Beauty Rising (22 page)

She broke down and cried. I lifted my arm up as if I was going to comfort her, but I was too afraid to touch her. She wiped her eyes with the Reverend’s handkerchief.

“I don’t know, My Phuong. I don’t know,” replied Reverend Fox.

“Reverend, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to,” she stood up and put her hand on her forehead. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.”

“Because you need to. It’s okay. We’re your friends,” replied Reverend Fox calmly.

She sat back down. I kept looking down at the floor. I had absolutely nothing to say.

“I turned away from my faith, and I ran away north, to Hanoi. I wanted nothing to do with God or the Vietnamese government. I hated them both. So I got involved in many different terrible things, just trying to forget who I was and where I came from. After a few months, I ended up in Thai Nguyen where I stole Martin’s wallet.”

“I did hear about the stolen wallet story. But this is quite an unexpected ending to it.”

“This is why I was given asylum in America. Religious persecution. I have been given a new life in America because of a religion I don’t even believe in anymore.”

Reverend Fox seemed to ponder the gravity of her situation perhaps wanting to choose his words carefully.

“My Phuong, I can’t even begin to imagine that I understand what you have gone through in your life because I can’t. I can’t even tell you why you suffered the way you have. All I can tell you is that you are loved. And you have friends here who want to help you. I would be honored to give you the apartment over the garage to stay in. It’s not much, but you can stay there as long as you need in order to figure out your next step.”

“No, I don’t want to be a burden. I’ll be all right.”

“My Phuong, please stay,” I said to her. They were my first words in several minutes.

She looked up at me, and then over at Reverend Fox.

“Okay. Thank you.”

The Reverend got together some blankets and toiletries and then we all three walked up the steps to the garage apartment. He tidied up a few things and gave her some instructions concerning the apartment’s peculiarities. Then he told her that he would be in the house if she needed anything. We all three walked down the steps and stood in the front lawn near the driveway where my dad made his terrible scene many years ago. As the Reverend said goodnight and turned toward his house, My Phuong ran over to him and hugged him. She then turned back around and came and stood beside me.

“Thank you Martin. I don’t know how to thank you. Your pastor is a really sweet man.”

“He’s not even my pastor. I don’t go to church.”

“How do you know him?”

“It’s a long story that I’ll have to tell you sometime.”

“I hope so. Maybe tomorrow?”

“Sure, maybe tomorrow. Goodnight,” I said and turned to walk home.

“Martin,” she said. “Thank you.”

“For what? I didn’t do anything.”

“Yes, you did?”

“I had no idea what happened to your family. I’m so . . .”

“Shhh,” she said and walked over to me, looking up at my large frame.

“Martin?”

“Yes?”

“Can you lean over a little?”

I leaned over toward her, and she goose necked up and kissed me on the cheek.

“Goodnight.”

She turned, walked up to Reverend Fox’s old apartment and closed the door behind her. The irony of everything flooded my emotions. In some ways, I was travelling the same footsteps as dad, but I only hoped to do it better.

I staggered home, barely ‘touching the ground’ which was quite a feat at my weight. I was seriously in love.

Mom in the Morning

First thing in the morning, I went out to the front porch to retrieve the Vietnam book that I left on the swing. It wasn’t there. I went back into the house, and Mom was just then descending from her upstairs bedroom.

“Mom, where is that book that I left on the porch last night?”

“I threw it in the trash.”

“What?”

“We don’t need any books about Vietnam in this house. That subject is painful enough,” she said as she walked by me into the kitchen.

“Mom, you had no right. That was my book. You just don’t throw things out without asking me.”

“Martin, that was your father’s book. I hadn’t seen that in years. We just don’t need it around here.”

“Where did you throw it?”

“Martin, just leave it be.”

“Mom,” I said sternly.

“It’s in the bin on the back porch.”

I rushed out and opened the lid of the metal trash can and found it lying on top. I picked it up and immediately turned to page 89 to secure my flower. It wasn’t there. I flipped through the nearby pages but found nothing. Then I flipped through the whole book, eventually grabbing it by the spine and shaking it violently upside down waiting for the fan-shaped flower to flutter out. Nothing. I opened the screen door to the kitchen and leaned inside.

“Mom, did you see a red flower in the book?”

“Yes, it fell out when I picked the book up. I threw it in the burn trash.”

I came back inside and immediately went to the inside trash can which had papers and consumables which we burnt out back.

“I burnt it last night Martin. It’s gone.”

