Chapter 6 — The Husband's Secret

The old building of Nhan An Hospital is much more deserted than the new building. Outside the side door there was a woman standing. She was in her forties, wearing a dark coat, her hair tied very low. Seeing me, she asked first. "Miss Diep?" I nodded. "Is it you who sent me the message?" She did not deny. "Previously I worked as a nurse in the obstetrics department." "Why are you looking for me?" She looked at me, her eyes a little tired. "Because someone is about to not be able to last anymore." My heart sank. "Who?" She didn't answer directly, taking me to the document storage room next to the old building. The room had a musty smell of papers. She took out a cement paper bag from her pocket. "I shouldn't have kept these things." "But that year Lam Van Duong died so suddenly, many things were so strange." I looked up suddenly. "Is she dead?" The woman looked at me. "Postpartum hemorrhage, three hours of emergency room." "Shen Nghien stood outside and signed all the papers." "He signed in the name of a person." husband.” My throat felt tight. I turned over the first sheet of paper. Commitment letter for surgery. Blood transfusion consent form. Death notice. Under each piece of paper is Tham Nghien's name. I'm so familiar with that handwriting. So familiar that even if you close your eyes you can recognize it. In the paper bag there is also a record of the date of birth. When Tieu Du was born, he weighed just over four pounds. Premature birth. Light weight. Behind is a guardian change paper. Tham Nghien, as the father, was responsible for future treatment and upbringing arrangements. The father. Not friends. Not a philanthropist. As a father. I asked. "Why did he hide it from me?" The woman was silent for a moment. "You should ask him this." "But I advise you, don't ask yet." "Why?" She pulled out a new form from the bottom of the paper bag. That piece of paper is very new. The date is last week. The hospital is not Nhan An, but the City Children's Hospital. The name Tham Du was written on it. The diagnostic column, I don't understand the whole thing. But I saw the four words of the application for compatibility testing clearly. In the family notes column, write a sentence. Plan to contact your half-sister for initial screening. My fingertips instantly turned cold. The woman lowered her voice. "It hasn't been long since your daughter was born. Tham Nghien has already come to ask about the umbilical cord blood." "You'd better watch the child carefully." "Because this Friday, he's preparing to bring that baby boy to see her."07 When the nurse pushed the form in front of me, her finger stopped at the column asking for a compatibility test. She said, don't cry yet. I just realized my face was full of tears. I used the back of my hand to wipe it away, but the words on the paper became even more blurred. She poured me a glass of warm water. I held the cup tightly, the heat from the cup slowly transferred to my palm, but I still felt cold. She said, Tham Du's illness is not something that happens in a day or two. She said, at the end of last year, she happened to meet Tham Nghien at the City Children's Hospital. At that time he asked what was not the usual treatment method. He asked about bone marrow donation from a relative. I asked, why are you looking for me now? She was silent for a long time. She said, because before I also thought he would tell her. I looked at her. She avoided my eyes, then said again, I thought he would at least let her know that such a child existed. Outside the storage room, someone walked by. The sound of footsteps dragged very long in the hallway of the old building. I neatly folded each copy paper. Every time I put away a sheet, it feels like a layer has been cut out of my heart. I asked her, could these be used as evidence? A photocopy isn't necessarily enough, she said, but it gives her direction

Where should I look up? She said again, she had to go to the hospital, to the maid agency, to the preschool, keeping everything she could keep. I asked, what do they want to do on Friday? She shook her head. She said, I just heard that Tham Nghien asked someone to get the medical examination number. The initial screening may only take a little blood, she said, or an oral mucosal swab may be taken first. She paused for a moment. She said, for adults, it's just a small action. But for an eight-month-old baby, what's truly scary isn't the act itself. What's really scary is, they've already sorted out her next step. I looked up at her. She said, if the initial screening results were consistent, do you think they would stop? My stomach cramped violently. I remember Vien Vien's hands clenched into fists while sleeping. I remember when she was just learning to sit, but she couldn't sit firmly and smiled at me. He doesn't even know how to call his mother clearly. But someone wrote her name into another medical record. I asked, why did she take such a risk? The woman bowed her head and looked at her hands. She said, the night Lam Van Duong was born, I was there. She said, when she was conscious at the last moment, she kept asking if the child was okay.