A Wedding Invitation (29 page)

I ask if she’d like to try on the pants in one of our dressing rooms, but she pays me no attention. Her eyes are fixed on the flyer that is taped to the wall behind the counter. Dropping the item of clothing onto the countertop, she continues to stare.

“Her name isn’t Thuy anymore.”

“Excuse me?”

She looks like she’s debating whether or not to say more. After an awkward silence, she mumbles, “She goes by the name of Sophia.”

My gaze darts behind me to the flyer. “Sophia?” My voice cracks. “Are you sure?”

“I’d recognize her anywhere.”

“She has a daughter. Had a daughter.”

Crisply, she states, “You don’t ever ‘had a daughter,’ love. Even if your daughter is buried, you always have her. Even if the daughter doesn’t ever want to see you again, you are still her mother.”

Cringing at her tone, I take a step back.

“I take it this daughter is still living?”

“Yes.”

“And she wants to be found?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Hmmm . . .” She looks back at the flyer.

“Do you know where Thuy . . . I mean, Sophia, is?”

“I might.”

As my heart leaps, I pull out an extra flyer from under the counter. Handing it to her, I ask, “Do you want money?”

“Money to tell you where she is?” She laughs. “If only money was enough! I have a feeling that all the money in Vietnam couldn’t make me tell you where Sophia is unless she wanted you to know.”

“What do you mean?”

Taking the flyer from me, she clasps it to her chest. “I will ask.” Her eyes hold mine in a steely lock. “That is what we do for each other, is it not? Ask.”

“Do you think she’ll want to see Lien?”

“That I do not know.”

“Is she in the area? Does she live nearby?”

Although she doesn’t say a word, something about her expression causes me to believe that Lien’s mother is still in town.

I’m about to toss out another question, but my own mother, who has made her way to my side, places her fingers against my arm. Firmly.

We watch the tiny woman leave our shop; the bell jingles. Only the scent of her Chanel No. 5 and my flattened ego linger.

“Find out where she’s going!” I rush to the front window, almost colliding with one of the mannequins as the woman walks along the sidewalk. I look to see which vehicle she gets into, ready to take down the license plate number.

“Samantha,” my mother says, approaching me. “You can’t make this happen.”

“But—”

“You just have to hope she’ll get back to you and want to see her daughter.” Mom’s tone is harsh. “That’s all.”

Tears sting behind my eyes.

“Did I ever tell you about your great-aunt Ruthedale?”

I close my eyes, my eyelids acting like barriers for my tears. I hope she won’t go into a tangent like she does when she tells the stories of late Uncle Charlie.

“She tried to run the world.”

“Isn’t she the one who died of a heart attack at age thirty?”

“Exactly. She wanted to control everyone all the time.”

I try to blink back a tear but it’s too late; it has curved down my cheek. Walking toward the counter to put some distance between my mother and myself, I somberly say, “So she had a heart attack and died.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re telling me this because you want me to stop wanting to have things go my way?”

Mother pauses and then, “No.”

Pulling a tissue from the box we keep under the counter, I wipe my nose with it.

“I am telling you this because I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

The front door opens and three customers enter our shop. It opens again and one more comes inside, removing her sunglasses and pushing them on the top of her head. Mother greets them, calling a few by name. Regulars, I presume, yet I have no idea who they are.

One smiles at me and says she enjoyed the Elvis Night we had. She hopes we’ll do that again soon. The dress I convinced her to buy that evening has been a wonderful addition to her wardrobe. “Thanks for that,” she says as she heads over toward the scarves, now marked at twenty percent off. “I wore it to a soirée last Friday and got many nice compliments.”

I still don’t recall ever having seen her before. Sniffing, I decide sometimes your eyes don’t see well when your heart has been ruffled.

thirty-nine

W
hen I tell Carson that I’m coming down for another visit—mainly because of the wedding shower Dovie is hosting for Lien—he says he hopes he’ll get a chance to see me. I’m in a semi-state of elation, having just found out that Lien’s mother is in D.C. and that we are one step closer to reconnecting her and Lien.

