Darkroom (7 page)

“Will she be all right?”

“This kind of flare-up isn’t all that common for patients with MS. The degree of her pain concerned me, so I ran some more extensive blood tests.”

“Did you find anything?”

Choi lowers the clipboard and holds it behind his back. “Yes.”

“And?”

“Doctor-patient confidentiality prevents me from sharing this with you without Mrs. Colson’s consent.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“I’m bound by an ethical code.”

At this, I rise to my feet. Surprised by my height, the doctor takes a step or two back. “Dr. Choi, you need to tell me what’s in that report.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Colson, I—”

“My attorney will be happy to discuss the terms of Mrs. Colson’s health-care power of attorney. I have a legal right to know, especially since she’s incapacitated. Now, do we still have a problem, Doctor?”

Like a cornered rabbit, Choi’s eyes grow wide, darting between the door and Suzanne.

“Do we have a problem!”

“N-no sir.” He stutters and hands me the report. “But I’d feel
more comfortable if you discuss this with my supervisor from this point on.” Without mentioning who exactly that is, he steps out of the room.

But I’m already scrutinizing the report, too engrossed to notice. Struggling to decipher the cryptic medispeak, I come upon a page with the word highlighted in bold print: DIAGNOSIS …

The clipboard falls to the floor.

11

XANDRA CARRICK

Could this day get any worse?

Best not to ask. Not even rhetorically.

Toweling off after my second shower of the morning, I stare out over the bare tree branches in Central Park. Like mindless automatons, people walk to and fro like ant drones. But ant drones at least stop momentarily to touch antennae and communicate. Those people out there don’t even seem to notice one another, though they brush up against one another frequently.

Did that kid who splashed me with his bike even know what he’d done? Too often people in this city pretend that others in close proximity don’t exist. It’s the only way, I suppose, to cope with being crowded next to complete strangers on the subway, the bus, or the sidewalk. We’d go insane here in Manhattan if we had any delusions of Texas-size personal space.

About the only personal space I have is my apartment. On the kitchen table sits the Graflex, its lens winking as though it knows something I don’t. I exposed the remaining film on the pond and the ducks that waddled through the puddle with which I’d been baptized. At the very least, I’ll be able to develop the shots from Bình Sơn.

I’ve converted one of my closets into a darkroom, something I would never have done had Dad not given me his Graflex. “Taking
the shot is only half the game,” Dad always says. “The real magic happens in the darkroom.” Judging by his work, I’ve got to agree.

Thankful for the 70mm film-back adapter and the developing tank I got for a hundred bucks on eBay, I get right to work. The chemicals’ sour smell makes my eyes water. What price, Luddism? Dad would be proud.

It’s taking longer than I remember from photography lab at Stuyvesant High School. Back then, we were working with 35mm.

Finally, I’ve finished exposing a couple of proof sheets. Because I enjoy the thrill of watching the images come up, I’ve always placed the exposed sheet in the tray with the emulsion side up. Let’s start with the ducks, Huey, Dewey, and Louie. Three of them in a row.

Fading into view, the waddling apparitions look as though they’re smiling. I had to get down pretty close to the ground for that shot.

The next print is the pond itself. What I like most about this shot is the glassy water reflecting the trees. I tilt the tray back and forth for the proper agitation—there’s a word for you—and the edges of the pond fade into view. The ripples in the developer solution almost look as if they were in the pond itself. More of the pond’s reflective surface emerges.

And then, something completely unexpected happens.

Blinking incredulously under the safelight’s blood-red glow, I’m tempted to flip the fluorescent light switch on to make sure I’m not just seeing things. Something appears that cannot possibly be.

Finally, after blinking twice in disbelief, the entire image comes up clear as day. My eyes confirm what my mind cannot fathom.

A scream threatens to bust from my lungs.

12

GRACE TH’AM AI LE

University of Agriculture and Forestry
Saigon: March 30, 1975

It has been over two years since I learned of Huynh Tho’s death. Though I continue to grieve his loss, I have come to accept it. So much has changed. Most of the American soldiers have left Vietnam. I have completed almost all my studies and will graduate this year, if the war permits.

