A Wedding Invitation (7 page)

I sit a bit longer as she makes her way over to a group partially veiled by an assortment of colorful bouncing balloons. The people are all wearing dark blue T-shirts with white words and some sort of indistinguishable emblem. I watch Dovie speak to a woman and then my aunt comes back toward the truck, her strides long and purposeful.

She takes her cage of butterflies out from the back of the cab and smiles at me. “We’re at the right place and on time.”

Reluctantly, I follow half a dozen steps behind her with my camera strapped around my neck.

A woman in a white ball cap greets Dovie. They exchange words and then my aunt places her butterflies on top of a mossy tree stump.

As I get closer I see that the shirts this group is wearing read
The Compassionate Friends
. The design under the words is two hands with an image of a person above them. I wonder if this is some kind of religion. Standing beside my aunt as the others in the gathering talk quietly, I observe faces. If it is a religious sect, their god must not be too generous because no one looks happy.

Feeling awkward, I take a few steps back to see a fresh bouquet of red rosebuds, purple violets, and yellow daisies in a plastic vase by a tombstone. Lowering my eyes, I read the inscription:
Gone too soon. Kara, our beloved daughter.
The dates are too close together. I calculate that the girl lived only nineteen years.

One woman in the cult-sounding shirt makes an announcement. A man with a fuzzy beard reads from a sheet of paper, steadying it as the wind flares its edges. I strain to hear over the cooling breeze; it is something about how children live on in our hearts and in our memories.

Next, Dovie steps into the center of the crowd, carrying her cage. She tells about the monarch butterfly, its life cycle and how it has been silent in its silky sac but now is a beautiful creation. She explains how this new life is a testimony of God’s creativity and of His love of nature. She lets the crowd know that these butterflies will be released soon and begin a journey just like the children who have died are now on a new adventure in Heaven. “And like each of you,” my aunt says with a gentleness to her voice. “Each of you is becoming someone new as you learn to cope and adjust to a life without your precious child.”

As she says these words, a few burst into tears. They are quickly embraced by others within the group.

When Dovie finishes speaking, she lifts the latch on the cage. Slowly, a lone butterfly emerges from the door. It flits toward a gray headstone, then makes a left, and relaxes on a vase of day lilies. Another winged insect sways out, unsteadily at first, and then gains momentum. When nothing else peeks out of the cage, Dovie rattles it a few times. We wait; a silence prevails like it does when a bride appears from the back of the sanctuary, ready to make her gentle way toward the altar.

There is a fluttering of wings and then, like a stream of wonder, a cluster of butterflies lift into the air.

Anticipating a great photo op, I poise my camera as the people raise their heads, point into the air, murmur. The ones who have been crying wipe their eyes.

With wings in motion, the insects sail into the waft, a scattering of orange and black.

Some of the creatures aim high; others simply circle the area. One lands on a woman’s shoulder. A tiny one, appearing dazed by the sunlight, gently perches on a teen’s head, bringing a few smiles from the crowd. I get a picture of that.

Observing the scene as a bystander, I try to take it all in—the program, the words, the tears, and the new realization that these people are not in a cult but part of a parental support group called Compassionate Friends. When a man stands directly in front of me, I see the rest of the wording on his shirt:
Supporting Family After a Child Dies.

This is the first time I’ve been to a release this somber, and also the first time where the butterflies seem so energetic. Last time I was at an outdoor wedding with Dovie, the monarchs she hoped to release took over half an hour getting out the cage door. My aunt had to reach inside the compartment and take each one out individually because guests were growing tired and their catered lunch was ready to be served.

As I think back to that day, I see one of the black-tipped monarchs coming toward me. I watch as it spins around my head, lingering. I hold out my finger the way Dovie does, hoping it will rest upon it.

Instead, it swoops around a small tombstone—a burst of color—and then is gone.

I look near my shoes to see:
In loving memory of Oliver Branch.
Gone from us, embraced by God
.

The words on the tombstone are like a jab at my heart. Oliver. I bend down and touch the name. It was my dad’s name. I feel my pulse race, like it has the energy of the butterfly. My throat fills and I cough—twice. Realizing that I’m kneeling at the grave of a person I don’t know, I stand. My camera smacks against my chest.

Then, aimlessly, I step over the large, gnarly roots of the oak.

My attention goes back to the crowd and my aunt just in time to see balloons rise into the air. The round, colorful balls allow the stream of wind to boost them into the breeze, and then they are high above our heads.

I watch as a sobbing woman holds on to a balloon string. The man beside her secures an arm around her shoulder until at last she releases her balloon. Tied to the end of the string is a pink object; it looks like a miniature stuffed bear. A torrent of tears gushes from the woman, and I expect her to fall into a heap on the ground. I shuffle away, my back scraping the oak’s trunk. Tripping on a thick root, I use my hands to brace myself against the trunk. The tickle in my throat has expanded, filling my chest.

As my breath comes in little gasps, I think perhaps it was not a good idea to come here today. Like Beanie, I do not do well with sentimental stuff.

nine

W
ith my head bent I tread across the grass, the taller blades rubbing against my shins, to Dovie’s truck. In the reflection in the passenger’s window, I see a woman with smudged mascara. I rub the marks from under my eyes and wish it were time to go home.

As the oak’s leaves banter in the wind, I watch the gathering of parents grow smaller. Cars and vans back up and head out of the cemetery gates, leaving behind the light aroma of dust.

