Mom is glad to be back at work. She hums a tune as she moves some pencil-straight skirts to the clearance rack. After a while I recognize that it’s Elvis’s “Always on My Mind.”
I help a customer who tries to convince herself and me that she wears a size five when I can see she is more like a size ten. After trying on three pairs of jeans that do not fit, she accepts my suggestion to try on a pair of petite-length size-ten Levi’s.
“How are they?” I ask her from outside the dressing room.
After a few incomprehensible mutters, she comes out modeling them.
“Nice,” I say. “They look fabulous.”
Mom winks at me, pleased that I have, at last, learned the art of making a customer feel good about herself. The woman purchases the jeans.
When the store is clear of shoppers, Mom tells me that she found a new kind of licorice sold at a little store on Sandbridge Beach and bought six boxes. After lunch she talks about a retired Navy man she and Maralinda met one night on a scenic boat ride.
“He made us lobster and steak the next night,” Mom tells me.
“So he invited the two of you over for dinner?”
Mom picks up the feather duster. “No, we invited him over.”
“Really?”
“Yes, he seemed lonely. Maralinda said he’s not her type.”
“Is he yours?”
“Oh, heavens no!”
“Why not?”
“I like men who like to go to the theater. I like men who enjoy the classics.” She dusts the picture frames with a few swift dabs. “You know, who can quote Hemingway and Melville.”
“And he couldn’t do that?” I recall that Daddy couldn’t, either.
“He didn’t know a thing about Moby-Dick. Thought it was a ship.”
“Well, at least he got the water part correct.”
“He smelled of talcum powder.” She puts the duster on the counter and adjusts the bow of her apron.
“Better than smelling like a gym, right?” I scan her face for a smile, but there isn’t any trace of one.
“He cooked us a lovely dinner, but he wouldn’t eat it.”
“Why not?”
“How should I know?”
“Was he not hungry?”
“No, he wasn’t my type.” She stands at the front window now, staring out like she’s checking the weather. “But he was very handsome.”
Why would a man cook and not eat? “Had he already eaten?” I ask, insisting on a reply.
Mom doesn’t give it. Dreamily, with one hand on the blond-haired mannequin that is dressed in a suit the color of caramels, she admits, “His hair was peppered with red streaks. It was sorta nice when the light caught it.”
“What was his name?”
“How should I know?” She turns to the rack of new fall dresses, a finger resting alongside her nose.
I wonder if the chemo from years past has made her a little loopy.
I’m still thinking about my mother’s comments about this handsome man she met at the beach. If she were to find love again, would I get along with my new stepfather? The thought hits me every so often. There was a time I wanted her to remarry like other friends in my high school whose parents got married for the second and even third time. In tenth grade I thought she might like my psychology teacher until I realized that this teacher didn’t believe in using crock pots. His aversion to this appliance was so strong that I thought he had psychological issues about it. My mom relied heavily on her Rival crock pot to do her cooking while she was at work all day.
As I view the sizzling sun setting outside my window, I’m reminded of all the times I wanted her to find a good man. My recent date with Taylor spins around my mind as I think about the time we spent together. He could be the one for me, I tell myself as I smile into my dresser mirror. I bet it would be fascinating to be married to a private investigator. I seldom get second dates, and he’s already asked me out again for this Saturday.
Lifting my hair, I pull the thick brown layers back into a ponytail and, seeing a few bumps along my chin, decide to try the new peach mask I bought at the grocery store. I squeeze the creamy contents of the floral tube onto my nose, forehead, and chin. I dab some across my cheeks. After making faces in the mirror, I pause to see how long I’m supposed to keep this stuff on my face. The directions say fifteen minutes.
My skin is like plaster from the cleansing mask when the phone rings. I consider letting the answering machine pick up.
On the fourth ring, I answer.
Carson’s voice glides sweetly into my ear. “Hey, how are you?”
“I have another date.”
“Really? One of those filled ones you get at Christmas?”
“What?”
“Aren’t they filled with cream cheese?”
“No.” Is he trying to be funny or did he really think that I was speaking of food? “I’m going out on a date with a man.”
“Oh?”
With my skin about to crack from the substance I’ve put on it, I am not in the mood to talk to him. Carson is not the right man for me. I need to put him aside.
“So where are you two going?”
“Out to dinner at Donatello.” I make the name of the restaurant sound swanky and sophisticated, hoping that Carson will feel I’ve landed a man who wants to take me to nice places. “It’s in the Georgetown district.”
He pauses before saying, “Okay . . .”
“Carson.” My breath feels hot and thick.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t call anymore.”
“What?”
Slowly, I add more words to soften the roughness. “Please don’t call me anymore, okay?”
“Sam, we’re friends.”
“I know. But you’re a guy and my P.I. guy is awfully jealous.”
“P.I. guy?”
“Yes, he’s a private investigator. Like Magnum.” I don’t know why I throw in that last part—perhaps I want Carson to know that what this guy does for a living is as exciting as Tom Selleck’s TV job.
“Does he have a name?”
