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Chapter Twenty-Eight

VIVI

District 2 is separated from District 1 by the Sài Gòn River. As we cross under C ? u Ba Son, or the Th? Thiêm 2 Bridge, I can’t help but stare at downtown Sài Gòn from the motorbike—the receding financial towers and all the high-rise buildings, where my story in Sài Gòn began— as the residential areas of District 2 loom in the distance.

“I wish my mom was here.” It feels weird, meeting my family for the first time without the one person who should be with me.

Lan sighs, and I can feel her breathing with my arms wrapped tightly around her waist. “If you don’t find them, it won’t be the worst thing. You still have family. Your parents.”

My chest tightens. Sometimes I wonder if Lan thinks I’m a brat for trying so hard. If she thinks I’m ungrateful. She cares, and I know that, but sometimes I can’t help but wish that she’d see what I’m doing is as important as the contest, too.

“I guess you’re right.”

Now that we’ve crossed into District 2, it feels like we’re in a familiar yet different world. The tall skyline is replaced by smaller homes, yet the streets are crowded nonetheless. Houses in various colors and styles stare at us as we pass. Some are polished white while others look older, decorated by years of weather in Sài Gòn. Mini-marts are on every corner, squished side by side with endless rows of buildings. Shopkeepers squat on their mini stools and watch as their customers pour in just in time for lunch. Dogs and cats wander through the streets. The smell of fried bananas wafts through the air, making my stomach rumble.

We turn into an alleyway, driving toward the cathedral from the photograph and the one Bác Tu ? n spoke of.

We stop in front of a fruit stand, with layers and layers of colorful fruits stacked on top of each other. The prices are incomparable to California—barely a dollar for a cup filled to the brim with jackfruit, rambutan, and young coconut meat. One of these in Little Saigon would cost at least ten dollars, and yet Mom would always bring them home, and we’d sit on the couch sharing the small bites between us. It was one of the only times she would talk about Vi ? t Nam. She’d let it slip that these fruits are from her home, where the weather is hotter and the sky a little brighter, and the climate allows for these trees to grow. I pull out the photo of Mom in front of that church and look up at the building right in front of me, imagining her here. She was so young. Like me.

Lan turns to the young girl working at the fruit stand and says something in Vietnamese. My heart pounds in my ears. What if this stranger doesn’t know my family? What if they’ve moved out of District 2? And if they do know—will I finally get to meet the family I’ve never known? What about Mom ; how do I even bring this up to her?

My fate rests in the hands of a simple answer from a stranger, and that’s terrifying.

The girl looks at the photo, and I can see recognition on her face. “You said you’re looking for Hi ? n?” she asks in Vietnamese.

We nod, and she signals for us to wait before bringing out an older lady, and my heart almost drops when I see her face. It’s like seeing the spitting image of Mom. But the feeling seems mutual, because the woman looks shocked to see me—and suddenly, the feeling like I don’t belong comes creeping back. Like maybe I shouldn’t have come, shouldn’t have tried.

Still, I know for a fact that I’m finally staring at Mom’s sister. My aunt .

“Xin chào.” I try my best to not butcher the pronunciations. “Co ten la Hi ? n—”

The woman stops me before I can finish asking if she’s actually Hi ? n, and with teary eyes, pulls me into a hug. “Hoa oi, em v ? l ú c n à o?”

My body tenses, my arms go limp, and I don’t know what to do. How do I respond to that question? To Mom’s sister calling me by Mom’s name, and asking me when I had returned? How do I tell this lady that I’m not Mom? How do I tell her that her sister isn’t here?

She pulls away before I can say anything and examines my face. “à, con kh?ng ph ? i Hoa! C? xin l ? i.”

You’re not Hoa. My heart drops at her apology and how naturally she says Hoa —how that name has always felt important to her. It’s a strange thing to be mistaken for Mom, especially when I’ve always seen us as two different people, leading two different lives. But here, in Sài Gòn, our lives intersect, and suddenly I can imagine the younger version of Mom right next to me, hugging the sister she left.

I fish for my wallet, my heart pounding. Placing the photo in her hand, I repeat the phrase I had Lan help me memorize and practice aloud. “C? có bi ? t nh ? ng ng ?? i này kh?ng?”

