She started to respond but stopped, aware that he wanted to say something else.
His lungs filled and emptied. “Two things in my life . . . I’ve been proud of. You . . . and my center in Saigon. You’re both so wonderful.”
Iris stroked the back of his hand, careful to avoid the bruises that covered most of his flesh, the wounds left by needles. “I’ve been thinking a lot about your center,” she replied, trying to hide her apprehension. “I’m going to go, Dad. I’m going to finish what you started. What you almost finished.”
“What?”
“I’ll go to Saigon and see that it’s opened.”
“No.”
“I’ve already decided.”
“But . . . but your reviews. And your novel.”
“I can take everything with me.”
“Iris . . . don’t go for—”
“I want to go. I need to.”
“Why?”
“Because I love you. Because it will make you happy. And because you’ll . . . rest better knowing that you helped those children. The beautiful children you’ve told me so much about.”
Tears welled in his eyes. “Come here,” he whispered.
She leaned against him, wrapping her arms around him, shuddering when she felt him kiss her head. “I want to go,” she whispered. “I want to see the good that you’ve done.”
“Are you sure? It’s so far from home. From your mother.”
“She understands. She thinks I should go.”
“She does?”
“Yes.”
“And you . . . really want to?”
“I want to do it for you. And those children.”
He licked his cracked lips and she placed a piece of chipped ice in his mouth. “I love you more . . . more than anything else . . . in this world,” he said. “I don’t . . . deserve you. I never have.”
Her tears dropped to his chest, and she stroked his brow. “Please don’t go. I’m not ready. I want more time with you. I need more time with you.”
“I went . . . a long time ago. Except for you. I tried . . . and tried and tried . . . never to leave you.”
“You didn’t,” she replied, fighting the shudders that threatened to consume her. “I promise that you didn’t. I missed you . . . when you left. But I knew you still loved me.”
He tilted his head so that his flesh pressed more firmly against her palm. “Someday . . . if you have a child . . . will you take her to a ball game and tell her about our afternoons . . . and about how her grandpa wanted to take her? I would have taken her. And we’d have done . . . the same things. Eaten peanuts. Cheered with the crowd.”
“I’ll tell her everything. And I’ll take her. I’ll show her where we sat.”
He nodded, searching her face, longing to bring it with him on his journey. “I love you,” he said. “I love you . . . so much, Iris. More than words . . . can say. And I’ll find you in Saigon.”
“You will?”
“I’ll listen for children’s laughter. And I’ll follow . . . I’ll follow it to you.”
“Promise?”
“I do.”
She kissed his brow, aware that he was between worlds, drifting from one to the other. Weeping silently, she carefully climbed into his bed and lay beside him, comforting him as he’d done for her when nightmares had left her shaking.
“My baby girl,” he whispered. “You shine . . . such a light on me.”
ONE
Dusk and Dawn
The small apartment that Iris had rented for two years resembled the office of a college professor. In the living room, on wooden tables and shelves, piles of books were stacked like cords of firewood. The books were old and new, worn and untouched. Hundreds of hardcovers comprised the bases of these piles, while pa perbacks teetered on top of them. Several of the piles had tumbled, and books were strewn in odd places.
The rest of her home was unremarkable in every way. The kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom could have housed a monk. No luxuries abounded. No family photographs gathered dust. Twenty stories below, the pulse of Chicago drifted up to her closed windows. Horns, sirens, the rumble of a passing elevated train seeped into her room—though she’d long ago learned to block out such sounds.
Though Iris would have normally kept her books in perfect order, since her father’s death five weeks earlier she’d been far less inclined to complete such tasks. Her thoughts had dwelled on her memories of their time together. She tended to