Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Two
Mimi
To Mimi, Ngan was always Ngan, her Vietnamese child.
The fact that her daughter was most likely to be American still unsettled her in ways she couldn’t fathom.
Ngan probably spoke like all these white people who dismissed her, chewed their words at the end.
Perhaps Ngan would even dismiss her were they to come face-to-face—a thought Mimi pushed away immediately.
Mimi read the article again from the local newspaper in a Philadelphia suburb, a review of a high school theater production and a girl from Chestnut Hill.
Could it be her Ngan? Who had written this article?
Mimi’s hope was sparking inside of her again.
A faint flame was trying to attach itself to kindling.
Why would it be her? Why here? She tried to manage her expectations.
Mimi swirled the thoughts around her mouth, a foreign liquid she’d not tasted in years, bringing back a tidal wave of memories. She knew this taste.
If Mimi had learned anything from life so far, it was that inexplicable things happened.
Coincidences that could not be blamed on anything that existed within the realms of science—good and bad.
Her mother had died the very same day Ngan was born, an impossible tying of loose ends that she had no real hand in.
These lives that had meant everything to her came full circle in a neat symphony, but in truth, it was just a huge coincidence.
She pulled out the worn, faded photograph of Ngan as a baby and placed it neatly beside the old newspaper article that Madame New Zealand had printed out for her all those years ago.
Mimi had carefully preserved it in a manila envelope.
Once she came face-to-face with her own child, no matter how long they’d been apart, she would recognize her, wouldn’t she?
A mother was sure. Those beautiful dark brown eyes she remembered when her daughter had cried for something.
How could she forget? It was still the same memory, the same image she cherished, but sometimes her mind would wander, and she would question how well she could recall all the details.
So many years had passed, and she had lost the privilege of holding her daughter, of watching her grow.
A mother’s memory of seeing her run for the first time, hearing her mimic a phrase that sounded impossibly grown up, watching her tie her shoes, brush her hair, hold back tears from a sudden self-consciousness that set in.
This was what it was to be a mother, after all—to see your child’s transformation, to hold her beside you, and stare at her in the wilderness as she grew into a full-length shadow that came to life, becoming her own living being, slowly separating from her mother—and no matter how hard you grasped at her, she evaded you, was running to the next thing while you faded into the background.
Only for Mimi, she never had her moment in the foreground, at least not long enough to bear any significance.
This was a thought she couldn’t seem to push from her mind.
No matter how much she reached out to touch her daughter, she was out of reach. Because her child was gone.
It had taken Mimi almost two hours to get to Chestnut Hill.
The train routes had been canceled as it was a Sunday, and she had to change buses twice.
She looked out the window as they drove up the winding road along the river, restaurants on boats that must have been lit up with lights at night, but she only saw the empty ramps that led on and off the road.
She stared out at the stairwell and sandy warm stones that made up the Philadelphia Museum of Art.
She wondered whether Ngan had ever stepped foot in there.
Westerners always talked about museums, and she wondered whether she would ever go there herself, maybe one day, with Ngan.
Once she left the city, the bus tumbled along the potholed roads that led up to North Philadelphia.
The buildings were lower, the houses boarded up.
Mimi glanced at an upstairs window and her eyes met an older Black woman’s staring back at her, her face weathered with lines, the kind of brow that was permanently knotted.
And just like a dream, suddenly the bumps were from the cobbled streets of British architecture instead of forgotten roads, and the gentrified main street of Mount Airy began.
There were more trees with branches full of lush green leaves.
A chalkboard outside a fancy deli read “Try our signature wine cooler for the dog days of summer” in an elaborate curly cursive script.
Fairy lights were strung among the branches of the trees, and Mimi tried to imagine what it might look like at night.
Mimi stepped off the bus outside the Chestnut Hill Coffee Co.
and breathed in the scent of roasted beans, knowing the taste would only disappoint her.
A fleeting image of Saigon came to her. It was too quiet here.
There was no deafening assault of motorbike horns or angry shouts between hawkers and rooster crows.
There was only the sound of children chattering to their parents, churchgoers walking down the street, and cars silently driving past.
···
Mimi pulled out the newspaper article she had carefully folded and tucked into her wallet. The folds were so old now that some of the writing had faded away into the creases.
Katherine Herzog is a junior high schooler at Chestnut Hill Academy, starring in their Winter Showcase of Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility .
She plays Lucy Steele, the love rival to the main character, Elinor Dashwood.
Katherine’s performance is a refreshing interpretation of a traditionally unlikable character—but her charisma on stage leaves the audience torn over who to root for.
The Chestnut Hill Inquirer has its eyes on this rising star, who is sure to be doing great things in her future… onstage and off.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” a woman’s voice interrupted Mimi, and she stepped out of her way quickly.
She could have been the same age as Mimi.
She had thin strawberry-blond hair tied up in a ponytail.
There was a slow, deliberate pace in how this woman walked, and as Mimi stood beneath the shade of the awning by the hardware store, she realized that everyone around here carried themselves with the same unhurried, languid comfort.
The sun was shining, and the smell of fried onions occasionally escaped the Tavern a few yards away.
She could hear the leaves rustling as the breeze pushed along the avenue.
Two men dressed in polo shirts turned up at the collar and shorts and sneakers talked and laughed.
A silent wealth pervaded the air here. It did not smell this way in most of Center City Philadelphia or New Jersey except for Essex County, where her Madame America lived.
She waited for the light to change at the pedestrian crossing and saw a group of teenagers sitting on a bench outside a frozen yogurt store.
They could have been Ngan’s age. The two boys had broad shoulders and floppy hair, and the girls wore denim shorts and high-top sneakers.
The girls’ hair swayed with the breeze, so much hair hanging carefree down their backs.
Mimi had never had that type of hair. It was always short, sensible, and thin.
Could they be friends with her Ngan? She thought about how Ngan’s hair might be.
Was it like her own or thick and glossy like these American girls’?
Mimi took out her map. She had scribbled down the address on the back. A sweat patch formed under her sweatshirt as the sun bore down on her. She picked up her pace. It was already afternoon, and she had to be back in Essex County by nightfall.
The pavement on Gravers Lane was uneven.
She counted the house numbers on her left and saw that she would soon be at 51.
She stood opposite the house and looked at the driveway through the open gate.
The house was old, with a grandeur that shouted out at her We have money, don’t forget to wipe your feet.
It was a different type of money from Madame America’s, whose house was full of small, expensive decorative objects.
A menagerie of things Mimi always feared she might break, the cost of which would come off her monthly paycheck.
This house was sure of itself. It didn’t need ornaments; its stature was enough.
The garden was full of blooming flowers, heading toward the end of their summer glory.
A hydrangea bush heavy with blue flowers bounced in the breeze near the front door.
She looked through the painted fence around the huge garden; it was a garden that was loved and cared for.
She saw a swing under a vast thick tree and a metal spiral staircase leading up to a treehouse.
Fairy lights hung in the branches, now abandoned, and an old weathered bucket on a rope.
Mimi tried to imagine her, a girl giddy with excitement in this secret hideout with her friends.
She tried to imagine the house at night, lights on in the windows, the family meals, the bed she slept in, and the couch she sat on.
The gravel started to crunch as a car came down the driveway, and Mimi began to walk away.
She kept walking past the house and the next house until she reached the bus stop.
Five buses passed. She sat and felt a stain of sadness spread its way into her chest, a new sorrow she hadn’t known until now.
Could this be her Ngan? If it was her child, had her daughter had a happy life without her?
A happier life than she might have lived in Saigon with almost nothing, but with her real mother? What then?