How true. Everyone came from dust and would one day return to dust. Life was transitory, after all. Trang had thought about returning to dust. It would be simple. She would plunge into the Sài Gòn River. The fast current would sweep her away, pulling her down into an abyss of dreamless sleep. But if she did that, what would happen to her parents and her sister?

  After Dan left, she could no longer afford the apartment he’d rented for her. She moved back with Quỳnh. As her pregnancy became obvious, she stopped working. She stayed inside and hid herself from curious eyes. And now, she was about to go out on the street.

  She glanced at her stomach. She looked and felt like a pregnant buffalo. For sure someone would notice her on the street, and the news might travel to her parents. She thought about her mother bending over her father’s bed, cleaning him and changing him. Her father had fallen sick again. He couldn’t walk, the doctors had been wrong. He was scheduled for another surgery.

  How would her parents react if they found out about the baby? She shuddered at the thought. Several years before, in her home village in Phú Mỹ, a mother committed suicide after her daughter had died giving birth. The daughter was unmarried and the villagers’ malicious whispers were too much to bear. If Trang’s parents knew about the pregnancy, they’d surely blame themselves; perhaps they wouldn’t survive such a shock.

  Sweat slid down Trang’s neck. She’d heard frightening stories about childbirth. She hated this baby. She wished it would disappear.

  She had considered going to a hospital or a medical clinic for her delivery, but then she would have to present her papers, which had her address back home. And she would risk meeting people who knew her parents or relatives.

  Someone pulled her arm. Trang looked up to see Đông, her roommate. “Bồ tèo,” Đông said, “come and talk to us.” She took Trang’s hand.

  Trang sat down on her bed.

  Đông handed her a glass of water. “Drink up. It’s hot out there.”

  “The midwife, are you sure she’s capable?” Trang asked.

  Đông nodded. “She’s very experienced. She used to work at Hóc Môn’s maternity hospital and retired recently. She delivered my elder sister’s baby. My mother always said that when I give birth, she’d want Mrs. Yến to be the midwife.”

  “You really think it’s a good idea?”

  “You’re the one who should decide, Trang,” Đông said. “Since you’re so terrified about your parents finding out, having Mrs. Yến as your midwife is a good option. My cousin Ngân’s house . . . it’s just down the road from the midwife’s. The best thing is that the orphanage is close by.”

  Trang nodded. Quỳnh had been to Ngân’s house, she said it was simple but comfortable enough; she’d also met with the midwife and talked to the nuns at the orphanage, who were willing to help. Trang held back tears thinking about all the women who were reaching out with helpful hands while no man did so much as lift his.

  Đông and Nguyệt went through the contents of Trang’s bag again: a few sets of clothes, a washcloth, lots of dark-colored underwear, a toothbrush, ten pieces of soft, white cotton fabric for diapers, and two sets of baby clothes—one blue and one pink. Đông and Nguyệt had brought these clothes for the baby. No one knew whether the baby was a boy or a girl, and Trang didn’t care.

  Đông went downstairs and came back quickly, panting. “Quỳnh’s here. Let’s go.”

  Trang put on her sun jacket and her cloth hat.

  Đông walked ahead with the brown bag while Trang followed, descending the stairs at the back of the building. Her bulging belly was hindering her view of the steps. She held on to Nguyệt’s elbow.

  Soon she was out of breath. She gestured to Nguyệt and they slowed down. Reaching the ground floor, she tried to control her breathing. She snuck a look and caught a glimpse of her landlady’s back. She ducked and pulled the hat’s rim lower. The radio was still on, broadcasting news of a VC attack in Thủ Đức, on the outskirts of Sài Gòn. She shivered, thinking about the village Quỳnh was about to drive her to. She knew it was in Hóc Môn but didn’t know whether that was in the same direction as Thủ Đức.

  She squeezed through a tiny door and into the back alley. From beneath the brim of her hat, she could see a sagging Honda 67. Quỳnh sat in the front; a food bag had been secured to the motorbike, between her legs. Đông tethered Trang’s belongings to the back with rubber cords.

