The Reeducation of Cherry Truong (15 page)

Émilie stepped back, smiling nervously at Trinh. Hoa didn't blame her. Leave it to Trinh to embarrass herself once again, even when Madame Bourdain was showing such compassion by confiding in her. As Émilie called for Petit Michel so she could rebutton his peacoat, Hoa dug her fingers into Trinh's arm.

“Be careful what you say,” she fiercely whispered to Trinh in Vietnamese. “They don't always understand your sense of humor.”

Trinh's expression didn't change as she smoothly pried Hoa's hand off of her. “I wasn't being funny, Mother Truong,” she said. “Not at all.”

After an hour, the women and children stepped into a bare dressing room with a small bench in the corner. Hoa offered to go last. She didn't want to disrobe until the rest had all gone into their cubicles. Cam flashed her grandmother a mischievous smile as she skipped behind the curtain, unabashed about her nakedness. Hoa disliked undressing in front of anyone. She clung her
ao dai
to her chest for as long as she could before a volunteer gestured that her bath was ready.

She walked into a cubicle with stone walls and no windows. The large rectangular bathtub was filled with slightly gray water. She clung to the volunteers' arms as they slowly coaxed her arms to relax, to release. Hoa closed her eyes as the cold spring water swathed her legs, back, breasts, shoulders. She took a small breath as her head immersed. Her eyes opened. The volunteers blurred, transforming into celestial spirits from underneath the water. A chill tickled down her spine and she wondered if this was what a miracle felt like. This was a remarkably different cold, one she found quite welcoming.

*   *   *

Hoa didn't know who to confide in. She was afraid to bring this up to Yen, who looked so happy at dinner, eagerly reciprocating all of Trinh's hugs and kisses. If Phung or Ngoan were here, she would have consulted them first. Hung remained her only option.

“I think something is wrong with Trinh,” Hoa announced to her husband. Outside the sanctuary, countless rows of gift shops unfolded along winding roads, like unending legs of a spider. The Bourdains and Yen's family were among the many tourists milling through the shops, perusing identical assortments of prayer cards, rosaries, apparition medals, and Mary statuettes. Hung and Hoa rested on a bench near the entrance of the basilica.

“She's sick?” Hung asked, his eyes squinting as he continued to read his magazine from the dim streetlamp light.

“No,” Hoa said. “Not like a cold. Like in her head. She's not right.” Hoa recounted in detail what she witnessed at the baths.

“So she's crazy,” Hung said, turning the page. “Haven't we always known this?”

“Maybe,” Hoa admitted. “She hid it better before. But I think she's getting worse. Yen is so busy with work. I worry about Xuan.”

“At least she's crazy about religion. She could be crazy in more destructive ways. Unless she becomes physically dangerous, I've told Yen to encourage her religious path. What harm can come from more faith?”

Hoa sat back. “Yen has talked to you about this?”

“Of course,” Hung said. “I'm his father. He came to me for advice on how to deal with his wife. Why?” Even in the night, Hung's smirk was obvious. “Were you expecting him to ask you?”

The children ran up to Hung and Hoa, showing off their new glow-in-the-dark rosaries. Yen and Trinh followed behind carrying two shopping bags full of plastic water bottles shaped in the image of the Virgin Mary with screw-on caps that looked like blue crowns. Trinh said pilgrims filled them with holy water from the taps in the sanctuary's Massabielle Spring.

“Are those for gifts?” Hoa asked.

“They're for us,” Trinh said. “So we'll always have miracle water whenever we need it.”

At the pilgrimage in the grotto, Hoa realized she'd never been surrounded by so many Catholics. They all held long, white candles and chanted the Ave Maria. At one spectacular view from the hillside, the procession resembled a dazzling, golden snake slithering its way toward the basilica. At the stone archway, Hoa and Xuan stared up at a row of weathered, rusted crutches. There had to be at least twenty of them teetering majestically above, irrefutable proof of the sanctuary's healing power.

“It is a miracle,” her grandson murmured, such wonder in his voice, his eyes so full of trust, that Hoa couldn't help but also believe.

*   *   *

Their last morning in Lourdes, Trinh and Xuan returned to the sanctuary to collect more holy water in the Mary bottles and to recite the morning rosary, while the rest of the group relaxed at the château.

“Are you sure you don't want to go, Grandmère?” Xuan asked as he pulled the knitted cap Hoa had made for him over his head.

