By summer, James was strong enough to travel a short distance from his home, though not across an ocean.
Linh asked if I wished to visit Vietnam.
She said she could help with accessible accommodation and transport if I chose.
She also said it was entirely my decision.
I stared at the message until the screen dimmed.
At twenty, I would have crossed an ocean without hesitation to find him.
At seventy-six, I had learned to check my knees, my blood pressure, and the comfort of my own bed before agreeing to a long journey.
More importantly, I had learned that a person could want an answer without wanting the life that might come after it.
I spoke with my doctor about the travel before making any decision.
She reviewed my medication, my mobility, and the risks of a long flight.
She suggested I allow time to rest and avoid complicated itineraries.
Nothing about my health made the journey impossible, but it would require planning.
I told Ellen I was considering it.
She offered to go with me.
Ruth offered too, though she admitted she disliked flying.
I was touched by their willingness and irritated that everyone assumed I needed an escort.
Then I remembered the distance and the emotional weight of the visit.
Accepting company was not surrendering independence.
It could be a choice.
I wrote a letter to James instead of replying to Linh.
I told him I had watched the video call several times in my mind.
I could recognize his face now, and that recognition did not return us to being husband and wife.
I said I was considering a visit because there were questions best asked in a room, not through a screen.
But I would not travel to renew vows, restore a marriage, or serve as a witness to a sentimental reunion staged for other people.
If we met, the meeting would be private.
I would stay in a hotel.
I would choose when to arrive and leave.
I asked him to tell me whether he understood those terms.
His reply came by email, dictated to Linh and signed in his own hand on a scanned page.
He said yes.
He would meet where I felt comfortable, for as little time as I wished.
He would not ask me to take care of him.
He would not ask me to change the records of my life to make his story easier to tell.
He understood that his apology could not give me back a single day.
The last sentence troubled me.
I hope you will come because I would like to see you, not because you feel you owe me anything.
It was the first request from him that sounded as though he understood I had the right to refuse.
Thomas advised that identification was still under review and that a visit should not be mistaken for official confirmation.
I knew that.
The papers would proceed at their own pace.
I was considering seeing the man in the photographs, not signing a declaration about historical casualty records.
I booked a travel consultation and looked at routes with Ellen.
We planned an itinerary with several days of rest before any meeting.
I requested a quiet room and made sure my insurance covered the trip.
Each practical step made the choice feel less like surrender to a romantic story and more like something a sensible woman might do because she was curious about her own past.
I had not flown internationally in more than twenty years.
The travel consultant helped us make a list of documents, emergency contacts, and medication instructions.
Ellen insisted we book flights that allowed enough time between connections.
I argued that a shorter trip might save money.
She reminded me that arriving exhausted would make the difficult meeting worse.
We chose comfort over pride.
I was aware that my younger self would have been impatient with such caution.
At this age I understood that planning was another way of caring for myself.
I looked at photographs of Vietnam that Linh sent.
She included a picture of a shaded walkway and the guesthouse entrance so I could recognize them on arrival.
There was nothing mysterious about the images.
A scooter stood by a doorway.
Laundry hung behind a balcony.
People carried shopping bags.
I realized how much of my picture of the country had been made from wartime news.
James's life there had continued through decades of changes that my imagination had never followed.
I wanted to see the present place, not only search it for a past.
Ruth and I practiced using video calls on my phone before I left.
She sat in her living room while I stood outside the front door pretending to be abroad.
We both laughed when I accidentally pointed the camera at my shoes.
It was a small lesson, but it made me feel capable.
I might need help with luggage or translation, yet I could learn new things.
I was not a fragile relic traveling to meet another relic.
I was a woman going somewhere unfamiliar with people who cared about her.
The night before departure, Ellen asked what she should do if I changed my mind after we arrived.
I told her we would enjoy the visit and come home.
We were not traveling under an obligation to see James.
She smiled.
'Good,' she said.
'Then I can finally have a vacation with my sister.' I promised we would find something beautiful to look at regardless of how the meeting went.
