but a phone rings, muffled somewhere. Shelley sifts through her purse until she finds it. “Hello? This is Shelley?” She sucks in her breath. “Damn. I forgot. Okay.” She shoves the phone back into her purse, then pulls out her keys. “My husband’s going to be so mad at me,” she mumbles, then, becoming a customer again, asks, “What do I owe you for the bamboo shoots?”
I wave her away. “Don’t worry about it.”
She smiles and starts to collect her books, then stops. “You know what? I’ve got so much work the next few days. You keep them for a while.” She races out the door before I have a chance to say another word.
I walk over to my steam table, pick a Brillo pad out of a bucket of sudsy water, and begin to scrub at the caked-on grit from the caramelized catfish I served for lunch. Within moments, a swath of blue-gray foam spreads across the stainless-steel surface. The table is filthy, but today I’m impatient. I leave the Brillo on the table, then dunk my hand in the water and wipe it on my pants. In an envelope in my purse, I find Hannah Ellis’s drawing of my mother. She said she spent five hours completing it. So much time, and she came up with a mouth that looks too smug. Still, some mixture of my memory and Hannah Ellis’s talent did combine to create an image that is clearly my mother. When people described her, they always said she was xinh, pretty, not dÓ p, beautiful. The difference is not one of degree, as it would be here in America, but of quality. I think of “beautiful” as smooth and lush, rich, like cream or velvet. My mother,
on the other hand, had a freshness, a lightness to her, a glow that reflected back at you, like sunlight bouncing off water. Somehow, in the shape of the face, the gaze of the eyes, Hannah Ellis managed to capture that.
But, even after three interviews, she hasn’t produced a single sketch that looks like My Hoa. Somehow, none of the drawings approaches the quality of single-mindedness that served, in her face, as a clear revelation of personality: the hard set of her mouth, the seriousness of her brow, the concentration in her eyes that, even in the giddiness of play, seemed bent on accomplishment. I know that Hannah Ellis was frustrated, worried that, after all this time, she’s lost her gift. Perhaps. Or maybe it’s My Hoa’s spirit, not wanting me to find her.
She would be twenty-five now, only a few years older than Marcy, which is both interesting and unbearable. We all knew what kind of girl she was, but what kind of woman would she have become? What kind of lover? What kind of mother? So many questions you can ask, but never answer.
5
Shelley
W
hen I reach the office, I pull in next to Martin’s car and immediately see that he’s in it. We look at each other, not happily,
then roll down our windows. “Where are you going?” I ask, my voice all friendly and light, hoping he doesn’t know that I’ve forgotten an appointment with a client. At this moment, I see my boss, not my husband.
“I have a meeting at the registrar of deeds,” he says. His face has a look of annoyed resignation, not just that I have let him down, but that I have always let him down. Something has shifted between us lately and, much as I’d like to locate some other cause, I have to mark its beginnings in the morning he agreed to adopt the little boy. These days, we’re tense with each other. He complains that I’m slacking off at the job, that the adoption has distracted me. He’s right that I’d rather bag basil at the Good Luck Asian Grocery than counsel the bereaved, but I don’t agree that I’ve given him any cause for anger. I could have flown to Europe and tried to win back our little girl, but I didn’t. Doesn’t that demonstrate the deepest sense of commitment to Martin and our business? But I can’t say that.
“I’m not that late,” I insist.
Behind his glasses, an eyebrow goes up. His focus on work has become so consuming
I wave her away. “Don’t worry about it.”
She smiles and starts to collect her books, then stops. “You know what? I’ve got so much work the next few days. You keep them for a while.” She races out the door before I have a chance to say another word.
I walk over to my steam table, pick a Brillo pad out of a bucket of sudsy water, and begin to scrub at the caked-on grit from the caramelized catfish I served for lunch. Within moments, a swath of blue-gray foam spreads across the stainless-steel surface. The table is filthy, but today I’m impatient. I leave the Brillo on the table, then dunk my hand in the water and wipe it on my pants. In an envelope in my purse, I find Hannah Ellis’s drawing of my mother. She said she spent five hours completing it. So much time, and she came up with a mouth that looks too smug. Still, some mixture of my memory and Hannah Ellis’s talent did combine to create an image that is clearly my mother. When people described her, they always said she was xinh, pretty, not dÓ p, beautiful. The difference is not one of degree, as it would be here in America, but of quality. I think of “beautiful” as smooth and lush, rich, like cream or velvet. My mother,
on the other hand, had a freshness, a lightness to her, a glow that reflected back at you, like sunlight bouncing off water. Somehow, in the shape of the face, the gaze of the eyes, Hannah Ellis managed to capture that.
But, even after three interviews, she hasn’t produced a single sketch that looks like My Hoa. Somehow, none of the drawings approaches the quality of single-mindedness that served, in her face, as a clear revelation of personality: the hard set of her mouth, the seriousness of her brow, the concentration in her eyes that, even in the giddiness of play, seemed bent on accomplishment. I know that Hannah Ellis was frustrated, worried that, after all this time, she’s lost her gift. Perhaps. Or maybe it’s My Hoa’s spirit, not wanting me to find her.
She would be twenty-five now, only a few years older than Marcy, which is both interesting and unbearable. We all knew what kind of girl she was, but what kind of woman would she have become? What kind of lover? What kind of mother? So many questions you can ask, but never answer.
5
Shelley
W
hen I reach the office, I pull in next to Martin’s car and immediately see that he’s in it. We look at each other, not happily,
then roll down our windows. “Where are you going?” I ask, my voice all friendly and light, hoping he doesn’t know that I’ve forgotten an appointment with a client. At this moment, I see my boss, not my husband.
“I have a meeting at the registrar of deeds,” he says. His face has a look of annoyed resignation, not just that I have let him down, but that I have always let him down. Something has shifted between us lately and, much as I’d like to locate some other cause, I have to mark its beginnings in the morning he agreed to adopt the little boy. These days, we’re tense with each other. He complains that I’m slacking off at the job, that the adoption has distracted me. He’s right that I’d rather bag basil at the Good Luck Asian Grocery than counsel the bereaved, but I don’t agree that I’ve given him any cause for anger. I could have flown to Europe and tried to win back our little girl, but I didn’t. Doesn’t that demonstrate the deepest sense of commitment to Martin and our business? But I can’t say that.
“I’m not that late,” I insist.
Behind his glasses, an eyebrow goes up. His focus on work has become so consuming
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