“I am,” Hoa said. “But say a prayer for your grandmère. She is tired from all our activities yesterday.”

A few hours after they left, the sleet-gray clouds that had loomed over Lourdes all weekend finally sank to the ground, followed by a drizzle of rain that grew heavy on the roof.

“I expect they'll be coming back soon,” Émilie said, peering out the window. “I hope they'll stop to pick up an umbrella.”

Hoa occasionally looked up from her crocheting to the clock next to the fireplace. If they didn't come back within the hour, she'd go to their bedroom to pack up their belongings to save them time. They couldn't afford to miss the train.

As Hoa finished her last row of stitching, she heard the front door open. Trinh staggered into the living room, her hair and dark-blue coat clinging to her wet skin, dripping a small puddle onto the marble floor. Her bags of Mary bottles were equally soaked. She dropped them to the floor.

“Is Xuan here?” she asked, her eyes scanning the room.

Hoa put her blanket down. “Wasn't he with you?” she asked.

Trinh's hands came up to her cheeks, then over her mouth. She was shivering. She should have a blanket. Hoa should wrap the blanket she was crocheting and put it over Trinh's shoulders. But instead, Hoa asked again. “Trinh! Where is Xuan?”

Her daughter-in-law's eyes finally focused on Hoa. “I don't know,” she whispered.

Hoa shouted for Yen and Hung to come downstairs. Émilie called the authorities. After Hoa told the men what happened, Yen reached for Trinh, gently eased her on the sofa, calmly stroked her shoulders, and asked her to tell him where Xuan went.

The girl bent forward, eyes closed, strips of hair pasted on her cheeks. “He ran away from me. He yelled at me to leave him alone, and then he ran away.”

“Where were you?” Yen asked, slipping his hands into hers.

“We were at the grotto,” Trinh said. “We were supposed to be praying. I looked for him.” She pushed Yen's arms away, burying her face in her hands. “I walked down every street. I looked for him, I yelled his name. He wouldn't answer.”

Yen and Michel put on their coats. When Hung started for his coat, Yen told him that he didn't want his father to slip in the rain.

“Stay with Trinh,” Yen said to his parents. “Look after my wife.”

Émilie went upstairs to check on Petit Michel and Cam, who were playing in his room.

Hung glared at Trinh. “If something happens to Xuan,” he muttered in Vietnamese, “your life is over.”

“If my baby is hurt,” Trinh shouted, “I will take care of that myself.” Pulling herself off the sofa, she grabbed her bags from the floor and stumbled out of the room.

Hoa wanted to wait. There was no need to panic yet. Hung stood by the window, glaring at the mountains. After several distracted attempts at crocheting, she looked up at the clock. Only twenty minutes had passed. So much could happen to a little boy in twenty minutes, let alone the hours that had passed when they hadn't known their grandson was lost. She turned to look at her husband.

“I told you,” she said, unable to control the shrillness in her voice. “You had to wait until something terrible happened? Well, here it is!”

“Who could have predicted this?” Hung yelled. “If you were so worried, why didn't you go with them? If this is anyone's fault, woman, it is yours.”

She couldn't sit in the same room with the man. Hoa stalked through the kitchen, the dining room, the study, the family room, trying to find areas to clean, but the château's housekeeper had already gone through the house earlier that day. Hoa scowled when she realized she could still hear Hung muttering to himself in the living room.

What could have happened? Trinh and Xuan never argued with each other like Ngoan and Cam did. When his parents bickered, Xuan was always quick to take his mother's side, loyal to the parent he'd always known. Whatever happened, Trinh should have been strong enough to control and protect her child. Parents' wishes held value in their old country, but not here.

Though she didn't want to, Hoa felt compelled to check on Trinh. She knocked on their bedroom door, once, twice, and after no answer, opened the door herself. None of the lights were on, but Hoa heard water splashing in the bathroom.

Pressing her hand against the bathroom wall, Hoa flicked the light switch on. In the bathtub, Trinh huddled naked, shivering in a shallow pool of water. Her long, dark hair was plastered over her face like a soggy helmet, her thin lips white. Next to the tub on the tile floor was a pile of empty plastic Mary bottles, their vivid blue crowns unscrewed and tossed aside.

