A Pho Love Story

by Loan Le

  I did all of this. Everything here I can call mine. Despite being alone tonight, I’m latching on to this.

  I don’t think I’ve ever smiled so much. As I wait for people to come by, I reread my statement. I had Ali look at it, but what I really wanted was for Bảo to see it. He was always good at things like that. But it’s my fault that I can’t, I know that. I pushed him away, hurt him. And now I’m paying for it.

  The compliments are nice and heart-warming, but temporary. My smile fades once each exhibitor leaves my display. I watch a classmate and his parents pose for some pictures. His dads look so proud of him. I turn around, fighting back a burning sensation in the back of my eyes. I wish Mẹ and Ba could be here, but I couldn’t bring myself to mention the fair, even if Ba is starting to come around to my art. I wish I could have told the truth from the very beginning. Maybe then they’d be proud enough to be here, just this one time, for me.

  Soon enough, the Art Fair crowd has dwindled, people are leaving, and some other artists are already taking down their canvases, to store here or bring home.

  “Linh!” I see Ali’s curly hair before her face. She squeezes me to death, rambling about how proud she is of me. “Total masterpieces! How are you feeling?”

  She’ll be worried if I answer honestly: that I feel alone and I can’t seem to stop it, even if everyone’s responding well to my artwork. The people whose opinions matter the most… just aren’t here.

  Offering me some comfort, whether she knows it or not, Yamamoto quickly passes by, squeezing me tight, whispering about how proud she is of me. That if I don’t get the Gold Key scholarship, she’ll visit their headquarters, wherever they are, and protest.

  I force a smile, which fades as I spot him.

  I think I say hello or some version of it, right as he does the same. He’s stumbling over his words now before he finally stops himself, fixated on the floor. Will it be like this from now on?

  “You look nice. Professional,” I offer.

  “I needed to impress someone.” A smile plays on his lips. My heart leaps at his answer but I try not to show it, waiting. Then I notice the bouquet that he’s offering me sheepishly. “I heard about your mural idea. My mom told me.”

  I accept the flowers. “She was really shocked when I came by.”

  “She could barely speak. That’s not a common thing.” He pauses before turning to my paintings. “So, tell me about them.”

  He’s not walking away. He’s here and his presence gives me a small semblance of hope. In this moment, it’s enough. I slip my hand into his, relishing in his warmth, and pull him toward my work. The earliest of them depicts a common scene from my childhood, me waiting for my parents to finish prepping for the next day. I painted my ten-year-old self into a booth, preoccupied with blowing bubbles into my water. Mẹ has popped her head out from the serving window and is likely trying to talk to Ba, who’s at the front desk.

  I show them my family restaurant’s facade, that night Phở Day ended with a success. I tried to infuse the contentment I felt at seeing Mẹ’s face through the yellow haze of the streetlights shining down, the glistening of puddles left from the storm.

  I lead Bảo to my painting of the art room the first time he visited me. An idyllic scene, the afternoon light streaming from the window, touching the desks and stools, and my back as I faced the canvas. I painted in Bảo’s backpack and a hint of his shoes peeking out as one table blocked the view of his body.

  These memories grew out of me over time and in the last few weeks. The act of painting them is now a blur; I was so focused on my canvas that I barely kept track of time. Maybe because I’d never desired more to escape. Seeing my paintings now, displayed like this, is somewhat of an out-of-body experience, but it’s also hollow. I wish my parents could see them, too, see how much my art and my life with them, here, are so deeply intertwined that it’s no longer about trying to undo these ties.

  The concept of me being an artist without them doesn’t exist.

  I peek at Bảo’s reaction as he leans forward to study the details of the art room. He still hasn’t let go. I realize that my hands, despite the hard scrubbing, still show residues of paint. But the sight of it against his clean skin is comforting. Normal.

  “I thought I knew what you were capable of, but this is beyond that. I don’t think I can pick a favorite. I love all of it.” He’s looking at me now, and perhaps it’s foolish hope that makes me spot a familiar wistful gleam in his eyes. The kind he’d send me before bringing me in for a kiss, before brushing aside a strand of my hair.

