A Pho Love Story

by Loan Le

  “Your parents spread a rumor about our restaurant.”

  “What rumor?”

  She gnaws on her bottom lip. “Rats.”

  “What?”

  “They said rats are in our restaurant.”

  “And you think my parents did it.” The fact that she doesn’t answer right away tells me. A spark of annoyance flares up inside me. “They wouldn’t, though. No way. Linh, they might be harsh sometimes, but to spread a rumor like that… that’s just—”

  They’re my parents. This rumor… it’s beyond my mom. She isn’t cruel. They wouldn’t jeopardize Linh’s family restaurant just because of the feud—or whatever happened in the past—would they?

  “A customer told my parents they heard it from you.”

  Some of the hot air leaves Linh and she leans against me. “I’m only telling you what my parents told me. And they’re pissed, Bảo. I don’t know what to believe. This is serious.”

  “She wouldn’t do it,” I answer tersely.

  “I’m sorry.” Her apology sounds hollow to me. How would she feel if I came out attacking her mother? “I’m only saying what my mom says. And I can’t help but wonder—about the time we took over the restaurant, if—”

  “I’ll talk to them,” I say, cutting her off. Angry at the accusation. Angry at how possible might it be, given the past offenses my mom had against Oh Mai Mai. “I’ll just ask them.”

  She folds into me, apologizing again. “I’m sorry, I really don’t want to believe it. I’m just so, so confused. And angry. And—” I instantly wrap my arms around her waist, trying to calm us both down. “I’m just so tired of this, Bảo,” she mumbles into my chest. “How is this ever going to work?”

  I’d like to think my parents are good people. They’ve gotten us this far. They have friends, a network of people. They can’t go so far as to create this rumor to destroy competition. They wouldn’t… would they?

  “I’ll talk to them,” I repeat, wanting to make it sound like that will solve everything.

  * * *

  School passes in a blur, my thoughts occupied by Linh, by the rats, by my parents’ potential hand in it. Even Ali, perhaps after texting or talking with Linh, leaves me relatively alone in journalism class. And then I get a text from Linh saying they need to close down the restaurant for a day. The inspector is still coming by, regardless of her parents’ efforts to dispel the rumor.

  One day gone; one day of potential profits gone.

  When I get to the restaurant, Mẹ’s circle is there at the usual booth. Ba is elsewhere; he might have gone to visit his friends—the husbands of the very wives his own wife befriended. Friends. Followers. Whatever they call themselves. As annoying as their laughs were before, it’s even more grating today, since I know what they may be laughing about. They’re celebrating. Hyenas laughing.

  “Mẹ, can I see you for a second?”

  “Oh, hi, con. Are you hungry? I just made a new batch of phở and can get it ready for you.”

  “Not hungry.” Not while Linh’s—or her mother’s—accusation clings to me like a cloying cologne. I sense the General’s eyes on me, as well as the other women’s. “Can we go to the back?”

  In the kitchen, alone with me, my mom moves around as if nothing is wrong. She flicks on the stovetop, reheating a stock pot of broth, seemingly ignoring what I said before about not being hungry.

  “I heard there’s rats going around. Not here but at the restaurant across the street. Have you heard anything like that?”

  Something passes over my mom’s face, too quickly for me to catch. But her tone, as she answers, is even and as hard as flint. “Yes, I think I heard that too.”

  “But they don’t have rats.”

  “How do you know?”

  I sag against the counter behind me. I hear the challenge in her voice and it confirms it all. I wanted Linh to be wrong. So badly. But this is a deflection. My mom’s purposefully not answering my question, which can only mean…

  The rumors. My mom did spread them.

  The headache from earlier today comes back full force. Maybe that’s why my next questions come out louder than I expected, louder than I’d ever spoken—dared to speak—to my mom. “Why is it always them, Mẹ? Why are you always trying to ruin them? What, like they’re not people, too? They’re like you, Mẹ. They have this job, it’s what they do to put food on the table, pay for their oldest daughter’s tuition. Linh’s graduating soon, too. This rumor could really ruin things for them.”

