by Loan Le
“I’m thinking of a lot of things.” Strangely, today’s journalism class pops into my mind. The feeling of my grip around my pen, seeing the changes I made on the page, the moment I made Allison shut up for once. I haven’t felt this way before.
“Thinking is not the same as doing!” She leans back and turns to Ba. “Anh, tell him.”
“Ừ,” he says in agreement. My mom stares at him reproachfully, probably hoping he’ll say something more inspiring.
She gives a long-suffering sigh. “Mẹ wonder what Việt is planning to major in.”
Given his attention to criminal TV shows and his near-obsession with getting into forensic science class, I’d figured that was his intention. But he hasn’t really said anything, even though it shouldn’t be an issue with him. The kid doesn’t study and has probably never studied, because his pores just absorb all the knowledge on a page. “I don’t know. Ask him next time you see him.”
“Việt is so smart.” My mom nods in approval.
“Brilliant,” Ba agrees.
“His parents must be so proud.”
Not for the first time, I wonder if my parents would be happier to have him as a son. Their eyes are practically glazed over at the mention of him.
Annoyed, I say, “Maybe you can adopt him, then.”
“Con,” my mother says, her voice turning sweet in a way that bugs me. Pleading, almost. “We just think you can do anything. And you have to cố gắng.” She pauses to inhale.
Here we go.
“You know, con, when we die—”
“Mẹ—” I plead.
“When we die—”
“In, like, fifty years!”
Mẹ talks louder. “Ba Mẹ just want con to be able to support yourself. But that means trying.” She gestures to her and Ba, who nods like he’s confirming, Yes, I will die, son. “Con don’t know how lucky you are. When Mẹ arrived in this country back in 1982, Mẹ was three years younger than you. Only mười bốn tuổi! Không biết what was going to happen. But Mẹ learned. Mẹ adapted. Same with Ba. We trusted our education and we only want you to do the same.”
I duck my head, eating the last bit of bánh xèo, and feeling like the biggest asshole. But low blow, using her escape story. I can’t really say anything in response to that. How can I, when she mentioned everything she’d lost? Her home, plenty of relatives—including her older brother, who attempted escape before her, but died during the passage.
In rare moments, she would say that I look like him, like Cậu Cam. We have the same hair, she says. I can tell how much it hurts her to mention him because she either goes silent or quickly moves on to mention something else. I never know what to say when that happens.
Before my mom goes on to talk about her night of the escape—the last recitation having been one hour and forty minutes long—I relent with an “Okay. Okay. I promise I’ll focus.” I breathe in. “I’ll do better.”
Mẹ brightens and shares a look with Ba, her guilt trip a success. It’s like I solved all her worries—past, present, and future. “You can be anything!”
“Maybe a doctor,” my dad offers, finally edging a word in.
… with the most malpractice lawsuits, I finish as I carry my plates to the sink.
My mom starts clearing away the other dishes, and she’s already on to the next task on her list, a nonstop machine. She asks me if I want to take anything to school tomorrow. No? Why? It wasn’t good enough? I relent and tell her maybe a few pieces of bánh xèo, sans fish sauce. Turning to my dad, who’s still digging away at his teeth with a tăm, she reminds him that they’ll need to wake at five in the morning to receive Việt’s parents’ delivery, so the alarm needs to be set. Ba tells her to stop reminding him: Bà nói điếc lỗ tai. Which only means she’ll continue to pester him to purposefully get on his nerves. Her type of revenge.
I leave them, the thoughts about my promise to them—to do better—running rampant in my mind.
CHAPTER SIX LINH
One of my earliest memories of learning Vietnamese at home and at the temple with other kids has to do with a traditional folk poem. If I close my eyes, I’m back in that basement room, surrounded by our teacher’s singsong voice, loud over the overhead ceiling fans fighting off a July heat: Công cha như núi Thái Sơn / Nghĩa mẹ như nước trong nguổn chảy ra…
I was more enthralled by the image that went with the folk poem: a towering, majestic mountain wrapped inside a delicate fog. Father. A pool of glistening water gushing from the same mountain. Mother. The next lines talked of honoring their labor and love; the lesson was clear enough: Everything I do is in their reflection.
