Chapter 23 #2
She smiles widely, and I know now where Jamie got his smile from. She stands and holds out her arms. “Pleasure to meet you. May I hug you?”
I nod, thrown off kilter, and she wraps her arms around my shoulder. She smells like a flower bouquet in the middle of winter.
“Sit, sit.” She gestures to the seat beside her. She looks incredibly intimidating, but her smile is as disarming as can be.
Jamie sticks out his hands. “Can I take your coat?”
I give him a strange look. “You’ve never offered to take my coat before.”
“I’m offering now,” he quips. He’s taller than his grandmother, and the love in her eyes for him is unmistakable.
I shrug it off and hand it to him. “Thank you.”
“Jamie’s told me all about you,” Bà Ngo?i says, her perfectly manicured hands folded together.
She speaks with an accent the way Mama did.
Like English bows to her. “I really wanted to meet you. I know it was short notice, so thank you for agreeing. We have a whole thing planned this week with Christmas. You see, my son-in-law is Christian, so we have the dinner and the tree and everything.”
I nod. “It’s no issue. Jamie has told me so much about you, I feel I’ve known you all my life.”
Bà Ngo?i smiles. “So we’re friends?”
I glance at Jamie, who’s beaming so widely, my own face hurts.
“I hope so,” I reply.
“Ready to order?” Chef V?ong asks, holding a notepad.
Bà Ngo?i asks him something in Vietnamese, which he answers, and then Jamie interjects. Chef V?ong nods and waves a hand, to which Bà Ngo?i points at the menu before pointing at Jamie. Jamie answers and then looks at me. I stare blankly back at him.
“Sorry, sorry.” He winces. “We’re asking if you’d be okay with duck?”
“I would be, yes. Thank you.” I feel I’m intruding into someone’s family, like I have no business being here.
“Anything to drink?” Chef V?ong asks.
“Water for all of us,” Bà Ngo?i says.
Chef V?ong nods and leaves.
Jamie glances from me to his grandmother. I think I know what’s on his mind. I thought she’d be grilling me about being Muslim and asking if I had any influence over Jamie’s decision.
Jamie’s gaze catches on mine, and then he asks his bà ngo?i in a low voice, “Are you disappointed?”
Bà Ngo?i takes a deep breath, staring at her napkin for a second before gazing up at her grandson. “I won’t pretend and say I wasn’t shocked. Confused too. I still am.” She looks at me. “You told me about Jihad, and I wondered if she was the reason.”
Jamie shakes his head. “No, I’ve been thinking about this for so long.”
Bà Ngo?i nods. “And then I remembered the questions you used to ask me when you were younger. Why so many people believed different things. If they’re all speaking to the same God.
Why are we born if we’re just going to die.
They were big questions. I was worried I wasn’t able to fully answer them. ”
“But you always told me to keep asking,” he says quietly.
She places her hand over his. “I did. You were looking for something more. I just never realized it. But now you’re walking a different path than our ancestors took.
I will always love you, but the confusion needs time to go away.
” She looks at me. “This was the reason I wanted to meet you. I don’t care much about what the news says with their biases.
I prefer making my own opinions. And from what Jamie told me about you, you’re quite something. ”
Bà Ngo?i smiles kindly before gathering my hands in hers. I stiffen but don’t draw back.
“Please forgive me if I’m being too forward,” she continues. “But Jamie told me about your mother.”
I nod, a lump forming in my throat.
“How are you feeling?” Bà Ngo?i asks me, still holding my hands.
I dissect her words, trying to think of an answer.
I’m not sure how I’m feeling. I’m scared to be happy again because I won’t survive if that happiness is ripped away from me.
I think of my uncertain future and my sister who lives thousands of miles away.
I just thought of a mural I could draw that would change Mama’s story for the better.
I think of wanting to go to Opus so badly, I could physically bleed.
I think of how scared I am I’ll never escape the apartment and Mama’s ghost.
I stare at the tablecloth. “Many things.”
“When I came to this country,” she says, “it was difficult for many years. And then one day I woke up and I realized it wasn’t difficult anymore.
That it hadn’t been as difficult for a while, but I didn’t notice.
My daughter was ten, and I remember I woke before the sunrise, and something about that light breaking the horizon stayed with me.
I’ve seen countless sunrises, but it’s that one, insignificant day that I remember.
