Double turtle
I rushed out of the house after a phone call. On the other end was a colleague of my father's, who reported that my father had skipped class again that afternoon. The bell had rung more than half an hour ago and he still hadn't shown up, he wasn't answering calls or text messages, and at school, the students were in a commotion and the classroom was unattended…
I rushed out of the house after a phone call. On the other end was a colleague of my father's, who informed me that my father had skipped class again that afternoon. The bell had rung more than half an hour ago, and he still hadn't arrived. He wasn't answering calls or text messages, and the students were in a commotion at school, with no one supervising the classroom… I profusely apologized and ran as fast as I could to where my father was, certain he was there. This was the second time this month. I felt like everything was slipping away from my father's mind, little by little, and I couldn't hold onto it.
Evening was falling over the sea. The wind blew in from the open ocean, rustling the rows of casuarina trees, creating a very familiar sound. I walked straight to Bai Duong Park, located right by the beach, less than two hundred meters from my house. I knew the path from my house to there by heart, more familiar than any other alleyway I had ever walked in my life.
Still sitting on that same stone bench, my father turned his back to the road, his eyes gazing into the distance, drifting with the endless waves of the sea. His faded shirt, a memento my mother had given him long ago, he couldn't bring himself to put away; the fabric billowed with each gust of wind carrying a salty scent. His back was thin and gaunt, like the withered branches of an old poplar tree, struggling against the ravages of time. He cradled a sketchbook in his hands. My father was an art teacher, a talented artist, but he rarely sketched. Inspiration sometimes came unexpectedly, but it had become increasingly infrequent over the past three years. Perhaps that's why the 200-page sketchbook I gave him six years ago was still unused. Now, he carried it with him like an inseparable object. Partly because it was a treasure trove of memorable sketches, and partly as a precaution in case he couldn't remember the way home; he could look at the back cover and find my address, phone number, and my mother's contact information…
In the past, my mother used to tell me stories from long ago, about my father and mother's youth. Back then, every afternoon my father would set up his easel on the sandbank to paint. And my mother, a literature student, would often come here at the end of the day to read. Her eyes were always deep and filled with the rich colors of the sky and sea. Wherever she went, she always clutched a novel from the Self-Reliance Literary Group; she was captivated by romantic literature. Those pages of writing, combined with the sound of the waves, surely stirred the heart, I thought to myself.
One afternoon, the book-loving girl suddenly walked in and settled comfortably within the young teacher's painting. Her mother's image stood out gently against the backdrop of the vast ocean, the swaying willow branches, and the distant Quy Island hidden in the clouds and waves on the horizon. That painting was the first gift her father had given her mother. Her father awkwardly stammered out a few words, then shyly scratched his head, looking towards Quy Island as if seeking help.
- I accidentally drew it, so I'm giving it to you as a souvenir...
Every time my mother tells that story, she bursts into laughter, her eyes sparkling with an indescribable joy.
My childhood was filled with Sunday afternoons like these. My father would drive, my mother would hold me in her arms, the three of us on an old motorbike, heading to the beach. I remember the feeling of the wind caressing my face, the gentle sound of the waves stroking the rugged rocks. And somewhere in my subconscious, the familiar image of my mother would appear, as vivid as ever. My whole family would sit silently, gazing towards Quy Island, an island that looked exactly like a giant sea turtle cutting through the waves. "Maybe it's called Quy Island because it resembles a turtle," my mother said softly. My father nodded, smiled gently, and added, "Quy also means 'return.' Who could bear to leave such a romantic place!" My parents would admire the island together, then look at each other, and smile brightly. Back then, I didn't understand anything, I only knew that every time we came here, time flew by so quickly. So quickly that in the blink of an eye, three years had passed since my mother returned to the land of white clouds.
For a long time, I can't remember exactly when, a distance grew between my father and me that's hard to define. Our rare conversations were often abrupt, quickly ending in an invisible void that stretched on endlessly. We each held our own way of thinking, our own perspectives on life, thus creating a vast gap between us. Fortunately, back then, my mother acted as a bridge, bridging the gaps, soothing our differing viewpoints, allowing us to share a meal without feeling awkward or distant. But since her death, that bond has become even thinner. With no one to connect us, the simmering disagreements have become raw and exposed, and the distance between us has widened without a fight. My father and I still live under the same roof, but each of us seems to retreat into our own world, allowing the silence to linger, heavy and persistent, as if it were a familiar routine. I could clearly sense that my father still loved me just as much as he did when I was a child, but his love was still more serious and reserved.
