Silence is the absence of sound other than itself—penetrating, filling, clawing its way through your ears. Silence is the worst sound of all, I’m beginning to realize. Nhà Hoa is silent in the mornings. No birds, no honking cars, no construction or neighbors, like back in our Philly suburb.
Just itself, wrapped around me.
I’m sitting on my bed, with fingers numb over the laptop. The flight itinerary I spent all night on is toggled next to the list of potential summer jobs. The spreadsheet calculates the cost on early travel home, as well as likely earnings if I’m hired and started in the next week. Very few digits would remain in my savings, far less than what I need on August 5th to pay Mom back and the next tuition installment. Especially because I’d be taking Lily with me.
I’ve wasted enough time in Đà Lạt.
As soon as it’s 7:30 a.m., I balance the computer on my forearm and hug the phone against my body to take outside. Barely down three steps, and Lily peeps out of her room. “I knew you were going to do something,” she whispers in an accusatory tone.
“No time to mess with you,” I say, barging on outside.
Equally stubborn, she trails after and plants herself right on the porch beside me. Her ankle bracelet glints over one fuzzy sock. “You’re going to call Mom and make us leave.” She doesn’t believe me, or worse, she does but cares more about pleasing Ba. I don’t ask which it is.
“You’re a genius,” I say, then press Call while Lily tries diving for my phone. It takes ten seconds for Mom to answer and immediately raise the camera above the length of a table, at which my aunts and uncles and cousins shout greetings over steaming soup bowls.
“Mom” is all I manage, exhausted by the sheer effort to not burst into tears. She reorients the phone so it’s facing her alone.
“Ăn gì chưa?” she asks, plucking the beansprouts’ spring-green ends before throwing them into her bowl.
I hadn’t. “Yeah.” I’d skipped dinner, and I’m too moody for breakfast. My injured hand settles over the keyboard so she can’t see. The spreadsheet flashes with a series of eeeeeeee’s.
“Hi, Mom!” Lily shoves her way into view.
“Oh my god, you’re awake?” Mom teases before her voice dips, clearly suspicious. “Everything okay?”
When my face does stuff (aka show emotion), it sure is a pain. My youngest uncle, Cậu Nhỏ, tells a filthy joke in the background, and Mom stifles a laugh because she’s worried about me. I had let my feelings slip. Nothing is more real than the cadence of her laughter—not the creaking floorboards outside my bedroom, whoever or whatever I think is watching me, the bugs twitching on my sill.
This woman—who doesn’t even know how to swim—crossed an ocean in a rickety boat to escape persecution, and I’m scared of a reflection. A dream. My reasons for running away seem ridiculous now.
I look up to Mom, but I’m not like her. She wears glittery tees, embellished jeans, and a smile, for anyone. At home, inspirational decals, throw pillows, mugs, and all kinds of décor and comforts shout at us.
Believe in YOURSELF.
Live. Laugh. Love.
Be your own kind of beautiful.
Sometimes, she brings them home without knowing their meaning. “Jade, what’s this?”
“ ‘Carpe diem,’ Mom, for live in the present.”
And in this moment, she is happy. Somewhere deep inside I’ve always known that money was only one factor in her not going back to Vietnam sooner. It was always me.
“I still have school in February.”
“Next summer.”
“I don’t want to leave Halle.”
The excuses rewind in my mind. I’d never wanted to come here because of the reality I would have to confront: this is not my home. I do not belong here. I am not Vietnamese enough, and everyone knows it—the lady selling gourds, the kid taking my tea order, my own dad. I stumble through the wrong tones and words, so I rarely speak it at all. Worst of all, I may be more like Alma and Thomas: an American.
This entire time, Mom didn’t want to leave me behind. She missed years with her siblings because of me. Even the money was me, for college.
She wouldn’t want to leave me behind now. She’d take Brendan and pack to meet up with us. It’s one of many reasons I love her so much.
I can be brave too in my own way. For her. I shut the laptop. “I don’t wanna get into it, but Dad’s being extra annoying.” Since that’s partly true, playing the role of disgruntled teen is easy.
Lily lets out a long sigh of relief that can be mistaken for exasperation and then, with an off-camera wink at me, groans. “Seriously.”
Our aunt slides into the frame to tell us that’s nothing new. She nudges Mom until they both burst into laughter. I smile. Adding “maybe ghosts exist” to the list of things I can’t tell Mom lightens my shoulders. When I shut off possibilities, I am also less likely to act on them.
For instance: I like girls. I like boys. Still sometimes more girls than boys. I like people who aren’t either.
The thing is, I’m 95 percent sure she’d love me no matter what. Yet, that 5 percent of the unknown can be anything from disappointment to too many questions. I don’t have all the words to answer them. I don’t have all of myself figured out to answer them. That’s what college is for. I need that space. That, and her peace of mind, is the prize.
“We getting ready to go another temple. Your brother is very bored.” Mom turns the camera to Bren, who skewers a beef meatball with his chopstick. Scowling, he mutters that it’s too early. He doesn’t seem to feel anything for our dad at all, and I envy him. He’s safe from Ba’s shortcomings. The screen returns to its makeshift stand. Mom slurps up her noodles. “You call Halle?”
My stomach drops. I can’t do this right now too.
Then she adds, “I asked her to watch Meow-a-Lot.”
“You what?” I say, my voice coming out low.
Mom scrutinizes my digital face. “I pay her. You don’t know?”
“We don’t talk about everything,” which is a lie and a truth in one. “I gotta go, Mom. Lily will call you on her phone.” My sister’s too excited by my lack of fortitude to question the retreat back into the house. She stays behind, dialing Mom’s number.
Of course, Halle wouldn’t have told her about our friendship blowing up. Mom would ask why, and Halle can’t answer that. We might not be gentle with each other anymore, but she adores Sir Meow-a-Lot. At least someone is in safe care.
I lift my bandaged hand, blocking out the sun rising over pine. It was an accident, that’s all. If I go home now, after spending almost two weeks here already, Ba wouldn’t have to give me anything. It’ll have been for nothing, and then I’d have to work my ass off to make up a tiny portion of what was promised. Or I’d have to defer for a year.
Nothing can hurt me here. Not more than I expected, anyway. I’ll walk away winning in three and a half weeks, money in hand without bothering Mom. My petty side, however, demands satisfaction. I’m on schedule to finish the website, and he already thinks I’m a liar. There’s nothing wrong with playing into a trope. I’ve always been good at that.
Ba will deal with the consequences of not believing me. Regretting that I haven’t been nicer, I scroll through my phone and hit Florence’s name.
TUESDAY 8:34 a.m.
Me: how about meeting up for that coffee?
Plea sent, I return to my bedroom. The knife, caked with blood, beckons from the floor. Finish what you started. I pick it up and work its blade into every other closed window while a plan draws out in my mind. Ba has to see it, experience it enough to admit that I am right.
Rather than an exorcism in this house, there will be a haunting.