A Wedding Invitation

by Alice J. Wisler

  I stand at her doorway, waiting for a response. After a few minutes, I start to get worried. Just then I see a weak smile form on her lips. “Thank you,” she says. “Thank you.” Then she lets out a snore.

  The bridal shower takes place at Dovie’s the next day at three in the afternoon. This means that Pearl will have to forgo her customary nap, but Pearl says she thinks for a celebration, she can manage.

  Between checking on Beanie and getting the refreshments ready, Dovie, Pearl, Little, and I are moving at a steady pace.

  Leave it up to my aunt to hold a bridal shower for Lien. When I told her that Lien was engaged with plans to be married in November, Dovie’s mind was clicking like a cash register. “Do you know if anyone has planned a shower for her?” asked my aunt.

  “I don’t know,” I said, trying to think if Lien’s friends would be the type of folks to do this.

  Without wasting another minute, Dovie grabbed a calendar to see which dates she had to offer Lien for the party. She asked for Lien’s number, and while I stood by her side, she told the young woman that she wanted to have a shower for her. “I’m Samantha Bravencourt’s aunt, and I live in Winston. I want to have a little party for you.”

  Lien was speechless, and Dovie thought something had been lost with the language barrier. But Lien understood perfectly; it was just hard for her to respond when tears were stifling her throat.

  Lien’s two bridesmaids arrive a little before three, and then Chi and Lien join the gathering. Lien is wearing a navy dress with large white polka dots, a pair of ivory sandals, and a smile that won’t stop. Chi has on a light green ao dai and her hair is swept into a bun. She even has on a shade of frosty lipstick.

  Four women walk up the driveway, each with gifts. Lien tells me that they go to her church.

  When her friend Grace pulls up in a dented Toyota, Lien squeals. “Grace, you come to see me all the way from college in Georgia! You surprise me so good!”

  I snap photos of the decorated table with paper plates, napkins, and a wide vase of roses and carnations. I get a few pictures of the stack of attractively wrapped presents that are placed on and around a wicker chair on the porch.

  Lien wraps an arm around me and says, “Miss Bravencourt, you please take pictures at my wedding. Please be the photographer.”

  “Me? At your church?”

  “That’s right, and you and Mr. Brylie are invited, of course. I want you to invite everyone you know.”

  Before we fill our plates with the treats on the table, Dovie offers up a prayer, asking that Lien be reunited with her mother and for joy in the upcoming marriage. “Amen and amen,” she wholeheartedly offers at the end.

  “I done bad stuff,” Lien later confesses to me as we eat cheesecake and dainty ham sandwiches, prepared by my aunt, Pearl, and Little. “I not been good. I was not a good student for you.” Her eyes are tender under the lids of gray shadow, and they pull me in.

  I reach for her, and as we hug, I take this opportunity to give her my own confession. “I thought you stole all those things in the camp. I’m sorry for not believing in you.”

  She rubs my shoulder with her slender fingers and eyes me. “Oh, many people believe I am not worthy because I am Amerasian. They call me names. But Jonathan tells me that I’m a beautiful creation made and loved by God.” She smiles and then adds, “And forgiven. Forgiven by God. That is an awesome thing, isn’t it, Miss Bravencourt?”

  “Yes,” I say. It’s all I can say. My throat clogs, right along with my eyes. I look at Lien’s sparkling ring and wait for tears to disappear.

  They won’t; one dampens my left cheek, and seeing it, Lien says, “You cry for me? You too kind.”

  “I am happy for you,” I tell her.

  She grabs my hands and, holding them tightly, says, “My heart is beating with gratitude.” Then she laughs in her typical fashion. “I never believe I get married and that you, my teacher, would be here to help me celebrate.”

  Years ago, in a sun-baked classroom, I never would have believed it, either.

  forty-one

  Carson comes over after the shower ends. He helps carry the used plates and cups into the kitchen and then sweeps the porch. Dovie, Little, and Pearl are all kinds of impressed. Their faces are brighter than marigolds under a clear autumn sky.

