No matter how I tried talking him into it or batted my eyelashes, he wouldn’t budge.
The air-conditioning stayed off, and we all ate in the covered porch.
Apparently I’d lost my cuteness at some point over the past few years.
It ended up being all right, though. Grammy made a cold pasta salad and Grumpy grilled burgers and hot dogs. Uncle Chris had brought over a cooler of ice and bottles of pop. After he was done eating, my little cousin challenged Mindy and me to a watermelon-seed-spitting contest.
Grumpy joined us and won by a ton.
“Teddy,” Aunt Dana called to him. “Come clear your place.”
“It’s Ted,” he said, slumping back to his spot and picking up his plate. “I’m not six anymore, Mom.”
The teen years were going to be something else with that kid.
“Well, Sonny was just over eight pounds,” Mom said, continuing whatever weird conversation they were having at the table. “She was a good chunk of a baby.”
“Mom,” I said. “I wasn’t a chunky baby.”
“How would you know?” She moved her hands along her belly. “And, yes, honey, you were.”
“Teddy was, what, seven, seven and a half?” Uncle Chris asked.
“Ten,” Aunt Dana said, grabbing a handful of chips from the bag on the table. “Ten, Chris. He was ten pounds.”
“I don’t know how she remembers that,” Uncle Chris said.
The look Aunt Dana shot him should have knocked him out of his chair. Too bad he didn’t notice.
“Dale came early,” Grammy said.
No one moved after she said that. First, she never talked about things like having babies. It wasn’t proper, especially not at the table. Second, in my whole life I’d only ever heard her mention Uncle Dale a few times. And especially not when Mindy was around. The few times Grammy had said his name was in whispers that I overheard.
It was like he was some well-guarded family secret.
“Yup,” Grumpy said. “He was just a little guy.”
That was it. All they said about him.
We stayed until it started getting dark, and when we went out to our car the fireflies were out and blinking. Grumpy lifted his hands, catching one and letting it crawl up his arm before it flew away.
Soon we were all hopping off the ground, catching fireflies and watching as they blinked their butts at us.
Grammy, though, stood on the bottom step of the porch, arms crossed and face scowling. I wondered if she’d ever been a little girl or if she was just born a crabby old woman.
It was so disrespectful, and I knew it. I just couldn’t understand why someone would ever choose to be miserable all the time. And not only that, but to hold it against anyone who was having a good time.
If she wasn’t going to join the fun on her own, I thought I should force her hand a little.
“Come on, Grammy,” I said. “I’ll catch one for you.”
“I could catch one if I wanted to,” she said.
Mindy skipped up to the porch, her hand out to Grammy. Grammy didn’t budge. So Mindy grabbed her hand.
“Please, Grammy,” she said.
Mindy’s hand dropped when Grammy pulled away from her and went inside.
Dad and I dropped Mom and Mindy off at home before rushing to the grocery store before it closed. Apparently Mom was out of green olives and potato strings and the baby needed them right away.
“We’ll be fast,” Dad said before Mom got out of the car. “Can you think of anything else we need?”
“Circus peanuts, please,” she said.
I thought I was going to upchuck right there in the back seat of Mom’s station wagon. I hoped she didn’t plan on eating all of those things at the same time.
“You got it.”
“Thanks.”
Mom gave him a peck on the cheek before struggling to get her belly up and out of the car, insisting that she didn’t need help.
I switched from the back seat to the front while Dad waited to make sure Mom and Mindy made it inside okay.
“I would’ve thought you’d be going out tonight,” he said, turning to check behind us as he pulled out of the driveway.
“Everybody went to see a movie,” I said. “It’s all right.” I mean, it wasn’t all right. But I wasn’t going to tell my dad that.
“Was Mike going to be there?”
“Dad.”
“I’m just asking, honey.” He turned onto the road toward town. “I like him.”
“Seriously, Dad.”
“All right. All right. I’ll stop talking about him.”
A few minutes went by with neither of us saying anything. Dad turned up the radio and sang along to some old band. They sounded like the kind of guys that would have beards down to their belly buttons and greasy hair under their grungy cowboy hats.
The music was twangy, and I was not a fan.
Lucky for me, we only caught the last half of the song, and then it switched to Aretha Franklin. I hummed along, not wanting Dad to have the satisfaction of knowing that I liked music from when he was my age.
The parking lot at the store was only half full. Probably mostly employees at that time of night, mopping the floors and restocking the shelves. Dad found a spot and put the car into park.
“Okay. Olives, potato strings, probably get some ice cream,” Dad said, counting on his fingers. “What else will this baby want?”
“Circus peanuts,” I said.
“That’s right.”
“Seriously, if the baby is this demanding when he comes, I will lose my mind,” I said.
“You won’t even be home.”
“Lucky me.” I smiled even if I felt a little pang about leaving home. “What did Mom crave when she was pregnant with me?”
“Gosh. Um.” He closed his eyes tight, squishing up his face. “I seem to remember her asking for SpaghettiOs a lot.”
“Ew,” I said. “So gross.”
“It drove Grammy crazy to see her eat so much junk food. Ready?”