  Mẹ’s mouth falls open. Then closes. Opens again. Stunned. “How do you know all of this?”

  “Know what?”

  “Linh. It sounds like you know her.”

  This is it. Maybe if she accused me of this earlier in the year, before I knew how I really felt about Linh, I’d waver and deny being close to Linh. I remember Linh in my arms, trembling from anger and worry.

  “I know Linh because I’m friends with her. Been friends with her for a few months now.” And we’re more than that now.

  “Gì?” she asks me to repeat myself.

  A river of laughter from her circle reaches the edges of our space, but it dies down, engulfed by the tension between me and my mom.

  “We were partnered up for an assignment,” I continue, watching her expression. “The newspaper. And I’ve been spending time with her. The articles I’ve been writing—the one about the Vietnamese chef, and other places—I’ve been going with her and she’s been making the sketches. We’re partners.”

  “How’s that possible?” she asks almost in wonder, before her tone switches up, reprimanding me. “I told you never to talk to them. Never to interact with them.”

  “Which never made sense to me. It’s impossible to avoid them.”

  “Yes, it is possible if you make it so. If you listen to what I told you.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, I didn’t listen to you,” I say, my voice gathering strength. I’ve gone this far, and I don’t see a way back. “But I like Linh, Mẹ. I realize she’s just like me. With a family just like ours. She’s one of the nicest people you’ve ever met. And I don’t know what you have against her family—”

  “What has she said? About our family?”

  Her question throws me off. I cross my arms, suspicious. Instead of chewing me out for admitting that I was friends with her, she asks that question? “Why does she have to say anything about us?”

  Mẹ closes her mouth. “Never mind.” She swiftly turns. A line cook steps into the kitchen, AirPods in. She barks at him, bringing him out of his musical reverie, to clean up the prep table a bit more. I could feel her anger, even if it were miles away. Most of the time I keep it separate, observing it from afar. Sometimes my dad and I can laugh it off. Simply steer clear. But now, the anger is like tar. I’m a part of it. I’m the reason for it. I feel what she feels.

  “What do they know about us? What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Nothing for you to worry about.” She turns her back, busying herself with moving around pots and pans. The line cook, sensing the mood of the room, quickly departs, leaving me to ask:

  “Mẹ, is this about what happened in Vietnam? What Bác Xuân knows?”

  She slams an empty pot against the stovetop before whirling around. Before I know it, she’s around the table, yanking me toward the back entrance to our alley, until we’re both outside, standing between a heap of black trash bags and broken-down cardboard boxes. “How did you—why are you asking these questions?”

  “Because I’m trying to figure all of this shit out!” I yell freely. “All of the secrets. The way you’re acting. Why I can’t even mention Linh and her family’s name without getting this kind of reaction from you! Or maybe it’s because I don’t want to think that you, Mẹ, could do this to another family. This can’t be you, Mẹ. I didn’t think you could be this cruel.”

  “Cruel?” My mom sucks in a breath. A movement catches my attention, rendering me speechless.

  Te
ars.

  Falling like snowy specks.

  I look to the side, hating to see them. My body screams at me, my heart thudding at the idea of betraying her—you made her cry; you did this! But another voice inside me protests: She is crying because she’s guilty.

  “It wasn’t me who said it,” she finally whispers. “It was Dì Nhi. It was said inside this restaurant; I didn’t think anyone would take it seriously. It wasn’t meant to leave here. I’ll talk to her.”

  The admission doesn’t help. Not one bit. “That won’t help. This is Dì Nhi we’re talking about. Everything she says takes on a life of its own. And you should have stopped her. And now their restaurant’s in danger.”

  “Con being dramatic. It will go away. Like all rumors. So Mẹ not sure why con being so—”

  “Linh told me a health inspector’s coming by. Making them close down for the whole day. Imagine if you had to do that, Mẹ.” I turn my back on her. “Linh’s just like me. And she’s scared of what’s going to happen to her parents, to their restaurant. It’s their only means of living.”