  After eating a slice of cheesecake because Dovie insists, Carson suggests that he and I go out on the porch. We sit on the love seat, holding hands and talking.

  As he caresses my fingers, I tell him about the shower and how I asked Lien to forgive me. He pulls me close and whispers, “You’ve come a long way with Lien. She’s lucky to have you in her life.”

  As evening approaches, we’re aware of the warmth in our bodies and our breathing. Milkweed sits at our feet, purring every so often, like she’s happy that we have found each other again.

  When Carson says he must leave, I don’t want him to go. I dread having to be away from him but know I must leave tomorrow to head back home.

  Being apart from Carson has never been easy for me. In the Philippines, there were times he would be in Manila for the weekend getting some R and R, and I looked forward to Sunday night when the agency van would pull into the administration building’s driveway and he would step out with a wry smile. Once, we both ventured to Manila on the same weekend. That was a magical two days, even if Carson spent the majority of Saturday looking for a piece of jade jewelry for his beloved Mindy.

  I head upstairs after watching him pull out of the driveway, and stop by Beanie’s room.

  Beanie’s eyes spring open when she hears my footsteps. Looking at me from where she lies in her bed, she whispers, “I heard there is a boyfriend and girlfriend together at last.”

  “Not everything you hear is true, you know that.” I give her a sly smile.

  “I have reliable sources that tell me these things.”

  “How are you?”

  In a whisper, she says, “I called my boy.”

  I ask how that went; she merely looks at her assortment of candles. Again, I ask, “How was it talking to him?” I know she has not called him in years.

  “I told him I’m sorry,” she says, making room for me to sit on the edge of her bed. “I haven’t been the best mom for him. Too many issues in my own life. And too much disappointment he’s given me.”

  I stroke her palm, which is lying open like she’s released something.

  “Life is just too short to let our pride get in the way, Sammie.”

  I think of my own pride and how it has been like a boulder in my path—large and obtrusive—keeping me from being more giving and loving.

  She asks for some water and then wants me to turn on her radio for her. “Music soothes, you know.”

  “I know.” I turn on the radio to her favorite station—Carson’s station—and listen to the last verse of “Morning Has Broken” by Cat Stevens: “Morning has broken like the first morning . . .”

  Once Beanie’s eyes close, I lean in to kiss her forehead. Then I leave her room with the hope of sweet dreams that will usher in a new morning with promise.

  When I enter Have a Fit at noon the next day, Mom says, “You’re back from the South. I thought you’d stay this time.” She looks like she’s lost weight since I saw her last, a tall and thin frame in a sage apron.

  Bothered that she would think I wouldn’t return to her, I act like I didn’t hear her comment. “How was your weekend?” I ask and give her a hug.

  “The store was busy. Natasha came by to help.”

  I owe Natasha another dinner for her efforts.

  With a pair of scissors I start opening a box UPS sent days ago filled with winter fashions, and place sheath dresses and wool jackets on hangers. I reprimand myself for forgetting to wear my tennis shoes.

  From across the room, Mom asks, “How is Carson?”

  “He’s great.” I miss him already.

  Mom smiles and fingers a piece of licorice. Before putting it into her mouth,
she says, “I want you to know that I think he’s right for you.”

  Glad to hear her say this, I grin.

  “I pray the two of you will love each other more each day.”

  Love? Could Carson love me? The word sounds strong. I know I love him. That is one of those things that will not change.

  Dismissing my thoughts, I get to work. I find the smell of new clothing irresistible. Each item is wrapped in plastic. Gently, I pull out a maroon dress, dangle it in front of me, and then study it for flaws. Mom taught me how to note the stitching, the hem, the sleeves, and the texture of the fabric. She calls this “quality control.” It took her a year before she believed that I was capable of performing this task.

  Mom dusts the new alarm system. “And the Vietnamese girl?”

  “She was really happy about the shower Dovie had for her.”

