“You okay, Ba? What happened?” Diễm knelt beside him.

  “The ghosts . . . they haven’t released your father.” Bình fanned Phong with her hat. “We need to find a good shaman.”

  Phong shook his head. Bình believed that shamans could drive away the evil spirits that possessed him. Over the years, she’d invited to their home three different shamans who performed ceremonies on Phong. They’d smoked his house to drive away the invisible ghosts. Nothing had helped. Phong knew there were no ghosts, just the bullies who continued to burrow deep inside his bone marrow. He wished he knew how to control his bad memories.

  “You need a drink, Ba? Should we bring you home?” Tài asked, sitting on his haunches, worry carving deep lines into his young face.

  Phong’s eyes teared. “Let us go home.” He reached out for Tài’s strong shoulder and let his son pull him up. As they started walking toward home, a strong wind gusted. A vendor cried out as the wind flung several of her newspapers across the street. Diễm and Tài ran, catching the pages, putting them together.

  “Look, Ba, Má,” Diễm suddenly called, pointing at a page. “A search notice. From an American!”

  Standing on the pavement, under a large phượng tree, away from shops and people, Tài and Diễm both held the newspaper. Red petals scattered around their feet and yellow leaves flittered through the air. From somewhere inside the rough tree trunk, cicadas vibrated their songs into the thick, hot air. There had been nights Phong stayed up with Bình and his children under moonlight, watching cicada nymphs emerge from under the earth, crawl up onto tree trunks, shed their nymph skin, and transform themselves into cicadas. He’d told his family Sister Nhã’s tales, tales that explained why only male cicadas could sing, and why only from their abdomens, not from their mouths or chests.

  “What does the notice say?” Bình asked impatiently, fanning the children with her hat.

  “Let me read it,” Tài tried to yank the newspaper away from Diễm.

  “I can do it better than you.” Diễm tickled Tài under his armpit. Tài yelped, releasing his grip.

  “Ready?” Diễm looked at Phong. As he nodded, she cleared her throat. “Đan, a helicopter pilot based at Tân Sơn Nhứt in 1969, is looking for Kim. Đan met Kim at the Hô-li-gút Bar on Trương Minh Ký Street. Kim told Đan she was from the Mekong Delta. If Kim would like to talk to Đan, please call Mr. Thiên.”

  Phong couldn’t believe he was hearing Mr. Dan’s name and that crook Thiên’s number again.

  “Is Mr. Thiên the same person helping Tôm Sờ-Mít?” asked Diễm, looking at Phong.

  “Yes . . . that’s him. Please . . . read the notice once more.”

  “My turn,” Tài tickled Diễm in the stomach until she dropped the paper. He laughed, picked it up, and started reading. Once Tài was done, Phong shook his head. Everything made sense now: Mr. Dan’s unusual behavior, his curiosity about Phong, his wife’s anger.

  “This Mr. Thiên . . . his name and number keep appearing in front of us,” Bình said, turning to Phong. “The universe is trying to tell us something, anh. It’s no coincidence. We should call him.”

  “Of course it’s a coincidence. He’s just an agent, a crook . . .”

  “Why do you always think that people are out to get you?” Bình stood with her hands on her hip.

  “Can you blame me, after everything that’s happened to us?” Phong said, then turned and headed for home.

  “Ba.” Diễm ran after Phong. She took his arm and shook it, the way she always did when she begged for something. “I think we should call Mr. Thiên. This American . . . Mr. Đan . . . he could be your father.”

  Phong almost laughed. Hope was a dangerous thing.

  It’d taken him years but now Phong realized he had to be a cicada nymph. He must shed his past, to be free, to transform himself into a new person—someone calm and happy. His son had been right. They should forget about it all: the visa application, the search for his parents. It wasn’t worth it to relive the trauma of his past and drag his family down with him. He should accept life as it was, raise his children, take good care of Bình.

  “Come on,” he smiled at his family. “Let’s go home. Throw away that paper. That American man is not related to us; he’s a white man. I know, because I met him last week in Sài Gòn. And I don’t want to see him ever again.”