  Trang climbed onto the bike, her belly squashed against Quỳnh’s back. She placed her feet on the footrests and held on to her sister’s waist with both hands. Her pants felt so tight, she feared she’d faint. This baby was the cause of all her trouble. Once it came out, she wouldn’t give it a name. She wouldn’t look at its face. She’d give it to Quỳnh and ask her to take it to the nuns immediately.

  “Thu Hoa ơi, Thu Hoa ơi,” Trang called her daughter’s name. With both hands, she lifted the baby to her face. Hoa was asleep. Sunlight leaked through the closed window and lit up her fair skin, hazel hair, and high nose.

  “Why do you have to look so American, so much like him?” Trang said to her two-day-old infant. Hoa was light in Trang’s hands, the blue shirt was too big for her, and the cloth diaper that Trang had wrapped and tied around her bottom hung loose.

  A rattling came from above her head and Trang shrank, looking up. The VC could be hunting for women like her. She imagined black muzzles piercing through the layers of coconut leaves, coughing out fire.

  Trang held her baby tight against her chest. With her heart hammering against her rib cage, she quietly got up from the bamboo bed and stood next to a rattan clothing cabinet in the corner, her hand clutching her weapon—a hoe, which she’d found in the front yard. She wished that Ngân was home, but Ngân had gone to her parents’ to help take care of her sick mom.

  Outside was nothing but empty fields. Ngân had said American airplanes had been spraying some type of chemical. Since then all the crops just withered and died. “My father told me it’s stuff to make leaves fall off trees, so their soldiers can see the VC more easily.” Ngân had sighed. “The war doesn’t just kill people, it robs our livelihood and destroys nature.”

  Silence, then the squeak of rats. Trang let out a sigh of relief. She got back to the bed and gently lowered her daughter onto the straw mat. She admired Thu Hoa. The curled fingers. The small hands, already dotted with mosquito bites. The chubby legs and the little toes. Every part of this baby had come from inside of her. It was a miracle that she’d given birth to such a perfect human being. Perfect except for the mosquito bites. She blew on the red dots, blaming herself for not being careful enough.

  Hoa stirred, turning her face toward Trang, her mouth opening, searching. Trang unbuttoned her shirt. Her chest ached as the milk started to flow. Hoa’s hand reached up and met Trang’s hand. Trang held on to the tiny fingers, lifting them to her nose. They smelled like flowers. She cried into them.

  She’d been so sure about giving Hoa away. She’d told Quỳnh to go and prepare the nuns at the orphanage for the baby’s arrival. With each passing minute, though, the bond between her and Hoa grew stronger, as if Hoa was becoming a part of her body again.

  Hoa sucked hard; she was hungry, and so was Trang. She still had some cooked rice in the kitchen, but nothing to eat it with. She hoped Quỳnh would come back soon with food. But then Quỳnh would want to take the baby away. Trang’s chest grew heavy, just thinking about it.

  The heat, the slant of sunlight, and the wailing of cicadas told her it must be early afternoon.

  Hoa released Trang’s breast, opened her mouth and started to fuss.

  “Don’t cry, don’t cry,” Trang whispered, switching her to the other breast.

  Again Hoa drank greedily; droplets of sweat lingered on her forehead and Trang bent, kissing them away. She caressed Hoa’s hair. How fine the strands were. As fine as Dan’s hair. Where was he now, and did he have any regrets? How would he feel if he knew how beautiful his daughter was?

  Weeks ago, she’d been to Tân Sơn Nhứt again, looking for Dan. The guards there, armed with rifles and cold stares, had told her to leave. After lingering outside the airbase for several hours, she saw one of his friends. She ran to him, asking for Dan. “He’s packed up and gone home. That lucky bastard,” the man said, staring at her swollen stomach. He ignored her questions, waved for a taxi, and left.

  Hoa’s lips were moving more and more slowly. They stopped, then moved again. Trang looked out of the bedroom, toward the house’s entrance.

  Two days prior, Trang was on the mat and in terrifying pain when she heard the baby’s first oe oe.

  “Trang, feed her.” Mrs. Yến put the baby in Trang’s right arm. The baby was as slippery as a fish and as small as a cat, her skin wrinkled. Yet in Trang’s embrace, she stopped crying. She opened her lips as the midwife guided Trang’s nipple toward the infant’s mouth. As the baby sucked, Trang felt tiny heartbeats against her chest. A strange sensation overcame her and suddenly her tears came. Her pain eased and calmness spread through her. She had a daughter. A daughter!