  And I know I should just say it. “I’m sorry, Bảo. More sorry than I can ever express. The mural was just one attempt to try to make up for what I said.”

  “Linh, you don’t have to—”

  “Your article was honest—the exact opposite of the way I’d been acting. I was scared of telling my parents the truth. So I lied, and those lies just kept piling up. I hurt you. I hurt them, and now—this, while it’s all that I can ever dream of—it just feels empty.” I gesture to the paintings behind me, with colors and emotions that were painted, in a way, for them. “I can’t really celebrate because I hurt so many people to get here.”

  He stops trying to protest, bringing his arms around me. I don’t understand how much I needed his full touch until my nose is pressed up against his shoulders and comforted by his familiar scent. “I was hurting. I didn’t know how to deal with all the secrets coming up. But I lied to you, Bảo. I want us. I’ve always wanted us.”

  “I think I knew that. At least, I hoped what I was thinking was right.” He leans back slightly to catch my eye, his thumb caressing my cheek.

  “Thank you for being brave, Bảo Nguyễn.”

  “Ahem.”

  Ali, surprising me, hugs the two of us from behind. “Finally, Romeo and Juliet are back together. I thought you’d be mad at me for letting him see you.”

  “Letting me?” Bảo asks, but Ali ignores him.

  “But I have to admit, these past few weeks have brought me and this guy closer. If we paired together, we could really change the newspaper-making business.”

  I hold back a laugh at Bảo’s grimace, which Ali can’t see since she’s facing away from him. Yet that laughter turns into confusion when she asks him, “Are they outside?”

  “I was getting there.” He’s almost… shy? “Linh, I know there are important people you want to be here, who are missing here. But they’re not, not right now.” Bảo tilts his head, gestures to the exit. “They’re outside.”

  “What—” They?

  Who… ?

  I leave a trail of flower petals as I dash out of the auditorium, down the long streak of hallway with loitering parents and younger siblings amusing themselves with whatever they can touch. I find my aunt at the very end of it, alone. She welcomes me with a smile.

  “Dì Vàng!” I fly into her arms and she returns my hug with a deep chuckle. Her shoulder purse slides off and falls to the ground.

  “Surprised?”

  “Shocked. How—”

  “Well, I was always planning to come. The thing about visiting a friend—that was a lie. I wanted to surprise you.” She looks at a point over my shoulder. When I follow her gaze, I don’t see anyone. I pivot, confused. “That was him, wasn’t it?”

  Not finding the right words, I merely nod.

  “He’s the spitting image of his uncle.” She says this lightly, but there’s a whole story behind her eyes. What she’d already told me was likely only half of it.

  She shakes the look away and pushes me gently out of her arms. She steers me to face the exit. “What—”

  “Go. Some important people are waiting just outside for you. I’ll meet you back inside. Apparently there’s a superstar who’s displayed her work here. Be the brave, honest person that I know you are.”

  My steps outside are far more hesitant. The scent of cigarettes clings to the cool air. They’ve dressed up. My dad with his polo ne
atly tucked into his belted dress pants. He stands with his back to me, arms crossed behind him, head tipped back like he’s watching for a sign from the sky. Next to him is my mom, always favoring softer floral patterns, in a red-and-white knee-length dress that I’ve never seen her wear.

  It’s possible that she bought it just for tonight’s exhibition—and the thought makes me hopeful.

  “Ba. Mẹ.” I clutch the flowers to my chest. They’re ruined by now. “I didn’t think you’d come.” My steps toward them seem unusually disruptive and it’s only because my parents are so quiet and still. Such lifelike statues.

  “We didn’t know this was happening until today. Con didn’t say anything directly.” Accusation rings clear in her voice.

  “So how did you know to be here?”

  “Someone slipped a flyer under our door,” Ba explains evenly.

  Someone. “Ali?”

  “Maybe,” Ba says. He stares unblinkingly, but doesn’t say anything. Now’s the time he’s going to try for subtle? What could he… ?

