“Auntie, this baby, I . . . I don’t know what to do.”

  “Her father, try to find him.”

  “My sister and I looked everywhere, Auntie. His friends said he’s gone back to America.”

  “Without telling you? What a bastard.”

  Tears stung Trang’s eyes. She hated Dan for being such a coward. He had disappeared from her life as soon as he heard about the pregnancy. As much as she resented him, it broke her heart. She realized that she’d been deceived all along. Dan must have had a girlfriend or a wife in Seattle. One time he’d been drunk and thrown up all over himself, she had helped him change and, as he slept, washed his jeans. Inside the pocket, she’d found a picture of a blonde, beautiful girl. At the back of the picture were the words “I love you. Come home soon.” She asked him about it as soon as he woke up and he mumbled that it was his sister. She was surprised that a sister could tell her brother “I love you,” but he acted annoyed, saying that it was a normal thing for American siblings to say. Now, upon reflection, she knew that he’d lied.

  “I wish I could help you more, Trang,” the midwife sighed. “But please, think about the orphanage or find somewhere safer than here.” She cocked her head and listened for outside noise. “I must go. Sorry.”

  Trang pushed a rolled-up bill into the midwife’s hand. “Thanks for everything, Auntie.”

  The midwife returned the money to Trang’s pocket and reached into her own. As she undid the buttons, a delicious aroma rose up. She gave Trang two golden bananas.

  “I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me.” Trang held on to the fruit, letting the woman’s kindness be her pillar. “If you change your mind about visiting, I’ll be here . . .”

  The midwife avoided Trang’s eyes. She gazed at the baby. “Good luck, little angel.” She walked toward the door, opened it, and disappeared.

  Trang heard the clicking of the lock. She tasted salt on her lips.

  Hoa released Trang’s nipple, her eyes wide open, innocent, joyful. As Trang gazed into those eyes, all her worries became lighter, then vanished. What else mattered when she could hold her precious child in her arms? Outside, the wind sang. A bird chirped, as if declaring that life was beautiful and worth living.

  Trang laid her daughter on the bed, and Hoa looked up at her, the corners of her lips lifting.

  “Oh, you want me to talk to you?” Trang clucked her tongue. The baby’s eyes lit up, her legs kicking.

  Trang buried her face into the baby’s scent and tickled Hoa with her nose.

  “How about a bath? I think you would like a bath, wouldn’t you?” Next to the bed was a water jug and a wash bucket, and Trang poured water onto her washcloth. She wiped her baby gently, from face to neck, from chest to back, from hands to feet. Hoa waved her arms and kicked her legs, looking more and more excited. Trang cleaned the hands, each finger, thighs, each toe. She turned the baby to her side and cleaned her back.

  She hadn’t known there was so much pleasure in taking care of a little human being.

  After dressing Hoa, she picked her up and fed her. Hoa quickly fell asleep.

  Trang reached for her bag again. At the bottom, under her clothes, she found an envelope. Inside was the picture of her and Dan taken at the zoo. She stared at his face. She’d waited for him to come back and rescue her, but now she knew she was the only person who could save herself and her daughter.

  The entrance door opened; Quỳnh snuck in, closing it behind her. A cloth bag dangled from her hand. Trang’s stomach rumbled at the smell of food.

  “You okay?” Quỳnh glanced at the baby.

  “Yes, em. Thanks for coming.” Trang smiled, her lips trembling.

  Quỳnh gave Trang a container. “Stir-fried noodles. Sorry I couldn’t manage to get anything else . . .”

  “It’s perfect.” Trang put the box down. “Quỳnh, I’ve made up my mind.”

  “About what?”

  “I’m bringing my baby back to Sài Gòn with me.”

  “Are you crazy?” Quỳnh’s eyes widened.

  “I’m more sure about this than anything in my life.” Trang held Hoa to her chest. “I can’t abandon my girl. I won’t do it.” Once they got to Sài Gòn, she’d find an ugly nickname for her daughter, to protect her from evil spirits. For now, the baby looked too beautiful, too precious, she could not bear to associate her with something hideous.

