Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 138217 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138217 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
Kanoa seemed to have come to terms with the neurological damage that led to him being unable to play his instrument, and he’d just picked up a prestigious position as a senior lecturer of music theory at the Hanoi Conservatory (Hien asked us not to tell you, as the two of them were planning to surprise you and Marian with the news by sending you a clip of his first lecture).
That’s the real reason why Hien transferred to Hanoi, you see. Kanoa was always so wonderful about moving for her work, and this time, she said it was her turn to support him. She was smiling so hard when she told us the news that I could hear it over the phone. And Kanoa, he sounded ecstatic.
But it’s clear now that we were all wrong. His cello was part of Kanoa’s very being. And you know he was a proud man, one who based his sense of self on both his art and his ability to be an equal partner to Hien.
I wish he’d understood that to Hien, he was the gift. She loved him more than life itself.
We’re on our way to the airport. The boys are with your aunt Geri—this is not a situation their young minds can handle, and they love and trust Geri. I know you and Marian will be behind us the second you get this message, so I’ll see you in Hanoi, my son.
Love,
Dad
Voice message from Déwei Nguyen to Hien Nguyen (18 June 1976)
Anything you need, Hien, I’m always here for you. All of us are here for you. Please don’t shut us out. I miss you, little sister.
Letter from Hien Nguyen to Déwei Nguyen (27 June 1976)
Dear D,
I’m sorry I didn’t want to see you when you came to Mom and Dad’s. I feel awful admitting this, but you remind me of all I’ve lost. We were meant to be four. You and Mimi, me and Kanoa. Now our square is missing a side and it’s all wrong. My heart is shattered into so many pieces that the only reason I get up in the morning and do anything at all is because of the life in my womb.
My love’s last and most precious gift to me.
Without the spark of our child, I would be a ghost, insubstantial and without meaning. I just float through life and all I see when I close my eyes is the torment on my husband’s face when the doctors told him what the neural damage had done to his ability to play his instrument.
He kept on trying anyway. Over and over again. Until he was shattered into as many pieces as the cello he smashed to bits with an iron mallet one hot summer’s day last year.
I should’ve known. I should’ve forced him to get more help. But he told me it was his way of saying good-bye to the past so he could move into the future. I stood with him as he burned the broken pieces of his cherished instrument, and I held his hand as he said a silent good-bye to dreams he’d nurtured since childhood.
My sweet, talented, beautiful husband. He tried so hard for me. But he couldn’t bear the pain.
So much pain, D. How can it possibly be worth it? So much suffering. You’ve been outside the Net these last terrible years. You’ll never understand the agony of watching the person you love vanish piece by small piece as the madness of the PsyNet eats away at him.
I won’t have that for my child. I won’t.
I’m sorry, D, but I plan to vote yes should the authorities go ahead with the referendum they’re considering about the change to the Silence Protocol. Please don’t hate me for that.
Your little sister,
Hien
Letter from Déwei Nguyen to Hien Nguyen (30 June 1976)
Dear Hien,
I could never hate you. You will always be my little sister no matter what. If you need me, just call and I’ll respond—whether that’s today or ten years from today. Nothing you can ever do will stop my love for you. Or my love for the child you carry.
I plan to be the best uncle a kid could ever have. And I know that any choice you make for your child will be one with their best interests in mind, for your love is a bright flame, Hien. I will never attempt to gainsay you.
I’m leaving this letter with Mom, for whenever you’re ready to read it. I understand why you can’t see me right now, but I hope the day will come when to see me will be to remember all the joy Kanoa brought wherever he went. The cubs in the den still talk about the time he played bear games with them. He was a man of incredible talent and heart, and he shouldn’t be gone from this world. I wish I could change the past, fix things for you as I did when we were children.