by Loan Le
Mẹ takes the back entrance while I help Ba lift the security grilles up front, walking in once the front door unlocks. The fans begin to turn, working against the heat. But instead of telling me to grab an apron like usual, or delegating tasks to me, like refilling the napkins or getting ice from the freezer or unwrapping the bins of herbs we’ll need for the day, my mom nods for me to join her in the kitchen. Ba goes his own way to check last night’s sales and the timesheets.
The two of us are in the kitchen, our steps echoing off the walls. I take a stool.
She dons kitchen gloves and pulls out her wooden cutting board, starts slicing onions. Next to her is a vinegar bath that the cooks made, so Mẹ just needs to complete the pickling process. She dips her finger into the vinegar bath, then adds a spoonful of sugar before dumping in the onions. I watch her stir it, then taste it, before she pushes the bowl toward me. My turn to try it.
“Vừa không?”
I ignore her question, staring resolutely at the tabletop. Heaving a sigh, my mom leans forward, resting her elbows on the prep table. Her hair has already loosened from its bun. I see bags under her eyes. The guilt that’s become all too familiar nowadays flares up. But I still hate the idea that I’m expected to be the replacement when someone else isn’t available. And the last special would have failed if it weren’t for Bảo’s help—which will not happen again.
So I look away. I hear my mom’s lips part, then close. Maybe I’ve made her angry too. Aside from three or four blowups—including the time when she stumbled across me and Evie drawing pictures with crayons on our old apartment walls—she’s been decidedly calmer than Ba.
Instead, her voice takes on its usual soft quality, with an indiscernible tinge. “Con, I know this isn’t how you want to spend your time. And Mẹ and Ba hate having to ask you to work.
“But you don’t know how hard it was to start up this restaurant. It wasn’t about inheriting customers, finding new customers. It was inheriting a whole neighborhood of people who didn’t want us.” Mẹ’s voice cracks. Anguish, that’s the note I’d heard. “You don’t know how that feels.”
“You never told me,” I retort, though my intent to sound annoyed is weak. I’ve never heard Mẹ sound this way. It tugs the same part of my heart storing all the hugs and kisses and laughs she’s given me through so many sacrifices.
“Because you shouldn’t have to know those things. We wanted to protect you.” A spike of anger rushes through me. I’d hate to say it was in response to Bảo’s parents, because that would mean I was angry with him, too. Still, it’s clear that the cold welcoming had hurt my parents, made them feel less than welcome.
Mẹ shakes her head like she’s denying the memories brought up. “The gossip was horrible, not just from that restaurant. Everywhere. But if I addressed it, people would add something else to the mix and there’d be no ending to it. So I ignored it. I put my everything into the food here, to make it speak for itself. Then your dad made friends and we made loyal customers.” She gestures to the restaurant. “Phở Day made me so happy because it worked out. And now we’re doing well. But it is always a game here. It’s always a game to win, to maintain that we belong here.”
I wonder if Mẹ means not just this community but in America in general.
I keep my head down. “Will the gossip ever stop? Will we always need to fight B—” I catch myself before saying “Bảo’s parents.” “—the Nguyễns’ restaurant?”
Thankfully, Mẹ doesn’t seem to notice. “Gossip and rumors never stop. They always come back in different forms.” The knowingness in her voice—and the palpable feeling that there’s something more she’s holding back—triggers me to glance at her.
“Like when?”
It takes a few beats for Mẹ to make her decision. When she sits down across from me, I lean forward on my stool. “When I was eleven. Back in Vietnam,” my mom starts, “Dì Vàng was ready to marry a neighbor who grew up with her. They were always together, and when our families realized what would happen, we began to set up our meetings to talk about expectations and the future for the two of them. The man was smart, nice, and always put the family first.”
“Was he an artist too?” I try to picture my aunt with a boyfriend or a husband, but I only see her as I do now: her blurry face enlarged on the computer when we’d speak, her loud, assured voice when she talks about art. That’s her true love; I can’t imagine someone else in her life.
