When the kitchen is “put back into place,” as Dovie says, the two women join Pearl in the den to watch a movie. They ask if I want to join them, but I know my heart is tugging at me to do something else.
I sit on the porch in a wicker chair, drawing my knees up to my chest. The night is cooled by an intense wind, the little butterfly wind chime bouncing on its perch and clanging like a fire alarm. Over that noise, I listen as rain glazes the tree leaves. There are no crickets and bullfrogs singing their songs tonight.
With my arms wrapped around my legs, I close my eyes and immediately see Carson’s face. Actually, I see it in various situations. Like a slideshow, images come to me. Carson with a smile under the trees at the snack shop when he and I sang a silly song together, when I tried to kiss him and he turned away, and today as he told me not to be angry. How can I help but be a little angry? He has kept so much from me.
It is then that I realize the tugging at my heart is an invitation to pray. I should talk to God. As Dovie would say, “It’s time to have a heart to heart.”
In the Philippines I’d sit outside my dorm on a grassy knoll and watch the fields below. Occasionally, I would see a water buffalo or a farmer in a large straw hat harvesting his rice. The bullfrogs would sing and the sky would display an assortment of purple clouds as the day signed off.
I talked to God those evenings. Even though it was hard to find time alone among the refugees and other teachers, this sanctuary behind the dorm building became my respite from the long and sticky days. I wrote in my journal and created my newsletters to send back home. I thought about new ways to reach my students, sensed the anguish they’d faced, and prayed for my classes.
I missed Mom, too. There were times I felt I was selfish to have let my adventurous travel-loving side take over so that I had to leave her. She was alone except for a few relatives scattered here and there. At the time, she was working in retail, managing a clothing store in Fairfax County. I suppose that’s when the desire to run her own shop came into play.
Talking to God tonight with a cat by my side and a thunderstorm brewing in the east feels perfect. There’s calm mixed with stress as Milkweed meows and the thunder crackles.
I release my fears. They bounce before me as I name them. Inside my heart, I’ve kept them like shackled prisoners in bondage. First comes the fear of the past: the pain of being rejected by Carson. Then there’s the present: not knowing how he feels about me now, not wanting to give away my heart only to get it smashed again. And lastly: the unknown future. Is there even a future designed for us to share? I close my eyes as Pearl did earlier today, just letting Beanie soothe her aches and pains.
When the rain pelts against the roof and fills the gutters, I stroke Milkweed’s fur and feel an odd yet tender sense of satisfaction. I spoke to God. God heard me. Sometimes that is all I need to know.
thirty-seven
The new alarm system at the shop has an annoying beep whenever anyone touches it, but at least Mom feels safe. I catch her checking it every hour, pressing the top of the keypad with a finger. Once I even saw her running the feather duster over it. She’s been sold on Burtel protecting her dresses, coats, pants, jewelry, scarves, and the freshly painted wall.
On the first few days following the robbery, it seemed all the security companies called to offer their best deals. Mom soon stopped answering the store phone and just let the answering machine pick up the missed calls. I’m not exactly sure why she chose Burtel except that when Sanjay came over three days ago, she did ask him what system he used at the bakery. When he told her he used Burtel, she asked if he’d ever been robbed.
“Robbed of my dignity a few times,” Sanjay replied.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“You know, the customers who want something for nothing or fret and curse at you when you can’t get 150 turkey sandwiches made for them on a two-hour notice.”
I thought Mom would be horrified to think that people expected that kind of superhuman feat, but instead she said, “I didn’t know your bakery served sandwiches.”
“We do. We used to only have the breakfast baked goods, but now we are more known as a deli and a café.”
“Rye bread?” Mom asked.
“If you like.”
“Provolone cheese?”
“We have that, too.”
“Tomatoes and lettuce?”
“They are the freshest this side of the Capitol.”
With that information, Mom ordered two turkey sandwiches for our lunch. “Light on the mayonnaise and mustard. Add some pickle relish if you have it. No hurry,” she said. “Just call when they are ready and Sam will come over to get them.”
I rolled my eyes as Sanjay laughed and left the store.
After she and I ate lunch in the back room, she picked up the phone and called a Burtel representative. One of their technicians installed the new security system Mom wanted the next afternoon.
Sanjay pours me a cup of hazelnut coffee and listens to me talk about the phone call I received from Taylor last night. It’s a Thursday, and every Thursday the bakery has a different coffee special. Mom’s already been in the bakery to get her cup.
“Taylor found out Lien’s mom is here in town.”
“Here?” says Sanjay. “In D.C.? I thought you said last week that she was in Chicago.”
“That’s where she resettled at first. But Taylor said her last known address is here.”
“Well,” says Sanjay as he hands me the styrofoam cup, “I guess that’s why he is the investigator. So did he give you the address?”
“He had one. But it’s old.” Taylor told me he actually called the phone number that went with the address only to find that the number was no longer in service.
“Old?” Sanjay’s forehead wrinkles. “How is an address old?”
“It means it’s not current. You know, no longer up-to-date.”
“Sounds like fashion. So what do we do?”
“What do you mean?”
