think about their best moments—of renting a canoe and paddling to an island, where they camped for two nights, of him teaching her how to throw and catch a baseball. She tried to ignore painful recollections—times when he’d unexpectedly gone away or broken his promises to be by her side. As a young girl, she’d hated such occurrences. They’d made her feel unloved and unwanted and, most of all, confused. She didn’t understand why he needed to be away from his family. How could he love her, yet leave her so easily? The misery and bewilderment that this question created had lasted for years.
As a teenager, Iris had resented her father. It wasn’t until after finishing college that she began to grasp why he’d so often been gone. He had never told her of his demons, but she’d read several books about the war and realized that his maladies weren’t unusual. He’d been wounded deep inside, where light never reached and couldn’t help him heal.
Iris wasn’t sure exactly why she was going to Vietnam. Of course, she’d wanted to put her father at ease during his last days, and her words about traveling to Saigon had done just that—resonating within him. But a part of her also needed to complete his dream. Over the past two years, he’d spoken to her about this dream, about his longing to do something good. And she had seen beauty in what he was trying to accomplish. Her love for him had grown then—because he’d confided in her about his hopes and fears. And when he had taken trips to Saigon, they’d been with her blessing. He’d returned with pictures and stories, and they had eaten pizza in her apartment while he told her about the children he was trying to save. During these conversations, which often lasted long into the night, she had never felt closer to him.
Though her father had often been gone during her childhood, her mother had tried valiantly to fill the holes in Iris’s life. Because of her mother’s unending support, Iris couldn’t imagine growing up alone on the streets, with no one to care for her. And upon hearing her father’s stories of such children, she had instinctively wanted to do something to help. Of course, she’d never expected to try to finish what he’d started, but as his death had loomed, she knew that she couldn’t walk away from the children. She couldn’t leave them alone, not when she might be able to make their lives better.
Now, as Iris lay on her futon, she tried to suppress her nervousness about what she’d promised her father. Propped up on her chest was a battered copy of Heart of Darkness. The book had long been one of her favorites, and with thoughts of her trip to Saigon dominating her day, she thought it apt to read about Marlow’s journey through the Congo and through himself.
Iris laid the book down on her chest and closed her eyes. The lone window in her room was darkening, as dusk unfolded in the city below. Though she had eaten only a premade salad for dinner, and though her stomach was in want of more food, she was ready for sleep. She’d spent the afternoon packing and e-mailing her contacts in Saigon about her visit. After turning off the evening news she had showered, brushed her teeth, put on lightweight pajamas, and crept into bed.
She rolled to her left and glanced at the urn containing her father’s cremated remains. One of his last wishes was to be cremated, and she’d done as he asked, sobbing when she had first opened the silver container and seen his remains. She’d touched him, surprised that the urn didn’t contain ashes but rather tiny pieces of bone. How she longed to somehow fashion those pieces back into the man she had glimpsed on and off through the years—a man who loved her, who was able to temporarily place his sorrows aside and push his little girl high on a swing.
A soft but abrupt knock on her door caused her heart to skip. Iris had few visitors and couldn’t imagine who’d stop by without calling first. She stood up, buttoned her top higher, and walked toward the entryway. Peering through the peephole, she saw a woman’s familiar face. Iris opened the door and leaned toward her former neighbor. “Mrs. Woods?”
An ample woman dressed in a gray sweater and jeans nodded. “Hello, Iris. Sorry to . . . drop by