Page 21

CHAPTER 21 VI?T

On the 5, their car cruised over a flat expanse of sand and dirt and trees that somehow agreed to stop growing at the same height. The sky was a smoggy gray, but no rain. It still felt just as miserable. They had left the rural sameness of Davis, for more farmland, wild mostly, and the highway stretched on and on. His dad initially peppered the silence with questions—none of the answers required more than two sentences. That was how he always answered other people’s curiosity, so to receive the same length made sense to him. Only to him, it seemed.

“Why did M? want me to come home a day early?”

“Can’t your mother miss you?” Ba said, his tone light.

Viet let out a weak laugh. “Sure, I guess.”

“How’s school?”

“It’s been good. I made friends. Joined some clubs.” And I like someone, but she’s in a complicated relationship with someone else , he added.

“Good. Good.”

Viet made a comment about his music choice—some folk music channel—and in turn, his dad made a comment about the driving habits of the car in front of them. That was it. He didn’t have it in him to get creative with additional questions.

His mother stayed home this time. Her voice at three a.m. still lingered with him. It was sad. It was hushed. Maybe she’d been hoping to rant about her father, then decided against it. He glanced over at his father, wondering what they could have possibly fought about this time. The business? Money? Laziness. Possibly. That was always her mother’s accusation against Ba, and Viet secretly thought her idea of laziness was not what most people thought. It was just any effort less than hers.

Ba let Viet sleep. When they hit the 405, they pulled into a rest area to fill up the gas. As they left, the rain, hidden for most of the trip, finally caught up to them. He stared through the blurry front window, at smeary red, blue, and black watercolors. There were so many cars honking, another nap would be impossible.

Soon highway trees grew more spread out. Viet couldn’t understand why, but the landmark that always told him he was close to home was the Seal Beach Tennis Costco, where Viet once fooled around on the keyboards, attracting not the admiration but the ire of busy shoppers; his parents’ loading dock, where he’d pretended he was in a cave and yelled into the back of empty semis to hear his voice when he was bored. Bolsa Ave was packed with restaurants and storefronts, and yet its four-lane, five-lane width sometimes made Viet feel like there was nothing around.

They hit the sleek, slippery asphalt and arch of the Today Plaza, and Viet knew he was just about home.

Outside their house, Ba parked but left the engine on. After Viet gathered his luggage from the trunk, he noticed his dad still hadn’t moved, so he knocked on the passenger window. It slid down and he poked his head through. “What are you doing?” The windshield wipers hit a wobbly rhythm against the rain. The drops falling against his nape.

“I’m not staying.”

“Where are you going?”

“Not far. But I won’t be here tonight, con.”

Viet glanced back at the house, noticing only the kitchen light was on. His mother was home. “I don’t get it. Ba M? c?i nhau or something?”

“No fight. Nói chuyen v?i M? ?i. Ba s? g?p con another time.” Ba’s face changed then. All of it started to twist, like he was going to cry. Before Viet could say anything else, his dad shifted gears and drove off.

It wasn’t unusual for his dad to go on a drive after an argument. And for Viet to check on his mom before she brushed away her angry tears. But his dad would come back, and things would be normal. That was the way it always had been. He’d come back.

So what was this poisonous sensation, sitting in Viet’s stomach?

Viet had never been away from home for this long. Maybe the longest was two weeks—when they visited family members in Texas. But entering his home now was the same as before—his house had its own smell: a mélange of lit joss sticks, garlic from last night’s sautéed dish, mustiness seeping up from the basement. He took off his shoes. His parents had cleaned up the shoe rack, which, for the longest time, was a true hazard zone. He let the house’s scent lead him through, like an owner trailing behind their leashed dog. The soft straw broom with its striped red-and-green handle still leaned against the hallway table for easy access. His high school diploma now hung underneath a portrait of the big belly Buddha and above some market-bought watercolor of a rice paddy field.

His footsteps were light, as if he’d woken up in the middle of the night and was trying not to disturb anyone. His muscle memory returned. The doorway to the kitchen had a raised trim, requiring anyone to take a bigger step so as not to trip. He swerved to the left to avoid the potted fig tree partially blocking the doorway. Why had they never thought to move it?

