by Helen Hoang
It was time.
Her mom hooked arms with her, smiled with encouragement, and guided her to follow Quân’s uncle. The building echoed as high-heeled shoes clicked over the marble, click-click, click-click, click-click. They entered the rotunda, where the ceremony was to take place at the bottom of the grandest staircase she’d ever seen. A domed ivory-colored ceiling arched several stories above with intricate artwork of angels—or perhaps naked people. Either way, they had to be cold.
Rows and rows of guests, flowers, a cellist, a handsome groom waiting for her at the altar. It should have made her happy. It didn’t.
She clutched her bouquet tighter, lifted her chin, and prepared to walk down the center aisle between the seated guests.
“Sir, you can’t go in here. There’s a wedding taking place. Sir—”
A commotion behind her had her whipping around as her heart sang with anticipation.
But it wasn’t Khải.
It was an older man, a familiar-looking man, even though she was certain she’d never met him before.
Average height, a bit of a belly, khaki pants, a light-blue button-down shirt, and a navy-blue sports coat. Short hair that was more salt than pepper. And eyes that could be any color from this distance. If she was being honest, they looked brown.
Her heart stopped beating.
Did he have truck-driver hands?
“Is it you?” he asked, but he wasn’t looking at Esme. “Linh?”
Esme’s mom gasped and covered her mouth.
The man stepped forward, his movements slow like he was in a trance. “I got the strangest voice mail yesterday. Someone asking for a Phil who knew a Linh in Vietnam twenty-four years ago. He said Phil’s daughter was getting married in San Francisco’s City Hall today, and she needed her father.”
He searched Esme’s face before focusing beside her again, and her mom gripped Esme’s arm like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
“I didn’t know for sure. I thought chances were low. I came anyway,” the man said as he came closer yet, two meters away, one meter, and the light-green shade of his eyes took the breath from Esme’s lungs. “I took the next flight out, a red-eye, from New York City.”
“Y-you live in New York?” her mom asked, using the only English Esme had ever heard her speak.
“Alone—I live alone in New York.” He cleared his throat before continuing. “I came back. For you. I looked for you everywhere. You were nowhere. But now, I think I know why. She’s”—his gaze switched back to Esme—“mine?”
Her mom pushed on Esme until she stepped toward him, and Esme said, “Schumacher? Is that your name? Phil Schumacher?”
Puzzled creases darkened his brow. “Phil Schuma— No, I’m not a Schumacher. My name is Gleaves. Gleaves Philander. I went by Phil until I grew into Gleaves,” he said with an apologetic smile before his eyes widened with horror. “That’s why you couldn’t find me? All you knew was Phil. You’ve been looking for a Philip.”
“Do we want to postpone the wedding and talk about this somewhere in private?” Quân asked as he stalked down the aisle toward their small group.
Before anyone could answer, there was another commotion behind them. “Sir, there’s a wedding—”
“I’m here for the wedding,” a familiar voice said, and Khải burst into the room, looking out of sorts with his hair standing up in all directions and his chest billowing on heavy breaths like he’d run here. He took one look at Esme, and his eyes went dreamy.
“You’re late,” Quân said.
Without taking his eyes away from Esme, Khải said, “There was traffic, but it helped that I rode the motorcycle here. I went around the stopped cars.”
“About time,” Quân said.
But Khải didn’t acknowledge his brother. He was watching Esme like he usually did, with complete, undivided attention. “I’m sorry I’m late—with riding the bike and coming here.”
She shook her head. Once she’d seen the photograph of his cousin next to the motorcycle, everything had clicked into place. “No need for sorry. I understand you.”
Khải swallowed and stepped toward her, stretched his fingers out, relaxed them, stretched them out again. “Is the wedding over already? There was something I needed to say.”
“No, it is not over.” Esme’s hands shook, so she tightened them on her bouquet. He was here. He’d come. He had something important to say.
Her hope grew so big she didn’t know how her body held it.
His shoulders sagged in relief before he noticed the other wedding crasher next to him. “Who are you?”
The man—very possibly her dad—fumbled for words for a moment before he said, “I’m Gleaves.”
Khải nodded like everything was perfectly normal. “You must be the right Phil, then. Glad you made it.”
“You’re the one who left the voice message,” Gleaves said.
“You never called me back.”
“I hopped on the next plane out.”
“That’s good—” Whatever Khải would have said next was interrupted when Jade ran down the aisle and latched onto Esme’s skirts.
“He’s Cậu Khải,” Jade said.
Khải’s jaw dropped, and he stared at Jade. “There’s a tiny Esme.”
Esme’s heart slammed hard as she glanced from Khải to Gleaves and back. Both men looked dumbfounded. “Her name is Jade. She is mine.”
Jade huddled closer.
Khải’s eyes met hers. “You never told me.”
“Cô Nga said you did not want a family, and I was afraid, and—” She bit her lip. She didn’t have any more arguments than that.
What had he come here to say? Had this news changed things?