“If she is here, maybe someone knows her. We talk and see who else talks.” His dark eyes shine from the light coming in the front window.
“Who do we talk to?”
“We do like on the TV detective shows. You know—Magnum. He goes around asking the right questions.”
I smile and sip the coffee.
“How is it?”
“The coffee? Great, as usual.”
“You need to make a flyer. Like you did for the missing cat.”
Sanjay points to the flyer for Butterchurn. When he heard Butterchurn was lost, he wanted a flyer for his store, too. His doesn’t have an actual photo of the cat—instead he drew a fat cat and gave it a collar with Butterchurn on the tag. “I will put one up here.” He motions to his bulletin board that has assorted advertisements from faithful customers.
“Okay.”
“Do you have photos of this missing woman?” he asks.
“Carson and I made some photocopies of the one picture Lien salvaged.” Carson and I had spent some time at the Office Max in Winston. After we finished there, he took me to his house to play Ping-Pong for old times’ sake.
“Get to work,” says Sanjay, breaking into my thoughts of how Carson won two games and I won two games. “There is no time like the present. If your investigator friend has tracked her to this area, then someone who comes into your shop might know her.”
You accused her. I berate myself with the words until finally I beg my guilt to evaporate. True, I told Van and the councilmen that I believed Lien was a thief. She was, in my mind. Partially due to guilt, but mostly due to my desire to help a young woman who has been through more difficulties than anyone should face, I’m fueled up to help Lien now. At my kitchen table, I continue with the flyer, adding a photo of Lien and Thuy to the middle of it. In the black-and-white photo, Thuy’s face looks no older than her daughter’s. They have the same eyes—eyes that have seen too much sorrow and anguish. Lien’s and Thuy’s full names are written
by the pictures. Underneath, in a smaller font, is my number to call if anyone has any news of Thuy’s whereabouts.
I run my finger over Lien’s photo, over her wayward hair and her lips from which I’ve heard many a wayward word. “O God,” my voice cries out into my small kitchen, “please let it be soon that Lien will be reunited with her mother.”
After that, my heart feels exposed, and as the cliché goes, my conscience gets the best of me. I dial Taylor’s number. First I thank him for all the effort he’s put into the search for Lien’s mom. Then I close my eyes as tight as I can like I did when I was a little girl in red tights and patent leather shoes. This is what I did when I had to confess to my parents that I’d gotten a bad grade on a spelling test or that it was me who broke the cookie jar. Awkwardly, I let the words out. “I still like him, Taylor.”
“Who?”
I realize then that I was so preoccupied with how my words were going to sound to him that I’ve left some important ones out. “Carson.” I’ve already told Taylor about my year in the Philippines and how I “ran into” Carson recently.
After a brief silence during which I dig my nails into my palms and wonder why I had to give in to truthfulness, I hear Taylor say, “The man you were with in the Philippines.”
“Yeah. He means a lot to me.”
“So you’re thanking me and then telling me that you don’t ever want to see me again, is that it?”
“No!” I’m too adamant. “I just want to be honest.” Quickly, I add, “But I have this friend and she’s great.”
“A great friend.” His voice is flat.
“Yes. You’d like her.” I’m too enthusiastic.
“So let me get this straight. Not only are you dropping me, but you’re trying to set me up with your gorgeous friend?”
“She’s not gorgeous.” Oh, I hope Natasha will forgive me for being this honest. “She’s cute.”
“Kittens are cute, too.”
“She likes kittens. And dogs. In fact, she loves Boxers.”
“Well, sounds like we have a lot in common,” he says, but he doesn’t sound happy at all.
I don’t know what else to say, but I do wonder why being truthful sometimes hurts so deeply. “I have to go,” I tell him. Then I hang up, bumping the receiver against the phone cradle.
thirty-eight
Today the boutique is filled with women of all sizes, spread out among the tall and petite sections. I pick a gum wrapper off the carpet, annoyed that people think littering is acceptable behavior.
“I’m ready,” a voice says, and I see a tall, slender woman twice my age standing at the counter by the register. I ring up her purchase for a pair of khaki pants with an inseam of 33.
“You’ll enjoy those,” Mom tells her as I slip them into our trademark beige and pink shopping bag. Mom would know; she owns three pairs of pants just like them. In fact, she’s wearing her newest pair right now.
Soon only one short lady is left in the store. The woman approaches me with a pair of navy pants. “Can you alter these a bit?” Her frosted blond hair makes her face look younger than she probably is. But her narrow hands show age spots. Mom always says you can tell a woman’s real age by her hands.
I ask if she’d like to try on the pants in one of our dressing rooms, but she pays me no attention. Her eyes are fixed on the flyer that is taped to the wall behind the counter. Dropping the item of clothing onto the countertop, she continues to stare.
“Her name isn’t Thuy anymore.”
“Excuse me?”
She looks like she’s debating whether or not to say more. After an awkward silence, she mumbles, “She goes by the name of Sophia.”
My gaze darts behind me to the flyer. “Sophia?” My voice cracks. “Are you sure?”
“I’d recognize her anywhere.”
“She has a daughter. Had a daughter.”