Now alone in my bedroom, I lie flat on my back, staring at the ceiling fan turning at the slowest speed possible no matter how far right I turn the knob. I thought the room would feel more spacious since I wasn’t sharing with Evie anymore, as I’ve done for sixteen years. That I can decorate however I want, make it however messy I want. But my body became used to another person in the room, and any desire to rearrange things is forgotten.
Anyone walking in would see two distinct personalities—one wall immaculately decorated with cute thrift-shop finds—Evie can sniff out discounts like no one else’s business. My side, while it might be just as clean, holds years of my artwork, no rhyme or reason to the colors, from drawings showing my childhood obsession with goats and llamas, to my more recent work.
On my Picasso desk calendar, I marked the thirtieth but somehow didn’t mark Phở Day. I trace it with my finger—it’s not the end of the world if I don’t go. I know that. But am I giving something up? Missing out?
I sit up quickly and my vision spins. Sometimes when I think too much, I make myself sadder, which doesn’t help at all. I find refuge in art, escaping thoughts like this, to regain control when life throws another obstacle my way. When I work, magic happens; for a few hours at a time, the world just slips away. I don’t have to listen to customers comparing me to Evie. Any worries about upcoming tests or working a shift at the restaurant—that all takes second place in my mind. My attention fixates on an image or an idea that doesn’t exist just yet, and can’t exist without me.
I first saw art in action when my family and I took a trip to Huntington Beach. We were walking along the boardwalk; I was still young, because I remember holding my mom’s hand when it happened. A small crowd had formed, a sketch artist ensconced inside, his canvas before him. His muse, a little boy, sat in a chair, feet dangling. The boy tried and failed to look serious as the artist captured his likeness on the canvas. He kept grinning at his parents. It was only five bucks for a portrait, yet the artist treated him like the most important being in the world.
I stayed there the entire time, counting the artist’s deliberate strokes. My mom waited alongside me, half interested and half ready to move. We would have if only we hadn’t reached the end of the boardwalk.
The artist’s still there these days, though his hands look more shriveled and sun-spotted than they did over a decade ago.
I breathe out, letting go of my memories, replacing my thoughts with a nicer reality: Maybe no one will show up and I won’t need to work that night. Maybe my parents will be in such a good mood that they’ll let me go. Their moods are always good indicators of whether or not I can do anything. This is your year, Yamamoto’s voice says in my head.
I’m choosing to believe that can be true.
* * *
Our home has only one floor, with a long hallway connected to each room. I pad lightly across the tiled floor to the opposite end, where Mẹ and Ba’s room sits.
At the door, I hear only whispers. I’m seven again, eavesdropping on my parents like I used to with Evie. Evie would be right across from me, mouthing, What are they saying? because she was never the stealthy type, didn’t have good hearing, and completely sucked at reading lips. Through the slit of the door, I see my father lying prone, shirt off. In the morning, he’s usually half naked, baring his stomach, and
wakes up before everyone else, then shuffles through each room, lifting up all the window blinds.
Mẹ stands next to the bed, a tube of Bengay in plastic-gloved hands. She scolds him in Vietnamese. I lean back against the wall, out of view.
“You should have let someone else carry it. You’re not young anymore, Anh.”
“Hmm? One of our cooks? They can barely lift anything. I’m the only one who lifts things back there.”
“The only one,” Mẹ repeats sarcastically. “Are you sure?”
Ba, ever the stubborn one, answers, “Yes.” He hisses as she slathers Bengay on his back. She then tells him calmly that if he keeps complaining, she’ll actually break his back. I hide a smile even if I don’t have to. Ba stems his protests and Mẹ takes off her gloves. I hear her go into the bathroom, the creak of the mirror as she puts back the Bengay.