  “Has anyone heard from her mother?”

  “No, not yet.”

  I’m hoping that Mom will say the frosted-haired woman came back to the shop with Thuy’s contact information. But she only looks at me, a finger alongside her nose. “Are you okay?”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re mixing the size petites with the larger sizes.”

  She’s right; I’m doing what she does that annoys me.

  “I can tell that you had a good weekend.”

  I smile.

  “How is Dovie?”

  “She’s doing well.” I straighten the dresses and then remove the smaller sizes to another rack on their correct side of the shop. She worries about you, me, Beanie, Little, and Pearl. She has a large heart, a tremendous faith in God, but she’s still human and she frets over us.

  “And those others she keeps?”

  “Beanie had a seizure, but she’s recovering.”

  “A seizure! That sounds awful. How does Dovie deal with all of this?”

  “It was scary. But we all took good care of her.” I think of how we sat around Beanie’s room, tending to her needs.

  When a woman enters the shop with a soda from Wendy’s, I hope Little hears from her daughter Liza soon. The American embassy in Paris said there was no record of Liza having traveled there. If she remains missing, I might have to ask Taylor to do some more detective work.

  After the customer leaves the shop with a black dress, a pair of triangle earrings, and a plea for us to discard her Wendy’s cup, Mom says to me, “Why don’t you go on home?”

  “Why?”

  “You look sleepy.”

  Again, at a little before five, she tells me to go on home. “Take a hot bath. I’ll be all right without you.”

  But I want you to need me, I am tempted to say, but I don’t because the door chime jingles against the doorjamb and I know we have a customer. I turn to see a man in a dark uniform walking toward us. He looks vaguely familiar.

  “Hello.” He nods at me, then addresses Mom. “Hello, Mrs. Bravencourt.”

  Mom’s about to pop another piece of licorice into her mouth but halts the action by keeping her hand in her apron pocket. “How are you?” There is a smile in her voice.

  “I just wanted to make sure things are going well with your business. I heard from Officer Garner that you were robbed a few weeks ago.”

  “Why, thank you. It was awful. Have the culprits been caught?” She places her fingers along the glass countertop.

  I finally realize this is the officer who came when we had the fire in the dumpster.

  Officer Branson edges closer to the counter and leans his large frame against it. “We are trying our hardest. I wanted you to know that I’ll be patrolling this strip mall a lot more closely now.” His hands are inches from Mom’s.

  “Well, that is nice of you.” I expect her to protest, but she doesn’t. She smiles instead. I note how her lips curl in a coy way.

  The policeman rubs his mustache, then, using two fingers, smoothes the hairs. “Sorry for all the trouble you’ve had with the fire in the dumpster and the break-in.”

  Mom nods. “I just don’t know what is happening to our world.”

  The policeman agrees that it is a rough world filled with malice. “But there is lots of beauty in it, too.”

  “Oh, there is much beauty,” says my mother as she twirls the jewelry display around once, and when it stops, straightens a pair of dangly mauve earrings.

  He notes the flyers on the wall. “A missing person and a missing cat?”

  “Yes,” says Mom. “My cat has been gone since February and the Vietnamese girl’s mother has not been spotted in years.”

  The officer asks a few questions and the two continue to chat, their voices filled with warmth, their eyes animated.

  I’m greeting a customer when Officer Branson asks Mom if she’s ever read Moby-Dick. After she recites a few of her favorite parts of the book, he asks if she’s ever been to see a play at Folger Theater.

  I’ve been at home fifteen minutes when Mom calls from the shop. Convinced she’s going to say she needs me after all, I swing my purse over my shoulder.

  “That lady was here.”

  “Which lady?”

  “The one who said she knows about the girl’s mother. She gave me a phone number.”

  “What? Really?” This is what I dreamed would happen. I can’t believe it has happened, yet I am still suspicious that Mom doesn’t know fully what she’s talking about.

  “Do you want the number?”

  “Yes, yes!”

