Secrets

Jessica Martin looked out of her kitchen window of her luxurious two storey house. It was beautiful. The colours of the garden were full of pinks and whites. Butterflies as red as a burning sunset flew in the bright yellow sunlight. She listened to the sound of the radio playing in the background.

“Golden winged, gypsy eyes as you soar, you softly weep...Golden-winged, gypsy eyes only you can know secrets you must keep...So spread your wings, toward the sun soon your flight will be done, and you will close your eyes…”

Soon her children would be home and her isolation would be shattered by loud amplified screams. She sighed as she looked out into the garden. If only she could spread her wings and fly out into a world that seemed to steam ahead without her. Here she was a typical American housewife that seemed to be as rigid and flat as a steam iron. She was just a mirror image of thousands of others who had resigned themselves to live as housewives. Secretly in the corner of her mind she envied those that partook of free love and were searching for truth. She wished she could just leave her life, and be free to experience what she saw blaring out at her through her TV set. In the screen she saw people liberated. No one could tell them what to do. Mothers and fathers could not control their kids, and the government were having endless problems with protests that seemed to be occurring on a daily basis. She wished she could be out picketing for the return of the boys that were needlessly dying for no real purpose at all. She dried her wrinkled hands. They had been soaking too long. She sighed. When would her husband be home? He was in Vietnam, a country that she had no real interest in. It could have been the moon—it would have made little difference. She imagined him terrified, his eyes burning from the jungle heat, and his feet swollen and wrinkled much like her hands only much, much worse. Tears were starting to form. She had to stay strong. Her children couldn’t see her in such a state. Her husband wouldn’t want her to experience such grief. Honour and respect didn’t mean anything to her anymore, although she never confided in anyone about this. She would keep it to herself, lest she would be seen to be unpatriotic in her circle of friends. She didn’t know how long she could keep her emotions hidden; one day she would let out everything that she had held inside if she didn’t do something about them.

The months that followed became a wave of troubled sensations. She never heard from her husband. All she saw was on the news, and that frightened her terribly. Shadows of the dead and the dying crept up on her as she lay asleep. Her eyes reddened. Life didn’t seem to matter anymore. The only thing that kept her sane were the children that demanded her attention. What would she tell them if she got a letter through the door informing her of their daddy dying in some paddy field in Asia with a bullet to his head? She wouldn’t be able to live anymore, and the children would grow up deprived of a father. Weren’t they already deprived? He was no longer their father but a soldier trained to kill in the jungles of an Asian country that she was beginning to resent. The body count was starting to rise as the protests only increased. Picket signs jostled on the streets as angry crowds chanted antiwar slogans. Someone had to do something to bring their men home. Millie, a neighbour a few doors down, had received the dreadful news. She had become an emotional wreck, refusing to get out of her house and to accept the condolences from those that were sorry. Her husband wouldn’t be coming back to her not even in a body bag.

Still no news from her husband—not even a letter telling her that he was safe and that he was holding on to the hope that he would see her again. She imagined him in the kitchen as she prepared the children’s sandwiches for school. He was smiling big and bright, soaking in the sun that shone through the window. She smiled back and then turned to spread the smooth butter on the thick white bread. He was probably eating food that would make anyone sick. She glanced at the red juicy tomato on the cutting board and raised her knife, piercing the ripe flesh violently. She was beginning to hate the word Vietnam and everyone in it from taking her husband away from her. What was the point in shipping thousands off to war to fight for something that the government didn’t believe in? The more she thought about it the more erratic she was becoming. She had to stop thinking about it and try her best to retain her sanity for the sake of her children who needed her more than ever.

It was Friday night, the night that all the women in the neighbourhood got together to socialise. Most of them had waved goodbye to their husbands as they took possibly their last look at them in their full service uniform. Now they had banded together for moral support and to help each other survive. Millie had come. Her eyes were raw from all the crying she had done. She didn’t look well. Jessica sighed. Millie's emotions were in plain view for all to see. She was just the opposite. She had hidden her feelings of hopelessness the day that she embraced her husband in her arms for possibly the last time. Millie sat next to Jessica on the reclining couch. They had been good friends but ever since her husband died she hadn’t spoken once.

“Millie,” she looked her in the eyes. She felt awkward. “Are you okay?”