” She taps my wrist. “This will happen to you too. It’s the natural course of life.
I’ve been alive for sixty-six years; you can trust me when I tell you this is not forever.
” She smiles. “Next time I ask you how you’re feeling, you may have a different answer. ”
I take in a shaky breath.
Chef V?ong comes to our table, balancing a huge tray of food.
Roasted duck with crispy skin and steamed rice placed beside it.
Three bowls of beef noodle soup with bean sprouts and parsley floating on top.
Several fat rolls filled with shrimp, drizzled with a sauce.
Crepes with slightly curled edges, the beef filling nearly oozing out.
My stomach rumbles at the smell.
“C?m on,” Jamie and I say in unison, and Bà Ngo?i smiles at me.
“Please, dig in,” Bà Ngo?i says. “Xoài, here have one.” She lays a shrimp roll onto Jamie’s plate and then leans over to me. “His nickname is Xoài, which means ‘mango,’ because his mother craved mangoes during her pregnancy.”
Jamie turns pink.
“Okay, Mango,” I say, teasing.
“She used to go through an entire crate in three days. I thought she would throw up.” Bà Ngo?i leans over to squeeze Jamie’s cheek. He looks resigned to his fate. “But that’s why he’s so sweet.”
“Bà Ngo?i, please,” Jamie says, exasperated.
She taps her chopsticks along the bowl before asking, “Will you still be able to work at the farm now that you’re Muslim?”
He smiles. “Yes, of course.”
“Very good,” she continues, and then she turns to me. “I like her.”
The meaning drops heavily onto the table, and Jamie and I share panicked looks.
“We’re not dating,” he splutters, and I shake my head.
She winks. “Sure, you’re not.”
“No, I swear, we’re not.” I try not to blush as hard as I am.
Bà Ngo?i frowns. “Are you not allowed to date?”
“It’s not that.” Jamie keeps his stare on his grandmother. “There is dating. It’s just different. I’m just saying, Jihad and I are friends.”
“Huh.” Bà Ngo?i pouts slightly. “What a shame.”
Jamie and I avoid looking at each other while Bà Ngo?i orders dessert. A layered pandan cake that feels like biting into a cloud and a silky crème caramel suspended in a coffee-flavored syrup.
The sun has already set when we step out of the restaurant.
“Thank you for this,” I tell Bà Ngo?i, who insisted on paying, swatting my and her grandson’s hands away.
“You should visit our farm,” she says. “I think you’ll love it there.”
“That’s what I told her!” Jamie exclaims.
“Excellent.” Bà Ngo?i claps her hands. Her red lipstick did not smudge one bit. “I’ll be expecting you this summer.”
“Oh, um,” I stammer. “I’m visiting my sister in Qatar.”
“Then spring break,” Bà Ngo?i counters. “Whenever you want.”
There is warmth in my heart that keeps the cold around me away. “Thank you for all of this. I should get going. It was very lovely meeting you.”
“Where do you think you’re going?” Bà Ngo?i nods at the sky. “It’s nighttime. You can’t take the subway.”
“No, it’s—”
“Don’t fight it,” Jamie says as Bà Ngo?i does something on her phone. “She won’t let you.”
“Put in your address, please,” Bà Ngo?i says, handing me her phone.
After five minutes, a sleek silver car rolls up in front of Chef V?ong’s restaurant.
“Get in,” Bà Ngo?i says. “You let Jamie know when you’re home.”
I’m at a loss for words, so I keep parroting, “Thank you.”
She pats my cheek. “You’re a good kid.”
I get in the back seat, rolling the window down, and Jamie comes closer. “Text me when you’re home?”
“Will do, Mango.”
He rolls his eyes, and I don’t know if the pink on his cheekbones is from the cold or something else.
“She’s amazing,” I say. “You take so much from her…Hai.”
His surprise turns into a wide smile, and I think of it all the way home.
In my room, I take out the sketchbook, opening a new page.
I have the power to give Mama a different ending.
I draw her walking into the sea. She’s halfway through, her arms and legs already dissolving, like she’s becoming a part of the sea, free to swim wherever she wants.
Her yellow dress mingles with the sun’s rays reflecting on the sea’s surface, her face away from us, but she’s looking ahead.
Her hair, raven black, is as long as mine.
There is no harm on her. No pain. No ache. No regrets. No blood.
I close the sketchbook and go to bed.