Chapter Twenty-Four: Linh

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 homework 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.

Mẹ takes the back entrance while I help Ba lift the security grilles up front, walking in once the front door unlocks. The fans begin to turn, working against the heat. But instead of telling me to grab an apron like usual, or delegating tasks to me, like refilling the napkins or getting ice from the freezer or unwrapping the bins of herbs we’ll need for the day, my mom nods for me to join her in the kitchen. Ba goes his own way to check last night’s sales and the timesheets.

The two of us are in the kitchen, our steps echoing off the walls. I take a stool.

She dons kitchen gloves and pulls out her wooden cutting board, starts slicing onions. Next to her is a vinegar bath that the cooks made, so Mẹ just needs to complete the pickling process. She dips her finger into the vinegar bath, then adds a spoonful of sugar before dumping in the onions. I watch her stir it, then taste it, before she pushes the bowl toward me. My turn to try it.

“Vừa không?”

I ignore her question, staring resolutely at the tabletop. Heaving a sigh, my mom leans forward, resting her elbows on the prep table. Her hair has already loosened from its bun. I see bags under her eyes. The guilt that’s become all too familiar nowadays flares up. But I still hate the idea that I’m expected to be the replacement when someone else isn’t available. And the last special would have failed if it weren’t for Bảo’s help—which will not happen again.

So I look away. I hear my mom’s lips part, then close. Maybe I’ve made her angry too. Aside from three or four blowups—including the time when she stumbled across me and Evie drawing pictures with crayons on our old apartment walls—she’s been decidedly calmer than Ba.

Instead, her voice takes on its usual soft quality, with an indiscernible tinge. “Con, I know this isn’t how you want to spend your time. And Mẹ and Ba hate having to ask you to work.

“But you don’t know how hard it was to start up this restaurant. It wasn’t about inheriting customers, finding new customers. It was inheriting a whole neighborhood of people who didn’t want us.” Mẹ’s voice cracks. Anguish, that’s the note I’d heard. “You don’t know how that feels.”

“You never told me,” I retort, though my intent to sound annoyed is weak. I’ve never heard Mẹ sound this way. It tugs the same part of my heart storing all the hugs and kisses and laughs she’s given me through so many sacrifices.

“Because you shouldn’t have to know those things. We wanted to protect you.” A spike of anger rushes through me. I’d hate to say it was in response to Bảo’s parents, because that would mean I was angry with him, too. Still, it’s clear that the cold welcoming had hurt my parents, made them feel less than welcome.

Mẹ shakes her head like she’s denying the memories brought up. “The gossip was horrible, not just from that restaurant. Everywhere. But if I addressed it, people would add something else to the mix and there’d be no ending to it. So I ignored it. I put my everything into the food here, to make it speak for itself. Then your dad made friends and we made loyal customers.” She gestures to the restaurant. “Phở Day made me so happy because it worked out. And now we’re doing well. But it is always a game here. It’s always a game to win, to maintain that we belong here.”

I wonder if Mẹ means not just this community but in America in general.

I keep my head down. “Will the gossip ever stop? Will we always need to fight B—” I catch myself before saying “Bảo’s parents.” “—the Nguyễns’ restaurant?”

Thankfully, Mẹ doesn’t seem to notice. “Gossip and rumors never stop. They always come back in different forms.” The knowingness in her voice—and the palpable feeling that there’s something more she’s holding back—triggers me to glance at her.

“Like when?”

It takes a few beats for Mẹ to make her decision. When she sits down across from me, I lean forward on my stool. “When I was eleven. Back in Vietnam,” my mom starts, “Dì Vàng was ready to marry a neighbor who grew up with her. They were always together, and when our families realized what would happen, we began to set up our meetings to talk about expectations and the future for the two of them. The man was smart, nice, and always put the family first.”

“Was he an artist too?” I try to picture my aunt with a boyfriend or a husband, but I only see her as I do now: her blurry face enlarged on the computer when we’d speak, her loud, assured voice when she talks about art. That’s her true love; I can’t imagine someone else in her life.

“Of course not,” Mẹ answers quickly. “One of the reasons why your grandparents liked the man, before they passed, was because he was a logical person. He was going to inherit the family business, too. They knew that he would be able to support her when she couldn’t do that herself with her art.” I hold back from protesting. She said that as if it were a fact. As if my aunt weren’t doing well for herself now.

“One day, though, he left, apologizing to everyone through a letter. But oh, the gossip! His family and the whole neighborhood were blaming Dì Vàng, as if she had done something, when it was actually him who’d run away from his promises. His responsibilities.”

“What happened then?” I ask. “With the guy and with your sister?”

“I learned that he died.” That can mean many things: during a battle, during one of the bombings, or during the escape, the same route that my family miraculously survived. “It is horrible, yes. All of it. He was, at the end of the day, good, and he would have made a good match for my sister.” I sit back, cupping my tea for warmth, feeling as if a part of me has turned inside out. Her art. That’s why her art always feels so sad. In each artwork she produces, she leaves that melancholic imprint behind.

“Why I haven’t heard of this before?”

Mẹ sighs as she pushes back her hair. “There was no reason for it to come up. And it is something of the past—what good will it do to bring it up? Your aunt certainly doesn’t mention it. We are in the present now—we look to the future.” She takes an apron off the hook and offers me my apron. “We ignore all gossip and do our best.

“Con, I know you are busy. But you did such a good job last time. You can do it again. And you will survive your schoolwork. Because you are my daughter.”

I take the apron from Mẹ. She smiles, and it’s so grateful and so understanding that I muster up a smile, the weight on my shoulders even more insistent.