16 Evie
16 Evie
Hu ? , Vi ? t Nam
Evie had forgotten about that spike of anxiety she gets every time she receives an email from Grace Lang. Her mother, unlike
most Boomers, is a consummate avoider of phones. Even back when Evie was in college, then graduate school in Iowa at a prestigious
workshop she never quite lived up to, Grace preferred meandering emails over phone calls or, heaven forbid, face-to-face contact.
Midland was no New York or Los Angeles, but it terrified Grace to imagine leaving her hometown. As a consequence, Evie only
saw her mother on the rare occasions when Evie returned home. And even those visits continued to dwindle after college.
Evie skims Grace’s mostly unpunctuated, vaguely E. E. Cummings–like lines, with a dash of Emily Dickinson for good measure.
While teaching, Grace had been a rigid adherent of proper grammar, but now, loosened by retirement or general giving-zero-fucks,
her words weave in fascinating (if infuriating) directions. In another life, perhaps Grace herself might have become a poet,
had she not been crushed by an unholy fear of bucking convention.
A letter came—I opened it, by mistake, thinking it for me
yet it was for you. And it spoke of termination
and extending benefits though what benefits are there to find in being fired
do you remember when you tried to drop out of your master’s degree
and I told you that nursing paid beautifully
such talent you had for tending the vulnerable—
like when you volunteered with the cats at the humane society
what am I—your mother—to think when such things fall onto my doorstep like mice droppings
can’t help but wonder what you are doing in Vi ? t Nam as your career falls apart
You were always a dreamer
lost like your aunt
the horizon taunts you.
Think hard on where this adventure has gotten you—is it too much to ask
that you be safe in the storms
of life
Evie groans and archives the email, though stops short of deleting it entirely. After all, in its own way, it is a baffling
work of art.
The horizon taunts you.
Isn’t that the truth?
And this is just what she needs: her guilt-tripping mother tugging on her heart from across the world, reminding her of all
her failures, past and present.
Once, she remembered Grace differently. Grace always had a love for the dramatic—confined as it was to her husband and child—but she’d also been a relatively cheerful human, taking Evie to pumpkin patches on the first weekend of October, helping her affix iron-on patches to her denim jacket that she insisted all the other girls were wearing. Grace had been social and energetic, always willing to volunteer in what little spare time she had after teaching. She’d loved meeting her friends at the salon, emerging hours later in a puff of light brown curls, dancing in her husband’s arms in the kitchen as he admired her new hairstyle.
Her mother was there. Fully there, until—
And here Evie bites back the memory of her late father, one of the precious few she has. Danh Lang, extraordinary perhaps
only to the people who knew him, was a quiet wood-carver who worked in a small shop off a country road. He customized cribs
with fantastical animals or ten-foot wedding arches that distracted brides and grooms into forgetting their own vows. It was
true that he didn’t have a flourishing business, in the traditional sense. He put in much more effort than his fees demanded, often working late into the night
in the workshop to add that last charming detail for his delighted customers. Those same customers remained loyal through
all the phases of their lives, often making excuses to consign a toy chest or jewelry box they didn’t need, just to show their
support. Though perhaps it had been difficult to win the trust of their insular community at first, especially as one of the
only Asian Americans living there in the mid-eighties, Danh and his woodshop became a beloved part of their town until the
day he died.
And Grace never pressured him to handle his business differently, though they could have made efficiencies aplenty. She loved
him too much to change a vocation that gave him so much joy. What was important was that he was happy, and they had enough
to get by.
Evie adored the time she spent with her father in the workshop, sweeping up the sawdust, trying her hand at carvings when
she got older. Sometimes she just sat in the corner and read her stacks of books— The Giver , James and the Giant Peach , and her favorite, A Light in the Attic —until the late hours when the chill descended and the sky began to purple. They drove home with the windows open, even in
winter, talking quietly about all the little inconsequential things Evie regrets not being able to remember now. In some ways,
her summers with Auntie H ? o were like that too. Comfortable, yet utterly magical in their unrushed rhythms.
Danh was diagnosed with colon cancer when Evie was eleven years old, and their small world shook forever. Danh and Grace spent many weeks in Cleveland seeking treatment from the best doctors, or in California researching experimental treatments. Evie, worried and dealing with some of her own adolescent struggles, was left at home with Grace’s parents, who were kind enough, if remote. Grace emptied out their savings in the last few months of Danh’s life, trying to buy him just a little more time. Evie’s parents refused to take any money from Auntie H ? o. They sold the workshop at a pittance, which tore Evie’s heart apart. She could see it devastated her father, but he was
too caught up in Grace’s stormy determination to save his life.
When that didn’t work, after Danh was cremated and his ashes scattered over the rolling fields near their home, they found
themselves swimming in medical debt. Grace begged for loans from the bank, sitting through countless meetings to no avail.
