###
When I woke the next day, I had a momentary wave of relief, my mind and body remembering how it felt to be healthy and strong. I Googled butterflies and discovered there were black varieties. I called my mom in Chicago. I had lied to her, telling her that I was teaching in Hong Kong for the summer. I made my daughter Laurel promise me she wouldn’t tell her grandmother where I was.
She asked about the shopping, whether I had found a designer purse for her yet and at what price, and what kind of food I was eating. I stumbled over the food, finally telling her that the Asian cuisine wasn’t agreeing with me. Her questions became more urgent and worried. I decided to fess up.
“You’re where?” I pictured her in her condominium, sitting at her kitchen table wearing flannel pajamas – in July – because the air conditioning was set too high, her eyes beneath glasses that weren’t a whole lot different from Friendly’s – always fashion conscious even in her eighties. “Why in God’s name?”
“The business school has a new program with a Hanoi university. We are teaching capitalism. I’m teaching a course on risk management.”
“But it’s communist.”
“It’s more socialist, mom. They are modernizing like China. It’s okay. It’s safe here now.”
“But your father.” This was where I didn’t want the conversation to go. I had stopped talking to her about my father a long time ago.
“I know. That was War. He came here for the War. People don’t avoid Germany because of World War II.”
“But he killed himself over that God-forsaken War.” It was no use. She had sucked me in.
“We don’t know that he killed himself. He was on a lot of meds.”
“Because of the War. He came home wrecked. He came home a noodle and never enjoyed another day of his life.”
But, I thought, giving us a better life for it. He had gone to Vietnam in his 30s, later than most GIs who had been drafted, telling friends and family that it was his duty, and the duty of more Americans his age, to take the pressure off those who didn’t have a choice. It was also a way to supplement his income as a security guard at Chicago’s notorious Cook County Jail, a job that was, in its own way, another terrible war. Before enlisting, he had bought an expensive life insurance policy, which he told no one about, and to pay its expensive monthly premiums, he took a night job driving a CTA bus.
After he died, and my mother was told about the insurance money, she said it was like winning Satan’s lottery. Yet we moved from the South Side into an expensive condominium on Lake Shore Drive, and began a worry-free life, a life with doormen, trips to Europe, college, and graduate school, beauty salons and carry out food – none of which would have been possible without his death, his service in the War, and his secret insurance policy.
“All this time I thought you were in Hong Kong. Does Laurel know where you’re at?”
“Of course she knows. She’s with her father this summer.”
“What if something happens to you over there? In that hellhole? How could you leave your daughter?”
“I’m sorry I lied. I’m okay. Laurel’s okay; she’s 16 for God’s sake. It’s just diarrhea. I’ll see you in a few weeks. Don’t worry. I’ll be okay.”
###
Hanging up the phone, I decided that I would make myself be okay. I decided to go to the international grocery store, and possibly stop at a few shops along the way. As I stood in the apartment lobby, sweat spread on my face like a disease. The entire lobby smelled putrid.
Mai at the front desk called me a taxi. “How do you feel Miss Louise?”
A rancid sourness inched up my esophagus. “I think better.” The bouquet of flowers from my students lay across the counter behind Mai. I had brought them down earlier, telling Mai to keep them.
“You sure to do this Miss Louise? To go shopping?” Mai always talked in a whisper.
“I’m sure.” I whispered back. I wasn’t sure. Mai slid the business card of an international health clinic across the counter, as if to say, just in case.
I decided not to wait for the taxi, but to walk. Unimaginable heat radiated from both the sky and the pavement, and the sun’s brightness made it hard for me to focus. Horrific smells from the outdoor cafes hawking fried hanging pigs and simmering pots of Pho caused me to place a silk scarf across my nose and mouth. Men, nearly naked in boxers, their thin skin slick with sweat, squatted at the knees, their feet flat on the sidewalk. Smoke from their cigarettes made it feel as if I were walking through steam. Children played inches from the streets.
I stood at the curb before a wide, circular street at the center of Hanoi’s famous tourist section, vibrating with traffic, all moving in a crisscross, unpredictable path. A funeral van passed with a picture of an older woman plastered to its front window, the rest of the van covered in wreaths. Cyclos, motorbikes, and SUVs followed.
I couldn’t push my toes off the curb, standing with my eyes shut as I felt the oncoming rush of intestinal liquid start to squirt out of my body. I tried deep breathing, but I couldn’t find my breath. Sweat poured like melting ice off my face. The feeling of damp underwear getting heavier finally forced me off the curb, and I moved through a haze of exhaust and honking horns.
