If I Had Two Lives Read online

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  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © Abbigail N. Rosewood 2019

  First publication 2019 by Europa Editions

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  Cover Art by Emanuele Ragnisco

  www.mekkanografici.com

  Cover photo: Pexels

  ISBN 9781609455224

  Abbigail N. Rosewood

  IF I HAD TWO LIVES

  IF I HAD TWO LIVES

  For my mother

  PART ONE

  1

  In front of the wall soldiers used for rope climbing practice, a little girl was stacking four rows of red bricks. At first glance, I thought that she was building her own fortress, but as I watched, I realized her task was more complicated. She carried the bricks diligently, one by one from a pile of debris across the courtyard. She added one to the first tower, fifteen blocks high, and another to the much shorter second tower. Skipping the third row, which was already the same height as the first, she counted to twenty before prancing away to gather more materials. The new brick was added to the last row.

  Together the brick columns looked like guns aimed at the sky.

  She was absorbed and didn’t notice the other children—all boys—were gathering at the metal gate to peer at me, the newcomer.

  The boys were careful not to lean on the electric fence, though one of them dared me to grab the wire to see how long I could hold on. I didn’t sense any particular hostility in their challenge because I was worn out by the car trip. The boys’ eyes shimmered with want and delight at my blue backpack. They ogled my clothing, which was made of finer fabric than their own faded burlap.

  They seemed disappointed that I was a girl. I felt betrayed by the soft texture of my dress, hand-woven from bamboo fabric. My cheeks were hot. If I hadn’t worn a dress, my hair—a bowl cut popular with boys and girls at the time—would have disguised me for a while.

  My soldier, the one who had driven me here in the van—I already thought of him as my own—was talking to another man in the same uniform. They looked exactly alike, buzz cut and pine green uniform, except the other man had a shotgun and my soldier didn’t. I thought he must have been armed too, probably a handgun, tucked away where I couldn’t see it.

  The one with a shotgun was not willing to open the gate for us. My soldier said something to him. I tried to listen to their conversation, but could only pick out a few words.

  “Arrangement . . . ”

  “Yes.”

  “Let them know.”

  The gate opened. My soldier and I got back in the car and he drove forward. Once we were inside, I got out of the car again, my fingers gripping the straps on my backpack. I concentrated on looking at my toes. It was a feeling I would come to know more deeply as an adult—the suspicion that I didn’t belong. My soldier took my hand and walked us away from the van toward the rope-climbing wall. The little girl, her face streaked with orange-colored dust, waved to me silently when we walked pass. I didn’t wave back at her, only let out a long breath I’d been holding.

  Our building at the camp was constructed in 1889. The walls were white inside and out, like many national buildings. It had large arched windows on both floors. During the French war, it had been used to host parties for French officials and their guests. After the French left, their architecture remained as pockets of memories and a reminder to the Vietnamese that their lives were both precious and meaningless. Since then it had housed many political refugees including writers, artists, businessmen and women.

  Though its paint had become tawny over the years, our building’s grandiose architecture stood apart from the other buildings at the camp, square and rectangular boxes designed to be cost-efficient. Sandy colored tarps swathed everything inside the camp—tanks, equipment, lawns. Even the branches of banana leaves used to weave into roofs were delivered to the camp already dry and brown. It reminded me of the desert. I felt as though a ball of heat was lodged in my throat. From the first day of being there, I wanted to leave. I longed for a field of uninterrupted green grass, though I’d only ever seen that kind of landscape in comic books.

  My mother left our before-home in 1993 and had been living at the camp for four years before I came. I was seven-years-old when I could join her. She was waiting on the veranda as my soldier and I walked up. She wore a cream dress that dragged on the floor, the dress’s laced hem torn and smudged with dirt. She was barefoot, using her toes to kick the dress’s extra fabric to the side as she walked. In one hand, she held a pen and clicked it repeatedly as though she was warning someone of an imminent danger. I was in awe and afraid at the sight of her—she looked like the building we were in—its natural child—dusty, beautiful, neglected.

  “Get some tamarind paste for dinner, will you?” she glanced at me while talking to my soldier. “But, what do you want to eat?” she asked me, though she didn’t wait for an answer before grabbing my suitcase and ushering us inside. My soldier nodded, turned and left.

  “Do you remember the night I left?” she asked as we entered the building, “Of course you don’t. You were too young.” I looked up to the ceiling, where paint bubbled and cracked, probably from rain leaking through the roof. A chandelier hung in the middle, its crystal teardrops blackened by moth carcasses. Our footsteps echoed as we walked. “If I’d stayed, they would have taken me. You wouldn’t have been safe either,” she continued. I didn’t tell her that I remembered the night she left and still often dreamt of it.

  In the foyer, she turned to face me and gestured as though she was about to hug me. Then she dropped her arms by her sides. I wondered if she were my real mother. She used to joke that she would get kidnapped and replaced with a clone. We’d come up with a secret number so I could tell if she’d been replaced. I had the urge to ask her what the number was, but I was afraid she wouldn’t remember.