It was obvious that Millie was anything but okay. She could have snapped back, but she didn’t. It wasn’t like her. “Jessica…” she tried to smile and hold back the tears all at the same time. She tried to speak but the tears cascaded down her pale face. She had to hold someone— she was desperate to feel the warmth of another human being in her arms, but Jessica couldn’t read her mind and the embrace never came.

“Millie, you know you can come over to my house anytime.”

She smiled, wiping away the tears. “I don’t know what I would do without you, Jessica. You know I love to be in your company only I have to be alone….”

“I understand. You know where I live if you need anything.”

The night was long and empty as Jessica lay restless in her bed. She couldn’t contain her thoughts as they roamed freely, lost somewhere in Vietnam, amidst the battered battalions of hopeless men. She could see their eyes penetrating the dark. She rolled over in the double bed that seemed to hold endless space. She needed to reach out and hold someone. She needed to whisper all her fears and get out all the anger that she was building up inside. Millie needed to hold someone and yet Jessica had been too selfish to realise the need, and now she felt the same hunger for love and compassion. If only she had listened to her troubled heart and reached out to a friend maybe she wouldn’t be in such a state. But all she could think about was her husband, who as far as she was concerned, was millions of miles away caught up in something she couldn’t understand or even comprehend. All she knew was that if she didn’t get her husband back alive she would probably be thrown into a mental institution never to experience life as a sane person again. So she lay restless— her thoughts trampled down by fleeing soldiers in disarray. Her husband was somewhere lying crushed to death near the bamboo trees. She could sense his presence, but no matter how hard she tried to find him through the thick encroaching forest she could not. She listened to the creaking bamboo that swayed in the darkness, muttering some incoherent cry. Then she heard voices, not American voices that she longed to hear, but a strange and terrifying dialect of one of the many Vietnamese languages that ripped through her like a knife. She didn’t know what to do. She felt trapped in a canopy of trees that filtered out the light. What could she do? The more she thought the more paranoid she started to get and her panic started to build. She started to run through the green trees that dripped with the early morning dew.

She opened her eyes— another restless night had passed. She wearily made her way to the bathroom and looked at her tired face in the mirror. Her blonde wavy hair was a hapless mess of curls interwoven like a bramble bush. Her pupils were red and puffy and there were dark bags under her eyes. She would put on all the makeup she could get her hands on. No one would see the real her. She smiled back at her reflection in the mirror. She was a master of disguises. In a few minutes she would be looking normal again. She walked down the green carpeted stairs everything seemed to blend into one. The pale colours of the walls seemed to merge with the whites, the greys, the reds and the blues. She neared the front door; something told her not to open it. The wooden door that she had relied on to protect her and keep her safe would open to hell. Nothing looked out of the ordinary. A few cars lined the road and people strolled slowly by. She looked down. A small brown envelope lay next to her feet. She bent down to pick it up and nearly fell over with shock. The letter was addressed from the War Office. She took it inside. Her husband was dead and she knew it. She sat in silence on the sofa feeling the crisp sealed envelope in her hands. The kids would be up any minute. They didn’t deserve to see their mother cry. The paint that she used to conceal her face would be useless. She slowly opened it. The news was not good, perhaps it had been written exactly the same way Millie’s letter had been written. It was typed with a rigid formal precise manner.

Dear Mrs Martin,

With the innermost regret we wish to inform you of your husband’s death. He was a fearless solider who died bravely for his country.

Deepest Condolences,

Thomas Chilton

War Department

She closed her eyes. All she could think about were the children—how would they cope? She had already been mourning his loss for sometime now, even though he had been alive in some rainforest in Asia. The tears were flowing now. The paper was smudged with mascara. Her face was smeared in the paint that had been her disguise. It would soon wash away.

Millie knew how she felt. They would make the perfect couple in their bereavement. Two crying friends sobbing in each others arms, trying to come to terms yet never wishing to leave it go. What was the point of living? She thought as she buried her head into Millie’s thick raven hair. The mourning had begun, and the weeping of mothers and wives echoed the same sentiments throughout the country.