I ask Carson, “Hope you’ll get a chance to see me? Are you not going to be in town?”

“Oh yeah, I will.”

I let silence enter our conversation, waiting for him to clarify.

He doesn’t, so I say, “Will you be busy or something?”

As the words leave my mouth, fear lodges in my throat. This fear’s nothing new when it comes to this cute Southern gentleman. He brushed me off in the Philippines. He could be about to do it again.

Suddenly I realize these months of thinking he’s matured and letting my heart grow fond of him again could end with me getting my heart broken for the second time.

“Well,” I finally say, my words coming out in a rush, “I hope I get to see you.”

“Do you have any news?”

I told myself that I would not share the news of Sophia with Carson until we were face-to-face. “I could and I could not.” I let this sentence come out slowly, like the way Pearl removes a hot pie from the oven. Then something comes over me, and I firmly state, “I have to go. Now. Bye.”

I want him to protest, tell me not to go yet. But he doesn’t. “All right. See you soon, then.”

Every night since the woman at the store said she knew Lien’s mom’s whereabouts, I’ve hoped to get a call from Carson. Yet, now that he did call, I’ve held back. Something tells me to be cautious. Perhaps it is my own mother’s voice in my mind, warning me not to get my hopes up and not to try to control the situation.

When I arrive in Winston on Friday evening, my mother allowing me an early exit from the shop, I’m surprised to learn from Beanie that Carson is coming by to see me at nine fifteen, after his radio shift.

I’m in the kitchen at the table with Beanie, eating a slice of Pearl’s rhubarb pie with a scoop of vanilla bean ice cream, when Carson rings the doorbell. Pearl and Little are watching a rerun of some movie with Dovie. I hear gunshots and the clomping of horses’ hooves, so I assume it’s a western.

Beanie asks Carson if he’d like a slice of pie. She holds the pie out for him to see; three-quarters of it has already been consumed by Dovie’s tenants.

Carson sits across from me, his long legs slipping under the table. He thanks Beanie for her offer but says he and a friend shared a pizza at the station and so he’s too full to eat anything else now.

Right then I know that something is wrong, and the juices in my stomach start to sour. I push the plate of pie away and sip from a glass of ice water.

“Where’d you get the pizza?” asks Beanie.

“Mario’s.”

“Did you get their marinara sauce to dip the crusts in?”

“Yeah. That’s the best part.”

The two chatter on about the pizza place and someone they both know who used to work there. Finally, Carson looks back at me and smiles. “Going to finish your pie?”

“No, why?”

“Just wondering if you’re ready to go.”

I sip my water. Coolly, I ask, “Go where?”

“How about a walk?”

Carson knows I love going on walks, but tonight I want to decline. If he knew that I gave up a perfectly good guy because I love him, what would he say? Part of me is afraid he’d laugh and say, “Sam, why’d you do that?”

“It’s not bad out there. Nice night.” He takes my hand.

I search my mind for an excuse. Maybe I have to help Dovie with the butterflies or chickens. But Dovie’s in the den, still watching the movie. The truth is, neither the butterflies nor chickens need me.

Beanie clears my dishes. “Go on and walk. You’ve been driving all day,” she tells me as she loads the dishwasher. Then she winks at me and I feel embarrassed by her gesture; I’m sure Carson saw it.

Minutes later, Carson and I walk along the sidewalk in front of Dovie’s neighborhood. The air is tolerable with little humidity. Carson was right; the night is a nice one, the stars popping out against a charcoal sky. I search for the moon and see a sliver of light masked behind a violet cloud.

I plan to walk to the end of the block and then tell Carson I’m tired and need to go back to Dovie’s. I know I’m being childish, but there are times when that is all I know how to be. Our inner child never leaves us, a sociology professor once told our freshman class. How right he was.

