A Pho Love Story

by Loan Le

  “Brian made the best food for you tonight. Usually it’s not this good,” she jokes, her French accent apparent.

  “Hey, do you want to keep your job?” Chef Lê says, emerging from behind a divider, wiping his hands on a hand towel.

  “That’s not for you to decide,” she retorts, “since I own half the place.”

  This doesn’t faze him and now he merely sports a smile. “Mr. Nguyễn, meet my partner and wife.”

  “Partner but his boss,” she playfully chastises him. “Oh, and also his wife.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Anyway, Saff, this boy here, he’s going to be big one day. I can feel it. He’s like Anthony Bourdain, rest in peace.”

  I blink at his unexpected compliment. This is what it means when someone gushes, I guess. “Thanks.”

  “You made me think, you know. Not a lot of people know how to do that,” Chef Lê says, looking serious.

  I brush the back of my neck. “I was just asking questions.”

  “That’s the best type of interview. You gave me room to just talk.” He claps me on the shoulder, and I sway from the weight of it. “Come back anytime. You and Linh. I saw some of what she’s sketching. She seems great, too.”

  “She is.”

  “But she’s really not your girlfriend?” He makes a show of looking over his shoulder. “Or, I’m sorry, you’re not really her boyfriend?”

  “No, she isn’t.”

  “Yooo,” he says with a slow-forming smirk, “you like her, don’t you?”

  Saffron elbows him. “Bry! Stop teasing him.”

  “It’s complicated.”

  Chef Lê just laughs. “Good luck, man.”

  * * *

  “Con!” My mom calls for me the moment I step into the house. “Biểu đây.”

  I’m home on time, so that’s not why she’s calling for me. Shit, did I leave the toilet seat up again? I take the steps slowly, trying to figure out what I must have done wrong. Running through me, though, something I can’t ignore, is an urge to sit down and just write. Because Chef Lê is more interesting than I thought he’d be. Because I’d rather get lost in writing than think about the failed attempt to talk to Linh about us… about her rejection.

  Mẹ, just showered, stands in front of the bathroom sink. She leans toward the mirror—her mirror counterpart looks at me. A Vietnamese ballad spills out from her bedroom. Ba must be at the restaurant still.

  “Here,” she says, and hands the tweezers over. “I need you to pull out a white hair.”

  My mom likes to complain that she has so many because of me. I guess I probably shouldn’t tell her it’s because she’s just old.

  Sighing, I take the tweezers from her, agreeing to a task that I’ve been subjugated to since I was old enough to hold these things and also since my mom spotted her first one back when I was in sixth grade. I’m not the only one, though. Việt’s had to do this too.

  “Where?”

  “Nè.” She holds it up and I squint. Got one. “Did you finish your project?”

  “Yep.”

  “Good.” I feel her gaze through the mirror. “You are out a lot these days.” I accidentally pull out a black hair. “Ah, mày làm gì vậy?”

  “Sorry.” I do it more gently. “The newspaper keeps me busy.”

  “Con still writing reviews.”

  “I am, yeah.” I’m not sure why but Chef Lê comes into mind again, about his early struggles with his mom. Two years. I wonder if me and my mom can ever stop talking for that long. And who would instigate it? “There’s this guy I met on my assignment. Brian Lê.”

  “Vietnamese. What does he do?” she asks almost immediately.

  “He’s the executive chef and owner. He’s pretty young.”

  “It is hard,” she answers sagely. “But impressive for his age.”

  “He was talking about his parents and the things he wanted to ask them.”

  “Oh?”

  “His mother died in the past few months.”

  Mẹ clicks her tongue. “Tội quá.” Poor guy.

  “Yeah, and he mentioned not knowing everything he could have known about her while she was alive.” I thread my fingers through her hair, rechecking my work. “Why don’t you talk about Vietnam more?”

  “I do! I talk about it all the time.” She looks at me directly through the mirror.