Still, everything just felt wrong. Off.

In the kitchen, at their round glass table, his mom sat alone, haloed by the ceiling light. A steaming cup of what he imagined to be jasmine tea was before her. She was in her bathrobe—it was older than Viet, she always liked to brag—and her wet hair was held together in a bun by a clip.

His growing list of questions could wait for a minute. Before his mother could turn her head, he went behind and bent over to embrace her. She hugged tight, tighter than the last hug she gave him when she’d dropped him off.

When they broke apart, M? held him by the cheeks and she smiled. “Tr?i oi, con ai ??p trai v?y?” Viet pretended to bat away her hands. He wasn’t any handsomer, but he let his mom dote on him. It chased away his worries for the time being. She then asked, “Con ?n ch?a?”

He couldn’t hear any oddness in her tone. It was as if she never spoke to him last night. “Still full. Grabbed some things from the rest area.”

“Okay, good. Well, con mu?n ?n gì thì nói M?.”

“Don’t worry; I’m not hungry.” He noticed his mother glancing over his shoulder.

“Did your father leave?” she asked.

“Yeah, but he didn’t say where.” He sat down so he could be at eye level with her. “Did you guys have another argument?”

“No, not this time.” Her hands wrapped around her mug. “He is staying somewhere else.”

There was a hazy memory from his childhood, when it was storming worse than today, leading his father to book a motel room. He had dragged his feet into the kitchen the next morning, disheveled in his clothes from the day before, and Viet’s mother took one look at him, shook her head, then told him to sit down and eat breakfast. The reason for his father’s brief departure was forgotten, but he always remembered the relief on his father’s face when he was told to join the meal.

So, Viet thought, his father just needed a night away. At least, he expected his mother to say something to that effect. Not—

“He found an apartment and has started moving in.”

An apartment? “Was the fight really that bad, M??” he asked.

“It wasn’t a fight this time. It was a decision.”

“Ba and M? ?? chia tay?” A more serious word for divorce existed, but Viet could only think of this one—a separation of hands.

His mother nodded. “Ba M?… we didn’t want to fight anymore.”

“How did—when did you two decide on this? Why didn’t you tell me this was happening?”

“Ba and M? didn’t want to distract con from school. You’re too young—”

“If I was five, I’d be too young. I know you had to hide stuff from me then. But I’m almost nineteen now,” he said in a raised voice. “You should have told me! I didn’t know things were this bad. That it’d get to this point.”

“What could con do?” she asked. Now her voice hardened, as if to remind him that she was the oldest in the room. “Ba M? made up our minds; there was no stopping our decision. Even if you came home the day we signed the papers, that would have changed little.”

Viet had no response for that.

“We sat in this empty house”—she gestured around her—“and realized we could not share the space anymore. There was no more happiness because we took each other’s happiness.” She shook her head. “Remember when con would comfort me, and would ask what happened after a fight. Trong lòng M? bu?n, nh?ng M? kh?ng mu?n con bu?n theo.” She thumped her heart with her fist. “Children shouldn’t know how much their parent suffers. It is not right.”

Too late. Emotions weren’t that easy to safeguard; he’d always felt his mother’s, she must have known that, but without words, without M? sharing her pain with him, there was nothing he could do. Maybe if she had said something, put a name to their issues, maybe he could have been there for her now, unlike the way he floundered in his past. Instead of asking What happened? he should have just said I’m here. Let me help. In any way.

Just as he kept them together, his departure split them apart. His irrational side criticized himself. Told him he should have stayed at home, gone to a nearby college, because maybe then his parents would still be married. Except he would have hated it, being stuck inside their arguments, forced to pick sides, finding no way to help them since he was just the child and they were supposed to be the adults. Did that mean they spent all these years, together, just because of him? Was all their misery because they thought he couldn’t handle a divorce?

More questions—no, they were demands—were racing through his mind; they were shouting, and he couldn’t tell them apart. He couldn’t say them aloud. Because as his mind raced, his heart twitched in pain. His mother was like him—bottling up all that sadness. The only difference was that Evie and his friends noticed before he did, while he was far too late seeing the depths of his mother’s pain.