Finally, she accepted money from Auntie H ? o, who’d convinced her that it would have gone to Danh anyway. It humiliated Grace to do it, but the alternative was bankruptcy,
perhaps even the loss of their home. She worried that Evie would go hungry or have to tuck away her dreams of college. Their
household absorbed their shared grief, then Grace’s spiraling anxiety.
It took years, but Grace finally paid everything back, though now she’s haunted by the thought of debts unpaid, creditors
calling at all hours. She would do anything to avoid living a life where a lack of money could dismantle everything she has
built.
So on an intellectual level, Evie understands all this about her mother. She shares some of the fear of disaster and the need
to protect oneself from heartbreak. One does not live through a hurricane without enduring some wreckage, after all. But she
also possesses her father’s relentless idealism, his conviction that if you can find a way to do what you love, the rest will
follow.
Many days, she feels like there are two forces tugging at her. One, spearheaded by Danh and Auntie H ? o, telling her to reach wildly, to live as if each day is her last. But on the other side, there’s Grace, cautioning her against loving with abandon and trusting that the world will catch your fall. The reality is, for many women, the world is not built to catch them at all. Life isn’t a net. It’s a funnel, swirling you ever faster to the narrow, uncertain end.
As an antidote to her mother’s email, Evie glances through a text from Lillian. They’re interviewing for your job right now and Graham is at his wits’ end. Everyone coming in is either a pretentious prick
or a near-teenager, barely out of the classroom themselves. It’s a shitshow.
Plus a dancing emoji.
Evie writes back: You do know that you’re rooting against your own husband now, don’t you?
Lillian’s response: I’ll stick it to the man any day for you, cousin.
Loyal Lill. Evie had known that her department would be interviewing soon, but it hurts nonetheless to hear about it. Sure,
she’s never been a natural at teaching at the college level, but she wasn’t terrible at her job. Back in high school, she
tutored young kids, and she loved the playfulness of those lessons. Incorporating music and art and pop culture. Finding a way to bring words to life for them.
At Midland, it was about following a strict paradigm of composition lessons, plus a splash of classic poetry for “culture.”
The admins looked askance at lessons like hers, and honestly, the students seemed bemused as well, uncertain of how to perform
when there was so much freedom in the curriculum. In one ill-advised lesson plan, Evie brought in miniature tubs of Play-Doh
and asked them each to sculpt their concept of death. At least two students dropped out after that class. Evie reflects that
perhaps her classes could have benefited from a little more structure.
Meanwhile, nothing from Atlas in days. It doesn’t bother her, exactly, this rhythm of unpredictable texting. After all, when
he was wooing her, there was a similar pattern of push and pull. She’d found it exciting then. But she’s not thinking of Atlas
in that way anymore. She’s thinking of a certain gorgeous man with impossibly soft lips, a hard jawline, and hands that seem
to know exactly what to do with her body.
She groans.
“Five minutes, babe!” Fen yells, pounding on the door.
Her footsteps fade before Evie can respond. Fen has taken to this aggressive, unsolicited reminder for Evie nearly every morning, though Evie assures her that she can be on time when needed. But it always makes her smile to hear Fen at the door.
Evie throws a pair of shorts over her bathing suit and adds a loose linen shirt. At the last minute, she plops a straw hat
on her head. Some of the tour guests are taking a boat cruise down the Perfume River to the better-preserved of the seven
imperial tombs in Hu ? . Others, declining the roasting heat, are going to a spa at the Azerai La Residence, trying out traditional Vietnamese cupping
methods, as well as something puzzlingly referred to as “bamboo leg therapy.”
Once Evie and the rest of the boat guests arrive at the dock, she sighs, thinking of the serene spa day she passed on. No
Adam in sight. Evie tries not to think about where he is. Surely he’s not a spa guy. The man doesn’t have a relaxed bone in
that (incredibly muscled) body. Since the night outside her hut in Nha Trang, she’s been seized with very vivid fantasies of that body. She tosses and turns most nights, wondering if it would be completely insane to show up on his doorstep,
banging loudly the way Fen does for her every morning. Asking for... what? Release from this blue-balled hell?
Every time they meet each other’s eyes, he is either extremely smoldering or extremely avoidant. No consistency at all. It
gives a girl whiplash.
Evie tosses him out of her mind, like a moldy piece of cheese. She’s been looking forward to seeing Emperor T ? ?? c’s tomb. The artistic ruler’s tomb is a uniquely picturesque spot, with stately gardens and organic landscaping, all centered
by a pond where the emperor himself liked to spend his afternoons reading and writing poetry dedicated to his many mistresses.
On the boat, she snaps photos of Fen and Talia, along with the other guests. Their long barge is painted with yellow scales,
and the front is shaped like a dragon head with sharp, carved teeth. She hesitates for a second, then sends a handful of photos
to Adam. She lied when she said she threw the dossier out. She saved it just for the contact information.
No answer. She sits in the covered interior of the boat and fiddles with her bag, then opens her notebook, pen poised. A poem on demand is unreasonable to expect, but maybe just a quick note? Anything?