She lifted her chin. If he thought she was unclassy for having a baby so young, he didn’t deserve her or Jade.
He surprised her by crouching down, considering Jade, and holding his hand out like they were acquaintances meeting for business.
Jade glanced at Esme for a second before she eased toward Khải. After looking at him for a long while, she shook his hand like a little grown-up.
Neither said a single word, but Esme got the feeling they understood each other perfectly.
When Khải straightened, he glanced around, looking at Gleaves, Jade, Quân, and finally Esme’s mom. Inclining his head at her, he said, “Chào, Cô.”
Her mom narrowed her eyes at him. “Already, what important thing do you have to say? We have a lot of people here waiting for the wedding to start.”
At that moment, Esme became horribly conscious of the attention focused on them, hundreds of curious eyes. “Má, let’s go somewhere private. He can say it there, and—”
“No, here, where everyone can see,” her mom demanded in a steely voice, standing up to him despite the gigantic gap in their wealth and education levels. “My daughter was good to you, and you broke her heart. What do you have to say?”
He flinched and let his gaze roam over the crowd, and Esme knew he hated their attention as much as she did. Eventually, however, he focused on her again, stepped forward, and spoke.
“Anh yêu em.”
She drew in a silent breath and covered her mouth, too shocked to speak, to do anything. Even in her wildest dreams, he told her in English.
He took another step toward her, and another, until they were a mere arm’s length apart. Looking at her like she was everything, he said, “I love you. I told myself I didn’t. Because I was afraid to lose someone again, and I doubted myself, and I wanted only the best for you. But the feeling has gotten too big to deny. My heart works in a different way, but it’s yours. You’re my one.”
He motioned toward Gleaves and Quân, and both men stood up straighter.
“You have options now. You don’t have to marry if you don’t want to. Now that we�
��ve found your dad, your paperwork will be easy—well, easier. But if you do want to marry . . .” He breathed in deeply and fell to one knee. “Marry me. And not just for three years, but for keeps.” He patted at his pockets and grimaced. “I forgot your ring, but I swear I got you one. It’s nice. You can probably cut windows with it if—” He cleared his throat and looked at her with melting softness. “Will you marry me? If you still love me?”
Her heart filled and filled and filled until her eyes blurred over with tears. “I will always love you.”
“Is that a yes?” he asked.
She handed the bouquet to her mom and pulled him to his feet. “I do not have to, but, yes, I will marry you.”
His biggest grin stretched over his face, with dimples, and before all the wedding guests, he drew her close and kissed her like the first time. Lips to lips, hearts melting together, no distance between them, not even an arm’s length.
EPILOGUE
Four years later
The sun beat down on Khai as he sat on the bleachers in Stanford University’s outdoor stadium, waiting as students in gowns and square hats marched across the stage far below. Jade had been excited an hour ago, but now she occupied herself by reading from a chapter book with some manner of magical she-warrior on the cover. From time to time, Khai’s mom dug slices of peeled Asian pear from her purse and handed them to her, and Jade absently gobbled them down as her eyes scanned the words on the page at a greedy clip.
“My Ngoc Tran, summa cum laude,” the announcer called out.
Khai and their entire row of family jumped to their feet and cheered. During the naturalization process, she’d chosen to use her Vietnamese name on all official documents. He was the only one who called her Esme now, and he liked that.
Esme waved at them from the stage, and when she blew a kiss in their direction, Khai knew it was just for him. Jade didn’t like kisses anymore—he missed it a little if he was being honest—but she was more interesting to talk to now.
After all the students’ names had been called out, they went to meet Esme at a prearranged spot on campus. The second she saw them, she split from her friends and ran to hug and kiss him.
“I’m all done,” she said, grinning in a way that still scrambled his brain after four years with her.
“Not really,” he said. “You still have approximately six years before you get your PhD in international finance.” The way she explained it, she wanted to solve the big problems in this world, and they all revolved around money.
She playfully punched his shoulder. “Done for now.”
“Is that when you’re finally going to marry him?” her dad asked. “After graduate school?”
Her mom squeezed her recently married husband’s arm. “Don’t pressure her. School first, marry after.”
Gleaves made a grumbly sound, but he nodded.
Khai’s mom, however, barged in and said, “Why no pressure? She made such a beautiful baby. It is a waste not to make more.”
All three grandparents nodded and mumbled in agreement, and Jade rolled her eyes. “I’m nice, too, and hardworking and a lot of other things.”
Esme went to hug her girl. “Yes, you are. You make Mommy proud.”
“I’m proud of you, Mommy,” Jade said, earning a teary smile from her mom.
As Khai watched mother and daughter, he recognized he was the proud one. Four years ago, he’d thought he had too many women in his life to have room for another, but he’d been wrong. He’d had just enough room for two more, and his heart, he found, was very far from being made of stone.
He wrapped his arms around them and kissed Esme’s temple. “I’m proud of both of you.”
Esme smiled and asked Jade, “What do you think? Are you ready for Mommy to marry Cậu Khải?”
