Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Mimi
Mimi never told Toan about the list. She sat in the Dunkin’ Donuts on Walnut Street and stared at the faded yellow legal pad paper that Madame New Zealand had started for her.
She had traced over the writing so many times to prevent the names from fading.
A place to start , she had called it. Mimi never forgot her kindness, the days she had spent at her computer searching public records and newspapers in Philadelphia for the names of adopted Asian girls who would have been Ngan’s age.
All of this would have terrified Toan, whose only real motives in life were to keep Mimi safe and his belly full. There was safety for Toan in knowing there was an endless expanse of a country that she would never get to. He thought it would protect her from more pain.
There were hurdles at every turn: her funds were limited, her time was limited, and there were many dead ends.
Mimi could not tell Toan about the seven names she had already crossed off her list. She could not tell him about the woman at the Social Services office who shouted at her through the glass barrier, “You gotta learn to speak properly. I don’t understand what you’re saying. ”
Nor the terrible cold she caught standing in the rain watching the house of the fifth girl on the list to see if she might recognize Ngan’s face. She worked through cold sweats in her madame’s basement the following day as she cleared out the cobwebs for their new wine cellar installation.
She wondered what Toan would say about the third name on the list, Rachel Wu.
She was listed in the Philadelphia Inquirer as an adopted Asian American, thought to be of Vietnamese descent, who had been named “Young Musician of the Year” in 2010.
Mimi spent her third week’s wages on a ticket to see her perform at the Kimmel Center.
She had never been to a concert. The stage was made of mahogany wood and encircled by red velvet chairs.
People looked down from tiers that were built up like a stairway.
Mimi sat at the back but had a clear view of all the performers.
There was only the echo of shuffling paper, programs that were being put away as the huge hall fell silent.
A woman with hair so black it was almost blue, tied away from her face in an unforgiving bun that pulled on her hairline, walked onto the stage.
The woman, Rachel Wu, swept her skirt back and nestled a cello between her knees.
It rested against her neck and shoulder like she was cradling a child to sleep in her arms. Her slim fingers pressed against the neck of the instrument, and she drew her right arm up before she closed her eyes and began to move bow against strings.
As the deep comforting notes rose to her ears, they reached every part of Mimi’s body.
A tingling ran through her veins, and the hairs on her arms stood up, her skin pimpling as the melody rose and fell.
But the deeper notes sank into the deepest part of Mimi, where she had buried her happiness so many years ago, stirring it up.
In that moment, the sadness that had eaten away at her faded.
She no longer languished. It all became immaterial for the two and a half minutes of music.
Hope had sprung again, and it was Rachel Wu who had given it to her.
Thousands of tears had run down Mimi’s shirt, and she felt a smile beaming from her face.
This was not Ngan; no, she was too old, at least ten years older than her girl would have been.
But Mimi never regretted the week’s pay nor the time she spent traveling to and from the Kimmel Center that day.
When the lights went up and the last person had left her section, she stared down at the empty orchestra seats as the lighting staff started to pull lengthy black wires into neat loops around their arms. She found a program on a chair beside her, folded it in half, and slipped it into her bag.
The music she had heard that day was Bach’s Cello Suite No.
1 in G Major, and she searched for the song on her cell phone as she walked out of the concert hall.
Once she returned home, she sat on the small bed that Madame America had bought her.
She placed her headphones in her ears and listened to the opening notes of the piece.
If she closed her eyes, she could feel the swift wind of the ocean envelop her.
The cello suite began with her careful steps in the sand, her feet sinking deeper than she expected.
The sun glistened over the water, and the sea air rushed through her lungs.
She felt the heat on her hair and skin. And there was another gust of wind against her body.
She started to walk faster, the sand hardened beneath her feet, and the waves kissed her toes.
The notes rose and rose as the water rushed over her feet.
Each note of the cello’s deep baritone pushed her forward, and she felt the occasional splash of salt water on her lips.
The waves and music began to resonate in unison, the burst of crashing water, a surprise between the rise and fall of the melody.
The music was every good moment she’d encountered in her life, the moment she held her daughter in her arms, the moment Toan had kissed her, the first mouthful of her mother’s cooking when she had returned home, the lovers she wished to forget and remember, her sister, her father, the enemies she saw off…
it was everything that had happened that made her heart soar in that piece of music.
She felt the beauty in life again in the brief two and a half minutes as the music played.
Mimi fell asleep that night with her clothes on.
The following morning, she woke before the house began to stir, unfolded the yellow legal note paper, and carefully crossed out Rachel Wu’s name.
There were just three names left on her list. Amy Tang in Bryn Mawr.
Jennifer Thanh in Fort Washington. Katherine Herzog in Chestnut Hill.