  The Past and the Future

  Mekong Delta, 2016

  In the car, Dan studied Linda’s knees. They were still swollen, and he felt as if Linda’s pain was his, slow and burning. He took out the Bengay cream, massaged it onto her knees, and she let out a sigh of relief. They had been walking a great deal, up and down the steps of Khmer temples in Sóc Trăng and around a village known for its ceramics. In another village, they’d learned how to make rice paper and coconut candies. The trip had energized him and Linda in a way he hadn’t imagined. It made them curious about the world again, brought out their creative sides, and gave them activities to enjoy together.

  But the weight he’d felt became heavier since yesterday, when they visited an orphanage where he’d met children affected by Agent Orange. Some had missing or crooked limbs. Some had gigantic heads. Some were unable to speak and could only make gurgling sounds. As Linda embraced a young girl whose head was twice the size of her chest, he went out to the garden and wept. He recalled the times when he’d accompanied C-123 Provider aircraft from Operation Ranch Hand on their spray missions. He recalled the many color-coded drums at Biên Hòa and Tân Sơn Nhứt Airports. Drums marked with orange, green, pink, purple, blue and white stripes. Much later, he would learn that these stripes gave these so-called Rainbow herbicides their names: Agent Orange, Agent Green, Agent Pink, Agent Purple, Agent White, and Agent Blue. Like his peers—but not his damn superiors—he was ignorant of the effect of these chemicals, but still, he should have asked questions. He should have known anything that killed plants would kill people. Or worse.

  Later, inside the orphanage, when he held the children and gave them the toys Linda had bought, he kept thinking that he could be the cause of their suffering, and that one of those children could be his grandchild.

  Leaving the orphanage, he’d felt angry with himself. He should have returned earlier, done something. Thiên said many veterans had come back. They volunteered at orphanages, helped build schools and hospitals. There were veterans who settled in Việt Nam, even retired here.

  Last night, during the follow-up counselling session with Dr. Hoh, he’d told her about Thanh, Thanh’s father, Thiên, the orphanage, and the fact that many people here didn’t have access to psychological support. “Then we really need to do something about it. Let me find out how,” Dr. Hoh had said. She’d noted down Thanh’s number and promised to call him.

  A mobile phone rang.

  Linda sat up, rubbing her eyes.

  “It’s an unknown number,” Thiên said, glancing at his phone.

  Dan hoped the person who called was Kim. The seat pocket in front of him held three issues of the Tuổi Trẻ daily newspaper, with his search notice for Kim printed on them. He and Linda had had a long talk with Thiên; they had agreed that a brief newspaper notice would be safe: Kim could reach out if she wanted to.

  Thiên cut through lanes, and pulled over to answer the phone. Dan cocked his head to listen. Thiên spoke rapidly. With the phone against his ear, he reached under the front passenger seat, retrieving his backpack. He held up the itinerary, read from it, then scribbled something down.

  “He’s speaking to a woman,” Dan told Linda, and could see how nervous she was. He held her hand in his. If Kim answered his ad, their lives would never be the same.

  Thiên finished his call and turned around. “It’s Phong’s wife.”

  “Who?” Linda and Dan asked in unison.

  “Phong . . . He was with his wife and children when they saw your search notice. His wife just called. They don’t know Kim but they’d like to talk to you.”

  “We need to talk to them, too,” Linda said.

  “We’re heading in the direction of their hometown. I asked them to go to our hotel tonight.”

  “We should pass by some shops, buy books for the children—” The phone’s ringing interrupted Linda.

  Thiên answered, turning to look at Dan. His eyes were wide with surprise.

  “Who is it?” Dan mouthed, but Thiên shook his head and kept talking while writing on the itinerary.

  Dan’s throat prickled with nervousness. He looked out of the window, at the stream of vehicles. While people were moving on with their lives, he felt mired in his past.

  Thiên finished talking. He stared at the phone before putting it down. “A woman. . . . She read the notice and wants to meet us in person. I asked if she was Kim but she wouldn’t say.” Thiên turned to Dan. “She said she knew you. And she remembers that you come from Seattle.”

  Linda brought her palm to her mouth. “The notice didn’t mention Seattle. It could be her.”