I stood flatfooted. My heart descended into that familiar place full of despair and hatred. The place where I often hid to pretend I didn’t belong to this family. My souvenir was gone. The gift from Tan, the symbol of my Vietnamese woman, the Phuong flower was gone. I ran outside to the back corner of our yard where we had a metal burn barrel. Burning trash in Lyndora had long been illegal, but my parents never did get out of the habit. I picked up a stick and rummaged through the ashes, but there was no sign of red, no sign of the flower – nothing but a pile of ashes. I rubbed my arms against my head motioning for something to strike out at. Anger. It boiled inside. I couldn’t stay in this house any longer. I had been trapped here for thirty-nine years. But this was it. I threw the stick into the trees and marched into the house.

“Mom. I’ve had it. I can’t live here anymore.”

“Martin, what has gotten into you?”

“You throw my book in the trash, you burn my flower,” I realized how petty it all sounded.

“Martin, stop talking like a child. It was just a flower.”

“That’s just it, Mom. It wasn’t just a flower. It meant something to me. And stop treating me like a child. I thought that after Dad had died that we would be able to get along and live like a normal family. But it’s no different. You are still treating me like I am a teenager. You are treating me like I have no wants or desires of my own. You just expect me to work at K-Mart and bowl on Tuesdays. There’s more to me than that. Can’t you see that? Can’t you see that?”

My mom looked startled. She put down her cereal spoon, stood up and walked towards me.

“Martin, of course I want you to be happy.”

“Then stay out of my life.”

“Martin, you don’t mean that.”

“Yes, yes I do.”

I backed away from her.

“I’m going to find my own place.”

“Martin, don’t be silly. You can’t afford your own place. It makes no sense when you can live here for free.”

“You’re wrong Mom. Living here is not free. Not at all.”

“Martin, no. I forbid you to leave this house. I need you here.”

“Mom, why can’t you understand that I am a thirty-nine year old adult?”

“Does this have something to do with that Vietnamese girl who was here last night?”

“No, it has nothing to do with her.”

“Who was she?”

“Oh no. She is off limits, Mom.”

“Off limits, huh? Is there something going on there, Martin? You couldn’t possibly dream of getting to know a girl like that.”

“Like what?”

“You can’t get involved with those floozy Asian girls. That’s what got in your dad’s head and messed him all up.”

“Mom, we are not having this conversation,” I said as I started to walk away.

“Martin, I just want what is best for you. You aren’t going to see her again, are you?”

I turned around and said emphatically, “Yes, yes I am. I’m going to see her today. I hope to see her tomorrow. I hope I see her every day for the rest of my life.”

“Martin,” my Mother said flaring her eyes at me. “I don’t ever want to see her here again. Do you hear me?”

“As long as I live here, I can bring home whomever I like,” I said in an irritated and disrespectful manner. I turned my back on her, went to the phone, and dialed work. “Mr. Hutchings. Yes, this is Martin. I’m not going to be able to make work today. Yes, that’s right. I’m coming down with something. Yes, sir. Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

My mom immediately came into the living room.

“Martin, you can’t skip work.”

“Yes, I can. I have more important things to do. I have to go see My Phuong,” I said and stormed up the steps to my room to get ready to leave.

“Martin, Martin!” she yelled after me, but I did my best to ignore her, and I slammed the door just to let her know that I would not listen to her.

Day Two

In the three years since I had visited Vietnam, I had actually accomplished a lot. I bought a computer and got connected to the Internet. I tried to get in touch with Jason and Tan in Vietnam, but unfortunately I had lost all of their contact information. But I spent a lot of time on the web reading about Southeast Asia – especially Vietnam. I had first become curious at looking at images of Vietnamese girls – looking for that beautiful face that I saw so many times when I was there. But over time, I found myself learning about the culture, people and places of the region. One of the things that fascinated me was the Khmer Rouge of Cambodia. They declared a ‘Year Zero’ when they took control of Cambodia in 1975 announcing that history was nothing and that their entire society was starting over from the beginning. In many ways, that is how I felt about my life. I was now on ‘Day Two’. It was day two of My Phuong being a part of my life. Everything that happened to me in the past didn’t matter anymore. I had a clean slate, and I intended to use it. In some ways, I agonized greatly that first morning, hoping more than anything that she would still be in Reverend Fox’s apartment. I hoped beyond hope that she would not once again disappear like a vapor in a crowd.

At 10:15, I stood at the top of the steps over the Reverend Fox’s garage and knocked delicately at My Phuong’s door. There was no sound. I knocked again, and my heart leapt when I finally heard rustling from within and then footsteps. My Phuong opened the door. She had not left me.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning, Martin.”

“I’m sorry if I’m bothering you. I hope I didn’t wake you up.”

“No, not at all. I had just showered and dressed, and I was thinking about what to do today. Come in.”

“Did you sleep okay?”

“Yes, I slept very well, thank you.”

She wore a pair of jeans and a tight-fitting white turtle-neck blouse with long sleeves. I looked at her in adoration.

“How about you, Martin? Did you sleep well?” she asked.