The Unwanted

  COPYRIGHT © 2001 BY NGUYEN-ANDREWS, LLC

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroup.com

  The Little, Brown and Company name and logo are registered trademarks of Hachette Book Group

  First eBook Edition: November 2008

  ISBN: 978-0-316-05005-0

  Contents

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  1972

  CHAPTER ONE

  1975

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  1978

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  1980

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  1981

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  1984

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  1985

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  EPILOGUE

  TO MY MOTHER, WHO GAVE ME LIFE

  AND

  TO FRANK ANDREWS, WHO GAVE ME A SECOND CHANCE

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  The Unwanted is the memoir of my childhood and adolescence in Vietnam. It springs from my vivid memory of those years and is augmented by the recollections of my mother and my brother.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Alexandra Bennett and Scott Morgan, for inspiring me to write my story.

  Judy Clain, for giving me a chance to be a writer.

  Fiona and Jake Eberts, for believing in me from the first day we met.

  Elaine Gartner, for being there.

  Michaela Hamilton, for helping me find my voice.

  Peter Miller, for your lion-hearted support every step of the way.

  BeTi Nguyen, for being my loving sister.

  Jimmy Nguyen, for helping me walk, the path of memory.

  Ilona Price and Jason Goodman, for your generous enthusiasm.

  Joann Russo-Tabeek, for feeding me many free meals at your restaurant, Paninoteca.

  Lisa Sharkey, for giving me the encouragement I needed.

  Milan Tinan, for the greatest friendship a writer could ask.

  Special thanks to everyone at PMA and Little, Brown who has helped bring The Unwanted from memory to bound book.

  And especially to Loan, wherever you are. I will never forget you.

  1972

  CHAPTER ONE

  Nhatrang, May 12, 1972, 7 P.M.

  I remember that night quite well. It is my first memory, and the happiest one from my childhood.

  The familiar smell of pig roasting on a spit wafted from the kitchen. My mother made cheery noises as she ran from one hallway to the next, giving orders to the help with a hint of pompous confidence. The moist summer air evaporated into a transparent mist all around me due to the kind of heat found only in Nhatrang and only in May. And what I remember most of all is the sense of festivity all around me as the last rays of sunlight disappeared into the ocean, just a few hundred feet away from my window. It was my fifth birthday.

  My childhood home, in order to accommodate my mother's passion for living near beautiful beaches, was situated by the water, with the waves murmuring at the foot of the house. The mansion was comprised of three stories and over twenty-four rooms, including at least eight bedrooms. All were furnished with expensive Western furniture thrown together by my mother's own design. And both to give the house personality and to honor my grandfather's last name, Mother named it Nguyen Mansion. From the numerous stories I was told growing up, mostly by my grandparents, I came to understand that my mother built the house during her pregnancy with me, motivated by the idea of having her first baby in her own home. Mother painted the outside of the house the color of eggshells, and, much to her consternation, I always thought the house was just a simple white color that had aged poorly with time. From the main entrance of the house to the front gate lay a large reddish marble pathway that encircled the garden, which housed a kidney-shaped pool. Our gardener, Mr. Tran, had been hired through an agency, and his job consisted mainly of planting and maintaining the many exotic species of flowers around the front part of the house. My mother, in an effort to shield the inside beauty from the outside world, constructed two enormous iron gates, as well as a high barbed-wire fence covered with thick vines, to obscure all within their boundaries. In the old days, I used to play with my toys in the garden while the children playing on the other side of the gate watched me with fascination. According to my mother, those children were either too dirty, or I was too clean, for my association with them. In Vietnam, rich children like myself wore sandals to protect their feet from the dirt and the heat, while poor children like the ones from the other side of the wall ran around barefoot.

  That afternoon, before the celebration, much of the activity was centered in the kitchen. I was flying through the crowded rooms with my arms out like an airplane and making buzzing sounds, bumping into people's legs to simulate a crash. My brother and I had made up this clever plan to get treats from the help. Unfortunately, everyone seemed too busy to notice me. In the middle of the main kitchen a group of chefs stood around an enormous table, decorating a gigantic white cake with bunches of red roses, brown vines, and green leaves made from heavy whipped cream and food coloring. On the other side of the room, barely visible in the dark smoke, live fowls awaited their turn to be slaughtered; their frightened cackles rose over the impatient sizzling of the pork. A few steps away, a group of my mother's maids hovered over the busy stove preparing the main courses. One of the women turned on the ceiling fan as her friend strained cooked noodles over the drain. The fog from the boiling water swept up from the pot, adding to the heat in the room.