  “How about our parents? Have you thought about them?”

  “It’ll be a shock, I know . . . but they’ll get over it,” Trang said. “I’ll explain and they’ll understand. They love me so they’ll support me.” If she abandoned her baby, Hoa could become one of the Amerasian children who scavenged at markets. There was no guarantee that the orphanage would be there forever, not when the Southern government was so corrupt and in chaos, not when the Communists had been gaining strength, winning battles, convincing many Southerners that they were more organized and capable of liberating Việt Nam from foreign domination.

  “The Việt Cộng would bring trouble to our family.” Quỳnh shook her head.

  “The war will be over soon, em. I don’t have to bring Hoa to our village until then. I’ve worried about our parents, but I need to live my life. This baby is mine. No one can take her away from me.”

  “You’ve gone mad,” Quỳnh said. “How are you going to raise her, huh?”

  “Heaven gives birth to elephants, Heaven will give birth to grass,” Trang quoted a proverb. “There’ll be a way. I don’t want a life without my daughter by my side.” The words filled her with pride. She couldn’t believe it’d taken her so long to make up her mind. Of course she was going to raise Hoa. She was going to have to work hard, but being a mother was the best thing she’d ever experienced.

  She showed Quỳnh the money that Dan had left behind. “This will help in the beginning.”

  “You’re fucking crazy.” Quỳnh fumed. “This baby is going to destroy your life, and mine, too.”

  Trang stood up. With Hoa in one arm, she started gathering her belongings.

  The sun was hiding behind a curtain of cloud when Trang climbed onto the back of the motorbike. She clutched the baby against her chest with one arm, the other hand wrapping around Quỳnh’s stomach. Quỳnh had been angry but she seemed convinced that Trang would change her mind once they were back in Sài Gòn. As the motorbike started to move, Trang held the baby tighter, using her body to absorb the bumps.

  Quỳnh was driving faster and faster. Hoa slept soundly in Trang’s arms.

  Trang made the calculations in her head. They’d paid most of their parents’ debts. She’d resume her work at the bar in a week and the money would help pay for a babysitter. Hoa wouldn’t need much during the first months, except for her milk. In Trang’s village, mothers had raised many children by themselves, it shouldn’t be too hard for her to do the same. And save. She’d save ferociously, and resume her studies one day. She would never, ever let a man distract her from her plans again.

  A breeze came. Trang took a deep breath, packing her lungs with the cool air. She bent, feeling her daughter’s tiny face with her nose. What a wonder that she’d given birth to such a beautiful human being. And Hoa smelled so good, just like a lotus. A gift from Buddha.

  At a checkpoint, Quỳnh stopped the bike.

  Two military policemen searched their belongings, including everywhere on the motorbike. They must be looking for mines; there had been attacks on this road.

  The third soldier tossed his chin at Trang who stood by the roadside, her daughter sleeping in her arms. “How old is this baby? Where’re you bringing her?” he asked.

  “Three weeks old, Brother.” Quỳnh smiled seductively at the young man. “The poor baby, she’s got terrible diarrhea. We’re bringing her to a doctor. Please, let us go before she wakes up and starts crying . . .”

  “Doctor or not, you need to be searched.”

  “Sure.” Quỳnh winked. She took off her T-shirt, exposing her bra. “See, I have nothing on me.” She turned around once and put her shirt back on. “My sister doesn’t need to be searched, please! If you do, that monster of a baby would wake up, and I can’t stand her crying.”

  The soldier glanced at his comrades who were busy checking under the bike’s seat. “Do that again,” he grinned.

  “See what I had to do for you and your little devil? Are you happy now?” Quỳnh said as the motorbike roared.

  “I didn’t ask you to. It was dangerous . . . And don’t call my baby that, please . . .”

  “She’s the cause of all this trouble!” Quỳnh gave the bike extra gas and it jerked forward. “You should at least thank me for getting us out of there. They could have kept us much longer. Don’t you know how dangerous it is to travel in the dark?”

