Inside Out and Back Again (17 page)

facing him.

His right arm extends

in a fist.

When he’s close enough

for me to see

the white arm hair,

I shift my upper body

to the left,

legs sturdy,

eyes on the blur

that flies past me.

A
thud
.

Pink Boy writhes on the pavement.

I thought I would love

seeing him in pain.

But

he looks

more defeated than weak,

more helpless than scared,

liked a caged puppy.

He’s getting up.

If I were to kick him,

it must be

now.

December 8
3:38 p.m.

A roar.

Pink Boy and I

turn.

A gigantic motorcycle.

The rider in all black

stops.

The helmet comes off.

VU LEE!

WOW!

Pink Boy disappears.

Brother Khôi runs up,

out of breath,

pushing a bicycle

with a flat.

Vu Lee flicks his head.

I climb on first,

wrap my arms around a waist

tight as rope.

Brother Khôi climbs on next,

one hand holding

the handlebar of his bike.

We fly home.

December 8
3:43 p.m.

Vu Lee

now picks me up

after school.

So

someone is always

saving lunch seats

for me, Pem, and SSsì-Ti-Vân;

someone is always

inviting us

to a party;

someone is always

hoping Vu Lee

will offer her a ride,

as he did the huge cousin,

who now not only smiles

but waves at us.

Pink Boy

avoids us,

and we’re glad.

December 16

Mother invites our cowboy

and MiSSSisss WaSShington

for egg rolls.

They brought gifts,

not saying

Early Christmas
,

not wanting

to embarrass us

for not having anything

to exchange.

From our cowboy

to Mother: two just-caught catfish

to Brother Quang: tuition for night college

to Vu Lee: jerky in ten flavors

to Brother Khôi: two fighting fish in separate jars

to me: a new coat

We laugh and say,

Perfect!

From MiSSSisss WaSShington

to Mother: a gong and jasmine incense

to Brother Quang: an engineering textbook

to Vu Lee: jerky in ten flavors

to Brother Khôi: a hamster

to me: three packages of something orange and dried

My family claps and says,

Perfect!

I frown.

December 20

Three pouches of

dried papaya

Chewy

Sugary

Waxy

Sticky

Not the same

at all.

So mad,

I throw all in the trash.

December 20
Night

Mother slaps my hand.

Learn to compromise.

I refuse to retrieve the pouches,

pout

go to bed,

stare at the photograph of a real papaya tree,

wonder if I’ll ever taste sweet, tender, orange flesh

again.

GOOONNNNGGGGG

rings out;

how soothing a real gong sounds.

Swirls of incense

reach me,

hovering like a blanket,

tugging me in.

I wake up at faint light,

guilt heavy on my chest.

I head toward the trash can.

Yet

on the dining table

on a plate

sit strips of papaya

gooey and damp,

having been soaked in hot water.

The sugar has melted off

leaving

plump

moist

chewy

bites.

Hummm…

Not the same,

but not bad

at all.

December 20–21

From Now On

Eight months ago,

war ended.

Four months ago,

Mother sent our letter.

Today,

Father’s brother answers.

Still, we know nothing more.

Our uncle even went south

to talk with our old neighbors,

to find Father’s old friends.

He consulted,

left word,

waited

until it became obvious

he would know nothing more.

His letter

doesn’t tell us

what to do

from now on.

We look to Mother.

She doesn’t tell us either.

Ours is a silent

Christmas Eve.

December 24

Pem comes over

on gift-exchange day

with a doll

to replace

the mouse-bitten one

I told her about.

I almost scream

because the doll

with long black hair

is so beautiful.

But I whisper,

Thank you.

My high emotions

are squished beneath

the embarrassment

of not having a gift

for her.

December 25

Brother Quang asks

what if

Father escaped to Cambodia

and is building an army

to go back and change history?

Vu Lee asks

what if

Father escaped to France

but can’t remember his own history,

so he builds a new family

and is happy?

Brother Khôi asks

what if

Father escaped to Tibet

after shaving his head

and joining a monastery?

I can’t think of anything

but can’t let my brothers best me,

so I blurt out,

What if

Father is really gone?

From the sad look

on their faces

I know

despite their brave guesses

they have begun to accept

what I said on a whim.

December 29

Mother says nothing

about Father

but

she chants every night,

long chants

where her voice

wavers between

hope and acceptance.

She’s waiting

for a sign.

I’ll decide

what she decides.

December 30

First day back

after Christmas break,

I know I’m supposed

to wear everything new.

I don’t have

anything new

except for the coat,

and a hand-me-down dress

still wrapped in plastic.

It’s beige with blue flowers

made from a fabric fuzzy and thick,

perfect for this cold day.

Best of all

it’s past my knees,

perfect for a cold bike ride.

Pem is wearing a new skirt

falling to her calves, as always.

SSsì-Ti-Vân’s new white shirt

looks stiff as a wall.

As soon as I remove my coat,

everyone stops talking.

A girl in red velvet

comes over to me.

Don’t ya know flannel

is for nightgowns and sheets?

I panic.

Pem shrugs.

I can’t wear pants

or cut my hair

or wear skirts above my calves;

what do I care what you wear?

SSsì-Ti-Vân says,

It looks like a dress to me.

The red-velvet girl

points to the middle

of my chest.

See this flower?

They only put that

on nightgowns.

I look down

at the tiny blue flower

barely stitched on.

I rip it off.

Nightgown no more.

January 5

I wear the same dress

to sleep,

telling Mother why.

I pretended not to care,

then no one cared,

so I really didn’t care.

Mother laughs.

I tell her

a much worse embarrassment

is not having

a gift for Pem.

Mother nods, thinks,

goes to her top drawer.

I was saving this for you

for T
t,

but why wait?

In her palm lies

the tin of flower seeds

I had gathered with TiTi.

Perfect for Pem!

Mother always

thinks of everything.

January 5
Night

Mother runs in after work,

hands clenched into white balls,

words chopped into grunts,

face of ash.

We stare at her left hand.

The amethyst stone is gone!

Brother Quang drives us back

to the sewing factory

in his car made of mismatched parts.

We search where Mother sat,

then retrace her steps

to the cafeteria

to the bathroom

to the parking lot.

We repeat so often we lose count,

propelled by Mother’s

wild eyes and

pressed mouth,

frightened of what

her expression would be

if…

At dusk,

the guards shoo us out.

We’re afraid to look at Mother.

January 14

When home,

Mother

retreats to our room,

misses dinner,

remains soundless.

At bedtime

we hear

the gong,

then chanting.

The chant is long,

the voice

low and sure.

Finally

she appears,

looks at each of us.

Your father is

truly gone.

January 14
Late

Mother wears

her brown
áo dài

brought from home.

Each of my brothers

wears a suit,

too small or too big.

I wear a pink dress

of ruffles and lace,

which I hate,

but at least

it’s definitely a dress.

Each of us faces the altar,

holding a lit incense stick

between palms in prayer.

Father’s portrait

stares back.

This is as old

as we’ll ever know him.

That thought

turns my eyes

red.

Mother says,

We’ll chant

for Father’s safe passage

toward eternal peace,

where his parents await him.

She pauses,

voice choked.

Father won’t leave

if we hold on to him.

If you feel like crying,

think

at least now

we know.

At least

we no longer live

in waiting.