  While the baby ate greedily, Mrs. Yến wiped her clean. Quỳnh didn’t touch the baby. She dropped the pink dress onto the bed and stepped away.

  Mrs. Yến taught Trang how to wrap and tie the cloth diaper around the baby’s hip. “When you hold her, always support her back and neck. They’re very weak right now. Oh, and before I forget, you should get up as soon as you can and move around. Drink plenty of water, otherwise your constipation will be worse than labor pain.”

  Trang caressed her daughter’s face. Her skin was as soft as rice powder.

  Mrs. Yến wiped Trang’s thighs with a towel. “Such a large baby, and you don’t have a tear. You did well, really well.”

  Trang smiled. It had been a long time since anyone told her she was good at anything. She hoped Quỳnh heard it, but her sister was at the door, listening for outside noise.

  The midwife pulled the blood-soaked towels off the bed and put them into a bag. She folded a piece of cloth diaper and placed it inside Trang’s underwear. “You’ll bleed the next few days, but it’s normal.” She lifted Trang’s hips and slid the underwear on.

  Trang felt overwhelmed with gratefulness. “Cảm ơn dì.”

  Mrs. Yến nodded. “I have to go.”

  Quỳnh let her out of the house. Trang gazed at the creature she was holding. How wonderful that she could stop the baby from crying by feeding it. She sensed the baby knew who her mother was. And look, the baby was falling asleep on her breast, her long eyelashes fluttering.

  Quỳnh sat down next to her. “Are you hungry, chị Hai? I have some sticky rice.”

  Trang shook her head. “Water, please.”

  “I have something better.” Quỳnh rummaged in her bag for a small carton of milk. Trang drank and smiled at Quỳnh. How lucky she was that her younger sister had arrived in time. The pain had started early that morning, when it was still dark out. As daylight came, it became almost unbearable. But Trang dared not go to the midwife, fearing she’d meet the VC on the road. She was on the floor, digging her nails into her palms, hoping the midwife would come check on her as she’d promised, when someone reached for her. Through her tears, she saw Quỳnh. She hadn’t even heard her younger sister, nor the motorbike. Quỳnh told her to stay calm and ran for the midwife.

  Trang wanted to thank Quỳnh but her eyelids were as heavy as bricks. “I think I’ll sleep a little.” She was still half naked but didn’t care.

  “Of course. You must be exhausted.”

  Trang gazed at the baby once more before sleep drifted her away.

  She woke to rays of sunlight slicing across the room. It must be late afternoon. Hoa was still sleeping soundly, her head resting on her arm.

  “How do you feel?” Quỳnh’s voice said. Trang looked up to see her younger sister sitting next to her.

  “Much better.”

  “Good. Ready to go?”

  “Go where?”

  “The orphanage.”

  Trang turned to the baby. The corners of the rosy lips were lifting, as if smiling. In her pink dress, Hoa looked like a lotus flower.

  “She is too small,” Trang found herself saying. “Give me another day, please. She’ll be stronger then. I just want to make sure that she lives.”

  “She will. As I said, the nuns at the orphanage take care of newborns all the time. And I can’t wait another day.”

  “Then come back tomorrow . . . please.”

  “Sister, do it now! The more time you spend with her, the more difficult it’ll get.”

  Trang gazed at the baby again. She’d had a good rest, and her head was clear. She knew what she wanted. “Just one more day, please, em.”

  “It’ll cry, and the neighbors will hear.”

  How annoying that Quỳnh was calling the baby “it,” the same way she’d refer to an animal.

  “Not if I feed her,” Trang said. “Don’t you think it’s a miracle that I have milk for her? I actually have milk!”

  Quỳnh stood up. She stomped her feet; as if this could release her anger. She paced the room. Trang looked around and realized that her bags of clothes and food were gone.

  “Chị Hai, snap out of this, won’t you?” Quỳnh shook her head. “I can’t do this any longer. I’m damn tired. I can’t keep supporting you like this. You’re my older sister, you’re supposed to take care of me.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry.” Trang noticed how skinny Quỳnh had become. All those long motorbike trips must have been exhausting. “I’m forever grateful to you, em. I know I’ve been selfish, but what I’m asking is one more day, just one more . . .”

