The Reeducation of Cherry Truong

by Aimee Phan

  Although it was time to walk away from her creation, Cam lingered at the table, adjusting the yule log’s placement, watching as other parishioners deposited their desserts and left for the dining room. She wasn’t sure what she expected. Of course, the Bourdains had to greet and entertain their guests, but how were Michel’s parents supposed to know that this was her bûche de Noël, and not one of the other careless yule logs that littered the table?

  When Cam had started culinary school, she and her mother had battled over kitchen space and ingredients, with her mother always winning because she made food the family could actually eat. Her father tried to sample Cam’s projects out of politeness, but no one in her family had much of a sweet tooth. Cam began spending more and more time at Michel’s apartment, only two blocks from her school, where she had an entire kitchen to herself. She explained to her parents that she’d found practice space at the school’s kitchens. Michel tasted and approved of all of her baking projects, perhaps a little too much.

  “Is Petit Michel gaining weight?” Grandmère asked in Vietnamese, as Cam took a seat between her and Grandpère.

  “No,” Cam quickly said, then hesitated. “I don’t think so.”

  “Look at him,” Grandmère said, brazenly pointing to where the Bourdains sat, at a small bistro table in the midst of several long banquet tables surrounding it like a star. Michel stood next to his father, lifting a flute of champagne to his mouth. They had their suit jackets off, the elder merrily wearing his Santa hat and the son in a green elf stocking cap. “His belly hangs over his belt just like his father’s. If he’s not careful, we won’t be able to tell the two Michels apart!”

  Cam’s mother hooted at this, while Aunt Trinh managed a faint smile. Her eyes occasionally surveyed the crowded dining room, always drifting toward the exit. Cam’s mother and Grandmère had made sure Aunt Trinh sat between them, so she wouldn’t have to speak to any strangers.

  On the other side of the table, Xuan and his father read over the blessing Uncle Yen planned to read. Every year, the Bourdains asked a close friend to propose the Christmas blessing, which usually consisted of thanking the family for their generosity and kindness over the years. Cam felt confident her uncle’s blessing would be no different. Uncle Yen’s law firm still considered Monsieur Bourdain’s publishing house its biggest client.

  Grandpère placed his hand on Cam’s. He already looked exhausted, his eyes avoiding the sparkly votives on the table. “Aren’t you supposed to be sitting at the children’s table in the other room?”

  “No, Grandpère,” she said. “We’re big enough that Xuan and I can sit with the adults now.”

  “Oh?” He looked delighted. “You two are growing up so fast.”

  After the initial welcome from Monsieur Bourdain, he called for Uncle Yen to give his blessing.

  “Make sure to speak up, dear Yen,” Monsieur Bourdain reminded him, with a wagging finger. “Your voice is so soft, and we want everyone to hear you.”

  Xuan rolled his eyes, but only Cam noticed. Everyone else still had their hands obediently folded in prayer, eyes expectantly watching Yen Truong. She could tell that her uncle, unaccustomed to public speaking, was nervous, unconsciously folding and refolding the sheet of paper in front of him, adjusting his reading glasses on his nose.

  “The Bourdains have always been giving people, and I experienced this firsthand when they helped save my family. While I was still a law student, our beloved Vietnam was conquered by the Communists. When my wife, son, parents, and my brother’s family managed to escape to Malaysia, the Bourdains, through much hard work and personal expense, sponsored their immigration to France. Their generosity still amazes me. They have certainly become part of the Truong family. We thank God for their existence and their continuing work for the Lord. Bless their family’s good health. May God bless this meal they have provided for all of us.”

  The dining room filled with soft murmurs of agreement. While the string quartet in the center of the room began its first piece, the catering staff filed in to offer the first course: lobster bisque and iced oysters with lemon wedges.

  “It was a beautiful toast,” Xuan assured his father as the room filled with polite slurping and the string quartet’s version of “Silent Night.”

  “Yes,” Cam’s mother said, after taking the smallest sip of the bisque off her spoon. “I didn’t realize they saved our lives. Thank you for reminding everyone.”