Jessica looked out of her kitchen window. The garden was growing fierce and wild. The burning red butterflies no longer flew her way, and the bright colours that had adorned her once prized garden had turned to rotting decay. Bang! Bang! Bang! She turned her attention to the front door. The banging was erratic— something seemed wrong. She quickly dried her hands with a towel and ran to the door. Whatever it was it was important. She didn’t need anymore bad news. She heaved a sigh of relief. It was only Millie and she looked happy.

“I had to come and tell you the news!” What news? Had her husband been found and was he alive?

“Come inside Millie!” she smiled for the first time in days. “It looks like you got the neighbours attention as well.”

Millie could hardly contain herself. She fidgeted with her hands as she sat on the red satin couch waiting for Jessica to bring in the tea and cakes. “Tell me everything.” She handed Millie a hot cup of tea.

“Well you know Clare has been trying to get me to see a clairvoyant.”

“Yes?” she was puzzled. She was getting all excited just because she had seen a psychic?

Millie looked at her questioning her response. “What?”

“I just thought that maybe you got good news about your husband.” They were best of friends. She could say it to her face.

Her smile dropped for a second. “No, she was able to communicate with my husband.”

Jessica frowned. She never believed in such things. How in the world could people communicate with the dead? They were dead and there was no point even considering such a crazy notion. “And what did she tell you?”

“She told me that he is all right and that he is looking out for me and the kids. I thought it would make things worse but I feel much better knowing he is happy. You know you just want to know how they are doing.”

She sat listening to everything she said. She didn’t believe. It all sounded like utter nonsense, but she didn’t want to take away the smile from Millie’s face that hadn’t been there for months. No, she would leave her believe in whatever she wanted as long as it made her happy.

“Jessica you’ve got to go maybe she’ll be able to tell you about…”

“No!” she wouldn’t even let it cross her mind. “It is not for me Millie…”

“But…”

“It just doesn’t feel right.”

“This is if you change your mind.” She took a piece of paper out of her purse and left it on the coffee table.

Millie’s visit had confused her. If people could communicate with the dead then why didn’t her husband talk to her, and not to some old woman hunched behind a crystal ball? He was her soul mate. Why didn’t he just come to her? For some reason she had put the address on the fridge door in case she changed her mind. Deep down inside she hoped she would change her mind. She wanted to hear from her husband desperately.

Jessica turned her metallic blue Dodge into a driveway that was overgrown with weeds peeking through the cracks of the paved driveway. She turned off the engine and made her way up a flight of steps that led to a screen door. She looked around to see if anyone in the neighbourhood was interested in her arrival. No one was around. She looked at the doorbell that was barely hanging on the stone wall and rang it twice. The woman took her time, any longer and she would have left.

“H-h-hello,”

“Uh, hello dear,” called a grey haired woman from the other side of the screen.

“I’m Jessica Martin. I tried to call yesterday about making an appointment but I got no reply.”

“Sorry about that. When you get to my age your hearing starts to suffer. Won’t you please come in?”

Jessica looked around Mrs Wilson’s sitting room that she had been led to. She had no TV and her ornaments were plain and ordinary. Judging by the dusty room it looked like Mrs. Wilson rarely ever got customers. After the customary tea and a chat on trivial matters Mrs. Wilson got down to business.

“You know that I have to get paid for my services, otherwise I won’t be able to live. I only ask for ten dollars.” She looked into Mrs Wilson’s eyes; she was a kind spirit. She didn’t feel out of place in her company. In fact she felt quite comfortable in her presence.

“I don’t know how this all works but…”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be doing most of the work the only thing that I want from you is to leave all your inhibitions aside—just this once. I can see you were a bit apprehensive coming here and you are having a hard time believing that someone can communicate with the dead.”

She nodded not really knowing why. She just felt like agreeing. Besides she was right.

She had a special room where the séances were conducted and she kept it that way. She closed her eyes and surrounded herself in the aura that engulfed her. Jessica looked around the room. The walls were covered in light green carpet and cushions covered the floor. Mrs Wilson didn’t care for the dark she had to be in a light cheery room. The light from the open window shone on her face as she stared mystified at the old woman who was a picture of peace. Her eyes were closed as she sat surrounded by a mountain of pillows. She looked closer. It seemed as if her outer shell was in the room, but her inner spirit was flying above the clouds away from everything. Jessica wouldn’t close her eyes she would continue to study her dedication to the gift that filled her with awe. She noticed her mouth slowly moving, she was going to speak. Silence would be broken.