When Carson asks how things are going and if Taylor has made any progress on the search for Lien’s mother, I stop walking. He stops too. I feel the irritation that was choking my heart disappear. Excitement now replaces it. I’m eager to release the news. Finally, I get to share something about Lien’s family before Carson knows anything about it.

Carson eyes me. “So, what have you got?”

“I know where she is.”

“You do?”

“A woman came into the shop and recognized Lien’s mom from the picture in the flyer.”

“And?”

“She knows her. She knows where she lives!”

As Carson grins, I think to myself that I will never forget the relief on his face. Then I add in the missing pieces to the story of that afternoon. Of course, my enthusiasm wanes as I say, “I’m not sure if this woman will get back in touch with me, though.”

I try to cheer myself with the message I’ve been mentally repeating over the week. Wouldn’t any mother want to be reunited with her child?

Continuing our walk, Carson says, “Too bad she didn’t leave her number. Did she write yours down?”

“No. She was a bit distant. But she did take the flyer I gave her.”

We turn left and walk past a house with two gnome lawn ornaments.

Carson says, “She could be upset.”

“Who?”

“Lien’s mom. The woman who wants to be called Sophia now.”

“Upset about what?”

“Remember I told you that Lien had a chance to see her mom years ago, but she refused?”

“I know, but that was then. That shouldn’t play a part now, should it?”

Carson’s arm brushes against mine as I try to ignore the electricity I feel between us. I move to the left, onto the curb, to create a wider space so that our arms won’t touch. I tell myself that I should go back to Dovie’s and sit in her air-conditioned den and forget Carson. I want to be old like Pearl, crochet baby booties, make pies, and not have a romantic bone in my body so that I won’t desire moonlit walks and dinners for two.

Carson watches as I balance along the narrow curb. Then he says, “Thuy found out that Minh and the family were able to leave for America under the Orderly Departure Program, their first stop being the processing center in Bataan. She came from her village to say good-bye. Lien didn’t want to see her. Lien called her horrible names, just like everyone else had done because Thuy had a half-breed daughter.” Carson pauses and then says softly, “It hurt Thuy badly, I’m sure.”

I see a vehement Lien, behavior like she exhibited in the classroom when teased about her freckles or the unusual color of her hair. And I can imagine her being nasty to her mother. “She’s different now,” I breathe. “She can only be kind.”

To avoid the spray of a sprinkler watering an ample lawn, Carson and I move to the center of the street.

“Should we tell Lien about the woman who came into the shop who knows Thuy?”

After a moment, he says, “Let’s wait and not get Lien’s hopes up.”

Based on his logic, I agree. Lien doesn’t need to know yet.

“Are there more secrets?” I ask, after a neighbor calms a yelping dog in her backyard.

“No. You know everything now.”

“Except for what’s going on inside your heart,” I say lightly, although once I say it, it costs me. I feel immediate pain surge under my rib cage. I cannot bear that I’ve given him room to trample on my heart once again.

“You could know that, Sam. All you have to do is ask.” His tone is mellow, and he places his hand on my shoulder.

I’m still not sure if he thinks of me as a potential girlfriend or as a sister.

As we circle around the neighborhood toward Aunt Dovie’s house, streetlights flicker on around us, casting shadows on the pavement. Carson says, “She wasn’t who I thought she was.”

“Lien?”

“No, Mindy.”

Slowing my stride, I prepare to hear about this past girlfriend. Although I don’t want to appear too eager, I certainly don’t want Carson to think that I haven’t wanted him to talk about their relationship.

A sigh leaves his chest. “She wasn’t at all interested in what I wanted. I guess she was jealous.”

“Jealous?” I see her picture in my mind, that glossy print that seemed to threaten me whenever I entered Carson’s room. Now I want him to say that Mindy was jealous of me and all the time he and I spent together. That he confessed to her in letters that he was really not in love with her, but in love with me. My thoughts leap all over themselves but are suddenly interrupted.