After a telephone conversation with her mother’s doctor, confirming her antidepressant dosage—from a quick check of the pill package that morning it looked as if she’d stopped taking the medication—Vân Ước was running a few minutes late for homework club.
She arrived as the last students were hurrying in. Vân Ước picked up a grizzly baby, Iman, from her mother, who was sitting with a tutor going through a pile of forms from an insurance company. Iman, happy to be mobile, started flicking the end of Vân Ước’s braid back and forth across her own nose, one of her preferred games.
“Did the drink delivery arrive yet?” Aatifa, one of the helper mothers, asked her.
“Yeah—it should be in the back fridge,” said Vân Ước. Aatifa took off to start organizing the afternoon snacks they handed around in the last ten minutes of class, and Vân Ước made for a table where she could see a group of tutors with no students allocated to them. She paired the boys up with students, and headed over to the primary school area, of which she was notionally in charge. Everyone was settled and occupied except for one tutor who was trying to deal with a mother who’d walked in hoping to leave her three children that afternoon.
Vân Ước explained to the mother that the kids couldn’t stay for today’s session, but would have to enroll, and gave the mother some forms to take away, first going through them to make sure she understood everything. She did a lap of the early secondary tables and handed out some extra stationery.
She greeted people, answered questions, made sure that Matthew, the least obnoxious of the guys from her old primary school, was paired with Thy Ngô, now in year eight, who had spoken to her with such excitement about math last year, and as she walked the familiar rounds she tried to imagine what Lou and Billy would make of it.
By halfway through the hour, the volume had increased from a buzz to a roar. It was a hot February day and gusts of air that came in just stirred up the heat and added some grit to the mix. Faces were sheeny with sweat, and a generalized end-of-summer’s-day waft of body odor and deodorant wrestled it out with the church hall’s own smell, also strong on a hot day, an amalgam of cedar, biscuits, books, and dust.
She could see where Eleanor, who ran the show, was, based on the knot of people surrounding her. Parents trying to ask about everything from scholarships to legal problems, a few shell-shocked-looking teachers who’d brought student tutors along for their first sessions, some little kids who just liked being near Eleanor’s knees, and a few regular volunteers who had first-session-back questions.
Vân Ước remembered her first time here as a student, a super-shy fifth grader. Eleanor had introduced her to Debi, saying, Now, you two, you’re going to get along like a house on fire. That had alarmed Vân Ước, but she took her cue from Debi, who smiled calmly and said, So, what are you reading, Vân Ước? And at the end of the session, she’d said to Vân Ước, You are a terrific reader. See these big girls, here? Vân Ước had looked around at the older girls who were tutoring students at surrounding tables. That’s going to be you one day. You’ll be helping the little ones. Vân Ước couldn’t believe it, but she was proud to be called a strong reader. And it had made her parents happy when she reported the comment to them that night.
Thinking of her parents brought her back to the doctor conversation. No matter how many times she went through it with her mother, the concept of medication taking a while to work never really sank in. Her parents both expected to take a pill and feel the benefits now. The medication the doctor had prescribed for her mother called for perseverance and some dosage adjustments. Her mother had started feeling better but was ready to throw in the towel after a week of feeling less well again. Now there’d be another conversation going over everything again. She sighed deeply.
Iman, still on her hip, sighed deeply, too.
Vân Ước had to laugh.