Page 5

Chapter Five

LAN

Exactly twenty-six pages of garbage. Words don’t flow out of my pen like they used to, and the more I stare at the scribblings inked throughout my notebook, the more it makes me nauseous. The sun has set, the velvet blue sky draping itself over Sài Gòn. In the distance, Landmark 81 looms over the city. Students are probably trickling into parks and businesses, gossiping over drinks and food. People are dressing up for date nights or visiting District 1’s sprawling new-age boutiques, restaurants, and bars. Maybe I would be joining them if Ba were still alive. Maybe I’d be in a karaoke room right now, debating over songs to sing with new friends.

But I can’t.

Time to go home.

I retrace my steps back from the park, looping through alleyways as the familiar sight of monsoon-weathered walls and colorful homes comes into view.

“Lan! How was work today?” Dì Sáu, the flan lady, spots me while tidying up her street food stall at the corner of our alley: a cart for the flan, coolers for the ice, and plastic utensils for customers. She sets up the stall right in front of her house, hauling fresh and homemade dessert out every hour of the day.

I rush over and help stack the plastic stools. “Today was fine. We didn’t have to stay too late. I even got to go to the park and get some fish balls!”

She clicks her tongue. “You always work so hard. Even helping me clean up. I’ve been able to close early, too. New customers came like flies, telling me someone recommended this place! What nonsense, no one knows about this tiny alley. But whoever it is, I hope they get good karma.”

The left corner of my mouth curves upward. “I’m sure they’ll be happy to know they’ve helped you.”

“How have you been? And your mom?” she asks, concern in her eyes.

I’ve anticipated this question. Everyone asks me how I’m doing every chance they get, as if I can’t handle things on my own. “We’re doing good. Don’t worry about us.” I smile, making sure to flash my teeth to amp the persuasion.

“Tsk.” She clicks her tongue. “You shouldn’t be like me, all haggard under the heat every day. You should be out with friends, going to university, enjoying your youth.”

Not knowing what else to say, I plant my eyes on the leather part of my sandals. “I’m okay, Dì. Going out and stuff isn’t my thing.”

Who knows? I haven’t been out with friends in so long. Street food dates are more or less a blur in my memories.

She slumps her shoulders, reaching for my hand. “Let yourself breathe sometimes, Lan.”

But I can’t afford to , I want to say.

“Go home. I can do the rest myself. Remember to eat lots and take care of yourself, okay?” She plops a plastic cup of sweet yellow flan into my hand.

“I will. Thank you, Dì.”

Vietnamese is a funny language. Dì, ch ? , bà, and other honorifics all literally mean auntie sister, and grandma, yet we still address other people not related by blood with these words. Related or not, we’re connected by bonds stronger than familial ones.

Even in a city as big as Sài Gòn, everyone just knows each other somehow. Someone you haven’t heard of? They’re probably someone’s teacher’s mother’s cousin. Or maybe a friend of a friend of a friend.

The mango tree comes into view as my feet carry me toward the one-story house I call home. Ba’s orchids greet me as I walk through the gates, shades of purple, pink, and yellow shining against the gloomy gray of our house.

Tri ? t greets me with an absent-minded wave, his eyes glued to the TV he brought home one day.

“You’re back? C?ng viên again? Shame on you if you didn’t bring any food home.”

“Just because you’re so mean, all the cá viên chiên is mine.”

He finally tears his gaze away from the TV at my comment. “Hey! I made canh kh ? qua for you! Don’t eat all of the fish balls. You know they’re my favorite.”

Classic Tri ? t, always demanding. But I can’t stay mad at him when he does my chores without asking for much in return. There’s a shared understanding between us, especially after M á ’s diagnosis.

M á parts the curtains from her sewing room, kissing me on the cheek and grabbing a bowl from the drying rack. “Scoop me some rice. I’ll eat with you.”

“You didn’t have dinner yet?” I ask, worry in my voice. It’s already past dinnertime and her abdominal pain gets worse if she doesn’t eat on time.

“I wanted to eat with you. You took too long to get back.”

Guilt sours my tongue, and suddenly, the soup becomes overpoweringly bitter in my mouth. “I’m sorry, I’ll come straight home next time.”

“No, I meant that you were missing out on Tri ? t’s food. I just wanted to try it with you, in case he poisons me,” she teases. He sticks his tongue out at her.

I laugh. “I’ll kick him out and send his butt straight back to B ? n Tre.”

Tri ? t, still chewing, pulls the chopsticks from his mouth and shakes them at me. “Don’t you dare.” He waves me off and goes back to watching soccer, yelling some sports nonsense at the TV.

M á sets a plate of cá kho t ? on the table, and pours some n ?? c m ? m into a small dish next to it, adding Thai chilies and a squeeze of lime. It’s hard to find a Vietnamese person who doesn’t like fish sauce. There’s probably more fish sauce in our bodies than blood.

Ba, more than anyone, drank n ?? c m ? m like water. It’s been four years since he passed, and yet I still catch glimpses of him in everything. From the sky to n ?? c m ? m, as well as every mundane thing in the world—it all doesn’t feel the same without Ba.

“What did you do today? After work?” M á asks.

“Nothing, M á . I just went to the park and, um, tried to write.” Maybe she’s upset at me for leaving early. I should have stayed at the stall. “From now on, I won’t leave—”

“Write!” She beams, slamming her chopsticks on the table before clutching my hand, startling me. “I didn’t know you’re still writing.”

I’m not. “Um, yeah. Just some scribbling. Nothing much.”

“That’s good.” She nods, eyes creased in the corner. I’m suddenly transported back to when Ba was here with us, right in this kitchen, when M á heard about our silly idea of a blog project and smiled so bright. “You’ve always been a talented writer. Just like your dad.”

I prepare for the gloom of grief to come over M á ’s face, but nothing happens. There’s a slight grin on her lips.

“And don’t worry about the stall or me. Things will be fine. Just continue writing, I know that’s what makes you happy.”

I only nod.

Wait. Writing. My notebook.

“I think I left my notebook at the park.” I jolt from the table, almost flipping over the plates.

“Are you sure?” M á asks, her eyebrows scrunched. It’s late, con. Maybe you misplaced it somewhere.”

I dig into my tote bag, dumping everything out but the notebook. “Yes. I have to go back.”

“We can get you a new one tomorrow,” Tri ? t chimes in. “It’s dark, so who knows if you’ll find it.”

My stomach drops at the thought. “No, it’s…” The notebook Ba gifted me for my twelfth birthday. I decided today of all days to use it in hopes that the feel of fresh paper would help me write. “I’ll be back soon!”

How on earth could I forget? Today is not my day. As my feet power through the streets, I pray to the stars and whatever good karma Dì Ba sent me that the notebook will still be there. I don’t care about the twenty-six pages of garbage I’ve written, but it’s one of my last connections to Ba. I can’t lose it, too.

Please, whoever and whatever you are, please send something good my way.