The Mountains Sing by Que Mai Phan Nguyen

The Mountains Sing by Que Mai Phan Nguyen

Author:Que Mai Phan Nguyen
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Algonquin Books
Published: 2020-05-15T00:00:00+00:00


My Mother’s Secret

Hà Nội—1975–1976

Sitting next to Uncle Đạt and listening to his story that night, I realized that war was monstrous. If it didn’t kill those it touched, it took away a piece of their souls, so they could never be whole again.

A sob. Grandma emerged from the darkness, tears glistening on her face. She opened her arms, wrapping them around Uncle Đạt. “What a journey you had to go through. I’m sorry, Son.”

“I’m sorry, too, Mama . . . for taking so long to come back.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore. You’re here now.”

The bàng tree stirred, its branches rustling against our roof. I’d seen a pair of brown birds building their nest on a high branch. Now I heard them call each other. The sun was yet to rise, but I saw light ahead of me: with Uncle Đạt home, for sure my mother would return.

“Tea?” I asked.

Grandma put on her jacket. “Go back to bed, both of you.” She reached for the bicycle’s handle, then swirled around, smiling at Uncle Đạt. “Ngọc and Sáng will be so happy to see you.”

I was pouring water into the kettle when Uncle Đạt cleared his voice. “Hương, I need a favor.”

“Sure.” I nodded, expecting him to ask me to go get him more liquor.

“I hope Nhung doesn’t come back. If she does, tell her I’m not home.”

“But why, Uncle?”

“Well . . . things change. People change.”

I bit my lip. Miss Nhung looked so wretched last night. “I’m sorry, Uncle, but I can’t lie. Miss Nhung has been kinder to Grandma than Uncle Sáng’s wife. She is one of the few people who still visits our home, despite Grandma’s job.”

“It’s over between us, Hương.”

“She taught me how to ride a bicycle—”

“I don’t care, and I don’t want to talk about her anymore. Okay?”

I turned away at the harshness of his voice.

After finishing breakfast, I was about to feed the squealing pigs when my mother called at the door. Pulling it open, I met her face, wet with tears.

“Hương, where’s your uncle?”

Uncle Đạt was sitting with his back in our direction. He was as still as a statue frozen by time.

“Đạt!” My mother stumbled toward him.

My uncle remained motionless until his shoulders shook. He grabbed his chair’s wheels, turning around. His body was bathed in morning light, his chest sunken under his shirt, his face gaunt under the sprouting beard. The stumps of his legs. Their horrendous scars.

“Sister Ngọc.” His face twisted into a smile.

My mother held my uncle, her cries muffled.

“You made it home.” She knelt down, touching the stumps. “Your legs . . . I’m sorry.”

“Mama told me you went to the battlefields. I’m glad you got out alive.”

“Brother, I wish they’d taken my arms and legs instead.”

“Why say that, Sister? What happened?”

My mother didn’t answer. Her back hunched, as if she had to carry a burden larger than herself.

“Sister, something bad happened to you? Tell me.” Uncle Đạt dried her tears. “No secrets between us, remember?”

The look on my mother’s face told me she wanted some private moments.



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