  “Ngoan,” Cam’s father said, sighing.

  “We all know they’re not your favorite people,” Uncle Yen said. “But we are in their house, and we are eating their food. You can be discreet for one night.”

  “How am I being indiscreet?”

  “They did sponsor us,” Aunt Trinh said, looking confused. “Yen was only telling the truth.”

  “Ngoan realizes this,” Cam’s father said. “She didn’t mean any harm, Yen.”

  “You don’t need to defend me,” Cam’s mother said.

  “What have they done to you?” Uncle Yen whispered furiously, leaning forward, nearly spitting in his soup. “They are godparents to our children—”

  “That wasn’t really our choice—”

  “Who sponsored their catechism classes? Who bought Cam her communion dress? They have only been kind to us.”

  “Are you convinced of that?” she asked.

  Cam tucked the linen napkin under Grandpère’s chin, thankful that he paid no attention to the argument, listening instead to the quartet playing nearby.

  “Did you ever see the water puppet show in Hanoi?” he asked her.

  Cam shook her head before tasting the bisque: creamy, good temperature, too much pepper.

  “One day, I’ll take you to see it. You, Xuan, and Lum would enjoy it so much. Where is Lum?”

  “He’s in America,” Cam said, “with his parents and his sister.”

  “When did he go there?”

  “Years ago, Grandpère.” Tilting her neck, she watched Michel silently eat with his parents. They’d finished their bisque and now focused on the oysters.

  They’d agreed to meet in his bedroom when the seated dinner ended and guests mingled around the house enjoying flutes of champagne, mugs of cider, and cheese platters. The children rushed to the family room, gathering around the indoor Christmas tree to find candies and chocolates from Père Noel in their shoes. The Truongs meandered throughout the house, Cam’s mother and Aunt Trinh watching the children in the family room, while the men and Grandmère walked outside to the courtyard to gawk again at the life-size crèche.

  Cam stood on the staircase, watching Michel and his mother talk to a couple in the corner of the parlor. She caught his eye several times, and he discreetly nodded in her direction. When it looked like the conversation was at last ending, Cam slowly wandered up the stairs. No one paid attention to her.

  Resting her elbow on the door handle, she gently pushed, and sneaked inside the bedroom. Still holding a drink with one hand, Cam reached around for the light switch. As the room filled with the soft glow of a tableside lamp, her eyes scanned the four walls. Since their relationship began, Cam had only spent time in Michel’s apartment, which maintained the tastefully detached aesthetic of his mother. It reminded Cam of a hotel. She’d assumed Michel was too busy studying to change anything around, so she’d occasionally bring a bouquet of flowers for the dining room table or intentionally leave a puddle of clothes in the bedroom. But even this bedroom lacked any personal touches, and easily could have been mistaken for one of the Bourdains’ immaculately prepared guest rooms. Her only recognition of Michel was his overnight bag sitting next to a mahogany chest of drawers.

  The door opened and Cam turned around. Michel pulled off his elf cap, placed it on the table next to the lamp, and slipped his arms around her waist.

  “Merry Christmas, Cammie,” he said, touching his nose with hers.

  She kissed him briefly before pulling away. “Are they coming up?”

  “Father is s
till playing Père Noel,” he said. “I’ll go down in a few minutes and tell them we have good news to share.” His arms around her tightened, momentarily lifting her off the floor. “You still feel tiny.”

  “Then we talk to my parents,” Cam reminded him. “Remember? You have to formally ask my father and Grandpère, even if he gets confused. It’s tradition.”

  “I remember.” He smiled and kissed her again.

  His breath smelled of brandy. “Don’t drink any more,” she said. “I don’t want us to forget anything tonight.”

  “It’s sweet that you worry. It’s beautiful.” His blond hair felt silky between her fingers. He was combing his hair forward lately, worried that he’d inherited his father’s hairline. Once or twice he had expressed the desire to shave all his hair off, but Cam had discouraged it.