Crisply, she states, “You don’t ever ‘had a daughter,’ love. Even if your daughter is buried, you always have her. Even if the daughter doesn’t ever want to see you again, you are still her mother.”
Cringing at her tone, I take a step back.
“I take it this daughter is still living?”
“Yes.”
“And she wants to be found?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Hmmm . . .” She looks back at the flyer.
“Do you know where Thuy . . . I mean, Sophia, is?”
“I might.”
As my heart leaps, I pull out an extra flyer from under the counter. Handing it to her, I ask, “Do you want money?”
“Money to tell you where she is?” She laughs. “If only money was enough! I have a feeling that all the money in Vietnam couldn’t make me tell you where Sophia is unless she wanted you to know.”
“What do you mean?”
Taking the flyer from me, she clasps it to her chest. “I will ask.” Her eyes hold mine in a steely lock. “That is what we do for each other, is it not? Ask.”
“Do you think she’ll want to see Lien?”
“That I do not know.”
“Is she in the area? Does she live nearby?”
Although she doesn’t say a word, something about her expression causes me to believe that Lien’s mother is still in town.
I’m about to toss out another question, but my own mother, who has made her way to my side, places her fingers against my arm. Firmly.
We watch the tiny woman leave our shop; the bell jingles. Only the scent of her Chanel No. 5 and my flattened ego linger.
“Find out where she’s going!” I rush to the front window, almost colliding with one of the mannequins as the woman walks along the sidewalk. I look to see which vehicle she gets into, ready to take down the license plate number.
“Samantha,” my mother says, approaching me. “You can’t make this happen.”
“But—”
“You just have to hope she’ll get back to you and want to see her daughter.” Mom’s tone is harsh. “That’s all.”
Tears sting behind my eyes.
“Did I ever tell you about your great-aunt Ruthedale?”
I close my eyes, my eyelids acting like barriers for my tears. I hope she won’t go into a tangent like she does when she tells the stories of late Uncle Charlie.
“She tried to run the world.”
“Isn’t she the one who died of a heart attack at age thirty?”
“Exactly. She wanted to control everyone all the time.”
I try to blink back a tear but it’s too late; it has curved down my cheek. Walking toward the counter to put some distance between my mother and myself, I somberly say, “So she had a heart attack and died.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re telling me this because you want me to stop wanting to have things go my way?”
Mother pauses and then, “No.”
Pulling a tissue from the box we keep under the counter, I wipe my nose with it.
“I am telling you this because I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
The front door opens and three customers enter our shop. It opens again and one more comes inside, removing her sunglasses and pushing them on the top of her head. Mother greets them, calling a few by name. Regulars, I presume, yet I have no idea who they are.
One smiles at me and says she enjoyed the Elvis Night we had. She hopes we’ll do that again soon. The dress I convinced her to buy that evening has been a wonderful addition to her wardrobe. “Thanks for that,” she says as she heads over toward the scarves, now marked at twenty percent off. “I wore it to a soirée last Friday and got many nice compliments.”
I still don’t recall ever having seen her before. Sniffing, I decide sometimes your eyes don’t see well when your heart has been ruffled.
thirty-nine
When I tell Carson that I’m coming down for another visit—mainly because of the wedding shower Dovie is hosting for Lien—he says he hopes he’ll get a chance to see me. I’m in a semi-state of elation, having jus
t found out that Lien’s mother is in D.C. and that we are one step closer to reconnecting her and Lien.
I ask Carson, “Hope you’ll get a chance to see me? Are you not going to be in town?”
“Oh yeah, I will.”
I let silence enter our conversation, waiting for him to clarify.
He doesn’t, so I say, “Will you be busy or something?”
As the words leave my mouth, fear lodges in my throat. This fear’s nothing new when it comes to this cute Southern gentleman. He brushed me off in the Philippines. He could be about to do it again.
Suddenly I realize these months of thinking he’s matured and letting my heart grow fond of him again could end with me getting my heart broken for the second time.
“Well,” I finally say, my words coming out in a rush, “I hope I get to see you.”
“Do you have any news?”
I told myself that I would not share the news of Sophia with Carson until we were face-to-face. “I could and I could not.” I let this sentence come out slowly, like the way Pearl removes a hot pie from the oven. Then something comes over me, and I firmly state, “I have to go. Now. Bye.”
I want him to protest, tell me not to go yet. But he doesn’t. “All right. See you soon, then.”
Every night since the woman at the store said she knew Lien’s mom’s whereabouts, I’ve hoped to get a call from Carson. Yet, now that he did call, I’ve held back. Something tells me to be cautious. Perhaps it is my own mother’s voice in my mind, warning me not to get my hopes up and not to try to control the situation.
When I arrive in Winston on Friday evening, my mother allowing me an early exit from the shop, I’m surprised to learn from Beanie that Carson is coming by to see me at nine fifteen, after his radio shift.
I’m in the kitchen at the table with Beanie, eating a slice of Pearl’s rhubarb pie with a scoop of vanilla bean ice cream, when Carson rings the doorbell. Pearl and Little are watching a rerun of some movie with Dovie. I hear gunshots and the clomping of horses’ hooves, so I assume it’s a western.
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