Chapter 17 — Summer After the Rain

The meeting with former rescue team members took place in Aunt Tam's tea shop, where the smell of coconut milk and cooked green beans mingled warmly in the late afternoon. Some people ordered black bean sweet soup, others ordered Khuc Bach sweet soup, while Minh ordered water and ate all the other people's toppings, causing Aunt Tam to glare at him a few times before bringing another cup of dried coconut to make up for it.

Mr. Sau showed a hand-drawn boat route diagram on a yellowed piece of paper, pointing out each stop on the flood night with calloused fingers. The old secretary gave me a copy of the order, the paper had been photocopied so many times that the writing was blurred in some places. Another person named Hung, with a thin figure and always downcast eyes, said Mr. Phuc once asked for the data to be adjusted. Hung admitted that he signed because he was afraid of losing his job, his voice shaking with shame pent up over the years. Linh did not yell, just asked what he still kept.

Hung also had a broken tape recording stored in an old tin box that he carried with him as a treasure. Minh can restore using the old device. He said it would take three days, but he could lose his voice if the magnet wire failed, his voice was careful as if he were explaining a difficult surgery. Hau offered to read lips from pictures if available, then was told by everyone to watch too many movies, causing the whole dinner table to laugh amidst the tense atmosphere.

Linh called her mother and announced the meeting over the phone, her voice lowered so no one could hear it in the crowded restaurant. Mom said she used to know Hung, and apologized for never finding him all these years. Linh asked if her mother returned, would she dare to tell everyone. Mom said she would try, her voice sounding shaky over the line but still steadfast.

The meeting lasted until the tea shop closed, plastic chairs were gradually arranged on the table around the group of people still lingering. Aunt Tam gave the bill, telling everyone to pay, including the person who was rescuing the truth, a joke but also a clever reminder that it was very late. Minh was charged extra for eating toppings from four different people, causing the group to laugh one last time before dispersing.

On the way home, the cool night wind blew through the empty street. Linh asked Hung why he kept the ice for so many years. Hung said he did not want his child to grow up with questions about his father, he did not want the child to have to live with a vague shadow of the cowardice of the person who gave birth to him. Linh replied that holding back is not always protecting; Sometimes it just makes a room tighter, so tight that even the person holding it has no room to breathe.

Minh walked next to her, holding the tape carefully as if carrying a fragile object. He said he would try to recover tomorrow. Linh said that if he messed up, she would make him listen to every song Hau chose for a week straight. Minh immediately said he would do it carefully, his serious expression rarely seen under street lights.

The tape was restored one more section after two days of hard work. The technician heard a stranger read the number of the truck transporting the materials. His voice was hoarse but he could still distinguish each number. Mai enlarges the record on the computer and determines that it is the number of the vehicle that was recorded in the delivery record. The driver currently lives in the coastal city and works as a transporter. They called him. He hung up the phone as soon as he heard Phuc's name, the long sound sounded like a door slamming shut.

Hau suggested coming to the place, his eyes lit up with the idea of adventure. Mai objected because no one was allowed to arbitrarily confront witnesses, her voice was determined. Minh told Hau to only go if he knows how to keep his mouth shut. Hau replied that he could keep his mouth shut with tape. Mrs. Nam gave him a real tape, making the whole group laugh amid the tense atmosphere.

Linh stayed at the theater with her mother that night. The two of them sorted their father's letters by date under the table lamp, each letter carefully arranged into small piles. There are leaves where he tells stories about fixing machines, stories about Linh's semester exams, stories about a cat breaking a vase, and small details of everyday life. Interspersed are torn pages and torn paper edges. Mom realized that the handwriting on the torn part was not his, but hers.

“Mom tore up the letter?”

“I don't want you to read the sentences your father wrote when he was angry with me.”

“I would rather read an angry sentence than guess for the rest of my life.”

