Page 9 of A Banh Mi for Two
Tri?t, still chewing, pulls the chopsticks from his mouth and shakes them at me. “Don’t you dare.” He waves me off and goes back to watching soccer, yelling some sports nonsense at the TV.
Má sets a plate of cá kho t? on the table, and pours some nu?c m?m into a small dish next to it, adding Thai chilies and a squeeze of lime. It’s hard to find a Vietnamese person who doesn’t like fish sauce. There’s probably more fish sauce in our bodies than blood.
Ba, more than anyone, drank nu?c m?m like water. It’s been four years since he passed, and yet I still catch glimpses of him in everything. From the sky to nu?c m?m, as well as every mundane thing in the world—it all doesn’t feel the same without Ba.
“What did you do today? After work?” Má asks.
“Nothing, Má. I just went to the park and, um, tried to write.” Maybe she’s upset at me for leaving early. I should have stayed at the stall. “From now on, I won’t leave—”
“Write!” She beams, slamming her chopsticks on the table before clutching my hand, startling me. “I didn’t know you’re still writing.”
I’m not. “Um, yeah. Just some scribbling. Nothing much.”
“That’s good.” She nods, eyes creased in the corner. I’m suddenly transported back to when Ba was here with us, right in this kitchen, when Má heard about our silly idea of a blog project and smiled so bright. “You’ve always been a talented writer. Just like your dad.”
I prepare for the gloom of grief to come over Má’s face, but nothing happens. There’s a slight grin on her lips.
“And don’t worry about the stall or me. Things will be fine. Just continue writing, I know that’s what makes you happy.”
I only nod.
Wait. Writing. My notebook.
“I think I left my notebook at the park.” I jolt from the table, almost flipping over the plates.
“Are you sure?” Má asks, her eyebrows scrunched. It’s late, con. Maybe you misplaced it somewhere.”
I dig into my tote bag, dumping everything out but the notebook. “Yes. I have to go back.”
“We can get you a new one tomorrow,” Tri?t chimes in. “It’s dark, so who knows if you’ll find it.”
My stomach drops at the thought. “No, it’s…” The notebook Ba gifted me for my twelfth birthday. I decided today of all days to use it in hopes that the feel of fresh paper would help me write. “I’ll be back soon!”
How on earth could I forget? Today is not my day. As my feet power through the streets, I pray to the stars and whatever good karma Dì Ba sent me that the notebook will still be there. I don’t care about the twenty-six pages of garbage I’ve written, but it’s one of my last connections to Ba. I can’t lose it, too.
Please, whoever and whatever you are, please send something good my way.
Chapter SixVIVI
Custard pudding. Salty and buttery puffs. L?p xu?ng sticky rice. Mung bean pancakes. On days when I’m sick, pork floss served on piping-hot congee sprinkled with black pepper and dried onions. Flavors so distinct I see the food even with my eyes closed. Textures that shaped so much of my childhood.
A pillow lands squarely on my face.
“Ewwwwww, Viv! You’re salivating all over the bed!” Cindy’s voice echoes through the room, its shrill pitch hauling me from my sleep.
I muffle my face with the pillow and pretend to drown her out. “For the love of God, let me sleep. You passed out on that plane. Not me.”
She yanks the pillow from underneath my arms and smacks my face with it—hard. “You slept for two hours. That’s enough rest already. We’re going to dinner. Our first dinner in Vi?t Nam!” She shakes my shoulders. “I’m going to jump on you.”
I refuse to budge.
“One.”
“Cindyyyyyyyyyyyy…”
“Two.”
“I would never do this to you.”