  “If you care for me, you wouldn’t have done this. You’ve wasted too much of our time.” Tears rolled down Quỳnh’s dusty face. “More and more girls have come to the city since you stopped working. You can’t believe how difficult it is now to get a guy. And at our bar, we’re fighting for each customer, like dogs for a bone.”

  “When I’m back, I’ll help you fight.” Trang smiled. “Women are fat after giving birth, but I’m still slim, you see? Just my boobs got bigger. American men will like that.” She lifted her breasts, bobbing them up and down.

  “What I am saying is . . .” Quỳnh reached for her bag. “If you care for me, you’ll let me take the baby to the orphanage. Now!”

  “Please, em . . . I told you, and I’m begging you again. Just one more day. I want to make sure that Hoa will live.”

  “I hate that name. And I hate him. I hate him for destroying us.”

  “Quỳnh, please.”

  Quỳnh held out her arms. “Give it to me. The nuns will take good care of it. Better than you ever can.”

  Trang held on to the baby tight. “No! Just one more day, I beg you.”

  Quỳnh rolled her palms into fists and beat them onto the floor. She went out and brought back Trang’s belongings. She left for Sài Gòn without a word.

  Trang drifted in and out of sleep that night. As soon as the baby made the slightest noise, she was up, feeding her. Throughout the dark hours, she reached for the baby’s chest and nose, time and time again. She feared her daughter might stop breathing.

  The next day with the baby passed in a flash. How different it was compared to the previous week, when each day seemed like a year. Trang discovered that when the baby turned toward her, her mouth opening like a bird, she was hungry. When the baby kicked her legs, she was happy. When the baby gazed at Trang with her brown, innocent eyes, the world stopped moving and nothing else mattered.

  For the first time in Trang’s life, a human being depended on her entirely and she could satisfy its every need. Her day was occupied with feeding Hoa, putting her to sleep, changing her diapers, and humming lullabies. And she found herself telling her daughter the stories she’d read. She knew now that to live without imagination was only to exist, and to be without books was the greatest punishment.

  Hoa was sound asleep. Trang rocked her slightly, then laid her down on the bed. She got up, twisting her body. Her bones creaked.

  She was about to go to the bathroom when a noise came from the front door. She knew it wasn’t Quỳnh, as she hadn’t heard the motorbike. She raced to the baby, picked her up, and hid behind the rattan cabinet, one hand gripping the hoe.

  Sound of a key. The door was pushed open and light rushed in.

  She blinked, trying to recognize the person who’d appeared before her. The door quickly closed.

  “Trời ơi,” a low voice said. “You’re still here?”

  Trang let out a sigh of relief. She released the hoe. “Dì Yến . . .”

  “How’s she doing?” The midwife opened her arms to receive Hoa.

  “She drinks a lot and sleeps plenty.” Trang smiled.

  “She’s adorable.” Mrs. Yến admired the baby, who now opened her eyes. Mrs. Yến clucked her tongue. “Oh you cutie, you cutie . . . All of us Vietnamese want to have your high nose. We want your white skin. Are you giving me some? How about giving me some?”

  Trang smiled, delirious that the midwife agreed with her: Hoa must be the most beautiful baby ever born.

  “Such a good little girl.” Mrs. Yến handed Hoa to Trang and pulled a tiny flashlight out of her shirt pocket. “Does it still hurt?” She examined Trang’s lower lip. “I’ve never seen a girl as brave as you. Giving birth without a single cry. You were biting your lip so hard, I was afraid a piece would fall off.”

  Trang winced.

  “It looks bad. You don’t want it to be infected. Tell your sister to get some medicine.”

  Trang nodded. She hoped her lip would heal by itself. She’d burdened Quỳnh enough.

  The midwife lifted the baby’s shirt, examining her. “She’s quite healthy. You’re doing a great job.”

  “Really, Auntie? I wasn’t sure.”

  “Trust yourself. Look, the umbilical cord is drier, so that’s excellent. Just let it be. It’ll fall off by itself.” The midwife put the torch away. “All is good. I don’t think you need me anymore. Anyway, I’m going away for a few days. The Black Virgin Mountain. I take my mother there every year to pray.”