Hoa lunged across the slippery bathroom floor, falling to her knees. Reaching for the hot-water knob, Hoa twisted the fixture as far as she could. Trinh wouldn't stop trembling. She tried draping a towel over her shoulders, but Trinh shrugged it off, letting it fall into the water.

“I don't want that water,” Trinh said, batting at the fixture as Hoa used her hands to swirl the waters together. There were goose bumps all over Trinh's slender body. “It's not pure; I want the holy water.”

“Foolish girl,” Hoa admonished. “You're going to catch pneumonia.” Hoa's voice clanged off the bathroom tiles, making her sound angry rather than frightened. “How long have you been sitting here?”

“I need more holy water,” Trinh said through chattering teeth as Hoa removed her from the tub and wrapped her in another towel. “There's not enough, I need to go out and get some more.”

“Are you trying to save yourself?” Hoa demanded to know. “Or are you trying to die?”

Though Hoa was smaller than Trinh, she managed to maneuver the girl out of the bathroom, her arms wrapped around her waist, and drag her to the bed.

“I can feel their hands on me,” Trinh said while Hoa draped the sheets and duvet over her. Trinh struggled, kicking her feet against the linens. “Get them off of me.”

“No,” Hoa said, wiping away the tears on her cheeks. “They're my hands.”

The girl's legs finally relaxed, allowing Hoa to tuck them in the duvet. Trinh's eyes sprang open, but she wasn't looking at anything. “Why did you all leave me?”

“What are you talking about?” Hoa asked. “We didn't leave you. We took you with us.”

Trinh shook her head, slowly at first, then harder and harder, until she was rocking the bed, so that Hoa tried to hold her still, for fear that she'd hurt herself.

“You left me,” Trinh sobbed, pushing Hoa's arms off. “Every night with those men.”

Those men. Those men. The realization of who Trinh was talking about gripped Hoa solidly by the throat. Those men. Hoa knew. She wanted to believe Trinh was wrong, that it wasn't possible, that she was paranoid, but the scattered memories, the whispered innuendo, and Trinh's words came together so forcefully, and settled upon Hoa's skin so thoroughly, that she couldn't deny it. Finally. The Malay guards, who smiled and elbowed one another, their lascivious gestures, when Trinh slumped past them in the mess hall. She never acknowledged them or spoke of them, so Hoa never said anything, either.
Watch over my wife.
Yen had said it so many times they'd forgotten to listen. Hoa pulled the blue-and-yellow duvet up to her face and cried. She did not try to touch Trinh again, but she wanted her daughter-in-law to know she was there, sitting with her, and she knew.

“We watched a man die today,” Trinh said, her eyes drifting closed.

“Where?” Hoa asked.

“In the grotto,” Trinh said, “right in front of Mary.”

Watching Trinh struggle into slumber, Hoa realized what she must have looked like as a child, as vulnerable and innocent as any of her own sons, but now with nightmares they could never imagine. When Trinh had finally fallen asleep, Hoa wiped her face, slipped off the bed, and walked into the bathroom.

The water in the bathtub was still running. She twisted it off. Hoa sat on the toilet and watched the water, both holy and ordinary, swirl down the drain, on its way to the sewers.

Her reflection in the mirror was unforgiving. The bright, pale lights along the bathroom's low ceiling seemed to pry open every wrinkle and liver spot on her face, exposing Hoa as a meaner, uglier version of herself. She was only fifty-seven years old. Why did she look so much older?

Her eyes wandered to the Mary bottles still scattered on the floor. She knelt down, gathering the bottles into her arms, ready to drop them in the wastebasket when she spotted the sleeping Trinh on the bed. If they left for Paris this afternoon, they wouldn't have time to stop at the grotto for more holy water.

Hung appeared at the bathroom door. He glanced at the sleeping Trinh and then at Hoa, who unflinchingly stared back at him.

“Yen called,” Hung said. “Xuan slipped and sprained his ankle. He's fine. They'll be back in an hour.” His head nodded in Trinh's direction. “What happened to her?”

“Nothing,” Hoa said. “Leave her alone.”

After he left, Hoa looked down at the bottles collected around her chest. She spotted something behind the wastebasket. Gently dropping the bottles on the toilet seat, she crawled across the floor. It was a Mary bottle still full of holy water. It had probably fallen there, a forgotten casualty of Trinh's frenzy. Hoa carefully held it in her hands.