  He wanted to lie down for a little bit, to rest before fetching his parents. The bed felt so soft and warm. Not as springy as her bed at home, the bed she’d known since they moved to France. The mattress enveloped their bodies like fresh, silky marzipan. After so many hours on her feet, Cam sighed contentedly, listening to the music and chattering through the floor.

  “We can’t fall asleep,” Cam said, struggling through a yawn.

  “We won’t,” he said.

  A few minutes passed. She could feel his breath on her neck, moist and steady. “I’m scared,” she said.

  He didn’t answer initially and she feared he’d dozed off. “You don’t have to be scared. Everybody loves a wedding,” he said.

  She wasn’t sure what time it was when Michel got up. After putting a throw blanket around her, he said he was going to get his parents. He kissed her on the forehead, promising to return in a few minutes.

  Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she listened, listened, listened for his knock. Although she wanted to get up before then, rearrange her hair, make herself as presentable and perfect as her yule log (which had better still be there when they returned downstairs to celebrate), the plumpness of the pillows and the caress of the blanket were too inviting.

  Cammie Bourdain. Camille Bourdain. Camille wasn’t her given name, but it could change on the marriage certificate; simply an extension of four letters, her fulfilled identity. It sounded better to her than Cam Bourdain. She never really liked her name, which pronounced in a certain way meant orange, an alternative her mother enjoyed because she had an orange tree behind her childhood home in Vietnam. Cam promised herself that her child would bear a name she could be proud of, one chosen with the care and affection of both parents.

  The knock on the door was loud and continuous. Cam pulled herself up, realizing she had no idea how much time had passed. She couldn’t find a clock on the cerulean walls or mahogany wood furniture. Smoothing her hair and straightening the sleep rumples from her dress, she walked to the door and, after vigorously shaking her head, opened it.

  Cam’s mother glared at her. She had her synthetic fur jacket on. “What are you doing? This isn’t a guest room.”

  “Really?” She fought the urge to slam the door. Michel and his parents would be there any moment.

  “Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you.”

  After peering down both sides of the hall, Cam pulled her mother into the room. “I’ve only been up here a little while.”

  “A little while? It’s four o’clock.”

  Cam rubbed at the corner of her eye with a knuckle, careful not to disturb her eye makeup. Michel’s elf cap was gone from the table. He must have put it back on before he left. “No, it’s not.”

  Her mother offered her wristwatch. Cam turned and looked out the window. Still an indigo night. No different from when she first came upstairs.

  “We’re leaving,” Cam’s mother said. “Grandpère wants to sleep in his own bed.”

  “No,” Cam said, shaking her head, shaking off the drowsiness she still felt. “I have to stay.”

  “Why?” Her mother was searching her face. “Do you think he’s going to come back up here? Cam, he’s been downstairs drinking with his parents for the last hour.”

  She stared at her mother. “Wait…”

  “I’m not stupid, Cam.” Leaning forward, she hissed, “You aren’t stupid, either. Do you really think he’s going to marry you?”

  She took a few steps back until her legs bumped against the bed. Cam sat. “No. You don’t understand. You don’t know the whole story.”

  “I do. And you are not going to embarrass this family. We are going home.”

  Just as her mother had managed to pull her off the bed, Cam saw Michel and his parents in the doorway. Her face relaxed into a smile. With the men in their holiday hats and Madame Bourdain’s jingle bell necklace, they looked like a Christmas miracle.

  “Are you all right, darling?” Madame Bourdain asked, trying to hide her surprise of finding the women in her son’s bedroom. “Too much champagne?”

  “She’s fine,” Cam’s mother said.

  “Cammie?” Michel asked, looking concerned.

  “Who is Cammie?” Cam’s mother asked.

  “Mother,” Cam said, pushing her hand away, but her mother refastened her grip.

  “What is going on?” Monsieur Bourdain loudly asked, his face looking pinched and ruddy, but all Cam could focus on was his furry hat. “Michel, why did you bring us up here?”

  Although the bedroom was large, it suddenly felt very small for five people standing around the bed, which still looked rumpled from Cam’s nap. Realizing everyone’s eyes lay on him, Michel’s own could not settle—flitting between his parents and Cam. He straightened his back, his telltale technique to appear confident, but this time, Cam did not find it charming. Standing next to his much taller father, he looked like a weaker, fainter version of Monsieur Bourdain.