  I can’t be near her, not right now. I almost turn to go back into the restaurant, when suddenly her voice stops me.

  “Your uncle died because of that girl’s family. My brother died… because of them. They are murderers.” Her voice cracks at the very end.

  I pivot, reaching for the words to lead me back to my mother, who brushes past me, escaping into the depths of the kitchen. In my imagination, her words keep echoing back at me.

  What the hell?

  What the hell is going on?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX LINH

  It’s crushing to see my parents look scared. Because when they’re frightened they’re no longer the people who raised me to be strong, but strangers who look older than they really are.

  The inspector came by. He’s Vietnamese as well. He gave my parents a brisk handshake, clipboard under his armpit, but before stepping into the dining area, he gave a good sweep of the room, eyes calculating. I wondered if he was judging us, how we lived. I wanted to yell that this was all a cruel joke. It was embarrassing to have him rummaging through the kitchen cabinets, bending over and checking under the tables, feeling along the walls for cracks and damages.

  Despite the Health Department clearing us, I see how the rumor has done damage afterward—small, but damage nonetheless. Customers who’d visited us daily dropped off until Ba, turning on his charisma, appealed to them, explained the situation, offered them discounts on future meals. The favors that my parents were so reluctant to ask for are used now to recoup whatever unquantifiable loss the rumor had cost us. Luckily, it seems like the stream of new customers hasn’t been affected.

  There’s no way to tell if Bảo’s talk with his mom helped in that matter, but the next time I saw him, he said his mother promised to have a word with Nhi Trưng, the real culprit. He doesn’t say much more, though. Sometimes I catch him spacing out, eyebrows furrowed. I’m prone to daydreams, but not Bảo. So he must be bothered by something.

  I would hate it if his relationship with his mother was tainted by this. Even if she did play a part in spreading the rumor—even if—I don’t want to demonize her. Just like I wouldn’t want Bảo to demonize my own parents for their prejudice.

  He feels maybe more unreachable, even as we spend most of our free time at Chef Lê’s restaurant, finishing up the mural. I like painting from this height; I’m untouchable, unreachable, too… and everything below is smaller. Issues farther away.

  That same distance seems to overtake my parents. I rarely see them in the morning, and when I work after school, they’re preoccupied at the restaurant. Dì Vàng’s visit is only a few days away, too. It’d be impossible to bring up what I heard from Bác Xuân. Lately, Bảo doesn’t seem as intent on finding out more about our families’ shared past.

  I feel, somehow, that me and Bảo are running out of time. That the both of us are being pushed toward an edge, but we won’t know if we’ll go over until the very moment it happens.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN BẢO

  In the next two weeks, my mom makes herself scarce. She talks to me, but pretends that she didn’t drop a bomb on me about Linh’s family being possible murderers. We don’t even discuss my friendship with Linh, and I don’t know if she really thinks I’ll follow her request to not see Linh. At this point, I can’t. I won’t.

  I don’t tell Linh, either, secure in the knowledge that Mẹ wouldn’t want to tell anyone. Even her gossip group. They still come in, and when they see me, they still treat me with the same level of disinterest. Their laughter is the same as I retreat to the back.

  When I’m not at work or at home, conscious of this weird shift in my relationship with my mom, I find refuge at Chef Lê’s. I watch as Linh’s mural blooms to life. At her request, we’re not letting Chef Lê past the curtains anymore; she wants to surprise him with a reveal. Saffron’s gotten a peek at it, though.

  She’d carried her ten-month-old son Philippe against her hip. He was yanking at the handkerchief wrapped snug around her neck, but she paid him no mind, taking in Linh’s work of art. Beaming. “He’ll love it. He’ll absolutely love it.”