  Trang looked down at her daughter, who still slept so peacefully in her arms. She was glad she had given birth at Ngân’s house, for it had allowed her time alone with Hoa. In the silence offered by motherhood, all her fears had gone quiet, and she had been able to hear herself, loud and clear, and feel the bravery passed down by the generations of women before her. Hoa was a continuation of her dreams, hopes, and a love for life she had thought she’d lost. She smiled at her daughter and cast her eyes across the road toward a grove of bamboo. The graceful trees stood as if in meditation, as if violence could never touch them. A flock of storks rose high, their fluttering wings penning poetry onto the sky.

  They entered Sài Gòn and neared a military complex. Trang leaned forward. “I’m thankful to you, em, more than I can ever say. I promise when—” A zipping noise interrupted her. It sounded as if a giant had just whistled.

  Trang bent, shielding Hoa. “Careful!” she shouted. A blinding light flashed. Quỳnh turned around, opening her mouth as if wanting to say something to her sister when an explosion smashed into the bike, sending it into the air. Screams escaped Trang as her whole body curled around her baby. Heaven and earth tumbled. Pain seared through her and everything blackened into ink.

  Finding a Needle at the Bottom of the Ocean

  Bạc Liêu, 2016

  “What do we type into the computer for the search?” Bình said, sitting squashed against Phong on a chair. Diễm stood behind them, her hands on Phong’s shoulders. Tài knelt on the floor.

  They were in an internet café filled with young people renting computers by the hour. Each machine was shielded by flimsy wooden partitions, and Phong only needed to look to his left to see a young man scrolling through pictures of naked women. Women with skin as white as milk and breasts as big as pomelos. To his right, a boy, barely older than ten, was playing a game, his gun coughing out fire, cutting down figures of humans as if they were useless frogs. The victims’ screams tore into Phong’s temples.

  “Let’s start with something simple.” Tài typed into the computer. “American father . . . searching . . . for . . . Amerasian . . . child.” He pressed a key and the screen was filled with images and words.

  “So much information,” Diễm gasped. “We’re stupid not to know.”

  “You call your parents stupid?” Bình glared at Diễm. “How could we have known without any internet, and without anyone telling us what to look for?”

  “That’s why I’ve been saying we need a smartphone.” Diễm threw her hands high into the air.

  “Hey!” Tài whistled. “This looks interesting.” He pointed at an image of a man with dark skin and curly hair. “It’s a movie about Amerasians finding their parents.”

  Phong settled in to watch as the computer screen blanked, then revealed the curly-haired man. Wearing a thick, old jacket, he was standing on a street empty of people, lined by low brick houses and barren trees. The camera zoomed onto the man’s face. His nose was tall, his skin dark, and his eyes so sad, they looked like bottomless ponds.

  The man told them that he’d been living in America for twenty-five years, and that he’d spent most of his free time searching for his parents. He’d spent thousands of hours on the internet and talking to people. He’d done DNA tests. He’d received help from kind people including other Amerasians, American veterans, and even strangers, but so far, no good news. He feared that his parents had either died or didn’t want him. Walking on a snowy street, shivering in the cold, the man joined a white Amerasian. Together, they rummaged through large metal trash cans. “I can’t speak much English and it’s been impossible to find a job,” the man said. “I’m still lucky, though, since I get to stay in a homeless shelter. The things that I gather from the trash, I sell to other Vietnamese. The money isn’t much, but it helps me buy the things I need, like a good meal, a beer, some cigarettes.”

  “Enough!” Phong shut his eyes, covering his ears with his palms. He hadn’t imagined such a life for trẻ lai in the U.S. Somehow he’d been sure there were no poor people in this country he’d been dreaming about.

  “This is a lie. It’s not possible,” Bình said, her voice quivering.

  “It’s a documentary made by a famous TV channel,” Tài protested. “The story must be true.”

  Phong leaned toward his son. “I’ll tell you what it is: propaganda from the Communists, who’ve always tried to stop us from leaving.”

  “Whatever you say!” Tài punched the keyboard and the documentary disappeared. The computer screen was again filled with images and words.