The promise was easy to keep because this time it depended on us.
I also met with a travel nurse to review what to do if I became ill away from home.
She helped me make a medication list with generic names and put my doctor's contact information in my phone.
I felt slightly embarrassed until she said she made the same plans herself.
Planning for trouble did not mean expecting it.
I had learned that lesson slowly through the years after James vanished.
Back then every official envelope had felt like a threat.
Now I could prepare sensibly without letting fear choose for me.
Ellen brought a small guidebook and marked a park near our guesthouse.
She insisted we spend one afternoon there whether or not the meeting went well.
We looked at photographs of trees and ponds, discussed how far I could comfortably walk, and chose a nearby restaurant for lunch.
The outing helped the trip become more than a journey toward a painful conversation.
There was a place to explore, a sister to laugh with, and a new city to encounter.
I wanted that experience to belong to us.
A few days before we left, Linh sent the weather forecast and reminded me that the garden had shaded seating.
I answered with thanks and asked that her father not buy flowers.
She replied immediately that she understood.
I could almost feel the weight of the old promise lifting from the plan.
Nobody had to turn our meeting into a second wedding or a sentimental scene.
We could be two older people sitting at a table, trying to speak plainly about what had happened.
I did not know whether it would help.
At least it would be honest.
I told Linh I wanted to visit her father's community, but not to be introduced at a family celebration.
She agreed.
She suggested a small guesthouse with an elevator, a nearby clinic, and a quiet courtyard.
Ellen and I would have our own rooms.
We would meet James at a community garden he liked, with a nearby indoor room in case the weather turned.
Linh would be present only to translate if needed.
We could shorten the meeting at any time.
I appreciated how carefully she treated the plan.
She had spent much of her adult life negotiating her father's needs.
Now she was making space for mine.
Before we bought the tickets, I visited Margaret again.
I asked whether she wanted me to carry a photograph of Adrian to James.
She opened the box and chose the picture of both men beside the vehicle.
She wrote a note on the back: Adrian was wrong about what happened to you.
He was not wrong to love you as a friend.
I read it, and my throat tightened.
Margaret said she had no expectation of a reply.
She wanted the photograph returned if possible, but she would understand if it was lost.
I promised to take care of it.
She hugged me at the door and said, 'Go for yourself, Mary.
Not for the rest of us.'
Ellen helped me pack.
We placed medication in my carry-on and scanned the important documents.
I brought copies of the old wedding picture, but I left the original in the biscuit tin.
I took one of James's letters from the summer before our marriage because I wanted to show him the man he had once been.
I packed a little notebook for my own observations.
Ruth brought a portable phone charger and insisted I learn how to use it.
She also made me promise I would call her whenever I wanted to complain.
'Not only when something goes wrong,' she said.
'Call when you see something beautiful.'
On the night before departure, I walked through my house slowly.
I checked the window locks and set the thermostat.
I looked at the photographs on the shelf.
The image of my young husband remained where I had placed it, surrounded by the rest of my life.
I had no children of my own, but my nieces and nephews called me about everything from birthday cakes to job interviews.
I had a garden, friends, and work at the library.
I was not traveling because my life had been empty.
I was traveling because a question had reopened, and I had decided to face it without surrendering anything I loved.
The airport was crowded.
Ellen pushed our small suitcases while I checked the gate number.
A family nearby argued over a missing passport.
I watched them and thought how strange it was that everyone carried an invisible history alongside their luggage.
When our flight was called, I placed a hand over the pocket containing Margaret's photograph.
I did not feel brave.
I felt older than I had the day before, and more alert.
We were going to a place I had imagined only through sorrow.
I knew the trip would not restore my marriage.
It might restore a few pieces of truth.
For now, that was enough.
Click here to continue reading: PART 9: At the Garden Gate I Met the Man I Had Stopped Waiting For
The Yellow Roses Arrived on the Anniversary I Thought I Would Spend Alone
Part 8 of 12