Spewing more angry words wouldn’t get them anywhere. His mother, her anguish—her mask from when she happily greeted him was gone; he called to mind his last look at Evie. Her resigned acceptance, the empty look in her eyes when she was seeing all the flaws in her relationship with Jake.

He rose from his seat. “Can I go to bed? I… I’m tired and need some sleep.”

“Okay, con.” His mother’s hands went back to her mug for warmth. “There’s work in the morning, but let’s talk at dinner.”

Bao: hey man i heard smtg from my mom about your parents?

Bao: call me if you want

Viet didn’t end up calling Bao. So Bao rang him. Three ignored calls later, Viet figured he might as well silence his phone, but his best friend seemed to give up after that. Maybe he had gotten the hint. He wanted to be alone; he couldn’t manage his own thoughts, let alone someone’s words of condolences. Was that the right word for this type of situation? Condolences came with death, and in a way, his parents’ marriage did die. But whether it died unexpectedly, or it was terminal… ironically, if Bao was here, he would know how to phrase it.

He had the house to himself; his mother woke up before the crack of dawn and headed to work. She left him some cash on the counter to order whatever he wanted, which had never happened before. Did she feel bad? Did she think Viet would be mad the next day? Was the money her way of making amends?

Spite surged through him as he ignored the money, and dug into a cabinet for stale, off-brand cereal. The fridge had soy milk, and it wasn’t his favorite combo, but it would do for now. The doorbell interrupted his glamorous brunch.

Correction: his best friend interrupted his glamorous brunch.

“Hey, man.” Was Bao always this tall? Kid must have grown an inch or two at school. “I just wanted to check in on you. See if you’re all right.”

“My parents are getting a divorce, Bao. Of course I’m not okay.”

That voice—laced with anger—it couldn’t have possibly come from him. The subsequent silence proved him wrong.

“Yeah, of course,” his friend answered quietly. “Of course you’re not okay. That was—I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say. Words aren’t coming easily today.” He smiled weakly. “And I’m supposed to be the English major.”

Viet looked away. He gripped the screen door’s edge, leaned his back against it to keep it open.

“I kind of want to be alone right now. No offense.”

“Yeah, sure. No problem.” And yet Bao didn’t move. “Linh says hi too. She knew I was coming to see you.”

“Does she know too?”

Bao’s eyes widened. “Well, yeah, but—”

Viet clenched his jaw. “And what did you tell her?”

Viet imagined his mom out working alone, the judgmental eyes on her. People speculating why they divorced now—throwing darts at targets just to feel the rush of victory. Bà Nhi, the most malicious gossiper out there, was no doubt sitting in her usual booth at Bao’s family restaurant, doling out rumors to her listeners—the very people Viet’s mom regarded as clients.

“I… I told her I was gonna see you.”

“What, so that you can confirm if the rumors are true or not—”

“No,” he quickly said. He stepped forward. “Honestly, I was just worried. You weren’t texting back or answering, so”—he exhaled, as if the strength to speak had left him—“I really wanted to know how you were holding up. Sometimes I can’t tell what you’re thinking. I got worried.”

Viet was disgusted, not with Bao but himself. Some inaccessible part of his brain knew Bao hated gossip as much as him, and that of course he was here as a friend. And of course Linh found out from someone; it wasn’t like she sought out rumors either. Did that mean Evie also knew? She was probably going home now. Or was already home.

His disgust morphed into anger, and it caught fire, and he didn’t have anyone else to target but the best friend in front of him.

“You should go. I don’t need anyone to talk to. I don’t feel like talking, okay?” He walked forward with bare feet while Bao walked backward, nearly stumbling on the porch steps before he caught himself. All the while he looked confused and there was hurt in his eyes too.

No anger, though, which Viet would have preferred, because that would mean they were on equal footing. Hating himself even more, he shut the door before his friend could protest. He heard him shifting his weight, his sigh, and his receding footsteps. Viet didn’t move until his friend’s car roared to life and pulled away from the curb.

One day, maybe, Viet would have the courage to apologize. But not now, not today. He abandoned his faux Honey Bunches of Oats cereal and trudged upstairs. In bed he buried his head in his pillow, squeezed his eyes shut, and wished he could be anywhere but there.