Bedtime Stories from Vietnam

Abstract

Bedtime Stories from Vietnam Hanh Hoang (bio) “To begin depriving him [death] of the greatest advantage over us . . . let us converse and be familiar with him, and have nothing so frequent in our thoughts as death.” —Michel de Montaigne Every night after I turned off the light, my son would stare at the ceiling for the longest time. I wondered if he was a normal four-year-old. What could be on his mind to cause him to stare into the dark for so long? Sometimes after thirty minutes of silence, he asked shyly if he could hold my hand, if he could be told a story. Yes, I replied, even though I knew he would constantly interrupt me, his eyes glinting with mischief. If I said for example that Cinderella’s clothes turned into a beautiful gown and she climbed into a golden coach heading for the ball, he’d say that Cinderella wanted to sleep after having spent the whole day sweeping the floor. All right, I’d say. She decides to go to the ball the next day instead. The fairy godmother warns her— But the godmother doesn’t show up the next day, my son would say. She has to visit other godchildren or they’ll be jealous. The morning after that, then, I’d say. Cinderella sends a bird to the fairy godmother to tell her to come. That evening Cinderella puts on the beautiful gown for the ball— But there’s no ball that day. There’s only one ball a year. And so it went with Tom Thumb, Snow White, Sleeping Beauty, The Boy Who Cried Wolf. My son would either make up the details or use the ones I had told him earlier, so he could contradict me. His main pleasure was just that—to interrupt my tale. One night I thought, Why not ghost stories? All Vietnamese children loved them, and my son, being half Vietnamese, should at least half appreciate a ghost story. I’d grown up in a haunted house. Whenever I was alone, I’d hear and see spirits. Feet shuffling down the stairs. White shapes appearing and disappearing. Sometimes the ghosts pretended to drink and glasses would clink on the table. Or they used the bathroom and the toilet paper holder would roll lách cách lách cách. There were so many people killed in so many wars in our country, so many ghosts, that no one could deny their existence. [End Page 66] Here’s what happens when a house is haunted, I told my son. The walls pop and the floor tiles click and the windows squeak. You want to believe that the wood in the walls expands at night, the tiles are loose, the wind blows through the windows. Then the noises become human. A voice calls your name. You don’t see anyone at first but you sense their presence. You feel very cold. You pretend to sleep but you can’t fool them. They want you to open your eyes. Their hands reach out. They might touch your neck, like this. Or sit on your chest. Or shake your bed. You want to cry out— My son panted. His eyes were wild with fear. Mommy. Stop it. I don’t like it. When I laughed and hugged him, he pushed me away. I should have realized then that my son and I were very different. Even now, I’m disappointed whenever he refuses to tell me the nightmares he had the night before. It’s too scary, he says. The more something scares us, I say, the more we should talk about it. But my son won’t let himself be persuaded. When my son was five, I suspected I was dying. Every few days I suffered from bouts of diarrhea. My intestines were twisted with cramps. My skin flaked from dehydration. After several inconclusive lab tests, the gastroenterologist ordered a colonoscopy. What would happen to my son if I had cancer? If my intestines were perforated during the procedure? If I never woke up? I decided I should prepare him for my eventual death. Everyone dies one...