“I’m Vietnamese on my mom’s side.” He gets a fond look in his eyes. “My mom’s half Vietnamese, and the math says I’m one-fourth, but Bà Ngo?i raised me Vietnamese. She taught me the language. It was like our own world inside the farm. I only ate her food. I didn’t have a burger until I was twelve.” He laughs. “It was kind of a cultural shock for me when I moved in with my parents. I mean, Mom tries to keep our culture alive, but she’s really busy.”
He notices the confused look on my face. “My parents built this start-up IT company that took off extremely quickly. For so long, they were flying all over the world, and they didn’t want to leave me with a babysitter. That’s why I lived in Wisconsin.”
He goes quiet, scratching at his paper cup. “But for the past two years, they’ve settled in New York, so they asked me if I’d finish high school here. They wanted me to end it on a strong note, you know. I mean, I still don’t see them that much with all the work they have.But I couldn’t say no.” His eyes have a faraway look, and I wonder what memories he’s revisiting, what thoughts are hidden in his mind that he can’t voice.
“My dad works a lot too,” I tell him, and his gaze slides toward me. “I don’t see him often, so I know the feeling.”
He gives me a sad smile. “Don’t get me wrong. Ilovedliving with Bà Ngo?i. She was both a mom and a dad. My parents visited as much as they could. But—” He chews his lower lip. “I don’t know them. I saw glimpses. I know they love me. We don’t really fight.” He frowns, like the realization has just dawned on him. “Actually, we don’t fight at all. It’s like roommates, I imagine. I’m grateful for Bà Ngo?i, but it sucks sometimes.”
I nod.
He lets out an awkward laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry, that got too heavy, and I think this is our third conversation.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry about.” My voice is warm because he doesn’t know what I know. That the red is beautiful in this study room, and if I could see all the colors, they would be the soft shades of a sunrise. How his feelings and thoughts influence the shades and behavior of the colors. I don’t know how to tell him it doesn’t matter if we met five minutes ago; the colors will fall where they should.
“I remember you said you went to Vietnam in the summer, right?” I ask, wanting to feel the blush of that red again. I’ve missed these colors so much.
He brightens up. “We did. I think it’s the fourth time Bà Ngo?i went back since she got married. She moved here in the 1970s. She met Grandpa in Vietnam where he was stationed in Ðà N?ng. It’s by the South China Sea, and it’s stunningly beautiful. It was home for her, and my mom was born there. When his tour ended, they came to the US with him. Grandpa passed away when Mom was in her teens. He left them the farm and most of the fortune passed on to him fromhis family.Myparents met at Harvard, and they got married right after college. One year later, they had me.”
“Your grandmother sounds like an amazing person.” I try picturing the woman who raised him, who made him such a joy, someone so kind. I wonder if she’d be another shade of red or orange. If it was her who passed that on to Jamie. “I can’t imagine moving from Vietnam to Wisconsin. Losing her husband, raising her daughter, working on the farm that she owns? That’s incredible.”
“She really is,” he says, and if possible, he glows even more. “Taught herself English. Even got a degree in administration, which worked out really well for her with the farm.” He sighs, falling back over his seat. “I miss her.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Enough about me. What about you?”
I tense up, the smile slipping from my face. “What about me?”
“Your parents? Older sister? Did you ever live in…?” He frowns. “I don’t think I know your background.”
“Syria.”
“Oh. That’s…” He scratches his nose. “I can’t say I’ve met anyone from Syria before.”
My lips twitch. “There are a lot of us living here. Weird you haven’t bumped into one before.”
He nods. “Well, it’s an honor to meet you.”
I know he’s just saying words, but it warms my chest to know it’s an honor meeting me. That’s never happened before. There are a lot of firsts happening to me with Jamie.
“So tell me more.” He leans forward on the table.
I fidget with the latte, the heat seeping from the paper cup warming me too much. “I… well, my family comes from this island in Syria called Arwad. It’s a small one. Actually, they mostly lived in Tartus, which is a coastal city, because Arwad is a very small, rocky island.” He smiles, and I realize we both have the sea in our lives.“You just take a ferry to get to Arwad. Both my parents’ families knew one another, but my parents had never met. Dad went to college in Damascus, and when he came back, Mom…” I take a deep breath. “He kept hearing about this young woman who was the talk of the town with her… imagination. He fell in love with the person people were describing. Mom liked to paint. So he got her these fancy acrylic tubes. Had them imported from London. She agreed to meet him and fell hard. I think…I think it was love that made her leave Syria, because things were unstable, and she didn’t know if she’d be able to raise kids there. I don’t think she would have left her family if it was just her.”Left the jellyfish too, I want to say. That she didn’t know if the blessing would follow her. “They decided to try their luck here. Mom was already pregnant with my older sister. Moved to New York, and nothing was working with Dad’s degree. He’s a civil engineer. The only job he could get was operating a gas station. That’s where he’s been till now.”
I blink, surprised at myself. At all the words that just spilled from my lips. At how much more I want to say. I wonder if Jamie would believe me if I told him about the blessings.
I’m unable to look at him, focusing on an empty space beside his head. His blurry form is still, the red soft. It’s so different from his life. A farm he called home; a culture he speaks about so confidently; Harvard, for crying out loud.
“And your mom?” he asks.
I close my eyes for a second, knowing this question was going to be asked.
I clear my throat. “She passed away last year.”
I refocus my gaze to see sorrow on Jamie’s face.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispers.
I nod, biting the inside of my cheek.
He doesn’t ask the question everybody asks, and it throws meoff-kilter. He reads the surprise in my eyes and says, “Why would I ask you something that would hurt you?”
