"What was the dog's name?" she asks.
"Con Chuot. Mouse. My father said I couldn't take the dog and so he gave me the mouse, a tin mouse to remember my Mouse at home. Do you still have it?"
"Of course," she says.
"I was very loyal to that mouse," he tells her. "I took it everywhere with me. All the time I wanted my dog." He sighs and then smiles. "I'm happy in Vietnam, Sabine. I find it relaxing. We keep saying once things settle down we're going to spend more time here."
Sabine looks behind her. Nothing could hide in this field. "Is Parsifal here?"
Phan reaches up, rubs her neck in the exact place it has been bothering her. "Not this time. He's back in L.A. He stays very close to you. It's just that he's so-well, so embarrassed about all of this."
"But he shouldn't be. My God, with all that happened to him."
"Ah," Phan says, "things happened to you, to me. He shouldn't have kept this to himself. I understand, but still, he should have thought it through."
"You may be underestimating things," Sabine says, but her voice is kind. It is very important not to frighten Phan off, never to hurt him. For one thing, she has no idea how she would get home from Vietnam.
Phan smiles at her. "Death gives a person a lot of perspective."
"Well then, Parsifal should know that he can talk to me, that he should come to see me."
"He will," Phan says, "he's getting there."
Sabine reaches down and brushes the top of the rice with the flat of her palm. The bottom of her nightgown is soaked and it clings to her legs. "But now you want to talk to me about his mother."
"It comes back to perspective," Phan says, "the larger picture. There is a woman with, a good heart. A woman who maybe didn't make all the right choices, a woman who's told a few lies, but really, when did any of us get everything right?"
"But if Parsifal didn't want to have anything to do with her, why should I? I like her fine, I do, but when I think about all of it…" She can hardly make herself think about it. Parsifal not in heaven, not in Vietnam, but in hell.
"In his life Parsifal, like his mother, probably did the best he could. But in his death he wants better. He looks back and sees where there could have been reconciliation, forgiveness. These are the things you think about. But what can he do?" Phan looks away, as if he is looking for Parsifal to walk up out of the field, and Sabine looks, too. "What he can do, Sabine, is ask you to do that for him, and even though he wants it, he can't ask because he knows it's too much. So what does he do? He asks me to ask. That is the way we are joined, you and me: We don't know how to turn Parsifal down. His heart is perfect. It isn't that he wants to take advantage of either of us, but what he wants to do he can't, because he's dead." Phan stops and looks at her closely to make sure she's following everything he's saying. "That leaves you."
"It's all right," Sabine says. "So I take them out. So I forgive her. She says she doesn't need my forgiveness, but I know she does. If that's what Parsifal wants, forgiveness and a day's tour of Los Angeles, I can do that. Tell him I can do that."
Phan puts two fingers to his lips, and then, as if he remembers he no longer has a need to bite his nails, drops his hand. "That's good," he says. "And if-if something else was needed, something you felt you could do, you'd do that, too, wouldn't you?"
"You're not giving me much information here."
"I don't know the future. I have my suspicions, but who can really say for sure? All I care about now is that we understand each other. You know what Parsifal wants-forgiveness, support. And if it took a little more time to achieve this…"
Sabine waits, but he never finishes his sentence. "Of course," she says.
Phan hugs her again. "He does believe there will be a benefit in all of this to you, and so do I." She can hear the relief in his voice. "We worry about you. You spend too much time alone. Too much time on grief."
"It's only been two weeks," she says.
"Still," Phan says. He looks at the bandage on her hand, touches the white tape around the stitches. "I was sorry about this. I saw that knife go straight into your hand. Did it hurt much?"
Sabine thinks about it, but it all seems so far away. "I can't remember," she says. "I don't think so."
"Good," Phan says, and he kisses the bandage over her hand. "That's what we like to hear."
Sabine slept late. Despite the sun in the room and the rabbit nudging at her, wanting food, she did not wake up until after nine. When she did wake up, she felt better about everything. What else was she going to do today, anyway? Work on a shopping mall? Go through the dresser drawers again? Sleep? Why not call Dot and Bertie? All she knew for sure was that the story was complicated, it happened a long time ago, and she was only getting part of it. Parsifal had taken care of them in the will, he had been helping them for years. Wasn't that a sign, a kind of forgiveness? Besides, whatever it was, it was one day. Tomorrow they would be going back to Nebraska.
The phone hadn't made it through one whole ring when Bertie answered. "Hello," she whispered, her voice low and suspicious.
Sabine had almost forgotten about Bertie, who had slept peacefully through all the revelations of the night. "Bertie, it's Sabine."
"Sabine?" she said. "How are you?"
"I'm fine. Your mother and I talked last night about going out today. I could drive you around, show you some places that Parsifal liked."
"Mom's not up yet," she whispered. "It isn't like her, but the room is so dark, and the time change and all. Maybe it just threw her off."
It was an hour later in Nebraska. "We were up pretty late," Sabine said. She found that she was whispering back and stopped it. "After you went to bed, we got together and talked. Have you been out yet? You're not just sitting there in the dark, are you?"
"I don't want to wake her," Bertie said.
Sabine thought about how often she had sat in a dark hotel room, waiting for Parsifal to wake up. All the endless places she had sat, waiting. It must be a family trait. Half of them sleep, half of them wait. "Put your mother on the phone."
"She's sleeping."
"Well, she told me to call her in the morning and wake her up so we could go. I'm just doing what I said I'd do." Enough of waiting for Fetters to wake up.
"Um," said Bertie. The line was quiet for a minute, as if she were really thinking it through. "Okay," she said finally, "hold on." She put the phone down softly. Sabine could hear her cross the short distance between the two hotel beds. "Mom?" she said, her voice still a whisper. "Mama, wake up. It's Sabine. She says we're going out today." There was a pause, most likely for a touch to the shoulder and then a gentle shake.
Sabine wondered how much longer Mrs. Fetters had stayed on in the bar. Last call had only been minutes away, but clearly that bartender liked her. Maybe she should have let her sleep.
"Mama?"
"Hum?"
"Sabine's on the phone."
"Sabine?"
"She's taking us someplace, she says. She wants to talk to you."
There was rustling, the click of the light switch. Sabine could almost feel Dot's bones shift as she stretched. "Hello," Mrs. Fetters said. It was the voice of a late sleeper, someone who would not be awake for at least an hour after they were up and dressed.
"It's Sabine. I'm sorry to wake you."
"You didn't wake me," Mrs. Fetters said.
Just like Parsifal, who slept more than anyone in the world and always lied about being asleep. "I just wanted to tell you, yes, I'd be happy to take you and Bertie around today if you're still interested." It was easier now. They had found something out about each other. They knew, to some small extent, what they were dealing with.
"How's your hand feel?"