Then she heard them, two audible words that came thundering through the silence. “…Pin… Yang…” And just as soon as the words came the room was engulfed in silence once again.

Jessica sat in the silence of her own home. She couldn’t understand it. Her husband didn’t speak to her—did he even want to? All the words that came out of Mrs Wilson’s mouth were Pin Yang. Those words made no sense to her, but she couldn’t shake those words out of her head. The more she thought about it the more she got confused. What did those words mean? She had to find out.

The monsoon season had arrived. The slippery leaves of rubber trees dripped with the pouring mountain rain that engulfed the small village of Pin Yang. Water Buffalo roamed freely through the flooded plains. Night had fallen and Nguyen Thi An lay restless on her straw mat. She opened her eyes and listened to the heavy rain pouring down from the sky. It had comforted her in the past, as ever since she was a small girl she loved to sit and listen to the sounds of the rain. This time things were different. The storms only seemed to stress to her the seriousness of the situation. She closed her eyes and imagined each drop representing the tears of her ancestors who had seen and heard the brutality that had torn her country apart. Such deeds would not go unnoticed. She did not know how long she lay lost in her thoughts, contemplating over things that were too deep for her to understand. What had happened to her people? What caused brothers to hate each other and fathers to cry like babies in the face of death? She had seen death. She had stared death in the face many times and she wished she would someday wake up out of the nightmare that surrounded her world. She smiled to herself imagining bathing in the moonlight afraid for nothing. She would plunge into the water submerged in peace.

Morning had arrived. The tears had dried on her high cheekbones as she looked outside her house at the rising sun. Burning red butterflies flew high into the orange sky. She took a deep breath. Why couldn’t she fly away from everything? The tears were coming again. She could feel them forming in her throat. She clenched her fists determined not to give into her emotions that stretched as far as the spiralling mountains. She had to remain strong for the sake of her child. She listened to the hum of the dragonflies as they flew by her. Maybe now that the insects were returning things would only get better. The angry sounds of the bombers that drilled in her head every time they passed had been silent for sometime, and the dull repetitive sound of rotor blades had disappeared. She ran her hands through her long black hair and looked out into the rice fields. It was time to get to work.

The quiet morning air was suddenly interrupted by the raging sound of a mud splattered vehicle roaring through the leafy green jungle. It was heading for Pin Yang. The driver’s steel icy glare was enough to realise that he had seen something in the past that had cut him deeply. He stared out towards the winding mountain road as he shifted the well worn gear stick. Birds screamed as the jeep tore through the forest. It was risky business driving in such territory, but the reward for driving his passenger was too great an opportunity to pass up. His dark brown eyes glanced over at the foreign woman, who had been the object of his desire ever since he had laid eyes on her. He had never been with a woman outside of his country before. He studied her blue eyes and her blonde hair, dangerously taking his eyes off of the muddy track that the vehicle continued to lurch through. The driver quickly turned his attention to the road and stepped heavily on the brake pedal. The battered jeep had stopped. Heavy silence engulfed the vehicle as the driver put his hands to his lips. The foreigner glanced at him. Her eyes widened as she realised her driver was not interested in getting her to Pin Yang. He had other ideas. She could see deep lust pouring out of his eyes as the silence continued to rage. She started to panic as she reached for the door. She wouldn’t let it happen. No, she would run into the dark foliage away from this strange man that she had been so naïve to trust. She turned to the door.

“Miss,” it was him—the driver that she had put all her faith in bringing her to a place she had never knew existed. “You be quiet! We are not alone.” She didn’t say anything. There was no need. She had to trust him. She felt uneasy in the silence as she glanced over at the driver. She couldn’t understand him or the forest that had secrets all of its own.

Nguyen Thi An was puzzled by the appearance of a foreign woman to her village. She frowned. Her arrival brought back memories that she had tried to forget and leave behind, but the more she stared into the white woman’s face the more she started to remember.

“What do you want?” she eyed the woman suspiciously. Her arrival had angered the villagers.

“Your English is good.” She held out her hand. “My name is Jessica Martin. I’m looking for my husband, Sean Martin.” She reached for a small worn picture of her husband and handed it to the small Vietnamese woman.