Peter Carrick, who travels throughout Vietnam taking pictures of the war, has come to visit periodically, checking on my well-being, seeing if I need anything.

In the past five days, both Huế and Da Nang have fallen to the Communist forces of the North. However, living in Saigon is like wearing a blindfold. If not for television and radio, you might not know our country is being torn apart. But now, with reports of the Communists approaching the South, I worry that Saigon might soon come under attack.

Peter told me about the horrible things the Americans found after they repelled the National Liberation Front from Huế seven years ago. Mass graves and evidence of unspeakable atrocities perpetrated by the Vietcong. Now they have taken Huế again.

What if the Communists come to Saigon? It is said that they target Catholics, intellectuals, and businessmen, treating them as
counterrevolutionaries. Eight Americans who had been captured in Ban Me Thout were said to have been executed, perhaps by beheading.

How could this be? How could my brother have joined hands with these people?

I have fully recovered from my gunshot wound, but as for my heart and mind, I am not so sure. Some of my wealthier classmates have left the country with their families. Classes have been postponed indefinitely.

I, however, have nowhere else to go.

Whenever Peter returns, he stops by to bring me apples and oranges or whatever he finds in his travels that he thinks I might enjoy. Perhaps he feels guilty about Huynh Tho. I still wrestle with his death.

Frightful and cruel as the Vietcong may be, Huynh Tho was killed by American soldiers. I do not know who I am most angry with. I suppose I am most angry at the war itself.

Yesterday, Peter brought
Phở Ga
(noodle soup with chicken) for lunch. I was surprised when he arrived at my dormitory with most of it spilled on his clothes. “I meant for us to sit in the courtyard for a light lunch and a chat,” he said.

I handed him a towel. “I think Chinese people eat those, and dogs too.”

“No, that’s
cat
. I said
chat.
”

“How is that spelled?”

“c-h-a-t.”

“
Le chat?
No, the French don’t eat those.”

If not for his endearing smile, I would have been mortified at my confusion. I soon learned that he meant for us to have lunch and informal conversation. This came as a welcome diversion from my depressing thoughts.

“Let’s get something from the cafeteria,” I said, helping him dispose of the unfortunate Phở Ga. “I know of a pleasant garden where few people go.”

We arrived with our food and a blanket and settled under a
Cinnamomum loureiroi
, or a Saigon cinnamon tree, as it is commonly called. There, we lay on our bellies and for the entire time partook of our meal in silence.

There was no need to speak. The rustling leaves and birdsongs were enough to help me forget that the war that had claimed so many lives—children, mothers, brothers, fathers—raged on, not far from the haven of Saigon.

For now, I would content myself with this peace.

“Grace, what will you do when …” Peter struggled to fashion his thoughts into words.

“When what?” I was now lying back with my head resting on my bundled up sweater, gazing at the shapes of the clouds. “Oh, that one looks like a rabbit, don’t you think?”

“I think it looks like Santa’s beard.”

“Whose?”

Taking his place next to me so he could see better, Peter said, “What will you do when—if the Communists come to Saigon?”

The question had remained in the back of my head, like a forgotten, half-eaten apple in a dusty corner. “I have not given it much thought.” The rabbit stretched and came apart. Through its remains, a black helicopter soared westward through the sky.

“People have been evacuating. The concerns are real. If the Communists take Saigon, God only knows.”

“What will
you
do, Peter?”

He pointed at another cloud. “What does that one look like to you?”

“You tell me.”

He stared intently and frowned. “A shovel.”

“To me, it is a sword.” How odd, I never thought of such things. Small animals, trees, and flowers are what I usually saw. Not weapons. “Will you be evacuating too?”

“I’m afraid I must.” He turned to face me, his eyes searching. “They’re urging all Americans to leave. I’ve only stayed this long because …” He stopped and turned away.

“Why, Peter? Why have you stayed?”

Without explanation, he stood and walked ahead toward the shrubs. I sat up to see what he was doing. Every now and again, he opened his mouth, as if to speak, and gestured with his hands. But each time, the words seemed to fail him. Finally, he turned back and sat next to me. “I stayed because of something you told me when I told you Huynh Tho had died.”