  Looking for a new victim for my airplane game, I spotted a young caterer's apprentice. He was about ten years old and of diminutive size, with dark circles under his eyes. Running through the kitchen with a big bowl of whipped cream, he crashed into me. I knew how fearful our servants were when it came to my mother's wrath. While the boy was making sure I was not injured, I reached into his bowl for a handful of cream. Before he could recover from his shock, I laughed and ran off, lapping the sweetness from my hand.

  Upstairs,
I decided to take a peek inside my mother's bedroom. She sat regally at her makeup desk, fully dressed in a pale evening gown that glistened under the orange light like a mermaid's scales. Her attention was focused on brushing her long hair, which rippled down her arching back, jet-black and wavy. My mother was not a typically thin Asian woman. She had heavy breasts and round hips, joined by a thin waist. Her eyes, big and rimmed with dark mascara, concentrated on the image before her. Years spent watching my mother gaze at herself in the mirror had convinced me that she was the rarest, most beautiful creature that ever walked the face of this Earth.

  My presence startled her. She took her eyes off her reflection, looked at me, and smiled, showing her white, straight teeth. At times I had sat for hours in my mother's bedroom while she confided her beauty secrets to me. I would listen earnestly, not to what my mother said, but to the mesmerizing sound of her voice, always full of wisdom and intelligence.

  Her smile faded into a slight frown as she said, “Look at you. What is that all over your face?”

  I touched my cheek and felt the remnants of the whipped cream. Licking my fingers, I answered her, “It's for my cake in the kitchen. Can I come in?”

  She nodded. “Sure, come in.” And then came the scolding. “What a dirty boy, eating in such a manner. Why don't you wait till dinner?”

  I sat on her bed and looked at her curiously. Using a small cotton pad, she was pressing white powder onto the backs of her hands.

  “What are you doing, Mommy?” I asked.

  “I am putting makeup on my hands, darling.”

  “How come?”

  “You are always asking the same question.”

  “I never remember what the answer is, Mommy.”

  She paused and held her hands in front of her face, where they stood at attention like two proud soldiers ready for inspection. “I do this because I want people to notice my hands. Aren't they beautiful?”

  Along with her fortune, my mother's hands were the ultimate pride in her life. Before she met my father, she had worked as a hand model for a jewelry company. In contrast to her voluptuous body, her hands were long and graceful. Each finger was a smooth cylinder with invisible knuckles and no wrinkles; each nail was defined, extended, well polished, and glossy. She spent hours smoothing the sharp edges of her nails, trimming the out-of-place cuticles, and changing the color of the paint. Not until she was completely satisfied with her hands did my mother apply makeup to her face, a process that would also require a few hours. She said that since her face was not extraordinary, her success would depend on her hands.

  As if to prove her point, my mother made sure that her hands were always displayed. They danced in front of her face during a conversation, rested on her cheeks in photographs, or raised her chin when she exercised her power. Sometimes, they daintily held the stem of a champagne glass. Once my mother considered buying insurance for her hands; however, this idea did not meet with approval from my grandfather. I'm sure my mother wished that she had gotten insurance the day I accidentally bumped into her while running down the hallway. The collision broke two of her nails and scratched her fingers, leaving her boiling mad and me with welts on my cheek.

  “Is this party for me, Mommy?” I asked as she continued tending to her hands.

  “Yes, darling.”

  “Does it mean I can stay up late tonight?”

  “You can stay up a little while after you blow out your candles.”

  “Will there be any children coming over tonight from my class?” I asked her hopefully.

  “No, darling. No other children, just you and your brother. So you can be the star tonight. After all, it is an adult party; you don't want any children here to spoil it, do you?”

  “Right, Mommy,” I agreed halfheartedly.

  I walked to the bedroom window and looked outside. I could see porters carrying cases of Champagne Guy Larmandier into the house. The garden was lit up by multicolored lights, with every shrub transformed into some sort of animal. Next to the pool, behind a couple of rose bushes, a group of musicians tested their electrical instruments. The noise resolved itself into a lively, cheery tune that carried through the thick air. The cooks, maids, and waiters ran back and forth like ants in an ant farm, all lost in their own assignments. The neighborhood children, clustered next to a few adults, gathered around the front gates, staring curiously inside. Should anyone venture too close to the gates, security men would push them away. Over the sounds of celebration, deep in the darkness, the ocean moaned its constant, breathy rhythm.

  “When do I get to blow out the candles?” I asked, turning to look at my mother.

  “Right after dinner.”

  “When do we have dinner?”

  “When all the guests arrive,” she said.

  “When will that be?”

  “Around nine-thirty.” My mother regarded her nails. A pang of dissatisfaction washed over her face as she reached for her bright orange nail polish.