  “Yeah, I know, but more specific things. I know where you lived, what my grandparents did. That you escaped at night. But that’s more like an overview. Why don’t you tell me the smaller things?”

  “Because you don’t ask. But the things I do tell you, you always say, ‘Oh, I don’t want to hear it, I don’t have time, Mẹ, I heard you say this already.’” She mimics what she thinks I sound like.

  “My voice can’t go that high,” I say grudgingly. I have said those things, though.

  “I am your mother, so I don’t have to tell you anything most of the time. Some matters are too adult for you,” Mẹ starts to say in a familiar There’s no use arguing voice.

  “Okay.”

  “But, if you do want to know more, Mẹ will try to answer you. But my memory isn’t so good anymore and things are just from so long ago. Mẹ wonder if the past should stay in the past.”

  “Maybe, but maybe not.” Silence eases in as I concentrate on her hair.

  “All of this writing business is making you different.” Our eyes meet in the mirror again. She tilts her head, regarding me like she would with a recipe that was missing one crucial ingredient.

  “Good different?”

  “Maybe. You seem less weak.”

  I refrain from rolling my eyes. “Thanks.”

  “What is making con write?”

  I don’t expect that kind of question from Mẹ, so I wonder if it’s a mistranslation. “Like, why am I writing?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know. I’ll get a good grade, I guess.” Even my answer, said out loud, doesn’t sit right in my head. I couldn’t care less about the actual journalism class and getting good grades and all that. But I have to admit, I feel more and more solid when I have a pen in hand. When there’s an article that needs fixing and it’s up to me to make everything sound right. I did that for Steve and Ernie. I did it for myself.

  Linh had said I’d find something to be passionate about. What if she’s right?

  “Who is right?”

  Oops, I’d said that last line out loud. My mom gazes expectantly at me.

  “Mẹ,” I begin. “Weren’t you saying earlier in the year that you wanted me to find something? Be more motivated?”

  “Con want to be a writer?”

  In my mind’s eye, far into the future, I’m seeing myself in a newsroom, a big one. In some big city. I see nights working under desk lamps. Ink staining my shirt cuffs, eyes tight and bleary from unrest. I see words flowing from my fingertips.

  “I’m thinking about it.”

  “Writing is hard. Con might not find a job.” Mẹ, always blunt.

  “I know.”

  “You might need to live in our basement.”

  “What—I won’t.”

  “You can if you will need to.”

  “It’s all cement.”

  “We will work on renovating it. Just for you.”

  “So much confidence,” I mutter.

  Mẹ pats my hand, holding the tweezers. “Mẹ saying the basement is yours if you need it. You can stay as long as you want.”

  I imagine thirty-five-year-old me, journalist, writer, or whatever, living in the dungeons of our basement. Maybe some people would be okay staying with family, but I don’t think that’s for me. As I look back at my mom, I see her contented smile, and the corners of my mouth tilt up. All that nagging she’s done over the years finally paid off, she’s likely thinking. And now she can worry less, have less gray hairs.

  I wince at the idea of her satisfaction swiftly turning to anger once she realizes who’s been a part of this change inside me. Linh’s a
pologetic face appears suddenly. I’m sorry.

  I say nothing more and continue to scout for the rest of Mẹ’s rebellious hair strands.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR LINH

  Two years. Two years that Chef Lê went without speaking to his mom, despite having the bravery that I lack to follow what he wanted. He’s made a career of it, yet it took a while for his mother to come back, and that was only by his father’s doing.

  I’m sitting at my desk, finessing my sketch of Chef Lê, who’s now grinning back at me. I’ll need to redraw it so that it’s publishable. Other pieces of paper are scattered across my desk, some homework sheets and different drafts of the Scholastic Art Award application. The essay still needs filling out, but everything’s turning into hieroglyphics and my eyes must be red after me rubbing at them so much. I’ve been struggling to put words to paper, and now I think I’ve highly underestimated what Ali and Bảo do seemingly so easily.

  My thoughts turn ugly, too many colors mixed together. Would it even matter if I ended up getting this award? Would it do anything? Would it change much? I guess this is what it means to tear your hair out.