“I said many things.”

“You said you were alone in the world, your family gone, your entire village destroyed. I didn’t feel right just—”

“So it is your pity that keeps you here?”

“No, it’s not that.”

“Thank you for your concern, Peter Carrick.” I stood up and began to march back to my room. “But you may keep your pity!”

Saigon: April 9, 1975

Since our last meeting, I have not seen Peter even once. If only I had not been so prideful. How ungrateful and unbecoming of me to treat so poorly this man who, from the day we met, only meant well.

Where is he now? Has he gone back to America? Da Nang fell last week, and thousands of people tried to evacuate before it was too late. Some three hundred of our armed soldiers tried to force their way onto a World Airways plane that landed at the Da Nang airport. Some of the people there, desperate to flee the city, actually lay down under the plane to prevent it from taking off. As many as thirty people died, some of them crushed under the wheels as the plane took off. When it landed here in Saigon, the rebellious soldiers were placed under guard.

That is how bad things are getting. What will I do?

Saigon: April 11, 1975

About nine thousand evacuees from the Da Nang coast boarded an American military chartered ship that brought them to Cam Ranh Bay toward the south.

What will we here in Saigon do when the Communists come? That is what Peter had asked me before I turned my back and left him standing under the cinnamon tree.

Most of the faculty have left the city, and those who remain are quite anxious. I have nowhere to go, however. The dormitory is my only home.

Around dinnertime, as I walked toward the cafeteria, someone tapped my shoulder. It was Peter! At first I was elated. But I quickly restrained myself, lest I appear inappropriate. “I thought you had evacuated.”

“I probably should have. But you know, I was feeling sorry for you.” He says this with such a big smile, I know he is joking. The American way of being so forthright was jarring.

“You are teasing me.”

“Of course I am. I brought you something.” He held out a silk covered box. Very traditional, except for the clumsily tied ribbon and bow.

“But I have no gift for you.”

“A peace offering.”

“It is not necessary, Peter.”

“Just open it, please. You know you want to.” Again with the forthright speaking. But he was right. I was desperate to know what he considered a peace offering.

“Thank you.” As soon as I opened the box, a familiar aroma rose up. In that instant, so many memories came to mind, most of them surrounding phở and family. I unwrapped the tissue paper and there lay a bundle of cinnamon bark.

“It’s
Quế Thanh Hoá
. Or
Cinnamomum loureiroi
, whichever you prefer.”

“Saigon cinnamon is fine.” I shut the box and bowed.

“Ironic, I couldn’t find it here in Saigon. Had to get it farther
north. They told me it’s an important ingredient in Phở Ga.”

Impressed, I admired the intricate pattern of the silk outer lining. “Why?”

“To remind you of our first date.”

“You mean our first fight?”

“Let’s not remember that, okay?”

I brought the bark up under my nose and took a deep breath. Without warning, I became emotional. “It reminds me of home.”

Later that evening, Peter took me to dinner at Pho Hai, one of his favorite restaurants. “It’s not overrun with tourists, and the food is more like home cooking,” he said as we ate.

“That is true. But my cooking tastes better.”

“Perhaps one day, you’ll prove it to me.”

“You have something on your chin.” Though I was pointing straight at the broken-off piece of noodle, he could not find it with his napkin. “Here, let me.” With my fingertip, I wiped it off, as I would for Huynh Tho when he was a child.

Neither of us felt embarrassed. The mutual recognition of this fact caused our eyes to meet. He took my hand gently and caressed it in a way that no one had ever done before.

“Grace, listen. The Communists will be here any day. I don’t have any choice but to leave Vietnam and return to the United States. You need to think of a way to leave as well.”

I was not going to argue or become offended. But still, I wished to know. “You never told me why you’ve stayed.”

Now he held both of my hands. So warm and strong was his touch that I felt it through my entire body. “I stayed because of you. Since I met you, I felt something special, something that doesn’t come but once in a person’s lifetime.”