Nguyen Thi An held the thin photograph in her hand as her eyes glanced nonchalantly at the man who was dressed in full army uniform, smiling from ear to ear. It was Sean! The memories flooded back to her all at once. If she didn’t do something she would explode in a torrent of emotion. She handed the photograph back to the woman that she could hardly drag her eyes to look at.

“You must leave now!” She turned her back and ran, leaving Jessica standing in shock. Was she keeping a secret? Did she know something about her Sean? She looked at the picture of her husband. Why did she even bother coming to a country she didn’t understand? Perhaps it was the fascination that had built up inside of her over the years for the words Pin Yang. She had acted on a freak impulse and now she was in the very place she had tried to ignore.

“Miss,” it was the driver. He looked terribly concerned. “We must go…villagers are saying we not welcome…they want us to go.” She looked all around. It seemed her arrival had created no small stir. The people were unhappy. She looked in the direction where the woman had run to. She desperately wanted to find out what had upset her. She listened; something wasn’t right. Suddenly she heard something whistle by her.

“Miss we must go!” A large popping noise was heard as the driver was thrown to the ground violently. She started to shake as she saw him lying in a pool of blood. He was dead! The entire village had erupted into a frantic state as mothers grabbed their babies searching for a place to hide in the leafy green canopy of the thick jungle leaves. She started to run amidst the confusion. She had to find out the secret of Pin Yang – she had to.

She had found her hiding in her stilt house. She looked into her oriental eyes. It was obvious that she was afraid—afraid of what the foreign woman would do when she heard the news. Jessica listened to the sound of rifles popping and the high pitched wails of the dying.

“Did you know my husband?” She took out the picture again.

Tears started to fall down Nguyen Thi An’s face as she trembled with fear. “I…I…” she couldn’t think not with the white woman staring into her, but she had to. By some inexplicable force she had arrived in her village seeking answers. She had travelled such a long way; it was her obligation to tell her the truth. The large wooden room was engulfed in silence—cut off from the ravages outside.

“We meet in Saigon I was young and he was lonely…” She trailed off telling her how she had to flee and live with her relatives in Pin Yang. She never saw him after Saigon and never heard from him again. The only time she would see him was in her dreams when the moon was full and bright. He was happy just like in the photo. Next came the hardest part as the Vietnamese woman trembled violently. She didn’t want to say it but it had to come out. “We…had… a son.”

She drew back in shock. Not only did Sean have a relationship outside marriage, betraying their marriage vows, but he had a child with a woman that she had never known about. Why hadn’t he been faithful to her? She had— even when she had been tempted to satisfy her needs. She wanted to feel the pain and anguish but she couldn’t. Their eyes met. They were from different backgrounds yet they understood each other. One wanted to forgive the other wanted forgiveness. Words were of little consequence as they embraced each other. The pangs of guilt and pain were washed away and the heaviness was lifted. Suddenly the realisation of the world outside bore down upon them in an ear shattering moment.

Jessica opened her eyes. She was alive. She listened to the cry of a child softly wailing over a limp body that she had been talking to moments before. She looked at the child—it was Sean’s son. Motion seemed to blur as she scooped up the small boy in her arms. She ran through the burning village and passed the crazy heartless men who burned evil in their hearts. She held tightly onto the boy as she disappeared into the tall bamboo trees. There was a massacre enfolding in the village, and there was nothing she could do about it. All she thought about was the boy and his safety. That’s what Sean would have wanted and that’s what she would do. She would take him home and rear him as her own son.

The night was shining bright as the croaking frogs came out to sing amongst the white lily pads. A drooping crane fished for eels and the sound of crickets filled the night. A woman was bathing alone in a pool of silver water, catching up the rays of the moon.

“Nguyen Thi An,” she heard whisper through the long lemon grass and tickle her naked back. She turned around. She recognised the voice.

“Sean?” He was standing next to a tall Banyan tree that almost reached the heavens. He smiled just as he had in Saigon. She smiled back.

“How is my son?” He was concerned as any father would be.

“Jessica took him home with her. He is safe— don’t worry he is in good hands.”

Sean smiled as he entered the soft inviting water. It was good to see her again. He had missed her terribly. He closed his eyes savouring the moment. Someday he would see Jessica again and things would be made right between them. He was sure of it.