  I realized I still hadn’t said a word since we reunited. I didn’t want to say the wrong thing and be taken from her. In the car on the way to the camp, my soldier had stressed how hard it was to bring me here. He said that technically the camp was a semi-permanent facility for soldiers in training, but over the years it had been used for many missions because of its strategic location—cut off from the rest of the country by both streams and mountains. I didn’t see the view because I was in the backseat and there was no window. He warned me not to talk to anyone else at the camp beside himself, especially soldiers, since I was a young girl and they were not-quite boys and not-yet men. He seemed to exclude himself from this group. I blushed when he said he would shield me from any danger as long as I promised I would be on my best behavior.

  Mother stood an arm’s length distance from me. She held her chin in her hand, her head slightly tilted to one side. Perhaps she too was wondering whether or not I was really her daughter.

  As though to fill the space between us, she tried to explain why she’d had to leave. Mother had worked as an energy consultant. She had negotiated contracts with Sweden and Japan, bringing electricity to hundreds of districts in Vietnam. Maybe because she was a small woman, fifty-five kilos and one hundred and sixty centimeters tall, nobody paid attention to her first successes, but before long she became a thorn to corrupt officials who were used to buying defunct equipment, installing useless energy plants, and keeping the money to themselves.

  After her business partner got arrest
ed, my mother began to worry about her safety. The possibility of being eliminated or imprisoned on false charges became real. An old colleague who worked for the government warned my mother that complaints about her had reached the Prime Minister’s ear. She sought help from a childhood friend who was then a lieutenant in the army. He explained that the President and the Prime Minister disagreed on a number of issues—the President wanting more foreign investors while the Prime Minister would rather pocket the investors’ money than work for “a bunch of dogs” who upturned their noses and looked down at Vietnamese people. Mother’s childhood friend—the lieutenant—was able to get her a safe place to stay inside a military camp with the condition that she backed the President in the next election. The Prime Minister was unlikely to interfere with the army, which was under the President’s command.

  I listened without speaking. Though she didn’t say it, I felt as though she was unloading information on my seven-year-old self as a way of apologizing for having left our before-home four years ago when I was still wetting my bed. Suddenly, I felt that familiar heat between my legs and had to squeeze them together to keep from peeing in my underwear.

  According to Mother, there were other families under protection inside the camp but they were scattered and we wouldn’t see them. We went into a room on the ground floor. In the middle of the room was a long, rectangular, wooden table with rounded corners. There were at least fifteen chairs. In the corner was a glass armoire that looked as though it hadn’t been opened in years, which displayed delicate china and bottles of alcohol. On the wall facing the door hung a picture of Ho Chi Minh, the colors faded almost to white. Underneath it were his five most famous lessons, which I recognized because my before-school had the same words painted in all classrooms.

  My mother sat at the end of the table. Because she hadn’t told me to come closer to her, I took a seat four chairs away from her. A layer of fine dust coated the tabletop. I drew a cloud with my finger.

  She stood back up and went to the armoire, opened a drawer I hadn’t noticed was there, and picked up two cassette tapes. She held one out to me, sticking her finger inside the reel and started to unwind it. “I was going to send them, but the lieutenant told me there was a way to bring you here for a visit.” She dropped the tapes in my lap and pressed my temples between her palms, lifting up my face.

  During her absence, we had often communicated through recording our voices on tape. Every few months, a soldier would come to my before-home to bring me my mother’s words, sometimes on paper, but mostly on cassettes with the sound of waves breaking in the background. Had I actually heard the ocean? Or had I only thought I did because she would vaguely mention a sea, an island . . . At my before-desk, I would listen to her tell me to be good, to listen to my grandfather, to brush my teeth before bed. I would imagine her in a turquoise dress, her features liquid, surfacing and retreating, as constant and elusive as the sea. I had begun to forget what she looked like.

  “You can listen to these tapes later, if you like,” she said, and closed her eyes for a moment as though to recall her last night at our before-home, “I didn’t want to wake you that night, the night I left. I had to go. It was lucky I learned that the Prime Minister’s men were coming to arrest me. If that happened, I wouldn’t have ever seen you again. I had no choice, I could either accept military protection or be taken from you.”

  I listened, nodding sporadically to pretend I understood. In reality, her words were jumbled, worse than the bushes of thorns that grew around my before-home. I wanted only to be held, to press my nose in her stomach. She stood up and circled the table, sometimes knocking her knuckles on its surface.

  “Please don’t give me away again,” I said, remembering how frustrated she’d gotten at our before-home whenever she had to spoon-feed me. I would hold the food inside my cheeks, unable to chew while she pushed another spoonful in my mouth and pinched my nose so I would be forced to swallow to breathe. Frequently, I’d throw up my meals and my mother’s face would glow red with anger. Once, as she fed me, she’d mumbled repeatedly, Be better. Why aren’t you better? Be better, be better.