“Of course not,” Mẹ answers quickly. “One of the reasons why your grandparents liked the man, before they passed, was because he was a logical person. He was going to inherit the family business, too. They knew that he would be able to support her when she couldn’t do that herself with her art.” I hold back from protesting. She said that as if it were a fact. As if my aunt weren’t doing well for herself now.
“One day, though, he left, apologizing to everyone through a letter. But oh, the gossip! His family and the whole neighborhood were blaming Dì Vàng, as if she had done something, when it was actually him who’d run away from his promises. His responsibilities.”
“What happened then?” I ask. “With the guy and with your sister?”
“I learned that he died.” That can mean many things: during a battle, during one of the bombings, or during the escape, the same route that my family miraculously survived. “It is horrible, yes. All of it. He was, at the end of the day, good, and he would have made a good match for my sister.” I sit back, cupping my tea for warmth, feeling as if a part of me has turned inside out. Her art. That’s why her art always feels so sad. In each artwork she produces, she leaves that melancholic imprint behind.
“Why I haven’t heard of this before?”
Mẹ sighs as she pushes back her hair. “There was no reason for it to come up. And it is something of the past—what good will it do to bring it up? Your aunt certainly doesn’t mention it. We are in the present now—we look to the future.” She takes an apron off the hook and offers me my apron. “We ignore all gossip and do our best.
“Con, I know you are busy. But you did such a good job last time. You can do it again. And you will survive your schoolwork. Because you are my daughter.”
I take the apron from Mẹ. She smiles, and it’s so grateful and so understanding that I muster up a smile, the weight on my shoulders even more insistent.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE BẢO
In the newsroom, just as the dismissal bell rings to let out class, the phone rings, too. Shouldering past our classmates flooding out of the room, Ali answers with a brisk tone. I can see her in the future now, poised over the phone, a notepad and pen in hand. She waits for a few minutes until she turns, fixing me with a look. I start walking past her, but she stops me.
“Bảo, it’s for you.”
That’s new. I take the phone as cautiously as if I was just asked to take care of some dangerous creature. “Hello?”
“Yo, em!” Chef Lê. I know it immediately from his voice. “It’s me: Chef Lê from Chơi Ơi! What’s good?”
“Uh, hi. I’m in school right now.” Is he calling about the article? It doesn’t sound like he’s calling to yell about how bad it was. I picture him at the same table, his chef jacket’s sleeves rolled up. Maybe with his feet propped on the seat across from him until his wife, Saffron, comes by to smack them off.
“Yeah, sorry, I was looking for a way to contact you and figured this was the best way. I saw the article online. It’s legit the best review I’ve ever gotten. Thank you so much.”
“Oh, thanks.”
“What, you thought I’d hate it?”
“I had that thought.”
“No way, the review is great and I appreciate it, dude. But I’m actually calling because I saw your girlfriend’s—”
“She’s not my girlfriend—”
“—artwork with the piece,” he says over me on purpose. “I dig it and was wondering if she did things like that on the side. Either draw or paint on a large-scale.�
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“She’s actually a painter. That’s her main medium.”
“Fantastic. So here’s the thing: A lot of the decor at my restaurant is pretty modern, but I have this one column in the back of the restaurant that needs some TLC. I was thinking a big-ass mural. You got her number?”
“Uh, sure. Hold on.” I pull out my phone and read out the number. “So, you’re going to pay her?”
“What, are you an agent now?” He laughs. “Yes, dude, I’ll totally pay her. There’s no such thing as free labor.”
Ali watches me expectantly, arms crossed. I hang up a few seconds later and face Ali, who asks almost immediately, “Are we in trouble?”
Dazed by the quick turn of events—from Chef Lê’s praise, which I wish I could have recorded for posterity, and his offer to Linh—I shake my head. “I think Linh just got offered her first gig.”