  I wouldn’t know how to stand it—me and my mom not talking, for whatever reason. I’ve only done this with Evie; growing up we’ve had a few arguments that all seem childish now, but back then we’d go days without talking. Instead of trading nasty words, we’d fight by turning the bedroom lights on and off at inopportune times, seizing control of the washer and dryer even when a load wasn’t finished, and completely ignoring the car-sharing schedule. The longest silence between us had lasted a week, broken only when Ba had done something ridiculous at the restaurant, and me and Evie accidentally met eyes, stifling our laughs.

  But a laugh wouldn’t solve how much I’d already lied to my parents.

  And then there’s Bảo and that moment outside the supermarket. His questions while we were at Chơi Ơi.

  If I were anyone other than Linh Mai, someone not from a family who despises his, I’d be excited. There’d be no hesitation.

  But I can’t be. Hence why I practically ran away when Bảo broached the topic just as we were leaving.

  What am I even doing anymore?

  My phone buzzes in my pocket.

  “Bảo?”

  “Hey, Linh.”

  He never calls me this late. We’ve only texted so far. The deep pitch of his voice through the phone sounds more intimate.

  “Is everything okay?” I hold my breath. Not the question I want to ask, because obviously, something happened between us. Something I hope he doesn’t bring up again, because I can’t deal with it right now.

  “I wanted to let you know: I’m going to be a writer.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, I’ve figured it out. It’s what I want to do. And I wanted you to know because you’re the one responsible for it.”

  I lean back in my chair. In the mirror I look at when applying makeup in the morning, I’m smiling. “Bảo, I did nothing. It’s all you.”

  “Lies.” He pauses. “I told my mom, too. I can’t tell how excited she is, but she’s not complaining about it, at least.”

  “So your mom’s accepting?”

  “She offered the basement to me in case I can’t find work after college, so I guess so.”

  “Lucky you.” I try but I can’t keep the bitterness from my tone. Immediately, I feel horrible. “I’m sorry. Imagine me saying that but without the vitriol.” He only laughs, clearly in a good mood. “No, seriously. This is great. I’m not surprised. So whatever I did to influence you, I guess I’ll take it.”

  “Ever since we met, you haven’t said I can’t do it. You’ve just accepted that I was starting to write, and I think you’re the first person in my life to do that.”

  I turn in my swivel chair, smiling against the mouthpiece.

  “What are you doing now?”

  I hear Bảo typing away on the other side, and I’m sure he’ll hear my eraser squeaking against the desk as I write another grammatically incorrect sentence.

  “It’s taking me ages to write my statement for the Gold Key application. How do you write?”

  He snickers. “That’s like me asking how you paint.”

  “Seriously, if there’s a secret, tell me. My Gold Key statement still needs to be written.”

  “Be honest.”

  Is it a comment, in a not-so-subtle way, on what I haven’t been honest about? Annoyance spikes within me. “Bảo—”

  “What I mean is, you spend so much time worrying about your parents, how to tell them about the real you, that this is your chance to have a conversation only with the one reading your essay. You don’t have to worry about your parents. Or anyone else.” Like you? I ask silently. “Think about what you want. What you want to make and add to the world.” He stops suddenly. “Wow, I sound like Ali, don’t I? All of this motivational talk.”

  I smile, hearing genuine awe in his voice. Ali was my number-one fan before I knew I needed one.

  “She’d be honored to hear you say that. You know she likes you now.” I don’t tell him that if Ali had an issue with him, it wouldn’t be so subtle.

  “Sure. Deep down.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Deep, deep, deep down.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Don’t roll your eyes.” I hear his smile.

  “I’m not!”

  “You are. It’s not too hard to imagine you right now.”

  “Oh? And what are you imagining?”

