“We could only bring so much, right?” she widened her eyes as she looked over to Dinh. “And almost everything I brought was either lost on the boat or in the refugee camp. I naively thought America was just a few hours’ journey, not on the other side of the world.”
“We all thought that, Anh,” he replied. “I left with a friend who constructed our boat from the wood of an abandoned piano and a small motor. Even parts of the keyboard and the strings were used to make the small dinghy. Can you imagine?”
Dinh closed his eyes. “My friend discovered it in one of the abandoned halls of an old colonial hotel. He cut it apart with an axe and constructed it during the night when no one was looking. We thought it would keep us afloat for a couple days … which is how long he thought it would take to get to America.”
“We all believed the same foolishness,” Anh said softly. She reached for the last mango and took her paring knife, deftly peeling away the skin.
“My friend died after our tenth day adrift. Sometimes at night when I can’t sleep, I still see him on his back, hollow eyes looking up at the sky. He’s telling me in only a whisper of breath that he thinks we’re really close … that we’re bound to see the horizon tomorrow. I hear his voice in my head, Anh, and then I see myself rolling his dead body into the sea.”
CHAPTER 53
SUMMER WAS HURTLING TOWARD ITS LAST WEEKS, AND THEclub was bouncing with children. Katie was enjoying her daily commute on her new, shiny wheels. Her bicycle, with its ten speeds and racer handlebars, made her feel like she was riding a Rolls-Royce.
Grace had found a new rhythm with the children being out of school and was finding great satisfaction in helping Anh practice her English. They had developed their own special rapport when they went out on errands together.
One day, after returning from Kepler’s, it occurred to Grace that Anh might enjoy another way to practice her English.
“Maybe you’d like to cook a meal here one afternoon?” she mentioned casually as she pulled out some of the groceries and put them in the refrigerator. “I could share some of my recipes, and maybe you could show me some from Vietnam?”
Anh’s face lit up. “Yes. Please.”
They decided to make it a weekly date. In the beginning, Grace showed her how to make simple American dishes she knew her family savored, like breaded chicken cutlets or spaghetti and meatballs. But then one day, she asked Anh if she’d be interested in making something a little more time-consuming.
“It’s a bit heavy for summer, but it brings back good memories of my late mother-in-law teaching me something from her family,” Grace smiled. “It’s called matzo ball soup, and I’m sure you’ve never tasted anything like it. It’s soft and comforting when you’re feeling down. I always make it for my children when they’re sick.”
Grace felt a wave of longing for her late mother-in-law, Rosie, when she brought up the soup. When asked what her secret recipe was that kept her dumplings so soft and fluffy, Rosie used to say: “A splash of club soda and a little bit of love …” Her words were now a warmth inside her.
Anh delighted in forming the round, soft balls in her hands and placing them in the boiling water until they floated on top. After they ladled them into bowls of chicken broth, Anh sat down and took a bite.
“This so good,” she said. “Taste like food … for here.” She placed her hand over her heart. “Next time, I teach you to make Vietnamese soup calledph?. So you learn, too.”
The prospect of being able to expand her culinary expertise and learn from Anh excited Grace. Just as Rosie had taught her how to make matzo ball soup and brisket, dishes she had never heard of before she arrived in New York, Grace now relished the chance to learn something new under Anh’s guidance. The cooking sessions were no longer just about Anh expanding her English vocabulary. They became more of an opportunity for two friends to work together to prepare a meal for the people they loved.
While the women cooked, Molly and B?o hung out in the den together, most of the time watching television. Molly knew the Wonder Twins were B?o’s favorite, but he was still happy to just watch anything on the television.
“He really loves those superheroes,” Grace commented casually to Anh one afternoon as she gently cleaned some mint leaves from the garden in a glass bowl. Their conversations had become more fluid over the past few weeks and the connection between them had strengthened. “It’s funny how that’s the thing he seems to love most here.…”
Anh looked up and tried to find the right words. “Miss, he think they help him find his parents.”
Grace’s face grew perplexed. “But they died, didn’t they?”
“Yes … but he believe the cartoon boy and girl become water and find them in ocean. They have powers to … you know … help bring them back like special warrior with magic power.”
Grace put down her knife. “That’s heartbreaking, Anh.” She looked over at B?o stretched out on his belly on the carpet. He was completely entranced by what he saw on the screen.
“But by now, he must sense that what he’s watching isn’t real.…” Grace thought of herself in those moments after learning her sister had drowned. How she had thrown down the sun-bleached gull bone that she believed to have magical powers once she discovered it was useless to help her.
Anh shrugged. “I don’t know, miss.”
“Surely he understands that they’re not coming back, though.…”
Anh looked out toward the window and noticed a small white bird perched on the sill, its beak pecking at something between its feet.
“In my country, we believe the dead are not really dead. That they are around us. Spirits of our ancestors. You know what I mean? They not really gone.”
Grace grew quiet. She thought of her mother and father who had passed on. She thought about her sister, Bridey. She understood exactly what Anh meant. She often sensed their spirits hovering in the air.
“I feel my sister when it rains,” Grace confided. “It’s never faded even after all these years. I wake up and the dampness triggers everything about her. It used to be that I’d only remember the day of her drowning. I’d see her face framed with curls, clasping a sweet bun between her fingers, and then I see my father holding her lifeless in his arms before someone drapes a raincoat over her tiny body.”