  “You take over now, Diễm,” Tài told his sister, standing up. “Whatever I do is wrong. Whatever I do isn’t good enough . . .”

  Phong rose to his feet, reaching for Tài’s arm. “Son, my reactions . . . it’s just that . . . the story is just too shocking for me . . .”

  “How about me, huh? You think I wasn’t upset watching it?” Tài’s voice rose above the sounds of gunfire from the computer next to them. “I actually dreamt about us finding your parents, that I had grandparents who loved me. Now I know it was just a stupid dream.” A tear rolled down Tài’s cheek.

  “Haven’t you heard that dreams can come true sometimes?” said Diễm. She pointed at some words on the screen. “This article is about someone who found her father.”

  “Read it to us, Daughter,” Bình said.

  Diễm clicked. The computer screen changed and a picture of a middle-aged woman and an older man appeared. They both looked like white Americans. Diễm started reading. Tracy Trần, the woman, was adopted from an orphanage in Sài Gòn and brought to America when she was five. For the last ten years, she tried to find her father. She had nearly given up hope when her DNA test led her to her father’s brother. When her father heard about her, he didn’t even know he had a daughter in Việt Nam.

  Phong had closed his eyes to avoid the words that filled the screen. But Diễm’s voice was too soft, almost drowned out by the noises around them. Unable to hear her, he opened his eyes. The sharp little points and barbs of the letters scraped across his vision.

  The screen became blurry. The chair under him turned into the wooden chair of his first grade class high up in the mountains. Five boys, three of them older and from the third grade, were surrounding him. One pushed a piece of paper filled with words toward his face.

  “Read these!” a tall boy said, tapping on the paper.

  “I can’t.” He stared desperately at the corridor outside, searching for help. It was empty. All the teachers and other students had gone home. He wished to see Teacher Nương, who had been kind to him, but saw no one.

  The boy ran his finger under some words. “Read this out loud. ‘Con lai mười hai lỗ đít.’ Read it now!”

  He bit his lip, his head shaking. He would not call himself an Amerasian with twelve assholes.

  A hard smack landed on his left cheek, another on his skull. Fire exploded in his vision. He screamed in agony.

  “You stupid half-breed. Repeat after us! ‘Con lai mười hai lỗ đít.’ ”

  He sobbed, clutching his head with his palms.

  “You should learn how to read, Stupid. Now, repeat after me.” A boy yanked his hair, forcing him to stare into another piece of paper. “ ‘Phong’s mother was a prostitute. She spread her legs for the American imperialists.’ Read it!”

  Phong bit his lip so hard he could taste blood.

  The words were brought closer to his face, so close that they blurred.

  “Read it!”

  He closed his eyes.

  “How stubborn you are! You filthy son of the enemy.”

  Someone stamped on his foot. The pain was hot, running like an electric current to the top of his head. He screamed.

  “If he doesn’t want to read these words, he must eat them,” a boy said and the others cheered.

  “Eat them, eat them!” they chanted.

  Phong faced the words. He refused to acknowledge their meaning. They were nothing unless he spoke them. Under his eyes, the words began to twist and turn. They turned into gaping mouths, cackling at him. They grew out of the paper, like snakes. They grasped his arms and legs, pulling him to the ground.

  The floor was cold under his back. The boys towered above him. Hands forced his mouth open. The paper was rolled into a ball, pushed against his tongue. He tasted the bitterness of words. He gagged.

  “Chew and swallow, or we’ll piss into your fucking mouth!”

  With tears running down his face, he ground the words between his teeth. The words slithered into his stomach, spreading themselves onto his limbs. They were laughing, their shrill cries penetrating his brain.

  “No!” he jerked back. The classroom ceiling spun into the computer screen in front of him.

  Phong covered his eyes with his palms and shot to his feet. He ran for the door. People were blocking his way, their eyes glued to computer screens, their hands punching keyboards.

  “Let me out!” he screamed.

  Phong sat in the cool shade of a shop’s awning, his family around him.