around her, like baby chicks crowding close to a mother hen.

Uncle ??t pushed against the door. It collapsed to one side as if about to fall apart, then creaked open. Light gushed into a room, barren of furniture except for a tattered bamboo bed. On its straw mat lay what looked like the skeleton of a man.

He was on his side, facing away from us. His head was bald and wrinkled. Yellowish skin clung to the bones of his naked back.

“Minh con ?i!” howled Grandma.

The man struggled and turned to face us. His cheeks were hollow, his eyes sunken sockets, his chapped lips swollen with sores.

“M?,” he said. His bony hands reached out. “Mama. You’re here.”

Grandma stumbled toward him. She sobbed into his trembling shoulder.

“Brother, oh, Brother,” said Uncle ??t, embracing Uncle Minh across his chest.

My mother knelt beside the bed. Uncle Minh’s telegram had told us he was sick, but this sick? He looked twice his forty-one years. The towel beside him was smeared with blood.

Tears rolled down his haggard face. “Mama, Ng?c, H?nh, ??t. I’ve missed you—” His voice was broken by an intense cough. Violent movements ripped through his body.

We sat him up. My mother patted his back. He shook uncontrollably. Blood oozed from his mouth.

Grandma dabbed his face with her handkerchief. She caressed him with tender words until the coughing eased. As Uncle ??t leaned Uncle Minh against the pile of pillows and blankets we’d made for him, Auntie H?nh stepped back. She turned to hide her face, but I saw her nose wrinkling. I didn’t blame her for forgetting how poverty and sickness smelled; I was only used to it since I’d visited my mother often at her hospital.

Uncle Minh’s tired eyes acknowledged me as I fed him some water. I felt a silent cord that bound us. The cord of our ancestors’ lullabies that once Grandma had sung to him, and then to me.

“H??ng, my daughter,” my mother introduced me, and my uncle’s eyes lit up. He opened his mouth, but my mother begged him not to speak. She told us not to ask him questions for now. Holding his hand, turning the palm up, she pressed her fingers against his wrist, feeling for his pulse.

Grandma tried to relieve us from the scorching heat with a paper fan. It was just mid-morning, but the sticky air clung to our skin. The tin sheets continued to crackle as if ready to burst.

“You’re in good hands, Son,” said Grandma as my mother reached into her knapsack. “Ng?c is an excellent doctor. You’ll be better in no time.”

My uncle nodded, the corners of his lips lifting. He gripped Grandma’s arm, as if never wanting to let her go.

My mother placed her stethoscope on Uncle Minh’s chest. She closed her eyes, listening as if her life depended on it. She checked his eyes, nose, mouth, throat, and back. When she was done, her face bore no expression. Her fingers trembled slightly as she folded the stethoscope, returning it to her knapsack.

“You must be in terrible pain,” she told Uncle Minh. “How about a shot to relieve you from it?”

He closed his eyes to say yes.

She wiped her hands with the alcohol she’d brought along and administered an injection to his thin arm. “Please . . . don’t talk yet. I’ll brew a pot of herbal remedy. It should clear the mucus in your lungs. But first, you need a good meal.”

Uncle Minh nodded then shook his head.

“Wait.” I rummaged my knapsack, fetching a pen and a notebook.

“Where are Thu?n and Sáng?” Uncle Minh wrote.

“On their way,” said Grandma. “Son . . . your sister the doctor says you need to eat. The ph? out there smells delicious. Can we bring you a bowl?”