  Dan sat back in his seat. He didn’t think he had told any other Vietnamese woman he was from Seattle, he’d only told Kim about his family. But he could be mistaken. It’d been a long time ago.

  “She gave me her address. She lives in Cần Thơ—it’s about an hour away. Remember the big city we passed, the one with the huge bridge?”

  “Why don’t we call her back?” Linda told Dan. “I’m sure you can tell if it’s her, after some questions. We could lose two hours of driving . . . and this traffic is giving me a headache.”

  Linda was right. They had to be cautious. Yesterday two women had called. One claimed to be Kim but wasn’t able to answer the most basic questions. She said she had to work at the bar because her whole family had been killed by bombs. Another woman was certain she was Dan’s daughter. She said her psychic feelings told her so; she didn’t believe the Vietnamese couple who’d raised her were her parents. Thiên had called her on video chat and confirmed that she looked 100 percent Vietnamese, and the woman couldn’t show any proof that she was adopted. Afterward, Thiên admitted that he sometimes received phone calls from people who claimed they were related to Americans.

  “I don’t want to drive back, either,” Thiên said, his eyes on the chaotic traffic. “But something tells me the woman is real. She refused to answer questions. She said she had things to tell Mr. Dan, things that can’t be discussed on the phone.”

  The car had taken them to the outskirts of Cần Thơ, to a residential area, green and quiet. Houses lined up along the road, their doors and windows opened as if ready to welcome faraway guests. Dan half expected Kim to be standing outside waiting for him, but there was hardly anyone on the street.

  It may not be her, Dan told himself as fear and nervousness pinned him to his seat.

  He had imagined seeing Kim again countless times, each time with her reacting differently. And now all those possible reactions were running wild in his mind: she rushed to him, telling him how much she’d missed him; she slapped him, screaming he’d killed their child; she introduced his child to him, pushing their grandchildren gently toward him; she told him coldly that she’d given their child away and didn’t know where his child was.

  He wasn’t sure he was ready to face Kim. He wasn’t sure this wasn’t a big mistake.

  “Hey . . . it’s going to be okay,” Linda said. “We’re here to make amends.”

  He pulled her into him, overcome with gratitude. The day that he went to Việt Nam in 1969 was also the day that Linda became a soldier, and she hadn’t stopped fighting. He had to make sure whatever happened next would not wound her.

  The car slowed, then stopped. Thiên checked the address. “We’re here.”

  Dan blinked. They were in front of an impressive entrance gate, framed by yellow bell flowers. Thiên drove through and into a spacious yard. Dan clambered out of the car to find himself in front of a large brick house with a deep blue door and matching window frames; a pristine, brilliantly white Vespa was parked outside.

  Thiên called out a greeting. No answer. Dan snuck a look inside the house through a half-opened window and saw pots of white orchids, as well as polished wooden furniture. He continued looking on his tiptoes, but didn’t see anyone.

  To his right, a mother hen was busy scratching under a grove of banana plants, clucking for her chicks to come. Above the chicken hung three huge banana flowers, red and magnificent. Dan hadn’t been aware of their beauty until this trip, when he saw them displayed in restaurants and hotel lobbies. His favorite dish was now banana flower salad, thinly sliced, tossed with shrimp, mint, and roasted peanuts. Behind the bananas was a garden filled with lush trees, from which many types of fruit dangled: mangoes, papaya, grapefruit, durian, and jackfruit. A marble table and two long benches stood deep inside the garden under a shady mango tree.

  “Lemongrass!” Linda exclaimed, and Dan cast his eyes across neat rows of vegetables and saw tall bushes that ran along the garden fence.

  “We need to tell Mr. Thien’s wife.” Dan squeezed Linda’s shoulder.

  Thiên called out again.

  This time, the house’s door opened and a woman appeared. She made her way toward them, across the veranda and through the yard. Dressed in black pants that rippled when she walked and a light blue shirt that glowed in the afternoon light, she was slender. When she neared, Dan bowed his head in greeting, then studied her face. She looked to be in her sixties. Though she wore no makeup, he could tell that she’d once been beautiful. He searched for a small scar above her right eye, but couldn’t see one.

  Without a glance in his direction, she spoke to Thiên .