This afternoon, I suddenly wanted to sit beside my father for a while. It had been so long since I'd felt that familiar, comforting presence... My father silently gazed at Quy Island. I looked at him and softly said, "Dad, you have four classes at school this afternoon!" He gently lowered his head, saying nothing, and let out a long, drawn-out sigh, as if emptying his heart of all the worries that had been weighing on him. He opened his sketchbook, carefully flipping through the pages. I don't know when, but behind each drawing, he had attached a neatly cut piece of paper, clearly stating the date and a few scribbled notes explaining the circumstances of the drawing. I suddenly thought, perhaps he was preparing for a day when a person's mind no longer has room to hold such distant memories.
More than half of the pictures in the notebook feature my mother's image, in various poses. Many depict tranquil beaches and the distant Quy Island, unchanging amidst the ceaseless flow of time. Each time my father saw my mother in a picture, his eyes would well up with tears, reddening, and linger longer, as if trying to engrave it into his consciousness, blending it with boundless longing.
The last page was blank. My father looked up at me, his gaze both familiar and strange, then he softly said, "Today, you'll be my model, Quy, okay?" I was slightly taken aback, a flood of familiar, distant feelings rushing back. Long ago, when I was very young, I had stood still for my father to draw on many times, constantly urging him, "Dad, hurry up, my legs are getting tired!" My father would draw intently, my mother would laugh heartily at me, the waves crashing against the shore, the salty water wetting my ears.
I nodded, stepped out into my father's line of sight, and sat neatly on the stone bench, my hands gripping the railing. My father adjusted the angle, telling me to tilt my head to the left. That was the direction the giant turtles swam in the sea. I stood still, listening to the sea sing and clearly hearing the sound of my father's pencil beginning to draw bold lines on the paper.
At this moment, I no longer wanted to rush my father, secretly thinking: The longer he paints, the better. I could sit here forever, not wanting to stop, not wanting to leave. I thought that if he stopped painting, that invisible, empty space would suddenly envelop me. The brushstrokes appeared decisively, and throughout the process, my father only glanced at me no more than five times, as if the painting was already in his mind, only needing to recall it and spread it onto the paper with swift pencil strokes. When he finished painting, I stepped closer. Gazing at the painting in only two colors, black and white, it felt as if time had stopped. My heart was filled with strange emotions.
My father took a pen, wrote the date, signed his name, then paused briefly before adding two words in the right corner of the painting: "Twin Turtles." I spontaneously smiled like a child, a smile that seemed to spring from a deep, hidden realm of memories. "Twin Turtles"—two simple words, yet so heavy with emotion. It felt as if I and the turtle had become one perfect piece, and my father would place it in the final empty space in his mind, before the ravages of time unexpectedly erased everything.
Father closed the notebook and placed it in my hand. Then he took a cigarette pack from his jacket pocket, his hand trembling as he pulled out a cigarette. The smoke dissipated quickly in the wind. Father turned to look at me, suddenly losing all his seriousness. He smiled, but his eyes were empty, as if I were just some stranger sitting beside him. I called out, "Father..." It was very close, but he didn't hear. He stood up, straightened his trousers, and slowly walked along the beach. Not towards home, nor towards school. He walked as if following something that he himself couldn't quite grasp at that moment.
I sat there for a while longer, my eyes stinging, I didn't know if it was from the sea breeze or the harshness of time. In my hands was a sketchbook and a brand-new drawing, the surface still retaining the warmth of the two words "Song Quy" (meaning "Together We Return") tucked away in the corner of the paper. I stood up abruptly and followed my father.
The sun slowly set over the sea, casting two long shadows on the sidewalk. In the distance, Quy Island remained there as it had been for ages, silently swimming towards the sunlight before the waves turned black with night. Neither father nor son spoke a word, they simply walked softly, intently watching the reddish sunset. I clutched my sketchbook tightly, quickening my pace, but maintaining just enough distance so that my father's back wouldn't disappear from my sight, just enough so that I wouldn't drift away from the fading April afternoon, and also so that I wouldn't lose myself.