The question that I’ve been asking ever since I got to Vi ? t Nam: Do you know who these people are? And somehow, after all the markets and street food stalls and motorbike rides, I’m here. I’m standing in front of my aunt. The family I never knew about.

She continues staring at the photo, not saying a word. “Who… How you get this?” She switches to English, sensing my American accent coming through. “Hoa… con gái c ? a Hoa?”

I swallow, meeting her gaze. “Yes, I’m Hoa’s daughter.”

She takes a step forward and looks closely at my face. “You look like Hoa.”

Not knowing what to do, I just stare into her eyes. They are wide, with creasing at the top of her eyelids, while her eyebrows are sparse and thin. Just like Mom’s. “Con, do you want to come with me?” she asks in Vietnamese.

I look at Lan nervously, but she motions for me to go ahead with my aunt. “It’ll be okay. You got this,” she says.

I nod. “Thanks for bringing me here. And thanks for everything you’ve done for me up until now.”

“I’ll pick you up?”

I nod, my heart swelling with warmth for her. Despite all the anxieties and hurt, she’s been the one constant for me all throughout Sài Gòn. “Yeah.”

Aunt Hi ? n leads me into a small alley diagonal to the fruit stand, her hand on my back as we walk. It reminds me of Mom, and the way she’d do the same when we’d walk side by side in the Vietnamese grocery store in Little Saigon. Within seconds, Mom’s childhood home comes into view. It’s a two-story building tucked away in the heart of District 2, overlooking a quaint courtyard that contains a banana tree and an herb garden in a tub. There’s a balcony with a clothing rack, and the clothes on it sway softly in the wind. I can hear children laughing in the house. It shows signs of being lived in, of stories being exchanged, and of memories shared between families.

I have an odd feeling that I’m intruding. Like I don’t belong. Though we’re technically family, they’re strangers to me as much as I am to them. The inside of the house is decorated with colorful tiled patterns of flowers, wooden chairs and desks, a TV in the middle with children’s toys next to it, and straw mats on the floor. The space isn’t wide but long and tall, and the furniture is stacked to the side to make space for other things. I see several altars as I walk by, incense burning, and flowers placed next to them. There’s a staircase by the entrance, and I linger as Aunt Hi ? n walks ahead, my eyes finding the puzzle pieces I’ve been looking for my entire life.

The walls are filled with photos of Mom. She is everywhere.

“Con,” Aunt Hi ? n speaks again, and I look up to find her carrying a photo album in her arms. “Do you want to take a look?”

Mom. Pictures of Mom. Photos I hadn’t ever seen before, and it just hits me then that I’ve seen never Mom younger than my age. And as I sit here, my eyes glued to the roundness of her cheeks and how her eyes kiss in the corners just like mine, I’m unable to separate my own face from hers. It’s like staring into a mirror, but this time, it’s also a time portal. A key to unlocking Mom’s life in Sài Gòn.

I skim my fingers over each page, my thoughts a jumbled mess as I flip through the timeline of Mom’s life in front of me: Mom in Grandma’s arms as a baby, Mom taking her first steps as a toddler, Mom and Aunt Hi ? n in front of this very house, Mom in a high school uniform, Mom and Grandma surrounded by Trung Thu lanterns. This entire trip, everything I have been doing, I’ve been following in Mom’s footsteps without knowing it.

A photo falls out of the album and surprise overtakes me when I see the faces in it: Mom and… a boy? They’re standing in front of an alley with street food stalls behind them, and I recognize her outfit from another photo I took from her drawer. The boy has a goofy smile, they’re standing next to each other under a hoa ph ?? ng tree with Mom in a white áo dài, and suddenly I can see it: Mom running through Sài Gòn with this same boy and him photographing her laugh.

I turn the page and find an empty spot in the album, right next to a photo of Mom and Aunt Hi ? n in front of Ch ? B ? n Thành. I pull the photo I stole from Mom’s closet out of my pocket, the one of her, Aunt Hi ? n, and Grandma in front of the same marketplace. All this time, Mom’s been holding on to her own memory of this very moment. This was when it had ended, the last time they all took a picture together, and the last photo of Mom in Sài Gòn.