  “I’m right here,” she said, as though that was enough to erase all the years before. How many nights I’d lain awake, praying for my mother to suddenly materialize beside me. I didn’t know what to do now that she was right in front of me. I had the urge to lunge at her, claw at her skin and pull off her flesh to prove she was real.

  “I’ll be better. I’ll be good,” I said, “I’ll eat my food, I’ll—”

  “Give you away? I didn’t—I did what I had to,” she explained. Still I didn’t understand what the difference was—when people left you, weren’t they also giving you away to the unknown, to a life without them? Suddenly, Mother’s voice grew quiet, “I don’t know if I made the right choice. Sometimes, I think I’m caught in a political arena, a man’s game, when all I wanted was to bring light to the villagers. Seeing those school girls able to study at night inside their own homes—it felt—important.” She covered her face, “They arrest everybody, anyone who tries to do his small part, anyone who’s honest about the reality of our country.”

  “When can we go home?” I said, biting my knuckles.

  She sat back down and looked at me oddly, seeming disappointed she didn’t have a better audience. “Home?” she said as though it was nothing but a strange sound. “When things calm down and I can work again. You should go wash up. The restroom is over there.” She pointed her fingers behind her. It made me sad to realize she would not help me bathe or wrap a towel around me and dry me off. I had no memory of her ever having done so. Why did I yearn for something I had no idea of?

  I climbed into the tub. The water came out weak and rusty. I rinsed off quickly. When I was done, I looked for her in the upstairs bedroom. She sat at a small desk, absorbed in reading the pages in front of her. I climbed into the single bed. It creaked.

  “Is it sleepy time?” I asked so that she would come to bed with me, but I wasn’t sleepy. It was just warmer there.

  She didn’t answer. She squinted at the loose pages before her—the strings of symbols and letters, the empty spaces between them. I wondered if I stood a chance against these abstractions, if they had wholly seized my mother and if it would be up to me to rescue her, to make her mine again. For now, I was content to watch her—the outline of her body assembling and reassembling, straining to match the one in my memory. Even when my lids grew heavy, I kept my eyes on her as though simply by looking I could make sure she wouldn’t disappear.

  My own scream, distant and familiar, woke me—shivering in a urine-soaked bed. For the third night in a row, I’d peed myself. My new surroundings—the mildewed walls, the flickering fluorescent bulbs, the sound of Mother moving around in the bathroom—scared me even more than the nightmare had. For a few minutes, I sat sunken into the soiled sheets not knowing what to do, my wet pajamas clinging to my thighs and back. I knew how upset Mother would be, so I looked for ways to hide the evidence.

  I jumped off the bed, took off my clothes, balled them together and shoved them under the bed. Doing this made me feel better. Next, I straightened the blankets to cover up the puddle. When I was done, I thought I should turn on the fan to help everything dry. I was untangling our standing fan’s electrical cord when a floral scented steam-cloud from the bathroom overtook the bedroom. Momentarily, the air was laced with both the medicinal smell of my urine and the sweet scent of Mother’s shampoo.

  Mother was wrapped in a purple bathrobe. Her eyes widened at my naked body. I dropped the fan’s cord and resisted jumping from fear when it hit the ground. Since I’d already figured out how to bathe and dress myself at our before-home, she had yet to see me without clothes.

  “What are you—” she said, the lines on her face already rearranging to the emotion I’d seen the most often on her since I’d arrived at the camp.

  I’d seen so little of
my mother’s body—always clothed in long dresses, except for her face and hands—that even in a moment of fear, I couldn’t help staring at her pale knees, her hairless shins, so different compared to the thick and wiry hair on her head.

  “Did you—again?” she said. “My god, how many times do I need to tell you not to drink before bed? Do you want to drive your mother to the grave?” While walking toward me, she asked even more questions I didn’t know how to answer. I felt my neck retract into my shoulders like a turtle into his shell. My ears burned because I’d been caught in the middle of fabricating a lie.

  The first night at the camp, I’d peed during sleep. Mother was still in bed. When the warm liquid seeped underneath the mattress and spread to her side, she twitched her leg and woke me with a kick. I’d tumbled off the bed and cried myself back to sleep on the ceramic tiles. Mother had left with her laptop and papers. The second night, when the same thing happened—my inability to differentiate between dreams and reality causing me to release my bladder—I’d woken up before Mother. I climbed out of bed and stood in the corner of the room watching her sleep, waiting for the inevitable flutter of the eyelids, recognition. It was the slowest time had ever ticked past. Part me of me had wanted her to wake up sooner so that I wouldn’t need to wait in fear, another part prayed she would stay asleep forever. When she realized what I’d done, I received two powerful slaps on each side of my face. “Are you going to remember not to do it again? Are you? Are you?” she’d shouted. I touched my right cheek, remembering the way my skin burned like the inside of my mouth when I accidentally ate a hot pepper—a tingly warmth that took over your whole body. I didn’t know what she would do now that the mattress was probably ruined for good.

  But as she came toward me, the tension in her shoulders seemed to wane and the fierce blacks in her eyes lightened.