  “She invites you take a seat,” Thiên said. As they walked to the marble table, the woman headed for the gate. She closed and latched its solid wooden doors. Dan was anxious to ask his questions, but the woman went back inside the house. Whoever she was, she appeared to be well-off. This was certainly not a scam.

  “Is it her?” Linda whispered, fanning herself with her notebook.

  Dan sat down next to his wife. “I don’t know.” Perhaps Kim had skillfully covered her scar.

  Dan’s gaze stayed fixed on the house. Perhaps the woman wasn’t the one who’d called. Perhaps Kim was inside, figuring out how to deal with him now that he’d shown up with Linda.

  It was quiet, except for the chicks’ chirping and leaves rustling. What a beautiful sanctuary, Dan found himself thinking. If Kim lived here, he would be glad for her. In all the times he’d imagined this moment, Kim had been poor and desperate. Only now did he realize that she might even be more well-off than him.

  He turned to Thiên, who shrugged.

  Finally the woman came back, carrying a lacquered tray on which a ceramic pot and several glasses rattled. At the table, she poured a golden green liquid into the glasses. Her nails were painted light pink and a large diamond twinkled on her right hand. She said some long sentences and Thiên smiled.

  “She knows Americans love soft drink,” he translated, “but she prefers to make her own, from boiled corn and pandan leaves.”

  The woman distributed the glasses around the table.

  Dan took a sip. The liquid was cold, fragrant, and tasted refreshing. “It’s really good. Try it,” he told Linda, who nodded, but didn’t pick up her glass.

  The woman sat down next to Thiên. Her hands, placed on the table, started to form fists. For the first time, she looked at Dan. Their eyes locked. He shuddered when he caught the glint of hatred in her expression.

  Thiên said something and she nodded, exchanging words with him. They spoke for a short while.

  “I introduced you.” Thiên told Linda. “She asked if you’re Mr. Dan’s wife, and I said yes.”

  Dan shifted in his seat. Sweat rolled down the back of his shirt and his hands were damp. He opened and closed his mouth. He wanted to ask his many questions but feared he would say the wrong thing.

  The woman talked to Thiên.

  “She welcomes you, Madam Linda, to her home,” Thiên said.

  “Please thank her for having us,” said Linda.

  “Thanks for the drink.” Dan smiled nervously at the woman. “Do the corn and the pandan leaves come from your garden?”

  Thiên translated and the woman’s lips curled up. But she didn’t smile. She told Thiên something. Her face remained cold and her hands were still clenched.

  “She said it’s a pity she can’t speak English anymore. Many years ago in Sài Gòn, she spoke some,” Thiên said. Dan wondered if Thiên had translated correctly because the woman didn’t answer his question.

  The woman looked at Dan and said something. He could make out the words “Seattle” and “Tân Sơn Nhứt.”

  “She wants to confirm that your name is Dan, you’re from Seattle, and that you were a pilot at Tân Sơn Nhứt Airbase in 1969,” Thiên said.

  “Yes, that’s me.” Dan looked at the woman, met a fire in her gaze, but didn’t avert his eyes. “Are you Kim?” He couldn’t believe he needed to ask. Wouldn’t he recognize Kim after having been so profoundly intimate with her?

  “You met Kim at the Hollywood Bar. Correct?” The woman said and Thiên translated. She referred to Kim in the third person. Perhaps she wasn’t Kim, but one of the women who’d worked at the bar.

  “Yes, I met Kim at the Hollywood,” he said. “She used to call her mama-san the tiger madam.” He smiled as Thiên translated. He hoped the woman would smile, too, but her face remained cold.

  “And later you rent apartment for Kim?” the woman continued to ask.

  “Yes . . .” Dan nodded. The question made it clear that the woman knew him, which was good, but it must be inflicting pain and humiliation on Linda. He turned to his wife. “I’m sorry you have to listen to this. I already told you . . . about renting the apartment.”

  Linda nodded. She stared at the table.

  “Where was the apartment? You remember?” the woman asked.

  “Around fifteen minutes’ walk from the bar. I can’t recall the street’s name . . .” Dan rubbed his palms against his jeans. He hated it that they were so sweaty.