“Will we need to hire someone for the day?” Her voice echoes. “I can ask Duy-Loan’s cousin to work.”
He doesn’t answer right away, as if he’s waiting for her words to subside. “We have Linh.”
He says my name like I’m the solution. A flash of anger courses through me. Why do I always have to be the solution?
“You know we can’t afford more people,” Ba continues. “I think it will be fine. I can still help.”
Wait. What does he mean?
“If you say so.”
They haven’t told me about any financial problems. My stomach drops as I remember how anxious my mom looked yesterday, the hope in her voice that the special will work. Of course. But then I remember they wouldn’t have told me something like this. They don’t want me to worry about things that they’re supposed to be worried about. Typical.
Later, sitting down for dinner at the kitchen table, I smell the Bengay, but Ba doesn’t complain, only winces as he slowly sits down at the head of the table. I slide over our bowls, which Mẹ just filled with rice—mine full to the brim, while hers is half. She eats the side dishes more than the rice.
“Mời Ba ăn cơm. Mời Mẹ ăn cơm,” I say before we start eating.
We don’t immediately talk, each of us lost in our thoughts. Our chopsticks ding the sides of our bowls. The waves of steam from the canh chua rise up, swirled away by the ceiling fan. It’s one of my favorite dishes—sour soup, but not the kind sold in Asian restaurants. It’s made sweet from pineapple chunks, and balanced out with simmering tomatoes and tamarind. Mẹ asks if I want more catfish. I shake my head.
I swallow a clump of rice and muster as much eagerness into my voice as I can. “Phở Day will be fun.”
* * *
By Saturday, Ba’s back problems are worse, and now he can barely move. Mẹ and I leave around noon to start prepping for the rush, but before we do, Mẹ reminds Ba not to do anything too strenuous. Ba lies across the living room couch, TV remote in hand, which is his preferred state whenever he has time off, but he wants to work tonight. As much pain as he’s in, he’s still thinking about the restaurant.
Mom’s having none of it.
He continues his protest in Vietnamese. “No, you need me tonight. Who’s working the stand?”
“Lisa.”
Ba snorts. “Lisa! She doesn’t know how to do anything!” Lisa’s been working for us for three weeks, a replacement for the outgoing seniors.
Mẹ answers, “Ba say that about her all the time. And Jonathan—”
“Everyone, basically,” I mumble. “And you’re the one who hired them.”
Ba just glares. He lies back down, staring at the ceiling.
“But what if something goes wrong?”
My entire morning was spent alone in my room, preparing myself for tonight’s rush. I was so tense that I couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t even sketch in my note pad or pick up a brush. Ba complaining throughout the house didn’t help things.
Yet now, I hear the genuine worry in his voice, the worry that everything he had masterminded would undo itself.
Mẹ pats his head as she passes by, keys in hand. “Đừng lo.”
The simple truth is that he can’t get up; all three of us know this. He falls silent. Or more accurately, Mẹ silences him by shutting out any response with the front door.
* * *
One thing that people forget when they’re yelling at waiters or complaining about meal prices is the realities of how much prep goes into the menu. It’s hours. I learned that the hard way when I was young, hanging out in the kitchen, waiting for Mẹ to be done because she said she was “only doing prep.” Only doing. No. That meant watching the outside go from incandescent yellow to midnight blue with specks of white from the street lamps. But it was fun back then. I always had my crayons with me. The waiters and line cooks took their turns watching after me or cooking up something sweet—caramelized plantains sort of became my drug. Evie took it upon herself to refill all of the hoisin bottles.
Now in the kitchen, my mom has two large pots cooking on the stovetop, all containing the broth for tonight. Four small pots sit on the prep table, ready to be reheated once the orders come through. Mẹ strides with purpose in the kitchen while the other line cooks chop green onions, limes, and jalapeño peppers, and wash bean sprouts and Thai basil that makes the anise in the phở broth pop even more. It’s all a rhythm; they follow the beat set by Mẹ because they’ve done this for forever. She’s the most methodical in the kitchen, though whatever method she uses here can’t be replicated or measured. It’s instinctive. My art and her cooking are kind of the same, when I think about it. Our hands move before our brains. But I never say this out loud, because the retort would be: “But will it support you?”