  “We have something we want to tell you,” Michel finally said.

  Monsieur Bourdain shook his head. “No, son,” he said, the joy of Père Noel trailing out of his voice. “Let’s talk about this first.”

  “That’s what we’re trying to do,” Michel said.

  “I mean privately,” he said, looking scornfully at Cam and her mother. He turned and left the room.

  “Where is your father going?” Madame Bourdain asked.

  “Michel,” Cam said, but he was already following his father out of the room.

  Madame Bourdain offered a weak smile, reverting to her role as hostess. “Excuse me,” she said.

  They’d been in the room for less than a minute, Cam realized. She looked up at her mother, who no longer appeared angry but pitying, perhaps even satisfied. It was so hard to tell with her.

  “I think we should leave,” Cam’s mother said.

  Wanting to speak, Cam could only nod in response. Her mother led her by the hand out of the room. The walls were bending. She wanted to throw up.

  Downstairs in the parlor, Cam saw her bûche de Noël still sitting on its silver platter, untouched, ignored. A few guests still nibbled on cheese and drank champagne, while the Bourdains stood in the corner, whispering, shoulders touching.

  She felt her mother’s hand on her shoulder, pushing her forward. “I’m right here,” she said softly, and together, in synchronized step, they walked across the room.

  “You are not getting married,” Monsieur Bourdain declared as Cam and her mother approached the family.

  “We have to,” Michel said. “And you will accept it.”

  The Bourdains reluctantly stepped back to regard Cam and her mother. While Madame Bourdain gazed nervously at Cam, Michel’s father wouldn’t even look at her.

  “Is she pregnant?” he asked. “Were you stupid enough to impregnate her?”

  Cam felt her knees lock. Her mother turned to her, her nails digging into Cam’s wrist. She wouldn’t meet her mother’s eyes, wouldn’t speak.

  The younger Bourdain didn’t say anything, his arms crossed in front of him, staring at the shiny marble floor, like a child awaiting punishment.

  Madame
Bourdain pulled on her husband’s shirtsleeve, the jingle-bell necklace tinkling with her urgency. “Please, Michel, this is not the time.”

  It was too late. Guests meandered around them, oblivious about their discussion, cheerily munching on the endless array of treats. Cam didn’t mind the strangers, whose opinions mattered little to her, but then she saw her grandparents, Xuan, and the rest of her family. They had their coats and scarves on, bundled up like carolers.

  Monsieur Bourdain finally turned to Cam, his eyes cold and thin. “Are you telling the truth? Are you really pregnant?”

  Though Cam could feel her mother’s nails digging even deeper into her arm, close to breaking skin, Cam could only look at her Michel. Why wasn’t he meeting her eyes? Why wouldn’t he answer his father? When her voice refused to release, Monsieur Bourdain spun around, looking for someone, anyone who could answer him.

  “Monsieur Truong,” Monsieur Bourdain said, walking up to Grandpère, whose arm was linked with Aunt Trinh’s. “Did you know anything about this?”

  “Excuse me?” Grandpère asked, smiling, not understanding.

  “Michel,” Uncle Yen said, trying to touch the man’s shoulder, “what is the problem?” But Monsieur Bourdain angrily shrugged his hand off.

  “Your granddaughter,” Monsieur Bourdain said, nearly standing over Grandpère, shaking with fury. “She has trapped my son by claiming she is pregnant. Did you know about this? Is this what you teach your grandchildren?”

  “She’s my daughter,” Cam’s father said, stepping forward between Monsieur Bourdain and Grandpère.

  “Will you take responsibility then for ruining my son’s life? Because Petit Michel would never do this intentionally.”

  “Did he say that?” Phung calmly asked.

  “It is obvious to anyone.”

  “Are you saying my daughter forced herself on your son?”

  “We have taught him better than this,” Monsieur Bourdain retorted, his face as red as his ridiculous hat. “He wouldn’t have touched your daughter unless she provoked him.”