The wind holds a lonely timbre; just half an hour ago I relished its coolness. Leaning against the truck, I consider getting in, hiding. Another part of me wants to run to a place where no emotion can find me, and certainly where my father’s voice does not resound in my ear.

“My little Samantha, I love you to the Milky Way and back.”

Footsteps cause me to turn and see a boy in a pair of faded jeans and a
Chicago
T-shirt. I sense that he’s been studying me. “Hello.” A smile forms, and he steps closer.

He looks to be about fourteen, with eyes like chocolate kisses and a build that is slim yet muscular. “Miss Bravencourt!” he says with zeal.

I merely look down at my hands. Is he talking to me? No one calls me Miss Bravencourt. Not since—

With hope shining in his eyes, he asks, “You remember?”

Remember? I scan his face, and something jars within my memory.

“I was at PRPC with you.” He takes out a worn leather wallet and from it produces a color photo filled with children. There I am in the middle—the only Caucasian. I’m holding a Coke bottle with a straw protruding from its mouth. Youthful Vietnamese faces surround me, including this boy’s.

“Yes. Of course!” I cry. “You’re Huy!”

I scrutinize the photo with intent. There I am. Smile wide, my light brown hair frizzy due to the humidity, purple flip-flops—a going-away gift from Avery. The wraparound skirt and a cotton blouse I have on are from the casual shop where Mom used to work before opening Have a Fit.

The boy eagerly says, “Come to Saigon Bistro tomorrow for lunch.”

“What?”

“Please, teacha.” Although his English has improved since he moved to America, I notice that this plea sounds just like it did inside the walls of the refugee camp, before Huy and his family ever saw a North Carolina pine. He continues, “My mother and father have a restaurant here. Saigon Bistro. You come tomorrow. You eat.”

“I’m leaving for my home tomorrow.”

“Then come tonight.”

I haven’t been in the remote village snuggled among mountains since 1986, and yet, right here and now, I feel transported back to the camp. It’s as though time has not moved at all, as though we are still in that isolated region where the Laotian, Cambodian, and Vietnamese cultures intertwined, and, in my opinion, came nowhere close to transforming into Americans. We teachers tried to get the children we taught to see knowledge as a powerful tool. Often, as we showed visuals of American homes, describing how microwaves functioned and what a vacuum cleaner was, the children watched us like deer caught in headlights. We explained about traffic lights and subways while they remembered shiny rice paddies and corner markets with fresh chickens strung up by their feet. Even though the sounds of Huey helicopters and mortars rang in their ears as they recalled daily life in their war-torn countries, they still remembered the good about their homelands.

Huy was one of those kids who never gave any indication he would be able to adjust to life in America, and yet, now, here he stands. If this were a movie, either Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” or another one of the many songs of the eighties that used to play on boom boxes across the neighborhoods would be on the soundtrack.

But this is reality; I know because anxiety finds its familiar place in my throat. I cough.

Pointing to his wristwatch, Huy says, “Seven o’clock.”

I look at this boy and remember the feel of teaching him inside my classroom, and so much more. I observe him for a moment as the wind rustles a large maple’s leaves. I wonder how life has been for him and his family. I want to ask more questions but feel a bit embarrassed since it must be obvious that I’ve been crying. “Okay. I’ll be there.” I nod, and when I do, he smiles.

A group of Asian boys hovering around a clearing that holds a park bench look our way. They call to Huy in Vietnamese.

“See you tonight,” Huy says to me and leaves to join his friends. He is still smiling; I remember Huy is the type of person who smiles no matter what.

When Dovie makes her way to my side, she says, “Did you see a ghost, honey?”

“Yes. No. What?”

Tossing the empty cage into the truck, she tells me to get in.

A monarch butterfly dips around a weather-beaten angel statue. The insect is clearly one of Dovie’s, still lurking, evidently unafraid to be alone. I wonder if it realizes the rest of its group has long since gone, flown off, away from this somber place.

Through the open window next to the driver’s seat, my aunt calls for my attention. “Samantha! I’m fixin’ to leave now.”

Her voice jolts me back to this moment. With slow movements I climb into the truck. “What time is it?”

She peers intently at me as I secure my seat belt. “What happened to you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I just have this sense.”

If there’s one sure thing about Dovie, it’s her ability to sense things. Once you know that she has a feeling about you, there’s no choice but to tell her whatever it is she wants to know.

“I met a refugee.” Removing the Nikon from its position around my neck, I place it on my lap.

“I know you did. I read every newsletter you ever wrote when you were over there.”

“No, I mean here.”

Her eyes study me just as Huy’s did moments ago. “Here?”

Looking across a field of headstones, I nod.

“Well, my goodness.”

As she starts the truck and backs out, exhaustion fills my body. I note the time on the dashboard: 3:34. Perhaps I’ll be able to take a nap before my dinner event this evening.

Through the windshield I see Huy. Breaking from his group, he stands at the edge of the road near an ivy-covered stone statue of a man in a robe with outstretched arms—Jesus, I assume. We pass Huy, who waves and calls, “Bye, teacha.”

“Is that the refugee?” Dovie asks.

I manage a small wave, still uncertain about the dinner I have committed myself to. “He was my student in the Philippines.”

The truck picks up speed as she steers it out of the cemetery. “A good one?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did he cause trouble?”

I think of Huy and his sweet manners. His sister, Lien, was the problem, but I don’t feel like telling Dovie about that right now. “He was a good kid.”

“And now he’s here in America. My, my.” She chuckles and then starts to sing “In America” from
West Side Story
. She surprises me because she knows every one of the verses and she lets them carry us all the way home.

ten