19

Cleaning the apartment with her mother took up a couple of hours every Sunday morning. When her mother was sick, her father took over. The place might not be glamorous, but it was spotless. She didn’t think all families would run a damp cloth along every single freaking baseboard every week, for instance. Or have such sparkling plugholes. If only they could get some air through the place, though. The windows didn’t open wide, and there was no cross ventilation. Heavy mesh security grilles covered the windows that looked out onto the shared public hallways, and those windows didn’t open at all.

She packed her camera after the bleach-fest and went down to take some midday-light photos for her portfolio. In the foyer, she crossed paths with Jess, who was on her way in. They headed outside together, wandering over to their favorite outdoor garden area, the bench under a stand of ghost gums.

“I forgot to ask yesterday—how’s your mum going?” said Jess.

“Not great. I’m tablet-counting, though, so I guess she’ll feel better one of these days. Where’ve you been?”

“School. We’re doing the toy and book drive.”

A pang of school-homesickness hit her. Her old school did a massive toy drive every year to gather, sort, clean up, and distribute toys for asylum-seeker resource centers to send to the detention centers. How relaxing it would be to be back with her old friends and her old teachers. Even after a couple of years, it was still exhausting being in aspiration land at Crowthorne Grammar. “I wish we were little again, sometimes.”

“Not me. I’m not doing any more kid time than I have to.”

“All that pushing our parents have done. Do you think they get the irony that the more we do what they want, the less we can connect with them?”

“Pushing us to succeed is pushing us out of their gang?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m pretty sure my parents don’t know what irony is,” said Jess.

“And we don’t know the Vietnamese word for it.”

“I mean, it is irony, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, I think that would come under the situational irony umbrella.”

“It’s kind of sad.” Vân Ước opened her camera case and swapped lenses.

“We’re transitional.”

“Band name? Transitional Mews.”

“Mmm, an oboe and a violin. I’m not seeing it.”

“There are kids not much younger than us whose grandparents came on boats. They’re a whole generation in. Parents with proper jobs and perfect English.”

“Like we’ll be.”

“Our kids won’t be able to keep us in the dark like we can with our parents.” Jess got up and stretched. “I feel kinda sorry for them.”

Vân Ước headed for the street as Jess turned back toward the building. “Yeah, well, I feel kinda sorry for us.”

Her father had a chicken phở on the stove.

Vân Ước emerged, starving, from her bedroom, after a massive load of math homework and an intense “What’s with Billy?” wondering session.

Her ba smiled at her, gave her a significant look, and pointed at the closed bedroom door.

“Please chop the herbs now,” he said.

Vân Ước started cutting up the coriander and Vietnamese mint he had ready on the chopping board. “This smells SO DELICIOUS,” she replied loudly, playing along.

“And very healthy food. So good for you.”

“Just what you need when you’ve been feeling sick.”

“Now the noodles, and then we can eat.”

Her mother opened the bedroom door. She looked tired, but had a small smile on her face. “Why don’t you two just come into the bedroom and shout at me while I’m lying down.”

“Mama, perfect timing!”

“It does smell good. I’ll sit up and eat a little bit.”

Watching her father happily draining noodles, arranging the bowls, ladling in stock, Vân Ước felt relieved. Out of bed. Out of the bedroom. Eating. Good signs.

Her father believed his strategy of luring her mother from her bed with tantalizing food smells had worked. And her mother, the most obstinate woman imaginable, let him think it.