Read When Heaven Fell for Free Online

aside while Di turned to Ma. She held out her arms and, to Binh’s surprise, Ma opened her arms too. Ma never hugged anyone, not Ba or Anh Hai or even Ba Ngoai. She never hugged Binh.
    “Binh!” Ma called as she released Di from the embrace. “Come meet your new auntie.”
    “Wait here. I’ll be back,” Binh said to Cuc.
    “But . . .” said Cuc, grabbing onto Binh’s waist.
    “She wants to see
me,
” Binh hissed.
    People stood aside to let Binh pass, and Ma caught her hand, pulling her close.
    Binh smiled a big, welcoming smile at Di.
    “My daughter,” Ma said, putting her hands on the back of Binh’s neck, gently urging her forward.
    Di looked at her with narrow brown eyes just like Binh’s own. It was the only part of Di that looked Vietnamese. “My little niece,” Di said.
    Binh found herself enfolded in Di’s arms, her face right up against Di’s pink T-shirt, which smelled not of expensive perfume but of laundry soap.
    Then Di loosened her hold, but still held Binh by the arms. “We’ll be friends, won’t we?” she said in Vietnamese.
    Binh nodded.
Oh, yes. Yes.
    Others stepped forward to meet Di. Each wanted to shake her hand, to have Di repeat his or her name.
    Di took many pictures, and people crowded close to see the screen of the camera, the small children pushing through the grown-ups. People began to whisper her American name:
Sharon. Sharon Hughes.
    Binh turned the unfamiliar syllables in her mouth.
    She thought suddenly of Di Thao’s gifts. In the excitement of seeing her, she’d forgotten all about the wonders that Di had carried from America.
    She made her way to the red truck. The bed was large enough to hold everything her family owned. Binh could hardly wait to see what Di had brought. In her hurry, she bumped into a man and half tripped over a rock.
    When she got to the truck, she peered over the edge. She stared. The back was empty except for a small suitcase. There was nothing else in it. Nothing at all.
    Others also glanced into the truck, sidling over and peeking in. Checking it out, trying not to look interested.
    Cuc said, “Maybe she brought small precious things like diamonds or gold rings.”
    “Maybe,” said Binh. She imagined herself in pretty, dangly earrings. “I wish she would open that suitcase.”
    Someone had shepherded Di to the table under the tree. Fourth Aunt was filling Di’s glass with ice and something cool to drink.
    “How old are you?” Binh overheard Third Aunt ask.
    Di laughed and the ice in her glass tinkled. “In America, women don’t reveal their ages.”
    “But we need to know,” Third Aunt persisted.
    “Okay, okay . . . thirty-five,” Di said, pausing before the words
thirty-five,
as though unsure of how to say the numbers.
    “She talks so slowly,” said Cuc.
    “Like a little kid,” Binh said, picturing Di as a five-year-old leaving Vietnam.
    Binh strained to hear Di’s answers over the soft chatter of the relatives. She wondered why the last question, and its answer, made Di’s face redden. This was the first question asked in any Vietnamese conversation. Without knowing people’s ages, it was impossible to address them. One word was used for those one’s own age, one for those the age of one’s parents, and another for older people.
    “And how many children do you have?” asked another.
    “None.” Di reddened even more.
    Binh placed her hand on the trunk of the tree, supporting herself. Having many children was considered good luck. “She’s blushing — embarrassed about not having children,” she said to Cuc.
    “Or maybe she’s hot.”
    Stroking his long goatee, Second Uncle whispered, “With the wealth of America — she could have many children.”
    “Your husband must be sad. No sons,” said Fourth Aunt.
    “I have no husband,” Di replied.
    “No husband?” asked Third Aunt, shaking open a purple fan.
    Di shook her head.
    The crowd murmured:
Thirty-five years old and no husband, no children. What is the