  Bảo.

  So that’s what his smile was for.

  “After what happened, I knew you wouldn’t want to come.”

  “Con knew? How could con know that?” Mẹ fires back. The red in her dress seems to take on a life of its own, a fire in the night. Ba interrupts her, telling her in Vietnamese to lower her voice. He’s playing the opposite role today; his eyes beseech me, reminding me of when I cried and cried. He’s on my side, but he can’t do much if I don’t explain myself.

  If I don’t finally tell the truth about myself.

  “Mẹ, I don’t want to lie to you anymore. And I know I’ve lied. About what I wanted. About my art. About Bảo, too, and our… friendship. At the time, I thought all of this was necessary.”

  My voice cracks. “I’m a painter. And I really love what I do. Nothing makes me happier. When everything in the world seems tough and harsh, painting’s where I go. It’s like you and your cooking, Mẹ. Don’t you ever feel like you can disappear in it?”

  Mẹ folds her arms, and keeps her eyes fixed to the ground.

  “I still wanted to make you proud and show that everything I was doing was because of you, not despite you.”

  “There are other ways to make Ba Mẹ proud. Above everything, you should not lie to us.”

  “But I didn’t mean it like that. Mẹ, please. I draw because of you. Because you’ve always tried your best to raise me right. Because you work so hard, never find time for yourself, so I’m doing this for you, for both of you. Everything you’re doing has allowed me to be happy. I wish you had that when you were younger. You worked so hard, you gave everything of yourself away just so that I could have a good life. And I believe that. I have a good life. I have a happy one.”

  “Please. I want to show you what I mean. Can I show you?” I hold her hand. The fact that she doesn’t pull away encourages me.

  I lead her back into the school like I did at Huntington Beach, that time we saw my first real artist. It wasn’t just because I wanted to see; it was because I wanted my mom to see it too.

  Distantly, I hear Yamamoto greeting my parents. I don’t eavesdrop, but I stand aside and observe their faces. A bit of confusion. A bit of disbelief. They must be overwhelmed because it’s not just Yamamoto gravitating toward them; it’s other parents whose kids also displayed their work.

  What surprises me more, though, is the quiet awe burgeoning in their eyes, a reaction they would have to my pieces from elementary school art classes.

  Taking my mom’s hand again, I point to a scene that I hadn’t shown Bảo yet, hadn’t gotten to. I painted it because I was remembering how much simpler life was a few months ago.

  It’s a nine-by-eleven-inch piece depicting the hours following our first special: the three of us celebrating in the kitchen. It might have been dark outside, but inside the kitchen, under the bright ceiling lights, we were exhausted and hopeful. My mom bends closer to the canvas. I hope she sees the look in her eyes that I tried to capture, that tired contentedness. I hope she sees me leaning against her, shoulder to shoulder. And I hope she sees my dad and how tall he sits. Most of all, I want her to see how the three of us are together, a family. We are strongest only together.

  “I really love this one,” Yamamoto remarks, standing just behind me. I spot my mom squinting at the tattoos along her arms, more curious than horrified.

  “Why?” my dad finally asks.

  “Because I’ve come to know Linh over the years, Mr. Mai and Mrs. Phạm. I’ve seen how much she cares about what you think. But I’ve also seen how present and alive she is through her art—probably more than she realizes. And just a few minutes ago, watching you walk into the auditorium, I saw how Linh lights up knowing that you’re here to support her.” Bảo’s right; my expressions give me away. “All of this”—she gestures to the paintings—“this is Linh and what she values the most. In one exhibition.”

  “Being an artist… it’s hard,” Mẹ says slowly. I wonder if she’s cautious to voice this opinion in front of a teacher.

  “Oh, it is. You know it is. And from my brief conversation with your sister”—Yamamoto tips her head at my aunt, who’s mingling with people at the opposite side of the room—“she knows, too. But in anything you love, isn’t there always some bit of sadness, some essence of suffering? That, to me, is what makes art worth it. Suffer through it—mine the emotions you keep inside yourself, face whatever’s emotionally burdensome, take control of it—then emerge reborn in the end.”

