the line had been disconnected for some time. They learned then that Americans do not stay in a house for generations, that there are few generations and little continuity, something her father must have failed to understand about America in his time there as a visitor. The future her mother had envisioned was rewritten in that instant. They no longer had the certainty of reunion with Lý Văn Hai.
Her mother had smiled and nodded politely at the translator that day and escorted her and the social worker to the door. She then wedged the chair under the door handle and lay face down on the floorof the hallway. Her back arched and contracted in undulating waves; she was soundless, her fists clenched against her temples.
Maggie rushed to the balcony, hoping to catch sight of the translator in the parking lot, but saw no trace of her. She ran back inside and picked up the phone, yelling for help over and over in Vietnamese to a dial tone.
There was a knock at the door. Maggie dropped the receiver and climbed over her mother, unhooking the chair from under the door handle. It was Mrs. Minh, Mei’s mother, from down the hall. Mrs. Minh looked at Maggie’s mother on the floor with some surprise before sitting down very calmly beside her and resting her palm on her back. “I was going to ask if you wanted to play mah-jong,” she said, as if this were the most ordinary scene in the world.
Maggie unhinges the metal gates of the elevator and tiptoes to the end of the hall. She flicks the light switch and kicks off her heels in the foyer, padding across the parquet squares of the reception room into the kitchen in her stockinged feet. The sound of her heels on the wood floors makes the place feel too hollow and lonely. The flat came furnished with some heavy French antiques, but apart from a few kitchen utensils, Maggie has acquired nothing, uncertain of her place, or how long she will stay.
Her mother had accumulated very little over the course of thirty years in the U.S., as if her life there had only ever been temporary. Maggie realized just how true this was after her mother died. She stayed at her mother’s apartment in the weeks that followed her death, sleeping in her mother’s sheets and wearing her mother’s bathrobe, still smelling of her Chanel No. 5. She sipped tea from a chipped yearof the cat mug and spent hours staring up at the peeling border of poppies her mother had glued to the walls sometime in the 1980s, bracing herself for the task of disposing of her mother’s things.
She drank a bottle of wine one night, destroying any resolve, and called Daniel. She hadn’t spoken to him in months. “My mother died,” she said blankly.
“Oh, Mouse,” he said, piercing a heart already broken.
The regret she felt the next morning did at least give her the push she needed. She packed up her mother’s mah-jong tiles to give to Mrs. Minh, and donated her clothes and scant pieces of furniture to charity. She kept her mother’s watch and the rarely worn
áo dài
she’d had made for special occasions. It was then that she discovered her mother’s secrets. Five years’ worth of unsent letters from her mother to her father lay bundled in a shoebox at the back of the closet. Maggie had knelt down on the green carpet with the box in her lap and pulled one letter at random from the pile. The envelope was addressed to Lý Văn Hai at their old apartment in Saigon.
My dear husband
,
Maggie has just lost her fifth tooth and will be starting third grade in the fall. In just two years, she is speaking English as if she was born in this country. She is an enormous help to me. Who could have imagined when you began to teach her the English alphabet, that soon she would be using it every day? I am taking a night class called Basic English for Newcomers, but it is not easy and sometimes I miss the class because of my shift at work. I think it will be some time before I know enough of the language to retrain as a nurse here,
Her mother had smiled and nodded politely at the translator that day and escorted her and the social worker to the door. She then wedged the chair under the door handle and lay face down on the floorof the hallway. Her back arched and contracted in undulating waves; she was soundless, her fists clenched against her temples.
Maggie rushed to the balcony, hoping to catch sight of the translator in the parking lot, but saw no trace of her. She ran back inside and picked up the phone, yelling for help over and over in Vietnamese to a dial tone.
There was a knock at the door. Maggie dropped the receiver and climbed over her mother, unhooking the chair from under the door handle. It was Mrs. Minh, Mei’s mother, from down the hall. Mrs. Minh looked at Maggie’s mother on the floor with some surprise before sitting down very calmly beside her and resting her palm on her back. “I was going to ask if you wanted to play mah-jong,” she said, as if this were the most ordinary scene in the world.
Maggie unhinges the metal gates of the elevator and tiptoes to the end of the hall. She flicks the light switch and kicks off her heels in the foyer, padding across the parquet squares of the reception room into the kitchen in her stockinged feet. The sound of her heels on the wood floors makes the place feel too hollow and lonely. The flat came furnished with some heavy French antiques, but apart from a few kitchen utensils, Maggie has acquired nothing, uncertain of her place, or how long she will stay.
Her mother had accumulated very little over the course of thirty years in the U.S., as if her life there had only ever been temporary. Maggie realized just how true this was after her mother died. She stayed at her mother’s apartment in the weeks that followed her death, sleeping in her mother’s sheets and wearing her mother’s bathrobe, still smelling of her Chanel No. 5. She sipped tea from a chipped yearof the cat mug and spent hours staring up at the peeling border of poppies her mother had glued to the walls sometime in the 1980s, bracing herself for the task of disposing of her mother’s things.
She drank a bottle of wine one night, destroying any resolve, and called Daniel. She hadn’t spoken to him in months. “My mother died,” she said blankly.
“Oh, Mouse,” he said, piercing a heart already broken.
The regret she felt the next morning did at least give her the push she needed. She packed up her mother’s mah-jong tiles to give to Mrs. Minh, and donated her clothes and scant pieces of furniture to charity. She kept her mother’s watch and the rarely worn
áo dài
she’d had made for special occasions. It was then that she discovered her mother’s secrets. Five years’ worth of unsent letters from her mother to her father lay bundled in a shoebox at the back of the closet. Maggie had knelt down on the green carpet with the box in her lap and pulled one letter at random from the pile. The envelope was addressed to Lý Văn Hai at their old apartment in Saigon.
My dear husband
,
Maggie has just lost her fifth tooth and will be starting third grade in the fall. In just two years, she is speaking English as if she was born in this country. She is an enormous help to me. Who could have imagined when you began to teach her the English alphabet, that soon she would be using it every day? I am taking a night class called Basic English for Newcomers, but it is not easy and sometimes I miss the class because of my shift at work. I think it will be some time before I know enough of the language to retrain as a nurse here,
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