I turn to Aunt Hi ? n and ask the question that’s been burning in my throat. “Did you know about me?”

She looks at me sadly, and I already know the answer from her face. Still, the shaking of her head confirms it—and I don’t know which hurts more, the fact that Mom didn’t care to tell her family about me, or the fact that my family never knew I existed at all.

“But I knew when I saw you,” Aunt Hi ? n says. “The moment I looked at you—I knew who you were. I just wish my sister told me, too.”

“Have you… kept in touch with her?”

“In a way, yes.”

Aunt Hi ? n shuffles through a few envelopes before pulling out white, almost yellowing ones. They were sent by Mom, with our return address on the back. The contents of each is the same: statements of confirmation from banks. Mom’s been wiring them money since she’s been in California. There are no notes, no heartfelt letters. Only a single sentence:

Chi, I hope this is enough for you and Ma.

And as I go through the envelopes, I can see the amount of money increasing each month. The most recent statement was last month’s. All this time, I never knew.

None of this makes any sense. The money, the secrecy, Mom .

Somehow, I found everything but also nothing. It seems Mom has shut everyone out of her past and present. We were never meant to meet, and if it weren’t for this trip—if it weren’t for Lan —I still wouldn’t know my family existed.

“Hoa à? Con v ? nhà à?” A weak voice floats through the emptiness, and my heart drops when I realize what the question meant. Someone in this house, someone who loves Mom, is asking for her—asking if she has come back.

Aunt Hi ? n turns her head to the corridor. “Do you want to meet your grandma?”

I wonder if normal kids get asked that question. Steadying my breath, I pick at my cuticles and nod. We stop in front of a small room with a pale blue door, the color mismatched against the dusty green of the walls.

Aunt Hi ? n opens the door and touches my shoulder. “Just so you know, she can’t talk much.”

A shaky voice calls out from the corner of the room. Her voice is a deep rumble, both breathy and… sorrowful. “Is that Hoa?”

Blinking to adjust my eyes to the dimness of the room, I look at the elderly lady resting on the pile of pillows. She looks just like Mom but much frailer. I wonder if Mom knows that her mother is bedridden and calling for her daughter.

“Bà Ngo ? i?” I murmur back, fully aware of the darkness of the room and how quiet it is. In Vietnamese, Bà Ngo?i means “grandma from your mom’s side,” and ever since I learned the word in Vietnamese class, I’ve always wondered if I would ever say it outside of the classroom.

She speaks in a whisper so low I would have missed it if I wasn’t holding my breath. “Hoa? You’ve come back? I’m so sorry, my baby. My Hoa.”

My heart tightens and I clench my fists. My own grandmother can’t recognize me, only her daughter. The daughter that left her.

Aunt Hi ? n hurries over to Bà Ngo ? i’s side and straightens her pillows. “She’s not doing well today. Please don’t mind her.”

Biting my lips, I glance around the room. It’s full of pictures of my mother and aunt. In every photo with Bà Ngo ? i, my mom holds fake flower props—some behind her ears, some placed prettily on her lap like a bouquet.

I walk toward my grandma and sit on the chair next to her bed. I study her face, seeing some of my own features. I take her hand and smooth the wrinkles on her palm. Bà Ngo ? i locks her fingers with mine and holds my hand delicately, as if I might disappear at any moment. As if I’m a flower about to leave with the wind.

“Bà Ngo ? i, I’m Vivian. I’m so happy to see you,” I tell her earnestly in Vietnamese.

“Hoa, con ? i.” The shakiness of her voice breaks into a sob. “You stupid, stupid girl. Why did you have to go? Why did you have to follow that boy? Why did you leave your mother?”

Aunt Hi ? n sucks in a breath behind me before grabbing my arm and nudging me toward the door.

Still, Bà Ngo ? i continues, her voice rising. “Stupid girl! Your mother is dying! Do you not have shame? No love left for your mother? All I want…” Her body convulses, her shoulders folding into themselves. “All I want is to see your face again. Hoa ? i, Má th ?? ng con.”

As Aunt Hi ? n leads me out of the room, I begin to understand that love contradicts. That when you have an overwhelming amount of love for someone, you can hurt them, too.