Jade danced in place. “Really? This summer? The drive-through wedding in Las Vegas?”
Khai laughed. “You sound more excited than your mom.”
“Then you can adopt me, and you’ll officially be my dad,” Jade said.
Khai’s chest swelled, and not once did he tell himself it was a heat flash or a health problem. He knew exactly what it was.
When he looked at Esme, her green eyes softened, and she ran her fingers over his jaw. “Look at that smile and those dimples. You must love us a lot.”
“More than a lot. Are you sure you want to do it this summer? I can wait as long as you want.”
He’d already put Esme and Jade in his will, though they didn’t know—about the will itself or all the money they’d be inheriting from him because he had no idea what to do with it. That stuff wasn’t important.
All that mattered was that they’d be taken care of if something happened to him. Not that they needed him at all. Esme was a force to be reckoned with.
“I’m ready,” Esme said. Then her lips curved. “And I want to see Elvis.”
He laughed. “No one in Vegas is the real Elvis.”
Eyes sparkling, she said, “I know. But maybe they feel like Elvis inside. That’s the important part.”
He brought their foreheads together as he laughed again. “You’re definitely stranger than I am.”
“No way.”
He grinned.
She grinned back. “Em yêu anh.”
Without hesitation, he replied, “Anh yêu em.”
The words wrapped around and around them, drawing them together.
Em yêu anh yêu em.
Girl loves boy loves girl.
THE END
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Most of my childhood memories of my mom involve her sleeping. Either I’d stayed up late and managed to catch her coming home from work and climbing into bed, or I was sneaking into her bedroom in the morning before school and digging through her purse for lunch money, trying my best not to wake her because I knew she’d worked ridiculous hours the day before and would do it all over again this day. She wasn’t the kind of mother that I saw on TV or that my classmates had, but while our interactions were short and far in between, they were enough for me to understand I was loved and she was proud of me.
I was certainly proud of her (and will always be). My mom is a legend in my family. Hers is a classic American dream story. At the end of the Vietnam War, she and my four older siblings (ages three through seven), my grandma, and a handful of other relatives fled to the United States as war refugees. With no money, no connections, broken English, an eighth-grade education, and no help from the men in her life, she was able to work her way into owning not one, not two, not three, but four successful restaurants in Minnesota. She was and is my hero, my idol, and my role model. She made me believe I could do anything if I tried hard enough.
But as much as I admire and love her, I didn’t actually know her very well. Not as a person. I didn’t have a deep understanding of what drove her, what her fears and vulnerabilities were. Like most of the people in my life, she always tried to shield me from the bad, leaving me with bright eyes and little concept of how difficult it truly was to make her way in this country. That changed when I wrote this book.
I’m ashamed to say, however, that when I first set out to write The Bride Test, Esme—this character who shares so much in common with my mom—was not the heroine. She was the unwanted third leg of a love triangle, a woman from Vietnam whom Khai’s mom had arranged for him to marry even though his heart was elsewhere. I figured the story would be deliciously angsty and maybe a little amusing. Despite communication issues and a culture clash, Khai would feel obligated to help this woman, but in the end, he’d find a way to be with his true love, someone American-born.
A funny thing happened as I tried to write that story. Esme kept outshining the character who was meant to be Khai’s true love. Esme was brave, and she was fighting for a new life for herself and her loved ones in every way she could. She had reasons, she had dep
th, but she also had a striking vulnerability. All of her “drawbacks” were not due to her character. They were things beyond her control: her origin, her education level, her lack of wealth, the language she spoke—things that shouldn’t matter when determining the value of a person (if that can even be done). It was impossible not to love her. After the first chapter, I stopped writing.
I asked myself why I’d automatically decided my heroine had to be “Westernized.” Why couldn’t she have an accent, have less education, and be culturally awkward? The person I respect most in the entire world is just like that. After careful self-analysis, I realized I’d been subconsciously trying to make my work socially acceptable, which was completely unacceptable to me as the daughter of an immigrant. The book had to be reconceptualized. Not only did Esme deserve center stage, but I needed to tell her story. For me. And for my mom.
But when I restarted the drafting process with a fresh concept and new heroine, I ran into more roadblocks, tougher roadblocks. I’m not an immigrant. I have an Ivy League education. I’ve never experienced true poverty. What do I know about this kind of immigrant experience? I began to research in earnest, hoping I could find what I needed in books and video like I always had in the past.
For interested parties, here are some of the resources I read/watched for greater insights into the Vietnamese immigrant experience:
The Unwanted by Kien Nguyen
Inside Out & Back Again by Thanhha Lai
It’s a Living: Work and Life in Vietnam Today edited by Gerard Sasges
Mai’s America, a documentary by Marlo Poras
These resources, while wonderful, were insufficient for my purposes. What I needed was a window into the heart of a magnificent Vietnamese woman, someone who had left everything behind, started over in a new world, and succeeded despite the challenges. It would also help if this woman knew what it was like to love an autistic man with issues of his own. Like my father. This was when the conversations started between my mom and me.