“How’s everyone on the outside?” she asks when she notices me watching by the door.
I double-knot my apron strings, then sweep my hair into a high ponytail. “Good. Everything’s in place.” Servers are setting out the soup spoons, chopsticks, and sauces.
Mẹ wipes her forehead with the back of her gloved hands. “Good,” she repeats. I wonder if she’s trying to make herself feel better about tonight. Like I am.
The first wave of customers are young college students. Lisa greets them, clumsily grabbing the menus. I hope she can pull it together before the real challenge begins.
Within a half hour, our tables are booked and a line has formed, a sight that would make Ba giddy—as giddy as he can get, at least. Instead, my body pings with a sense of foreboding. As I move to table six with plates of egg rolls, a chatty group of three passes by, Jonathan leading the way. He mouths, Help! before plastering on a fake smile to the group, who seat themselves at table eight—which I’m sure is reserved.
I make a beeline toward the booth and sort through the table management system. I’m right. Lisa comes back from seating another group, playing with her hands. She does this when she’s nervous. “Lisa, did you check the system just now?”
“Why?”
“Table eight. Someone had a reservation and we were going to seat them there.”
Lisa glances down and blanches. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t see it!”
I tamp down my instinct to shout, like Ba would. “Just find a way to fix it.” I turn sharply and control my breathing. It’s not my usual job to greet the guests, only serve them. Lisa will need to do it.
Passing by table four, I see a little kid, age six or seven, reach for a bottle of hoisin while his mother chats with a friend. I summon the Mai and Phạm women’s stare—Mày đang làm gì?—and the kid retracts his hand. As he should.
The sound of pots and pans from the kitchen grates on my nerves, threatening to send a headache my way. But there’s nothing I can do to stop it, so I hand in my orders, then circle back to the stand to make sure Lisa hasn’t messed up again—I can’t help it.
If possible, the line outside has gotten longer. More college students. Families. Couples. They stare back at me as I pop my head out, a sea of eyes reminding me of a surrealist painting.
“Uh, excuse me, miss,” a guy wearin
g cargo shorts asks. He’s third in line. “How long will it be until we’re seated?”
“About a half hour.”
“Half hour, whoa.” He sends a look to his friend who stands behind him.
I tamp down my annoyance as best I can. “As you can see, it’s quite busy now.”
“This is ridiculous,” he mutters to his friend.
“We apologize for the wait, but there’s nothing more we can do.”
“What’s taking so long?”
The. Nerve.
“Hey! We’re having a special! So of course there will be a line!” I snap. The guy reels back for a second, rendered speechless. He’s too shocked to be angry. Before a mortified apology can slip past my lips, Lisa sidles up to my side, taking control of things. She shoots me a concerned look and says a few things that I can’t make out. The fact that Lisa needs to save me pisses me off even more.
I stalk back to the kitchen. Pine for the art exhibition. I pretend I’m there right now—me with other patrons. Whenever I’m at a museum, seeing the work of geniuses before me, I imagine a cloud of quiet reverence settling over me. In the room, there’s a bunch of people looking to art for answers, who examine pieces just to feel something.
One day, I want to be that artist who sees this, who knows that what she created made them feel completely content, filling a void they didn’t know they were seeking.
I want to be there…
… but I’m here. The ticket machine pushing out food orders at crank speed yanks me back into my reality. Its chirping will stay in my nightmares forever. From the dining room, Vietnamese, English, Spanish, and other languages and laughter swell up, crashing into me like a tsunami wave. The back room now feels like a sauna.
“Con?”
My mom pops her head out when she realizes no one’s picked up the three bowls of phở she just placed at the window.
“I just need some air,” I say.
“But—”
“Just one minute!” I say. Using my whole body, I push through the back door, my mom’s question chasing after me.
