Chapter Forty-Five: Bảo

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE BẢO

The door rings in the next customer and I say hello without looking, counting a customer’s change before handing it over. “Thanks for coming by.” Plastering another smile on my face, I focus on the newcomer, only to realize it’s not a regular customer.

It’s Linh’s father. Years of spotting him by the window looking out at us, of his profile just before disappearing into his store, tells me it’s him. He stands with his arms crossed behind his back—Vietnamese style. I instantly sense disapproval from him—as if Vietnamese fathers underwent the same aura training before having children—but it’s more of a gut reaction than anything else.

“Tên con là Bảo?”

“Dạ. Chào, Bác.”

He nods. Probably noticing how atrocious my Vietnamese is but accepting my attempt, at least. His eyes sweep the room, and my mom’s panicked voice sounds choked up inside my brain, Why is he here?!

He switches over to English. “Your article is very good.” He holds out the latest edition of Người Việt where it’s folded to show my op-ed. “And you defended us well.”

Us.

“Are you a writer?” he asks.

If I answered I think so, he’d probably think even less of me. “Yes, I am. I’m thinking of doing it in college.”

He shakes the newspaper at me—not in a threatening way, thank God. “I think it would be very good for you.”

“Th-thank you,” I manage to get out.

Again the silence falls heavily and I try not to squirm under his scrutiny. I wonder if he knows I was seeing Linh before everything blew up.

“You are Linh’s friend.”

It’s not going to stop just because of the argument. At least, I hope. “I am… Do you want to talk to my parents or…”

His face changes. “No, no.” He shakes his head. “Don’t let them know I was here.” A corner of his lips turns up. “I’ll get in trouble.”

Ah, the terror of Vietnamese wives.I just nod and wave as Linh’s father backs out, hurrying across the street so quickly that I must have hallucinated his entire visit. I don’t know how long I stand there, watching the restaurant across from us, mirroring my dad’s own surveillance stance. Is it possible that my article managed to bridge some gap? Can forgiveness be born from this?

I dip my hand into my back pocket, brushing up against the folded-up flyer for the Art Fair. I hold on to it as I cross the street.