Read Online The Reeducation of Cherry Truong by Aimee Phan - Free Book Online Page A

idea.”
    He moved off the bed, peering over their half-packed bags. Hoa stared at his back, unable to say anything.
    Footsteps outside. Tuyet appeared at the front door carrying a sleeping Lum in her arms. This time she looked at Hoa, unable to help a small smile, her triumph so apparent. Sanh belonged only to her now.
    Hoa stood. “I should leave now. It’s getting late.”
    â€œYou don’t need to go,” Tuyet said, walking in and carefully placing Lum onto the bed, where he curled into a snail.
    â€œI have a lot to do,” Hoa said.
    â€œPlease.” Tuyet’s face relaxed into her deceptively demure frown. “I wanted to talk to you about Trinh.”
    Hoa waved her hand. “Whatever Trinh needs, we’ll take care of.”
    â€œIt’s not that easy.”
    â€œShe is reuniting with her husband,” Hoa said. “You don’t need to worry about her anymore.” She turned to Sanh, her hand reaching inside her blouse pocket. “Your father has most of our assets,” Hoa said, slipping a small silk pouch into his fingers. “But I have several gold leaves of my own and these pearl earrings.”
    â€œMother,” he said, closing his eyes.
    She pressed the gold into his palm, folding his fingers over it. “You have a baby coming. I want you to care for your family as best you can.”
    â€œWe’ll visit you,” Sanh said. “This is not good-bye. When we’re all settled. I promise.”
    Hoa looked over at her youngest grandson, still deep in sleep. She walked over to him, leaning into his lightly perspiring neck, inhaling his child sour-sweet smell.
    â€œBe good for your mother and father,” Hoa whispered into his hair, softly kissing him. Lum shifted to his other side, his cheek blooming red, sighing. “Remember you are a Truong. You are Vietnamese. Nothing will change this.”
    *   *   *
    The camp lights switched off as Hoa walked back to Zone A. She slowed her pace, though that meant her rubber sandals sunk deeper into the muddy trail. The moon was only a sliver, and she worried about tripping over some brushwood or a stray piece of trash. Damp, wrinkled laundry rustled softly from strung-up wires and tree branches along the shanty rows. Refugees lingered outside their shanties, mostly men, the embers of their cigarettes briefly illuminating their bored faces.
    This time tomorrow, they’d be gone. They could try to forget all of the months enduring the purgatory conditions of the island: the cramped quarters; the barely edible food; the crude behavior of their fellow refugees.
    They could try to rebuild a home. Hoa could prepare proper meals again. She wondered if she could remember her recipes, the ones their cook taught her after they moved to Saigon. Could she find the proper spices and vegetables in France? Where would they live? Would Yen’s home be comfortable for all of them? Wherever it was, Hoa could find her private space again. It didn’t have to be too large, she could even make do with another closet, just something that was entirely hers.
    These thoughts, these assurances, had made the last few weeks bearable, even exciting. Now, imagining the future, she could only see the empty space that Sanh and his family would leave behind. She wondered if this was God’s punishment for leaving behind Sanh’s in-laws. That was her husband’s mistake. Hung should have tried harder to persuade the boat captain to sell him more seats. Then the Vo family would have come with them, and Hoa wouldn’t be losing her grandchildren.
    At the bottom of the hill, Hoa looked up at their shanty. Hung and Phung were still going over the paperwork, methodically examining every detail to ensure no technicality interfered with their transfer to Manila. When she entered the shelter, her oldest son would murmur to her in greeting and then the men would resume their work, ignoring her for