  Bảo exhales into the phone. I wait. My pencil hangs loose from my fingers as I rest my elbows on the desk. Outside it’s completely dark, save for the streetlamps that’ve dimmed to save energy; they’ll return to full force in a few minutes. Somewhere a dog growls and barks, and on the opposite side, a smaller dog chirps back. Talking to each other with a fence—maybe many—in between them.

  “You’re at your desk. You have your hair in a ponytail. You’re leaning all the way forward in your chair because you’re deep into your work. That’s how you always are, especially when painting.” I exhale a shaky breath. This guy. “Whenever you’re thinking you rub your thumb on that bump on your middle finger, where your pencil’s usually resting. The desk lamp is giving you a warm glow; it’s the type of light you like—not too bright, not too dim.” Then he lets out a half laugh. “Am I right?”

  I hear the creak of his chair as he leans back. Probably looking smug.

  “You’re wrong.”

  “Am I?”

  “My hair’s down, not in a ponytail.”

  “Sorry for the gross assumption.” He lets out a deep sigh. “Sorry, I’m taking up your time. You want me to go?”

  I keep drawing. “No, it’s fine. You can stay.” It’s comforting just to have him on the line, made even better by knowing he’s not pressing me.

  * * *

  By the time my mom comes in without knocking, Bảo’s off the phone, but not before I texted him my sketch of Chef Lê. I cover it up with some loose chemistry notes. Her wet hair is wrapped in a towel and she’s already applied her Crabtree & Evelyn body lotion, which signals she’s about to turn in. Her eyes sweep the room—the dim lighting, various half-finished homework sheets scattered on my bed, and the rainbow of papers across my writing desk. I shift to the left to hide my Gold Key essay drafts out of sight.

  “We’re doing another Phở Day.”

  “When was this decided?”

  “A week ago.”

  “But why?”

  Mẹ removes her towel and rubs out the water in her hair. “That restaurant is having a Bánh Xèo Day, so your father decided we should have our own. So we will need you in a couple of weeks.”

  I’ve already cut my time for art in half and am no closer to finishing my pieces for the Gold Keys. And now this. “Mẹ, I can’t. I have so much to do.”

  My mom glances down at the papers across my desk. “You have a lot of homework?”

  “Yeah, but it’s more hom
ework than usual.”

  “But you have always managed to do your homework on time. You shouldn’t worry—”

  “Just because I’ve managed before doesn’t mean I can’t be stressed out.” I’d cut her off without realizing it, a harsh tone ringing in my ears. I bite my lower lip.

  Perhaps she’s really tired or just disappointed; she doesn’t press me. “We can talk more tomorrow, but con phải ngủ đi.” Mẹ runs her hand through my hair, telling me to sleep. She runs a hand on my shoulder before leaving the room.

  * * *

  The drive over to the restaurant is silent. My mom must have said something to my dad about my reaction last night, because he’s not saying much either. A Vietnamese song plays low in the background, a crooning one that my mom likes to play in the house at nighttime, something like a lullaby. The sun is just peeking out over the arched roofs of restaurants and stores, as if wary of the people below it.

  Ba yawns. I yawn back. He switches on the blinker, and we turn onto the street. We pass Bảo’s restaurant and it’s dark inside, but any minute now, his parents will turn the OPEN plaque around, and Bảo will be there, too. I think he mentioned having to work on Sunday.

  “Sao mà thấy con mặt bực mình vậy?” Ba asks, his voice still gruff with sleep.

  “I’m not angry,” I mutter, which, of course, gives me away. “I’m just stressed.”

  “Schoolwork?” Ba asks.

  I nod.

  “Why is it stressful now? Last year was more stressful.” Which is true, in a way. I was busy worrying about SATs and didn’t have much time to work on my paintings then, either, but now… everything is happening at once.

  I deflect. “Why do we never have enough people at work?”

  “Lisa quit. It was unexpected.”

  “Then hire people who won’t quit.”

  I meet Ba’s furious eyes in the rearview mirror. “Con này,” he starts to say. Mẹ shushes him, probably knowing his anger will not help here. But the tightness of her posture shows that this argument isn’t finished.