* * *
On a Sunday, we drive to the other side of Westminster to celebrate one of my second (or third?) cousins’ first birthdays. Walking into the house, we see a layer of shoes swamping the front door: Nikes, Crocs, loafers from various relatives who’ve flocked there for the celebration. Cousins and nieces and nephews, or second cousins if you want to be technical, dash through the hallways only to stop when my aunt—one of my father’s many cousins—emerges from the kitchen with a pair of chopsticks in hand that foretells their fate if they misbehave. A mom chases after her toddler, who dashes around with Usain Bolt–like speed, as if knowing that his mom will give up if she’s too tired. I give her maybe fifteen minutes and she’ll start bargaining food for her love: Ăn đi con. Ăn đi con để cho Mẹ thương.
My mom made chè Thái as a sweet treat, a punch-bowl worth that she fretted over last night. But the kitchen table, as we discover, is already covered end to end with food that no one was asked to make but brought anyway. Somehow, with gatherings like this, no one ever brings duplicate items. I see someone already provided the egg rolls: crispy and hot from their oil bath.
Tinfoil trays of bánh bèo, disks of rice cakes just small enough to fit your palm, are paired with jugs of fish sauce ranging from mild to burning off your tongue, which is what most of the men here like.
Cậu Trí, who I’m glad I only have to see occasionally, makes a point to serve me the mildest fish sauce. Asshole. After a round of mandatory greetings and pretending to recognize all of the guests, I sit down at the men’s table—a bunch of tucked-in polos, belts, and a few Bluetooths glued to their ears. They’re red-faced after a few bottles of Heineken and Corona and don’t even know I’m there.
So I end up drifting toward the kitchen to grab a drink. Việt’s already there, and you’d think I’d be shocked to find him surrounded by women forty years older than him, gossiping and cooking together. Yet, still, it looks like he’s been there all along. He stirs vinegar and sugar in a bowl. The conversation sounds heated, and I catch a few harsh words in rapid Vietnamese.
“So how did you get roped into this?” I ask.
He tastes the dressing. “My mom knows one of the other moms or something. One of the delivery customers.” Which is the answer you would expect at this type of gathering.
Việt quickly catches me up on the gossip getting swapped around.
Apparently some guy they all knew couldn’t find a wife here, so he went back home to Vietnam and miraculously got married. They’re due to come back in five weeks, but where will they stay? What are they going to do? The wife doesn’t speak basic English, from what they’re saying. From the snide comments and the tsking, I don’t think the new couple’s gonna have it easy here.
“C’mon, let’s grab something to eat,” he says, shaking out his wrists. How long has he been stirring?
We leave the kitchen. I think Việt’s mom calls his name, but he doesn’t react, so maybe that’s my imagination.
Việt and I are relegated to sit at the kids’ table. I’m pretty sure I’ll be at this table until I’m married, whenever that happens. Việt is across from me, while twelve-year-old twins—maybe directly related to me?—violently elbow each other, then stab each other with chopsticks, until their mother comes over and hisses at them to behave. Another cousin, five years old, stares at me with a mouthful of rice, snot running down her nose. She uses her tongue to wipe some clean, even as her own mother tries to shove another spoonful into her mouth.
Not the best seasoning.
Other kids continue to wreak havoc, seizing an escape from supervision. “He farted!” yells a little girl as she dashes across the living room, earning bemused looks from the adults.
Seconds later: “I didn’t địt! I didn’t địt!” a boy, maybe her brother, screams, running in the same direction.
“Kids are fascinating,” Việt deadpans.
My dad’s other cousin comes over, tells us to stand up, that she hasn’t seen us for ages. I lean on my toes to look taller than Việt, but he beats me by standing straight, for once. Then the subject, as always, turns to where we’re planning to apply to school.
“Your mom tells me you are going for the big schools,” she says to Việt, impressed.
He answers dutifully. “Trying for it. I want to major in biology and then become a doctor.” But why does he sound so dulled by it?