“Of course. You don’t think that his mama named him P.I., do you?” Sarcasm and a sassy attitude rise within me. In a minute, if I’m not careful, I’m going to feel that quiet ache in my heart.
He sighs. “How long have you known him?”
“A while.”
“How long is that?”
I am not about to tell Carson that I met Taylor recently at a wedding I was not even invited to. “A while.”
“Be careful.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re a flirt, and I know you give your heart away quicker than it takes for a mosquito to bite.”
Carson, it seems, knows exactly what to say, or write, to hurt me. I tell him good-bye and hang up the phone, reluctance in my fingers.
I run the bath water, filling the tub with half a bottle of cranberry-vanilla bath salts, and as the foamy concoction rises, I consider calling Natasha. As I settle into the tub, I decide against talking with her. I don’t need to hear her say that she knows I will start talking to Carson again because deep down I’m in love with him. I let the suds cover me up to my chin by sinking deep into the bath. Using a washcloth, I scrub the mask from my face, hoping it did what the container said it would—tighten pores and make my skin smooth.
Once I’m in my pajamas—cotton with silk, a line we used to carry in the boutique before Mom became annoyed with the manufacturer for unethical child labor in Malaysia—I turn on the late show and pop a bag of microwave popcorn. Uncle Charlie gave me a silver-plated bowl that is in the shape of a motorcycle, and I pour the hot popcorn into that. I chew and let the butter run over my tongue, wishing that I were like my great-uncle, able to outrun anything, especially these wretched, tangled emotions.
Although I know better, I pull out the box of old photos from their hiding place in my closet. Of course, I shouldn’t give in to the desire to look at them, but it’s too late. With
the box open on the floor of my bedroom, the photos are freely visible. I look over photos of students—some smiling, some looking serious—and I remember them. The timid Cambodian group of teens had been a delight to teach. A small class, they studied hard and were well disciplined. For their graduation party, their mothers brought chicken curry and rice. I shuffle through photos of the curry meal, the students receiving their certificates, and myself. Picking up another stack, I flip through pictures of my one and only class of Laotian students, the marketplace on a Saturday filled with the wares the refugees made to sell, me in a sarong, me at a staff meeting, and me with Lien and Huy. Then, as though the pounding of my heart has paralyzed my hand, I stop.
I see a picture of Carson and me that one of the photographers took and gave me as a gift. Sealed in the clear plastic wrap the camp photographers often placed pictures in, the photo is one of us seated at the wedding reception we attended the day Lien was accused of stealing. I have on a cotton sleeveless red dress dotted with swirls of cream. Carson is dressed in a tan shirt and pants. He leaned in close when the picture was snapped. Our smiles are content, happy. Over the years, it’s hurt me to look at our faces. Because each time I viewed mine, I saw hope and love spread across each portion of my skin. Every time I hold this three-by-five-inch piece of glossy paper, I have not been able to hide from what is blatantly evident. The young woman in the photograph is in love with the man sitting beside her.
twenty-eight
January 1986
Carson and I both were at the departure area when the Hong family left. I’d been at the camp for seven months and had seen my share of arrivals and departures in that time. I taught myself not to get too attached to any of the refugees. Transition was a large part of the place, and the purpose of our camp was for each refugee, regardless of how he or she had arrived in the Philippines—by plane with the Orderly Departure Program, or by a crafted boat, stealing away into the night—to leave. Each refugee came to the processing center to learn English, get needed medical attention, and then to get their name on The List. When their name appeared on this sheet, it meant preparations had been made for them to resettle somewhere else, usually the United States. Even so, saying good-bye to favorite families never grew easy. “See you in America” was the resounding phrase used, but we knew the chance of seeing any of them in the U.S. was slim.
Lien and her family boarded the dirty white bus with fifty others whose names were on The List. The bus bulged with their belongings. I thought of the knitted sweaters to ward off the cold in places such as Chicago and Detroit that mothers created in their billets. They’d never seen snow or felt the cold of a blustery wind, and looking at the sweaters, I knew they had a shock coming. There was no way that a simple sweater would keep them warm when the snow lined the streets in front of their new homes.
Lien hung out an open window and waved as the bus was pulling away from the departure area, heading to the airport in Manila many long miles away. “I never forget you, teacha!” she cried.
I was not sure if she was referring to Carson or to me.
Huy smiled and called out to us and to his friends—two boys his age who had come to bid him good-bye. Huy’s parents were subdued; their eyes focused on the bags on their laps. I wondered what was going on in their thoughts. I wished they would let go of their anger toward Lien and the shame she’d caused them. I asked God to let them leave their anguish here and not take it with them in their luggage to America.
Carson and I stood side by side with our arms waving until the bus was out of sight. Half of what Carson spoke to the refugees I could not understand. By this time, his Vietnamese had improved considerably.
When the departure area was silent again, he and I went back to the staff housing, hoping and praying that the refugees could and would adjust well to America—and realize the value of what we’d tried to teach them. In time, I knew that they would be able to grasp that we’d been honest when we’d said it was rude to urinate on the street or blow your nose in your sleeve.
