This is our daughter Joann’a story, her history, ghostwritten by me, her mother.
It’s Friday evening, so I imagine the whole city feels free from the grip of school and work. Dad’s driving us home in the company van. He squeezes through a congested area where shoppers board the buses and four lanes merge into one big mess. I watch from my seat in the back. Most of the trucks head for the building supply district called Zone Isle. That’s Mongolian for One Hundred Neighbors. I went there once with my father. I remember walking down its twisting, narrow road with a myriad of little shops, each one exploding with boxes of greasy nails. It was a dangerous place too, so many stacks of lumber and sheets of glass in the way.
Now we pass the river on our left and the yurts dotting the hills beyond, their red doors visible even at this distance. We come to a lurching stop for a cow to cross the highway, followed by a couple of wild dogs. We turn at the closest entrance to our subdivision, a steep, washed-out gravel road situated on the edge of the hill. The van wheels spin against the rocks.
Just short of the top, I see an elderly man pulling a large, aluminum, milk container in a rickety cart. His long, dusty Mongolian coat lined in sheep wool kicks up at his knees to reveal traditional boots with the curled-up toes. I know he’s bringing water for his family from the spring near the marshes.
To avoid hitting him, Dad jerks the van quickly to the right sending us dangerously close to the edge of the precipice. From my window, I see the old man lose his balance. The cart flips on its side, sending water down the hill. I’ve watched that man carry water a hundred times, but this is the first time I see him. “Dad, let’s help him!”
We can’t stop, we need the momentum. So, I crane my neck to catch a final glimpse. The old man sets the can upright and positions it back on the cart. A strange feeling catches in my throat…
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