“Your mom tells me you have the grades for it, too!” Then her eyes slide over to me. “And… con?” This aunt knows by now that my chances of going to the same schools as Việt are close to nonexistent.
“I’m still deciding.”
Her smile fades. She saves herself by plastering on a fake one. As if my self-esteem weren’t already low enough.
Here’s Việt, who can probably get in anywhere. And me. Then again, I don’t think Việt’s ever said if he liked any particular college, let alone the idea of going to med school.
“You serious about majoring in biology?” I ask once the aunt disappears.
Việt shrugs, picks at his papaya salad. “It’s an answer that gets them to stop asking.”
I’d use that answer if only I knew people wouldn’t immediately call me a liar.
“Seriously, what do you want to do?”
“Forensic science.”
“No surprise there,” I joke. He stares at his food, not saying anything for a moment. He’s usually not this quiet, not with me. “You okay?”
“Mentioned the idea of it to my parents the other day. They yelled at me for hours. My ears kept ringing after.”
Maybe that’s why he avoided his mom before. When he talks about his parents, I don’t exactly think of the word “empathetic.” It’s his mother’s shrewdness that my mom admires. Việt’s father’s honesty has earned my paranoid father’s trust. But emotionally, they’re not the people to rely on. And they’re strict when it comes to Việt’s studies.
“Exactly,” he says, reading my look. “That’s just another reason for my parents to fight. They’ve been doing that for way too long.”
“But forensic science is still a type of science. It has a lot to do with biology, right? Shouldn’t they be happy? I mean… maybe they’ll come around to it?” I say unconvincingly. I always assumed Việt’s situation was better than mine. But then again, these days, I’m assuming a lot. Especially when it comes to Linh.
Việt smiles. It’s the quiet kind. The sad kind. Because he knows that my words can’t be much help now, can’t change things. “They’re never happy these days.”
We sit in silence, scraping our paper plates clean. I want to fill it with something, so I tell him, “I kind of told my mom that I wanted to be a writer.”
“A writer.” Việt stares blankly at me, and I swallow, realizing that he’d just told me how his parents were shutting down his dream. I’m an asshole. This was what Việt was talking about before about me, him, and Linh having different variations of parents. Different circumstances in which we are either allowed to go for our dreams… or not.
I breathe easier when a genuine smile blooms across his face. He punc
hes my shoulder. Fuck.
“Dude, no way! What did she say?”
I rub my shoulder. “She didn’t blow up on me. She said I could use the basement if I didn’t get a job.” Which isn’t so nice when you say it out loud. But Việt knows my mom and her weird sense of humor.
“The fact that she didn’t get angry is something big!”
“It’s not serious or anything.”
“C’mon, you know that’s the best you can get from them.” He shakes his head at a thought he doesn’t voice to me. “Sometimes I can’t believe how fast things move.
“It’s like this. We were in our own worlds. Me with cross country. You with… um. Actually I don’t know which world you really belonged to.”
“That makes me feel really good about myself.”
“Obviously you’ve found your shit. We’re growing up. You’re becoming a writer, falling in love—” My heart wheezes at his choice of words. I haven’t told him about Linh essentially rejecting me.
I hadn’t even had a chance to talk to Linh one-on-one, or mention Chef Lê, who’s trying to reach her. Last I heard, she hasn’t responded to his calls.
“When are you going to make the Grand Gesture?”
“Grand Gesture?”
“Dude, like on The Bachelor. It’s the thing you do to signal that you’re serious about someone.”
“Right. And what does The Bachelor do exactly to show that?”
“Helicopter rides. Day trips to a beautiful winery. Farm visits. Which actually doesn’t really make sense to me.”
Someone please help me.
* * *
There were many failed attempts at singing karaoke. Plus, the little ones needed to go to sleep soon, including the birthday boy. So, the night ends with a tradition. Twelve items are laid out before him, all of them somehow representing a possible career. Whatever he’d choose would be his profession in the future. I’m sure it’s all for fun, but I think the parents are secretly betting everything on the kid’s final choice.