“They still think she stole,” Carson said as we ate dinner in the mess hall. He stared at his plate of pork pancit as though it were the guilty one.
“She probably did.” I’d finished my helping of chicken adobo too quickly and my stomach felt queasy. “I saw her with that bracelet that didn’t belong to her. She could be sweet, but also devious.”
Carson stood up. “You assume things, Sam. Always.” And after glaring at me, he left me alone with my food, the rice noodles congealing as I bit my lip.
twenty-nine
Mom lets me have a dress from the clearance rack for my date tonight. She knows that I’ve been eyeing a short black one with spaghetti straps—a new item for the store, with a brand name that I could never afford. “Not for you, Samantha,” she told me one afternoon as I pressed its soft fabric against me and smiled into the mirror. “You don’t want to wear black. Black dresses are overrated.” From the curve of her mouth, I almost thought that she was ready to spout out a line she often whispers when we are out in public and she disapproves of what someone has on. “Just because the model in the catalog is wearing it doesn’t mean you should.” I found the phrase funny the first time I heard Mom say it when we saw a lady in a mini pumpkin orange smock with purple trim.
The dress I’ll be wearing is light blue, reminding me of a clear spring morning. It has a moderate neckline and zips in the back. Mom says my pearl earrings will go well with the dress and she lets me “borrow” a few bracelets to adorn my arms.
At home I take a long shower, lathering up with a bar of honeysuckle soap. I paint my fingernails a frosty coral and hum along with Crosby, Stills, and Nash as their song “Southern Cross” plays on the radio.
Taylor is just as cute as the last time I saw him. He asks about my day and how the shop is doing and if my mother has found her cat.
“No,” I say as we are seated at a table to the left of the bar.
“You never know. There’s still hope about that cat.”
It’s been over six months, so I doubt that Butterchurn is ever going to drink milk from the dish Mom has sitting out for him in the garage. That cat has found a new owner or been eaten by the proverbial wolves that lurk. I want to be hopeful, but my misgivings loom larger than hope.
We look over menus filled with tasty-sounding Italian specialties. When Taylor asks what I’d like to eat, I’m at a loss. I’ve been too busy concentrating on our conversation. He tells me he’s going to have a shrimp dish, Gamberi Alla Caprese, and by the time the waiter approaches our table, I realize my time is up so I order the same.
Over our dinner I ask him what I’ve been planning to. “Can you find anyone?”
He smiles. “Just about.”
I want to ask him all the tricks and tools he uses, so I can tell Carson what I’ve learned. For once, I’ll know more about something than him. “What made you want to be an investigator?”
“Too much TV.” Warmly, he says, “Now, tell me how you became a boutique owner.”
“I don’t own the shop. It belongs to my mom.”
“But do you like working there?” He lifts his fork filled with shrimp to his mouth and chews.
“I enjoy seeing the way the right clothes can make people happy, and finding items that fit them. My mom wanted a shop where tall and short women have a chance to get quality clothing that fits them in all the right places.”
“That’s right—you told me that she’s tall. Six feet?”
“Yep, and look at me, I’m only five-five. Her mom was short, so I guess I got that gene.” Wanting to steer the conversation back to finding missing people, I say, “Taylor, I really want to talk about you.” I make my voice flirty.
“Me?”
“Yep.” I sip from my water glass.
“Well, I’m not that interesting.”
“I think you are.” Lowering my lashes, I slowly raise my eyes to meet his soft glance.
“Really?”
“Oh,
yes.” My Flirty Sam side has this habit of showing up at times like this. Natasha tells me this side of my personality is going to get me into trouble if I’m not careful. “Did I tell you that I was at a refugee camp years ago?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“But you already knew that, right? Since you’re a P.I., you probably did a background check on me.”
“Not yet.” His smile shows I am amusing him, and that is exactly what I want to do. “Do I need to do a check?”
“A thorough one. I’m wanted.”
“I bet you are.”
I turn the conversation back to where I want it. “So, I need to find a Vietnamese woman.”
“Okay.” His expression invites me to continue.
“Last we heard she was up north somewhere. Her name is Thuy. In Vietnam the last name goes first, and it’s Pham.” I make the ph sound like an f. “So Pham Thuy, or the American way, Thuy Pham.”
Taylor sips his Coke. “Thuy Pham,” he repeats.
“She was born in 1950. I think.”
“Friend from the past?”
“I’ve never met her.”
“Oh?”
I suppose I should tell him, so I begin with a little Amerasian girl who showed up in my classroom one day, and work my way through time to her upcoming wedding. “She’s asked for my help.” I still haven’t decided if this is a blessing or a curse. I suppose I should feel honored that Lien has confidence that I can find Thuy. “Lien hopes to find her in time to invite her to the wedding.”
Taylor nods. “Sure,” he says. “I can certainly try.”
When he reaches for my hand with his warm fingers, I am sent back to another time, half a world away.
thirty
January 1986
The moon was a globe the color of waxy butter that night. The air was moist and stirred by a faint breeze. Carson and I sat in the lounge of the admin building long after the video ended, talking. Our voices were sleepy, but we made no movement to leave the room.
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