Chapter Five: Bảo

CHAPTER FIVE BẢO

“Con ăn giống như mèo,” Mẹ says. According to her, I’m eating like a cat right now. I look down at the meal before me: a nearly finished bánh xèo in a bowl, floating in nước mắm—my fifth serving in twenty minutes. Other times, Mẹ accuses me of eating too much like Ba.

Three hours ago, my parents were in the kitchen checking on their Powerball numbers, their concentration resembling scientists working toward a breakthrough cure. After each ticket failed to yield winning numbers, they placed it in a pile that goes into the “everything drawer” in their bedroom. Everything’s there: keys with no locks to fit them in; nail clippers; prescribed medicine for their high cholesterol (which they trade sometimes, and I’m pretty sure they’re not supposed to do that); and pictures of me at various ages. Mẹ had glanced through the kitchen screen door. “Oh look, it’s raining.” She nodded to herself. “A good day to have bánh xèo.”

“Ah,” Ba said in agreement, before striking out another losing ticket.

And here we are.

Why does bánh xèo taste good when it rains? Every time I ask my parents they always start to explain—“Tại vì…”—and then something else grabs their attention. I’ve come up with my own explanation. I’m not sure there’s a scientific reason, but I do know that bánh xèo tastes like a good fire when the outside pavement is wet, the air ripe with earth and cement. I found a word for that smell: “petrichor.” In this kind of weather, nothing tastes better than rice flour, made yellow by turmeric powder, cooked crisp, packed with chewy pork belly, shrimp, bean sprouts, in one megabite.

Thinking that we need another batch, Mẹ disappears outside in her raincoat, fishing out another piece. She noisily slides the screen door open, returning with a giddy smile. A perfectly cooked bánh xèo sizzles on the plate. My body a half hour ago would have been like, Oh yes. She gestures for our bowls, filled with salty nước mắm, and lets those babies sink in.

Ba gestures for it, chewing on his piece, as if to say, Lay it on me, woman.

“How is school going? College applications?” Mẹ asks.

Nonexistent, my brain answers, but I say, “Good.”

We’d done our road-tripping last year, visiting mostly state schools so that it’s cheaper. My scores might be able to get me into some of them, though there aren’t any guarantees. At least my parents know that.

“Just make sure your grades are steady and you don’t go under.”

“Sure.”

Mẹ lets out another sigh.

“Con, do you have any idea what you want to do? What major yet?”

“Mẹ, that’s, like, a year away.”

“But isn’t it better to know now?”

“Plenty of students go into college undecided. It’s perfectly normal.”

“Dì Nhi”—the General—“said her son knew right away that he wanted to do premed before going to Stanford.”

“Premed’s not a major, though.”

“I know! But what I mean is, he knew what he wanted to do.”

I shift when I realize I’m sitting exactly like my mom, one leg bent on the chair. I stretch out both legs and cross my arms. But then I notice that’s how Ba sits.

“A year will come quickly,” my mom continues.

“I’m thinking of a lot of things.” Strangely, today’s journalism class pops into my mind. The feeling of my grip around my pen, seeing the changes I made on the page, the moment I made Allison shut up for once. I haven’t felt this way before.

“Thinking is not the same as doing!” She leans back and turns to Ba. “Anh, tell him.”

“Ừ,” he says in agreement. My mom stares at him reproachfully, probably hoping he’ll say something more inspiring.

She gives a long-suffering sigh. “Mẹ wonder what Việt is planning to major in.”

Given his attention to criminal TV shows and his near-obsession with getting into forensic science class, I’d figured that was his intention. But he hasn’t really said anything, even though it shouldn’t be an issue with him. The kid doesn’t study and has probably never studied, because his pores just absorb all the knowledge on a page. “I don’t know. Ask him next time you see him.”

“Việt is so smart.” My mom nods in approval.

“Brilliant,” Ba agrees.

“His parents must be so proud.”

Not for the first time, I wonder if my parents would be happier to have him as a son. Their eyes are practically glazed over at the mention of him.

Annoyed, I say, “Maybe you can adopt him, then.”

“Con,” my mother says, her voice turning sweet in a way that bugs me. Pleading, almost. “We just think you can do anything. And you have to cố gắng.” She pauses to inhale.

Here we go.

“You know, con, when we die—”

“Mẹ—” I plead.

“When we die—”

“In, like, fifty years!”

Mẹ talks louder. “Ba Mẹ just want con to be able to support yourself. But that means trying.” She gestures to her and Ba, who nods like he’s confirming, Yes, I will die, son. “Con don’t know how lucky you are. When Mẹ arrived in this country back in 1982, Mẹ was three years younger than you. Only mười bốn tuổi! Không biết what was going to happen. But Mẹ learned. Mẹ adapted. Same with Ba. We trusted our education and we only want you to do the same.”

I duck my head, eating the last bit of bánh xèo, and feeling like the biggest asshole. But low blow, using her escape story. I can’t really say anything in response to that. How can I, when she mentioned everything she’d lost? Her home, plenty of relatives—including her older brother, who attempted escape before her, but died during the passage.

In rare moments, she would say that I look like him, like Cậu Cam. We have the same hair, she says. I can tell how much it hurts her to mention him because she either goes silent or quickly moves on to mention something else. I never know what to say when that happens.

Before my mom goes on to talk about her night of the escape—the last recitation having been one hour and forty minutes long—I relent with an “Okay. Okay. I promise I’ll focus.” I breathe in. “I’ll do better.”

Mẹ brightens and shares a look with Ba, her guilt trip a success. It’s like I solved all her worries—past, present, and future. “You can be anything!”

“Maybe a doctor,” my dad offers, finally edging a word in.

… with the most malpractice lawsuits, I finish as I carry my plates to the sink.

My mom starts clearing away the other dishes, and she’s already on to the next task on her list, a nonstop machine. She asks me if I want to take anything to school tomorrow. No? Why? It wasn’t good enough? I relent and tell her maybe a few pieces of bánh xèo, sans fish sauce. Turning to my dad, who’s still digging away at his teeth with a tăm, she reminds him that they’ll need to wake at five in the morning to receive Việt’s parents’ delivery, so the alarm needs to be set. Ba tells her to stop reminding him: Bà nói điếc lỗ tai. Which only means she’ll continue to pester him to purposefully get on his nerves. Her type of revenge.

I leave them, the thoughts about my promise to them—to do better—running rampant in my mind.