Chapter 24 - Mom

Chapter 24

Mom

June 1977

They escorted Thông and me into the tiny outside courtyard. Beyond the barbed wire divider, about three meters away, was our mother.

She was dressed strangely, in country clothes with black pants, a white button-down shirt, and a straw cone hat. The disguise made her resemble a Southern farmer. My mother usually wore perfectly pressed dresses and suits, Western makeup, and coiffed hair.

Her face was devastated at seeing Thông’s scrawny body, even though I’d done my best to clean him up that morning. He still looked tragic, like a baby bird who had fallen from the nest.

My mother stood stunned, taking in the enormity of what had happened. Seeing her there brought it all back, memories that I thought I’d discarded along with my clothes on the road. I remembered our house in Saigon with its big cool high-ceilinged rooms, the food on the China plates on the table where we sat on chairs and ate every day. I remembered her serene face when we were in the sitting room with my father and he told stories about their fun but rough early years.

A picture emerged in my head of my mother standing in the beach house, holding one hand on her rounding belly, the other hand holding mine, which was stretched up high to reach her, a rare gesture of intimacy.

Was this memory real? Had my mother been pregnant with Thông?

It was only then I realized that I was crying, tears streaming down my face like a slow-moving insect.

As if on cue, Thông started crying. Then my mother started crying too.

That was the strangest part. I wasn’t used to my mother showing any emotion.

The tall guard stood there, his expression bemused. I hated him more than anything at that moment. I imagined myself clawing at his eyes, pressing my thumb in the ball of his throat.

“Are you okay?” my mom asked.

“We’re okay.”

There was so much I wanted to tell her, to explain how I’d done my best and followed the plan. I wanted to tell her how sorry I was for messing up, for not protecting my brother and ruining our chances.

Thông started tugging at her arm like an infant. His clothing was threadbare, covered in yellowing stains.

“I tried to keep him safe,” I whispered.

Her forehead creased in confusion and pity. Had Tám Điệu told her what happened? Did he blame me and Thông for getting caught?

“It’s not your fault, Thanh,” she said in a soft voice.

“But I didn’t—”

She stared at me harshly. “It’s not important. We don’t have much time.”

I blinked my eyes to show her I understood.

It occurred to me how far my mother had traveled to come visit us, how much danger she faced just by riding the bus. There was always the chance that she’d be stopped and questioned about her trip away from her hometown.

But I trusted my mother’s capabilities. I recalled how she handled the household after my father had left—accumulating gold bars, securing foods not included in the rations, purchasing the plot of land to pretend to have a reason to be traveling, arranging for our transport to the South.

“The family is okay,” she said. “Your dad has been transferred to the North, and we haven’t heard anything from him since. Your brother Thinh and his wife plan to visit your sister. We are working to do all we can to get you out of here.”

Relief flooded me. My mother was telling me in code that Thinh found another connection and would escape soon to be with my sister in California.

“I brought your favorite foods, like pork stew and dried shredded pork,” she said and gestured toward the bags the guards were holding. “I brought your guitar too. Thach told us,” she added.

Guitar. The word sounded magical to me. It was something out of the serial stories.

Suddenly, the guard touched my shoulder. His grip was firm, not mean, but told me the visit was over.

“It’s okay, Thanh. I am so happy to see you,” my mother said.

The guard started leading her away.

“Mother, will you come again?”

She turned and stared at me then slightly nodded. There was sadness but determination in her expression. I know she would bribe the right people and get us out.

Excerpted from Rain on the Red Flag, copyright © 2025 by Frank Nguyen.