Mother was silent, her hand trembling slightly on the stack of papers, then gave her the letter she had kept in the suitcase for eighteen years. Linh's father wrote that he did not blame his mother for taking his child away, but he hoped that one day they would both return to watch the last movie in Ha Vang. Linh folded the letter and did not cry. Some pain has gone through tears, leaving only emptiness, a heavy silence but no longer as painful as before.

In the evening, a truck carrying wooden beams arrived, the roaring sound of the engine echoed throughout the small street. Carpenters in the street split up to lift the roof, and coordinated shouts rang out in the middle of the night. Minh commanded but said the wrong direction twice, Aunt Tam told him to stand down and act as a scene, making the whole crew laugh. Linh held a lamp to look at each corner, mother read the design under the flashlight, Hau gave everyone water to quench their thirst. By midnight, the new beam was in place, and the whole group breathed a sigh of relief.

Minh sat down on the steps, his hands scratched from rubbing against rough wood all evening. Linh bandaged him, her fingers carefully wrapping each circle. He said she was misaligned. She said it's personal style. He looked at her, asking if he could keep that style long term. Linh pretended not to understand, but her fingers gently squeezed the tape, a small gesture that they both understood the meaning of.

On the other side of the street, Phuc's car drove slowly past and disappeared in the darkness, its headlights scanning a short streak of light. Linh's mother watched, saying the real war had not yet begun. Linh turned back to look at the brightly lit theater, warm light shining from every window. That said, they now had a roof to stand under.

Linh called the driver in the coastal city again the next morning. This time he did not hang up, but only agreed to meet with the lawyer, his voice still reserved. He sent a photo of the delivery book in advance, the date and date blurred by time. Mai said the photo wasn't enough, but it helped them identify another employee who could testify, a new link in the chain of evidence that was gradually taking shape.

Minh finished fixing the tape recorder late one afternoon, then asked Linh if she wanted to listen to the tape right away. She answered no, because she wanted to listen with her mother. Mother and daughter sat together in the projection room, placing their hands on the table next to each other. When Phuc's voice rang out through the loudspeaker, Linh's mother held her child's hand tightly, her knuckles turning white from squeezing too hard.

No one spoke after the tape went off. The room was filled with heavy silence, with only the sound of mother and child breathing mingling together. Mom just told them to listen again tomorrow morning, this time no one would listen alone, a small but firm promise.

Linh placed the tape in a moisture-proof box, and her mother recorded the date and time of listening in the recording book. Minh stood outside the door, did not interfere, and respected the private space between mother and child. When his mother left the room to rest, he asked her if she needed him to stay. Linh responded in need, but not to listen for her. He pulled out a chair and sat next to her, letting her decide when to turn on the phone, without urging or prying.

Linh turned on the projection room light, but did not turn on the tape. The pale yellow light covered the two of them with a warm halo in the middle of the quiet night. She asked Minh what he was most afraid of. He said he was afraid that he would do the right thing too late, afraid that by the time he was brave enough, there would be no time to save anything. She replied, let's start right from the smallest thing: staying when the other person needs a chair, a simple sentence but enough for both of them to nod in the dark, like a silent contract between them.

They sat like that for a long time, no one said more, just heard the crickets chirping in the yard and the sound of the river flowing in the distance. Minh finally broke the silence by asking if Hung was okay after handing over the tape, because he seemed to have just lifted a burden but also lost the only thing that had made him feel like he had some control over the story. Linh said she would call to check on him tomorrow morning, and perhaps invite him to a screening, so he would know that his courage was not in vain.

Before turning off the lights and leaving, Linh pasted a small piece of paper on the moisture-proof box containing the tape, clearly stating the date, witnesses, and instructions that no one should open it alone. Minh watched her do it, saying that she was gradually turning everything in the theater into an orderly system, from old tickets to unnamed pains. Linh replied that perhaps that was the only way for a heartbreaking story to not be forgotten again, and also for no one to have to bear the truth alone like her parents had to do.