Page 25 of A Banh Mi for Two
“Why’d you choose the name A Bánh Mì for Two? I don’t think you’ve ever explained it on the site.”
“Because food is always meant to be shared,” I answer immediately. “At least in a lot of Asian cultures, everyone gets their own bowl while we pick off different plates in front of us. The same goes for street food. The name also comes from my dad. We’d order a bánh mì for two, splitting each half.”
“My mom gets really excited when we go grocery shopping and restock our fridge. I think seeing the fridge full makes her happy, like we’ll be full for another day. Maybe that’s why I love your blog so much, because we both look at food… beyond food.”
“I have to admit I never really thought that much about food and my blog. But this makes me really happy. You… get me.”
Her eyes hold mine, unwavering. “I hope I do.”
The coffee lingers on my tongue, and I realize how long it’s been since I treated myself to a cup of egg coffee. How long it’s been since I’ve sat down with someone my own age—besides Tri?t. “Thanks for picking up my notebook. If I hadn’t run into you, I don’t think I’d ever find the drive to enter this submission contest.”
“Well, you did run away from me—but we’re here. And I’m glad you’re giving this whole thing a chance, giving me a chance to help you.”
My chest warms, and part of me wonders what would happen had I never dropped that notebook; if Vivi’s path never crossed mine, where would we be now?
“Is there anything you’re hoping to see before you leave?”
She nods her head and takes out several photographs from her wallet before handing them to me. I hold them gingerly, noticing the creases on the flimsy paper. One is a photo of three women wearing beautiful áo dài standing in front of a tall, familiar building. They’re hugging each other, smiling at the camera.
They all have the same eyebrows and nose as Vivi. The same smile, too, almost.
“The reason why I’ve never been back is because my parents have never gone home… and I’m here to find out why. I’m actually here… without my parents knowing.”
My jaw drops. “You’re saying they have no idea you’re in Sài Gòn right now.”
“No,” she says sheepishly. “They think I’m in Singapore.”
“Vivi!” I gape at her. “That’s…” Highly dangerous? Extremely brash?
She sighs. “It sounds so bad, but hear me out. That’s my mom in the middle, she hates talking about Vi?t Nam. Every time I try to bring up how we should visit or anything about it, she gets super defensive. And I don’t know who the other two women are, but I think they’re my family.”
Family. The word tugs at my chest. “Your mom never told you why she left?”
There are plenty of stories about Vietnamese people in America, gossip about so and so moving across the Pacific years ago, international students marrying abroad, or families upending their entire lives because they scored an immigration visa.
She fidgets with the spoon and avoids my gaze. “Not once. So that’s why I’m here without them knowing.”
“Maybe there’s a reason why your mom left. Sometimes people have to run away, to find something better for themselves.”
I wish I could run away sometimes, too. But where would I go?
“She never told me the reason, though.”
“But… what if it’s something so horrible that she’d rather keep it to herself?”
She clicks her tongue. “They’re my family. I’m family. I’m blood related to these people. I deserve to know.”
“Blood related doesn’t mean…” I stop my sentence, seeing her face. “I’m sorry… I guess what I’m trying to say is, don’t resent your mom too much. You have both of your parents. Some people only have one or neither.”
“It’s not that black and white, though. I’d rather find out now before, well, they die without telling me.”
Memories of Ba and a wave of grief overcome me. She clutches the edges of the photographs in her hands, and I can see tears welling up in the corners of her eyes before she blinks them away. My heart pinches. “I was hoping I’d find these people somehow here… but the extent of my abilities is people watching and seeing if any faces match up to the photos—no success there,” she says, her shoulders slumped. “I wish I could see them, ask them about my mom, see where she grew up. But my Vietnamese isn’t that good, either. I can ask for directions and get by, but I don’t think my elementary Vietnamese can help me track down these people without knowing their names.
“Sorry,” she sighs. “That was a lot.”
I hold the photographs closer, and within the photo of Vivi’s mom and the two unnamed women, a sign stares back at me. “This was photographed in front of Ch? B?n Thành.”
She brightens. “No way! But… where is that?”