  “Can I stay awake after the cake, Mommy?”

  “No, darling. After the cake there will be dancing. You are too young to stay up that late. Maybe next year. Now, be a good boy and go play with your brother.”

  “But he is sleeping in Grandma's room.”

  “Then go wake him up. Tell Grandma or Loan to dress both of you.” She pushed me out of her room and carefully closed the door without touching her nails.

  BY THE TIME Jimmy and I changed into the party clothes that my mother had ordered from the Sears catalog, a luxury that few could afford in Vietnam, the guests had finally arrived. From my grandparents' bedroom, we could hear every noise the people outside made. Gazing at each other nervously, we pressed our ears against the thin wall, listening to the footsteps that ran frantically up and down the hallway. The rich smell of cooked spices mixed with the heavy odor of perfume.

  Finally, my mother burst into the room with enough exuberance to burn out a lightbulb. Her off-white evening gown embraced her, gushing down her body like a stream of silver water. Her hair was bound above her neck in a complicated knot, revealing a diamond necklace and two small diamond earrings. She looked foreign, formidable, elegant as an Egyptian queen. She smiled through her makeup, as she reached for us with bare arms that sparkled with diamonds. We entered her cloud of perfume, and together, hand in hand, we walked into the noisy brightness outside.

  The rest of the evening is a blur. I vaguely recall the laughter, the kisses, the food, the stark colors, the songs, and the mountain of presents that filled my room. I also remember the foreign guests with sandy hair and blue eyes, as well as the anxious talk on everyone's lips about the revolution. Jimmy and I were sent to bed immediately after I blew out the candles on top of my gigantic cake. And I was to sleep for three years, banished from my mother's warmth and sent away to school, leaving behind the special night that was supposed to be mine.

  1975

  CHAPTER TWO

  Nhatrang, March 25, 1975

  A frightening cluster of explosions jolted me out of a deep sleep. I jumped out of bed, dimly aware of my surroundings. Through the window, the sky flickered with faint stars. I wondered if the noises I had just heard were merely a figment of my imagination.

  More gunshots rang out, and terror awakened me with full force. I groped for my sandals in the darkness, yelping for my mother. A figure bolted into my room, holding a candle in her hand. It was Loan, my nanny, who at eighteen was also the youngest maid in our house. Her hair was tangled, and sleep hadn't completely washed from her face. In the dimly lit room, she looked bewildered and shaken. I ran toward her to bury myself in her bosom and inhaled the soothing, familiar scent of her body. We huddled together in the middle of the room.

  For over a month, gunshots and bombs had been heard all over Nhatrang. Every day the media had delivered more disturbing news, until numbness had infected everyone like a plague. People learned to follow the latest reports with silent and bitter acceptance. Rumors spread wildly throughout Nhatrang, eati
ng through the city like a cancer. Since there were no guards, the prison doors were unlocked; felons trickled out like dirty water, robbing the city mercilessly. No one dared to venture outside. The streets were deserted, except for an occasional fast-moving car. Locked houses attested to their owners' fear. Television brought us scenes of towns near the war zone, where panicked citizens burst from their doors in the middle of night, carrying nothing but their infants. The refugees, with bare feet and empty hands, rushed from one city to the next, running away from the invisible terror, with no idea of where they were going or what they were fleeing. Finding food became a constant worry, since the markets no longer operated regularly. The city was like a fish dying on hard pavement, hopelessly gasping for air.

  Like most people in Nhatrang, we had bolted ourselves inside our home and waited for the horror of war to manifest its fury. So far, only some of its impact had torn through the protective shield of the Nguyen mansion. I recall the first and most awful incident that shook my mother's sense of security: the crumbling of her bank. Since 1968, she had been the co-president of a small privately owned bank in Nhatrang. Half of the bank's assets were in her name, and a rich Chinese couple owned the other half. Late one evening my mother received a phone call informing her that her partners were in Thailand and on their way to New York—with all the cash.

  The next day she walked into her office to find herself standing in a deserted, garbage-filled wreck. Outside, hundreds of angry customers were screaming her name, as they fought to get through the locked doors. Mere seconds ahead of the mob, my mother exited the bank through an escape door. She was physically unscathed, but this incident nearly destroyed her defiant spirit.

  I watched my mother from the balcony of my bedroom as she walked back to the house. One of her shoes was missing, and a blank stare hollowed her face. Lam, her live-in boyfriend—a man ten years her junior—and his friends were sunbathing by the pool when my mother passed by them, lost in her trance. They stared at her until she disappeared in the house. Only when her feet touched the cold tiles in the living room did she collapse in sobbing howls.