We got out of the truck and walked across the parking lot. Dad let me step through the automatic door first and the air-conditioning made my arms all goose bumpy. The overhead speakers played a musical arrangement of some old Fleetwood Mac song, and Dad sang along with it.
If anybody I’d known was at the store I would have died on the spot of embarrassment. Lucky for me, there were just a handful of people there, all of them at least as old as my dad.
“Come on, Sonny,” he said, grabbing a cart. “You know this one.”
“No, I don’t,” I said.
“Well, you used to sing it whenever it was on the radio.” He grinned at me and sang way too loud, “Rhia-aaa-nnon!”
“Dad, stop.”
“Couldn’t even if I wanted to.”
“I’ll get the olives,” I said, headed toward the aisle where all the pickles and stuff were shelved.
As I went I couldn’t help but hum along with the song. Quietly. So quietly that nobody would have been able to hear it. Fine. I did remember the song. And, to be honest, I still sort of liked it. I remembered this one day when Mom had it playing on the stereo at our old house, turned up all the way.
Even as loud as it was, I could still hear her voice over Stevie Nicks’s.
I started crying and went to my room so Mom wouldn’t see me.
Grabbing two jars of olives from the shelf, I rolled my eyes at myself for how dumb I was when I was five.
I cried because I worried that somebody would hear my mom sing and take her away to become a rock star, and I wanted to keep her all to myself.
When Mindy came into our room and saw me, she tried to give me a hug.
I’d pushed her down.
Ugh. I was such a jerk sometimes.
I found Dad in the freezer section. In addition to the potato strings, he’d also grabbed a few cans of Pringles and a bag of Doritos.
“Just in case,” he said when he saw me inspecting his cart.
“Uh-huh,” I said.
“Should I get mint chocolate chip or Neapolitan?”
My favorite flavors. I was tempted to say that we should get both, but then I thought about Mindy and the look she had on her face when I’d pushed her so long ago.
It had been the same hurt look as when Grammy pulled away from her. The same as in the picture I’d found in the envelope in Mom and Dad’s room.
“Pecan praline,” I said.
Every once in a while I could let Mindy have her favorite.
CHAPTER
Twenty-Eight
Bruce, 2013
Dad and I sit across from each other at Fiona’s, each of us with a mug of coffee on our paper placemats. His hand is curved around his cup, and I can’t help but notice his crooked fingers and the liver spots and the raised, purple veins.
He hasn’t been able to get his wedding ring off for years, the thickened knuckles now far bigger than when he and my mother got married.
I don’t believe he’d want to take it off even if he could.
It’s a rare thing, a man being as devoted as he is to my mom, even though it couldn’t have been easy.
Mom is many things. Easy to live with isn’t one of them.
But my dad always was one for a challenge, I suppose.
“Well,” Dad says after the two of us sit quietly for several minutes, “your mother got her hair done yesterday.”
“Oh yeah?” I say.
“Yup. The hairdresser came right up to our apartment.” He takes a slurp of his coffee. “It’s quite a setup. She’s got this whole cart with a sink and everything.”
“How about that.”
“Hooks right up to our faucet.”
“I bet Mom liked that.”
“Nope.” He closes his eyes and shakes his head. “She hated every minute of it.”
Dad chuckles as he unrolls his silverware and spreads the napkin on his thigh.
“I’ve loved her my whole life,” he says. “Ever since we were kids and I put a worm in her hair.”
“Such a romantic,” I say.
“She hauled off and socked me right in the eye.” He laughs. “First shiner I ever had.”
I don’t mention that Mom would refute that story if she was here. She’d say she hit him by accident when she was flailing to get the worm out of her curls. I don’t know who to believe, but it’s a good story either way.
He turns and looks out the window, his eyes watery. Using the knuckle of his veiny hand, he knocks a tear out from the corner of his eye. Being a man of his generation, he’s never been one to cry. Especially not in front of his son. Growing older, though, has softened up the waterworks, I guess.
“What’s up, Dad?” I ask.
He doesn’t look at me, just swallows hard and pulls the hanky out of his pants pocket to wipe his nose. It takes a good couple of minutes before he’s able to speak, and in that time I’ve got to blink back more than a couple tears of my own.
It doesn’t matter how old a man gets, it’s always hard for him to see his father cry.
“She’s not doing so good, son,” he says. “Her body’s had about enough.”
The kid who’s helping Fiona out today swings by and refills our coffee cups. I tell him thanks, but Dad doesn’t turn away from the window until the kid’s left the table.
When Dad faces me I think how much I resemble him. It’s strange to know exactly what I’ll look like in twenty-some years.
“I always thought I’d go first,” he says before reaching for the sugar packets and dumping too many of them in his cup. “I know she’s hard to love. That’s no secret, I guess.”
I shake my head and pass him the little bowl of creamers.
“But a promise like the one I made to her at our wedding isn’t supposed to be easy, is it?” He peels the top off a container of cream. “Loving her is the best thing I’ve ever had to work at. I guess that’s why I’m scared of letting her go.”
Fiona carries over an armload of plates, setting them in front of us. Of course, Dad’s breaking all the dietary rules his doctor imposed. Who cares? That’s what I want to know.