  In exchange, Chef Lê said he wants to invite a few friends over for the reveal and close down the restaurant for the night. It’ll be small, he said, and it’ll be a chance to “debut Miss Mai” and “share her talents with the world.” Well, Fountain Valley, at least. Linh tried to protest but she was up against four people—Chef Lê counts as two. She really had no choice.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT LINH

  Soon enough, it comes time for Chef Lê to reveal his mural to his friends and family. His missive to me and Bảo, as well as Việt and Ali, is to dress “fancy.” I’m not sure what that means coming from a man who wears T-shirts underneath his chef’s jacket.

  I’m not expected to work tonight and Mẹ and Ba are already at the restaurant. It’ll be a late night. Food is in the fridge, reads the sticky note in my mom’s neat cursive.

  I’m about leave for Chơi Ơi, finally settling on a strapless black dress paired with an old burgundy shawl I found my in my mom’s closet.

  As I’m in the closet, curious, I see old boxes of photos. My parents always tell me they’ll put these photos into neat scrapbooks. First it was planned for the weekend, then during the holidays when things died down, and now they’ve pushed it to retirement age. But my dad, in his defense, did start the project.

  Not in his defense, he got tired by the time the photos started showing Evie at age four and me age three.

  My parents keep the photos in bulging shoeboxes from Payless, Ann Taylor, and Adidas. But the sepia photos from Vietnam are stored in pocketbooks, underneath crinkling plastic. There are a lot of beach photos—a given, since Nha Trang’s known for its beaches.

  In one photo, my mom lounges on the beach in a one-piece, sunglasses tangled up in her hair. Behind her is my aunt, who might have just pushed her from behind—their smiles are identical, even with five years in between them. It seems impossible to think that outside the frame of this photo, the country they knew was changing rapidly. And yet here they were: joyful. The next photo appears to be from the same day, only now they’re standing. Same with the next handful of photos. I’ve never seen my mom smile so much.

  And I stop.

  Bảo is in this photo, still at the beach, standing right next to my aunt. But that can’t be. I was just thinking of Bảo right this second; that’s why my mind brought him to mind. That must be why, as I come across this photo, his face appears on the photo.

  It’s him.

  And yet it’s not. Of course. This was before he was born. The man’s hair is far longer than Bảo’s has ever been.

  I find the answer on the other side of not-Bảo. I’ve seen her only in glimpses—coincidental looks as she leaves the restaurant for some reason or another—including that time at the Vietnamese supermarket.

  Bảo’s mother is in this photo, in
disputably confirming what Bác Xuân shared with me.

  Two women, who supposedly hated each other, and did everything to avoid each other, are embracing like they’re sisters. So that must be Bảo’s uncle, the one who died at sea.

  Back before the second Phở Day happened, Mẹ mentioned my aunt had a fiancé, didn’t she? Someone who died.

  Of course.

  It’s him.

  My aunt and his uncle had been together. Until… what was it? He left, causing his family to lash out and blame my family. What did they say in their defense?

  And how the hell did all of that bring us here?

  * * *

  I take the bus instead of driving, not trusting myself to navigate in this confused, somewhat dizzying state. I bring the photo along, tucked inside one of my dress’s pockets. It crinkles as I walk a certain way, reminding me of its existence.

  Our parents knew each other back then—or at least our mothers. And, even though it would have seemed impossible before this photo—they were good friends. My aunt was in the group as well. Does my aunt know about the Nguyễns’ restaurant too? Know that they now hate each other?

  Bảo and I were wrong, absolutely wrong. It was something entirely bigger than just the businesses. And far bigger than we’d feared.

  I stop. Bảo. What am I going to say to Bảo? With everything going on!

  The dining room is closed for the public tonight, and one of the waiters standing at the door grins when I tell him my name, playfully gesturing me forward. Inside, the room is awash in soft lighting. Jazzy music plays in the background. Ali is dressed up in all black with red shiny-but-sensible heels that still make a statement, and she waves excitedly. Việt stands next to her, his excitement level less obvious, of course, but he still gives me a small wave, one hand in his pocket. And Bảo…