  She speaks directly to me. “This is what Linh is doing. It’s such an honor to be her teacher. I hope you know that Linh’s one of a kind.”

  * * *

  Yamamoto squeezes my arm, before drifting back into the crowd, like a kind spirit. Other classmates and their parents surround me and for the first time tonight, I bask in their warm glow. I keep an eye on my parents simultaneously. They’re walking around, peering at other artwork. My aunt soon joins them and points at certain canvases and sculptures, perhaps explaining the different media. Ali’s been going around the room interviewing other artists, explaining that she couldn’t show bias in her reporting. Bảo, though, seems to have disappeared, understanding that I needed more time with my parents.

  The auditorium clears out and only five or six families linger. My parents rejoin me along with my aunt, and all I can do is follow them as they wordlessly head back out into the hallway. Our footsteps squeak and echo into the empty space. I’m sandwiched between my aunt and my mom. I’m struck by the need to clutch Mẹ’s hand again.

  Mẹ’s voice startles me from my thoughts. “From now on, con can’t tell more lies. Đừng noấi laấo nữa nghe không?”

  I nod, promising that there won’t be any more lies between us.

  “Art is what you want? It makes you happy?”

  Ba had asked the same question.

  “The happiest, Mẹ.”

  We walk some more, now standing in the parking lot. The faint smell of grass, barbeque smoke, and asphalt surrounds us. “Mẹ còn mad at you,” Mẹ answers calmly.

  “I know. But I promise, I won’t—”

  In a split second, I’m crushed against my mother. Her arms leave no room for escape. “You know you are my life, con,” Mẹ whispers fiercely into my hair.

  I blink away tears, my head buried in her shoulder. I feel Ba patting my back, and my mind flashes back to a younger me, a sleepy me, who’s carried up to bed by my parents.

  “Don’t cry,” Dì Vàng says, happiness pure in her voice.

  I’m not sure which one of us she is talking to.

  * * *

  In the car, as we’re pulling out of the lot, Mẹ reaches back with her hand. I grasp, asking whose hand it is.

  “What a silly game,” my aunt mutters with a smile. My mom and I grin at each other through the mirror.

  My family spends the rest of the ride bashing other artists, even though I think they’re all great. Dad c
alled them “dở quá.”

  “So how much better am I as an artist?” I tease Ba.

  And his answer surprises me in the best way possible, as he sends me a big, fat smile in the rearview mirror.

  “Một trăm percent.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN BẢO

  Tết in Little Saigon means tons of road closures. The few police officers who didn’t grow up around here look befuddled by our penchant for bouncy music, performances from dojos, and bedazzled floats filled with flowers—lots of them. The American flag and South Vietnamese flag hang along light poles.

  The air is filled with the smell of fried sweets—bananas, I think—and the crowd ranges from young to old. Little kids run along, some struggling in their bright silky áo dài, followed by a parent looking stressed out and clutching their child’s mini khăn đóng. But the hate of hats is universal in kids their age. Old dads try locating their wives, who’ve abandoned them for friends; today’s their day off. I sputter when some stray balloons collide with my face. A sunshine-y version of “Xuân đã về,” celebrating the arrival of spring, blasts from a float made out of straw. Miss Teen Vietnam, California, sits perched at the front, waving prettily from it. People holler from the crowd.

  “Look at how skinny she is,” Mom mutters, clutching her purse to herself. She then nastily eyes a pack of girls who inadvertently pushed her to take pictures of the passing float. As much as she hates crowds, she always makes a point of attending the celebrations. I think it reminds her of her childhood. And she always manages to run into some Vietnamese friends.

  The cash prize is the other draw, ranging from five hundred to five grand. “How else will we pay for college?” Ba replied when I asked why we entered with little chance to win.

  Scarily, there was no joke in his tone whatsoever.

  The usual float from Vietnam America TV 57.3 passes. Another float comes by, some local florist shop, and they’re launching bouquets into the crowds. Mẹ smacks my dad on the shoulder. “Look at the flowers!”