A Wedding Invitation (33 page)

Dovie chuckles. “Child,” she says, “there is more to the story.”

Yes, I think, the stories of our lives are never simple. There are complicated feelings and situations, and humans with complicated feelings in complicated situations. Like Thuy and Lien. There has to be more to their history than I will ever grasp—those hidden components, things that have gotten “pushed underneath all the living.” Those components are what chronicle our lives, providing the vibrancy, sorrow, and frustration that can sound illogical to an outsider but make sense to the people involved. “Okay. Tell me more,” I say.

“Liza is in England and her boyfriend is coming over to see her from Paris.”

I run what she just said through my mind. Not sure I have all the facts, I prod my aunt to continue. “And?”

“Do you understand it now?”

“No, I don’t. Why is Liza in England?”

“They are meeting there because that’s where her job is.”

“I thought she was interested in the convent. You can’t have a boyfriend if you are going to become a nun.”

“It was me who wanted to become a nun.”

My mind swirls faster than waves during a hurricane. “Well,” I tell Dovie, “I’m glad everything has worked itself out.”
Now, Lord, please let the same happen for Lien and her mother.

“Me too. Little will just have to get used to the idea of flying.”

“Where is she going?”

“To meet the boyfriend and her daughter in Europe. And so,” my aunt says without any more explanation, “when will we see you again?”

“I don’t know.”

“How is the search going for Lien’s mother? I know Lien must be excited to be getting married.”

“She is.”

“We got an invitation today. Not the typical kind, but a homemade one. Had a little flower stamped on it. Beanie says that it’s very Asian-looking.”

“That’s good,” I say because I don’t know what else to say.

“I guess we’ll see you for the wedding.”

“Yes.” The word sounds weak.

“Will Cecelia be there?”

My mother will be there. In fact, Lien pretty much asked if I could add my family and friends to her guest list, wanting to “make sure lots of people come to see me be married.”

But before I can reply, Dovie says she must go feed the chickens. Apparently, Breakfast and Dinner have been ganging up on Lunch, keeping her from getting her share of feed. Ready to discipline, my aunt hangs up.

forty-three

W
hen I told Mom that Pastor Jed said he’d perform the ceremony for Lien and Jonathan, I watched her face brighten, her eyes shiny behind her glasses. I bet she was thinking, Well, I guess my daughter is capable of working this all out. In spite of the fact that I told her to be cautious and not get so involved.

Today, I see the gears inside her head churning as she prices a rack of silk blouses. After a few minutes, she asks, “Does Lien need a dress?”

“You mean as in wedding?”

“Yes, a bridal gown.” The words flow off her lips like satin.

“I don’t know.”

“Ask,” my mother prods.

So I call Lien at Saigon Bistro and find out she does not have a dress yet. She says she looked for “an American dress” with her friends at a store, but all the ones she thought were pretty were so expensive. “Expensive!” she cries again.

Figuring that Mom has something up her sleeve, I tell Lien not to worry.

After I put down the phone, a flock of women enter the shop and I begin to assist one who wants a wool skirt with a blend of polyester in a size two. I take her to the rack of skirts in her size, and after looking at them she decides that perhaps she’s really a size three, or six.

“Do you think I’m a six?”

I can tell she’s holding in her tummy; I’ve seen this sucking in of air and standing erect many times. “You could be,” I say as I escort her to one of the dressing rooms.

Minutes later, she groans through the rose-colored door. “I guess I am a six after all. I used to be a two. It’s having all those babies.”

After she buys a size six skirt, I hope that everyone else will leave because I’m eager to hear Mom’s plan for Lien. I want to talk freely with her without interruptions from customers.

Yet the customers are in no hurry, unaware of my urgency. A round woman with five pairs of slacks flung over her pudgy arm asks where the dressing rooms are. Mom unlocks the door to one for her and pleasantly informs her to call out if she needs a different size. Then Mom pulls me to her side and says, “I am going to do what we did growing up in North Carolina.”

“What was that?”

“Making sure every bride had what she needed.”

Never have I heard Mom say that line. Growing up, I listened to plenty of Uncle Charlie tales from Mom, Dovie, and even from my uncle himself, but no one ever mentioned that the state of North Carolina took care of her brides.

Mom and I debate how to dress the two mannequins that occupy our store’s front window. I complain that I think we need new mannequins; these have always looked like they came over on the Mayflower. The white paint has chipped off the brunette’s left hand, making her look like she has a skin disease. Mom pulls a beige tweed coat from one of the racks and drapes it over the blond doll. “I think it’s a nice coat and will draw customers in.”

From my years of working with her, I know that drawing customers inside is important, and therefore the way the wooden lifeless forms are dressed needs to be taken into careful consideration. I like her to think that I am capable of understanding the value of an eye-catching show window.

When Mom says, “This coat has a few wrinkles,” I know she wants me to get the clothes steamer from the closet and get the wrinkles out. As I plug in the machine, my mother considers what else the plastic lady needs to entice passersby. “A scarf?”

“I think she needs a gray one with turquoise spots.” I fit the coat onto the stiff model, pulling the fabric over her cold arms.

As Mom straightens the skirt, I move the arm of the steamer over the clothes, watching the vapor of steam soak into the fabric.

With a finger on her nose, Mom says a blue scarf with gray ovals looks better.

“Really?” I ask over the hiss of the steamer.