  She gives it to me, and I quickly write it on an old grocery store receipt I’ve pulled out of my purse. I read the numbers back to her to make sure I’ve heard them correctly.

  “Now, be careful,” she says before hanging up to greet a customer. “Your heart is like Dovie’s, and the two of you cannot save the entire world.”

  After a few deep breaths, I call the number. There is no answer.

  I take another breath and steady my heart.

  To pass the time, I put on a pair of shorts and a JMU T-shirt and head out for a walk. I check my mail at the mailbox, make my way around the block, and then come back to my apartment. Gritting my teeth, I dial the number on the receipt once more.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello. I’m calling for Thuy.” Remembering the woman at the shop said that Thuy was now going by a different name, I make the correction. “Sophia. I would like to speak with Sophia.” I brace my free hand along the kitchen countertop.

  After a pause, I hear, “Yes.”

  “Is this Sophia?”

  forty-two

  What do you want?” the muffled, accented voice asks.

  Gathering my courage, I dive into my soliloquy. “I’m Samantha Bravencourt. Back in the eighties I taught English at a refugee camp in the Philippines.” My mouth goes dry and, swallowing, I continue. “One of my students was Lien Hong.” Then I make myself stop and wait.

  When there is no response, I raise my voice. “Is Lien your daughter?”

  “Lien?”

  “Your daughter. Right?”

  The silence is heavy.

  I try to dig my fingernails into the Formica.

  “What do you want?” The words sound angry.

  I press on. “She’s your daughter, isn’t she?”

  “Where is she? She in some kind of trouble?”

  “She’s in America. In Winston-Salem.”

  “Winston?”

  “Winston-Salem. It’s in North Carolina.”

  “North Carolina.” She repeats the state like she’s not sure it is real.

  “She’s getting married. She wants you to come to the wedding.”

  “Wedding.” Again this is stated like she’s not sure of the reality.

  “Yes.” I say the word for wedding in Vietnamese and then feel foolish—like my shaky Vietnamese is really going to help her understand any better that Lien is getting married. “Lien is getting married in November.”

  “I don’t travel. North Carolina much too far.”

  How can it be too much of a d
istance for her? Her daughter is getting married. Don’t families put these events above all else? “Where do you live?” I ask.

  “Sorry,” she mumbles.

  Fearful she might hang up, I clamor, “Lien misses you. She wants you to be there at the wedding in North Carolina. Please come.”

  “I live in Washington, D.C.”

  “I live near D.C. I’m going to the wedding.”

  “I cannot. Good-bye.”

  Something comes over me. Like a gust of wind, I blurt, “Then we will have it here.”

  “I am sorry.”

  Quickly, I repeat, “We will have it here. Here in Falls Church. Falls Church is right beside D.C.” I feel like I’m back in the refugee camp, trying to make a point in English when no one is listening because Lien is causing a ruckus. I provide the name and address of my church in town.

  Finally, she says, “When?”

  I choose the same date Lien has planned for her ceremony. “November thirteenth.”

  “November?”

  “Yes. At three in the afternoon.”

  “Three o’clock?”

  “Please come. We will see you November thirteenth.” I don’t ask if she can be there. I don’t plead, either. I demand that she will be present. “Lien will be so happy. Thank you.” I’m about to add that I’ll tell Lien about our conversation and that she’ll be so excited she’ll be calling, but I don’t get a chance to do that.

  Thuy has hung up.

  I suck in air. What have I done? Again I’ve taken control of a situation I have no business taking control over. I place the receiver in the cradle and make my way to the sofa. Lien’s already got the caterer, florist, and others lined up for her wedding ceremony and reception in Winston. Most likely she’s also sent invitations. In one of her rare attempts to speak in English, I heard Chi tell Lien that she needed to get them out so that people would be aware of the upcoming event. “No invitation—how will everybody know to be there?” the woman demanded.

  Walking back into the kitchen, I pick up the phone and call Carson. I count the rings, and when his answering machine comes on, I listen to his voice.