The Reeducation of Cherry Truong Read Online Free PDF Page B

said. “Why did you raise such weak sons? Yen would have argued alongside me.”
    Hung never hid his preference for their middle son, whom he boasted inherited his strength and persistence. He regularly derided his other sons as Hoa’s creations—too feminine and indecisive. They hadn’t seen Yen in five years. He left Vietnam to go to law school in France and claimed refugee status when the war ended. Last month, the Truongs had an offer to immigrate to Australia, but Hung declined. He wished to seek asylum in only one country.
    â€œSanh was so rude to the French delegate,” Hung continued. “Hardly speaking at all, claiming he’s forgotten his French. The liar.”
    â€œMaybe he wasn’t feeling well.”
    â€œI don’t care. He knows how important this is. And the only time he spoke was to ask how their resettlement process compared to the States’. Can you believe that?”
    Hoa put down her comb. “Why was he asking about the States?”
    â€œWho knows what goes on in a liar’s head? He keeps crying that he wants to leave and the French are taking too long. But if we have to wait, we have to wait. God will look out for us.”
    The other refugees were returning from the mess hall. The Malays probably served smelly chicken again. The Vietnamese would rather eat their rations. Soon the shelter would swim with the popping sizzles of cooking oils, the sharp aroma of contraband fish, and the relentless snap snap of the women chewing betel nuts. Hoa briefly shut her eyes in disappointment. She only wanted a few minutes alone. She had not been truly alone, and calm, since they left Vietnam.
    That was months ago. Her prayer room—a closet, the only space that was solely hers in their house in Saigon—had probably already been cleared out by her sister-in-law, wiped clean of Hoa and the rest of the escaping Truongs. She could hardly recall this sanctuary, her thoughts cluttered by more recent, tangible memories: huddling under a plastic tarp and thin, mud-crusted blankets during the monsoon season in Zone C; paltry rations that consisted mainly of canned sardines and a scoop of rice; waking up to rat bites on her legs; dirty latrines; the taunts and insults of the Malay guards.
    Still, some of their neighbors accepted this as their new home, so desperate to resettle in any place that wasn’t Vietnam. They opened hair salons and noodle shops within the township, and joined church choirs. Even when paperwork cleared for immigration, some felt reluctant to leave. Their son Phung said it was because their people could acclimate to anything. They’d lived with war and displacement for centuries. Their history allowed them to make anywhere home.
    â€œThis isn’t a home,” Hoa reminded her husband. “Please, we have to leave. I don’t care what country we go to first.”
    Hung lifted his hand and Hoa instinctively turned her head. He didn’t finish. There were others around. The last time he struck her within eyesight of the camp gossips, he’d endured dirty looks and pointed whisperings for weeks. Hoa exhaled, calmly facing him.
    â€œWhat kind of mother are you?” he spat. “So selfish about your own concerns. Do you not want to be with your son? What would God think of your behavior?”
    She didn’t move as he stomped out of their shelter. She’d learned not to run after him. After so many years together, she realized it was better when he left.
    *   *   *
    During the afternoons, the Vietnamese liked to go bathing and to wash laundry at Pantai Beach or at the waterfall. Hoa knew her family preferred the beach, which reminded her sons of their old home in Nha Trang. A warm breeze tossed whispers of sand along Hoa’s feet. Women crouched near the shore, wringing shirts and underwear clean. Naked children stomped in the water, shrieking as the prickly waves engulfed their feet, joyously