He’s eighty-eight years old and still does the morning workouts he learned while he was in the Army—maybe a little slower these days, but still. He deserves a couple of strips of bacon every once in a while.
“I think that’s all for you boys,” she says. “Need anything else?”
“Nope, I think we’re fine,” I say. “Thanks.”
“How’s Hilda doing?” She puts her hands on her hips.
“All right,” Dad says, doing his best to smile. “Beautiful as ever.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” Fiona says. “You tell her I say hi, all right?”
“Will do.”
“I’ve always liked Hilda. She’s a real sweetie.”
I have to admit, I’ve not heard that word used for my mother before.
Fiona leaves us to it, and Dad bows his head to pray before even touching his fork. His mouth moves along with the words he’s praying silently in his head.
It takes me back to the time after Dale died and I came home to a house full of sadness. We had dinner together every night, whether we ate a bite or not. And Dad insisted on the four of us holding hands to offer grace before we passed around the dishes of food.
That was a time when my faith was shaky at best and I couldn’t pray even when I tried. Just hearing the prayers of my father, as simple as they were, steadied me.
“We won’t be afraid, we will trust in you,” he’d say every single time, even as his voice shook.
I’m certain I see his lips form those very words as he prays over the breakfast Fiona made for him.
We won’t be afraid.
We will trust in you.
Mindy’s hand shakes when she lifts it to move the mouse, pointing the cursor on the screen to the post button.
“Why is this so scary?” she asks.
She’s at the desk in the study, sitting in front of the big monitor of my computer. She’s uploaded two pictures—the one of her that was taken at the orphanage in Vietnam and one of her Linda took earlier today. Attached to the photos is a paragraph explaining who she is and who she’s looking for.
I’ve read it over four or five times to assure her that it’s good enough.
“The name I was given at birth is Pham Quyen Minh. I now go by the name Mindy Quyen Matthews,” it reads. “I believe I was born sometime in the early seventies but am unsure of the date—I know little of my earlier years living in Vietnam. It’s unlikely, I know, but I would really like to reconnect with my birth mother or any living relatives. Honestly, I’d be interested in learning anything about who I am.”
She presses a finger on the mouse, and it makes its clicking sound. The post is published. There’s no looking back now.
Mindy takes a good breath, and we both stare at the screen. Her post is just one of many on that site, most of them with a very similar story to Mindy’s.
“Now what?” I ask.
“We wait to see if anyone comments,” she says.
“You know, I brought cinnamon rolls home from Fiona’s.” I cock my head in the direction of the kitchen. “You wanna split one while we wait?”
“You know you’re my favorite person, right?”
“I’ve always known it.”
By the time I decide to go to bed for the night, Mindy has gotten a handful of comments on her post. Nothing conclusive about her birth family, but everyone is encouraging.
My favorite came in pretty early on.
“I’m sorry that I don’t know about your family,” it says. “But I can tell you what your name means. Minh means bright. Quyen means bird. It’s not much, but maybe it will make you smile.”
It makes us all smile.
Our bright bird. Couldn’t be more fitting.
I lie in bed, holding hands with Linda as we both drift off to sleep, thinking of this adventure Mindy’s inching up to
.
She might find some of her relatives over there, or she might never meet a single one of them. There’s a chance she’ll buy a ticket and fly back to the land of her birth, or she might hold off on that for a while.
We don’t know what’s coming. No matter what, I’ve got to be ready to let her fly.
I whisper a prayer just as I’m turning the corner into sleep.
We will not be afraid.
We will trust in you.
CHAPTER
Twenty-Nine
Linda, 1975
Minh held my hand as we stood on the porch, watching Bruce back his big old truck out of the driveway. Sonny knelt on the front seat, half hanging out the window to wave back at us.
“Bye, Mindy,” she yelled. “I’ll be back after school, okay?”
“Sit on your bumper, Sonny,” I hollered after her, hand cupped to the side of my mouth.
Minh blinked up at me.
“What are we going to do today?” I whispered once the truck was out of sight.
It was the first time it was just the two of us, and I had no idea of how to keep her occupied until we had to go pick up Sonny at noon.
We started with a little walk, wandering around the yard. Taking it slow, we headed to the backyard, where we had plenty of open space and freshly cut grass. I slipped off my shoes, feeling the cool ground on my bare feet.
“Green grass,” I said, stooping and running my finger through the blades.
Minh sat on her rump, tugging on her sneakers until they popped off and pulling at her socks until her little tootsies were free in the fresh air. I sat facing her, taking her tiny feet in my hands.
“Minh’s feet,” I said. Then I pointed at mine. “Mommy’s feet.”
Repeating it, I dared to tickle her toes and was rewarded with a giggle. It was small, but such a wonderful sound.
“That’s a tickle,” I said.
She nodded, the smile still lifting her face as she stretched out her legs, wiggling her toes so I’d do it again.
I was more than happy to oblige.
Sunshine on a cloudy day, that’s what her smile was.
We put our shoes on the back stoop and circled the yard while I pointed to the flowers along the edges of the house, naming them as we went.
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