She waits for me to finish my task and then holds the blue scarf up to the doll’s neck. “This scarf looks good with anything. That’s what they say in the catalog I ordered it from.”

When the door to the shop jingles and is thrust open, neither of us expects to see who walks inside. It’s Lien; Lien is right here in the shop.

I move from the window to greet her.

Lien is an array of smiles. “Miss Bravencourt, I have made you do too much. I told Minh and Chi I had to take days off of work and come help you. It is my wedding, and I make you already do too much work.”

Impulsive as always, I think as she throws her arms around me. Her bracelets rub against my neck. What will she do next?

“I ask Carson for directions,” she says, looking me in the eyes. “And I drive and drive. It’s a long way. Almost as far as Vietnam.” She giggles and hugs me once more.

I introduce her to Mom, who says, “Your dress arrived.”

I’d sent Lien one of our suppliers’ catalogs, telling her to pick what she liked. She phoned to say she liked them all and for us to choose. After much deliberation, Mom and I decided on a satin ivory gown with Queen Anne’s lace and a V-neck. The dress was sent with a half-off price tag, which my mother quickly removed and then carefully hung the gown on a rack.

From the back of the boutique, Mom brings the garment, which is sealed in a clear plastic coating for protection.

We watch as Lien’s eyes resemble saucers. “For me?”

Mother nods and carefully removes the plastic, exposing the soft fabric for Lien to view.

“Oh!” cries the young woman. “I never imagine it would be so pretty.”

Mom produces one of her
I love it when customers are elated
smiles and guides Lien to the dressing rooms.

Entering one of the stalls Mom opens for her, Lien shuts the door. “What if I am too fat?” she jokes.

I dismiss her worries. “The dress is your size.”

When she opens the door and steps out, timidly at first, Mom and I are both caught off guard. Quickly, I find a spot on the carpet and look at it until I’ve blinked away tears.

Mom makes Lien turn around a few times and then says, “Now, that is stunning.”

Lien asks what that word means, and together Mom and I say, “Beautiful.”

Smiling at her reflection in the dressing room mirror, Lien runs fingers over the beaded neckline. I note how the gown clings to her narrow abdomen and around her hips, its train cascading over her legs and onto the floor like a frothy stream.

Mom takes a hair clip with a glistening pearl on it from the display of accessories and, brushing back Lien’s hair from her forehead, inserts the clip along the side of her head. Mom actually laughs as the young woman exclaims with enthusiasm, “Oh, now I look like real American bride.”

Lien hugs my mother, and as she does so, I see a combination of pride and affection in Mom’s reaction. Mom’s always saying that Dovie’s heart is large, and when I decided to go to the Philippines, she claimed I was the “charitable type” like my aunt. Yet, in this moment, I see that my mother has her own style of being charitable.

When Lien has slipped her jeans and T-shirt back on, she joins us at the counter. “You go with me,” she then says, looking me in the eye.

“Where?”

“I go see my mother.”

“Where does your mother live?” asks Mom.

Lien digs into her worn Gucci bag and produces a slip of blue paper. She hands it to Mom, who, after reading the address, nods and says, “That’s not far from here.” Then Mom tells me, “You take her.”

“Oh, no . . . I don’t think . . .”

Lien’s smile evaporates as Mom’s eyes work like darts into mine.

With Mom’s insistence and Lien’s forlorn look, how can I deny what I’m asked to do?

“It’s just past the little Greek restaurant on the corner by the store that sells those army clothes.” Mom hands me my purse from behind the counter.

Taking my purse, I nod. “All right, I’ll go.”

Lien and I hop into my Honda.

“I never drive with you before, Miss Bravencourt,” Lien says as she pulls on her seat belt. “You good driver?”

“Of course.” But today, my nerves are tight and I wonder how I got involved in this scenario. Thoughts dash against my mind. What if Lien’s mother doesn’t want to see her? What if she’s not home? What if they fight? What will I do? What should I say?

Lien chats as we drive, commenting on the area, the fall colors, and about the things she misses in Vietnam. I remember how I once asked my students if they could go anywhere—anywhere in the world at all—where would they like to go? I started the dialogue by saying I wanted to go to Egypt and see a pyramid. The class was quiet; even the rats remained silent.

Eventually, one small student raised his hand.

“Yes? Tell us, Bui.”

Timidly, he said, “I want to go to Vietnam.”

All at once, the children came alive. “Yes, I want to go to Vietnam,” they chorused.

I couldn’t understand why they would want to return to the war-torn country, a land they had just left. Some families had left under the Orderly Departure Program, but others had escaped by boat, paying large sums of money to operators and risking their lives.

“But it’s our home,” Van explained to me. “We are Vietnamese, and we want to go back. We left our hearts there.”

The afternoon sun is fading as I approach the address Lien jotted down on the piece of blue paper. Slowing down, I make a left onto a street lined with massive oaks. My stomach twists like a pretzel sold by the vendors near the Smithsonian.

“It’s 607 Amelia Avenue,” says Lien as she looks out the window.

“Do you see it?”

“She said there is a sign for Laurel Archibold Apartments.” With her nose to the window, Lien searches the road.

I look to my left and see that the numbers on the mailboxes are odd ones and, thinking that the apartment will be on my side of the street, continue to read all the mailboxes, steering my car away from trash containers and potholes.