Don’t rush it, Evie-pie , says Auntie H ? o’s disembodied voice in her mind.
But all that comes to her is an everlasting blank, as white and unblemished as a snowy field. Had there ever been a time when
she scoffed at writer’s block, producing with the verve and passion of a young poet? A time when she’d been bloated with confidence
and expectation, the world fluttering open in front of her like the leaves of a book?
Those days seem very, very far away.
She sighs and snaps the notebook shut again, tucking the pen into her hair in a bun. Takes a big swig of water. Dehydration
will cause strange and unseemly visions, she’s been told. Maybe she should welcome a hallucinatory trip. She’ll take any writing
fodder at this point.
“You all right there?” Talia asks, settling in next to her.
“My inspiration has dried up,” she answers. “Like sands through the hourglass.”
“Poetic.”
“And one hundredpercent plagiarized,” she says glumly. “Is it me, or is it hot as Satan’s armpits today?”
“That’s Vi ? t Nam for you. You sure that’s all?”
Nope, not by a long shot.
Talia continues, “My mother used to tell me that being near the water made people more pensive. I know I’ve been thinking
through things.”
She gives Evie a warm smile, and something about the other woman reminds Evie of the gentleness of her father, working steadily
in his workshop. That calming way of listening, as if her words matter. She feels a sudden rush to confide in Talia—but what
would she even say? How can she explain her simmer of emotions?
Finally, Evie admits, “I’m grateful to be here, but I’m worried about what I’m leaving behind, back home. This is an escapist
trip, you know? Everything is just so gorgeous and luxurious. But it isn’t real life.”
“Are you worried that you won’t find someone you connect with?”
Evie laughs shortly. “No; that’s the least of my worries. I just think I might be procrastinating about my future. I know
this will come as a devastating shock to you, Talia, but I’m not exactly at the top of my career. Not like the rest of you.
I’m no award-winning philanthropist.”
Talia shrugs. “That’s only one part of life. I like what I do for a living, but I struggle in other ways. I’d give it all
up today for the right person.”
Her eye slides to Pin, who is pointing to the shore at a giant ibis with a lightly curved beak. Evie crooks her head, glancing
between the two. Beautiful Talia and shy Pin. Could it work?
Talia says lightly, “We all struggle. It’s the human condition. We’re all looking for something, otherwise we wouldn’t be
here.”
“What are you struggling with?” Evie tries to hide her incredulity. Talia seems to have absolutely everything.
“I’ve had some difficult relationships. Men who want me to be an accessory for them or, simply, a silent companion. Dating
is hard when you’re known as a commodity—MissSài Gòn—rather than a living, breathing, flawed human.”
Evie thinks guiltily about her own preconceptions of Talia. Wasn’t the point of the tour to get to know people outside of
their first impressions? Wayward poet, pristine beauty queen—Grumpy CMO? None of these quick categorizations are nearly as
interesting as the humans themselves, complex and ever-changing.
“I’m sorry, Talia. You’re so much more than some sash you wear.”
“I’m learning that,” she says softly. “I got so small after those relationships. A lesser, more frightened version of myself.
My sister urged me to consider this trip, to welcome what the unknown could bring, even if it means a shake-up to my world
order. She says that bravery is not an inherent trait but a practice, a series of decisions you make every day, big and small.”
“My Auntie H ? o said the same. In fact, those were pretty much her last words to me. Before—you know.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thanks. Grief is a funny thing. It feels like I can’t be happy without the sorrow finding a way to jut through. Like stepping
on a shard of leftover glass when you’re just trying to walk down a hallway in your home.”
“Take it from someone who’s lost both parents: that mixture of emotions is the price of a life fully lived. I’ll take the
grief if it means I don’t have to miss out on any of the love that precedes it.”
Evie reaches over to squeeze the other woman’s hand. “You’re a very wise lady. I can’t even be jealous of how wonderful you
are because I like you so much. Pin is lucky to have you.”
Talia blushes. Evie watches her sidle next to Pin, asking a question about the ibis. For them, love seems to be a slow creep,
a warm blanket thrown over a sleeping body. Comfort. Evie’s heart aches for them. And maybe, just a little, for herself.
Then, a buzz in her pocket. Adam. You forgot the selfie.
She snaps one of her grinning at the camera, then sends it off, along with a caption. Try not to obsess over me too much.
A few seconds later, his reply arrives. Too late. Already made it my phone wallpaper.
Replacing your vampire glamshot?!
Pssht , he writes, vampires are so yesterday. It’s all about therianthrope werewolves now.
She can’t stop smiling and wishing he were here . But then, her smile fades. Next time she sees him, which Adam will she get? The playful, smoldering one who flirts over
text? Or the cold CMO who looks at her as if she were a bothersome disturbance in his perfectly planned day? How much whiplash
can a person withstand before throwing in the towel?
Evie is a woman of determination, but even she has her limits.