A Wedding Invitation (32 page)

I’ve been at home fifteen minutes when Mom calls from the shop. Convinced she’s going to say she needs me after all, I swing my purse over my shoulder.

“That lady was here.”

“Which lady?”

“The one who said she knows about the girl’s mother. She gave me a phone number.”

“What? Really?” This is what I dreamed would happen. I can’t believe it has happened, yet I am still suspicious that Mom doesn’t know fully what she’s talking about.

“Do you want the number?”

“Yes, yes!”

She gives it to me, and I quickly write it on an old grocery store receipt I’ve pulled out of my purse. I read the numbers back to her to make sure I’ve heard them correctly.

“Now, be careful,” she says before hanging up to greet a customer. “Your heart is like Dovie’s, and the two of you cannot save the entire world.”

After a few deep breaths, I call the number. There is no answer.

I take another breath and steady my heart.

To pass the time, I put on a pair of shorts and a JMU T-shirt and head out for a walk. I check my mail at the mailbox, make my way around the block, and then come back to my apartment. Gritting my teeth, I dial the number on the receipt once more.

“Hello?”

“Hello. I’m calling for Thuy.” Remembering the woman at the shop said that Thuy was now going by a different name, I make the correction. “Sophia. I would like to speak with Sophia.” I brace my free hand along the kitchen countertop.

After a pause, I hear, “Yes.”

“Is this Sophia?”

forty-two

W
hat do you want?” the muffled, accented voice asks.

Gathering my courage, I dive into my soliloquy. “I’m Samantha Bravencourt. Back in the eighties I taught English at a refugee camp in the Philippines.” My mouth goes dry and, swallowing, I continue. “One of my students was Lien Hong.” Then I make myself stop and wait.

When there is no response, I raise my voice. “Is Lien your daughter?”

“Lien?”

“Your daughter. Right?”

The silence is heavy.

I try to dig my fingernails into the Formica.

“What do you want?” The words sound angry.

I press on. “She’s your daughter, isn’t she?”

“Where is she? She in some kind of trouble?”

“She’s in America. In Winston-Salem.”

“Winston?”

“Winston-Salem. It’s in North Carolina.”

“North Carolina.” She repeats the state like she’s not sure it is real.

“She’s getting married. She wants you to come to the wedding.”

“Wedding.” Again this is stated like she’s not sure of the reality.

“Yes.” I say the word for wedding in Vietnamese and then feel foolish—like my shaky Vietnamese is really going to help her understand any better that Lien is getting married. “Lien is getting married in November.”

“I don’t travel. North Carolina much too far.”

How can it be too much of a distance for her? Her daughter is getting married. Don’t families put these events above all else? “Where do you live?” I ask.

“Sorry,” she mumbles.

Fearful she might hang up, I clamor, “Lien misses you. She wants you to be there at the wedding in North Carolina. Please come.”

“I live in Washington, D.C.”

“I live near D.C. I’m going to the wedding.”

“I cannot. Good-bye.”

Something comes over me. Like a gust of wind, I blurt, “Then we will have it here.”

“I am sorry.”

Quickly, I repeat, “We will have it here. Here in Falls Church. Falls Church is right beside D.C.” I feel like I’m back in the refugee camp, trying to make a point in English when no one is listening because Lien is causing a ruckus. I provide the name and address of my church in town.

Finally, she says, “When?”

I choose the same date Lien has planned for her ceremony. “November thirteenth.”

“November?”

“Yes. At three in the afternoon.”

“Three o’clock?”

“Please come. We will see you November thirteenth.” I don’t ask if she can be there. I don’t plead, either. I demand that she will be present. “Lien will be so happy. Thank you.” I’m about to add that I’ll tell Lien about our conversation and that she’ll be so excited she’ll be calling, but I don’t get a chance to do that.

Thuy has hung up.

I suck in air. What have I done? Again I’ve taken control of a situation I have no business taking control over. I place the receiver in the cradle and make my way to the sofa. Lien’s already got the caterer, florist, and others lined up for her wedding ceremony and reception in Winston. Most likely she’s also sent invitations. In one of her rare attempts to speak in English, I heard Chi tell Lien that she needed to get them out so that people would be aware of the upcoming event. “No invitation—how will everybody know to be there?” the woman demanded.

Walking back into the kitchen, I pick up the phone and call Carson. I count the rings, and when his answering machine comes on, I listen to his voice.

I don’t leave a message as he requests. I call Lien. She answers right away, and when I tell her about the conversation with her mother, she gushes, “Thank you, thank you.”

Gripping the receiver so tightly that my fingers turn numb, I confess, “Uh, I told your mother something else . . .”

“That I am a troublemaker?” She laughs, and as she does, I hate that what I’m about to say is not funny.

“I told her that you are getting married in Falls Church.”

“What?”

“She says she can’t travel long distances.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.”

“But Miss Bravencourt, I don’t have a church in Falls Church.”

“I do.”

“You do? A church for my wedding?”

“Yes.” And as soon as I say the word, I know I am now committed. How is it that this child I wanted nothing to do with has now become my life?

Lien’s voice is hopeful. “Will you call your church?”

I suppose I will have to.

Mom suggests that I meet Pastor Jed at the church in his office. She is a firm believer in face-to-face talks. At first I don’t want to go. But after a quick bagel with cream cheese at Sanjay’s bakery, I drive to my church. Sanjay has listened to the story and agreed with Mom. “More convincing when you talk with faces in view,” he says as he slips a cheese Danish into a paper sack and hands it to me.

Puzzled, I look at the bag.

He smiles. “You will need it. Energy for your task.”

“Oh,” I say. “I thought it was for me to give my preacher. You know, as a gift.”

“If you think that would work in Lien’s favor, then use it as a gift.” With another smile, he sends me on my way.

I feel apprehension spread through my neck. I’ve never done anything like this before. Carson is better at advocating for others. He should be doing this instead of me.

At that moment, I remember words I learned in Sunday school:
God gives us grace and strength for each task.

I water my planters of ivy and think about what to eat for dinner. There’s the new Italian restaurant not far from here, and if their flyer is correct, they offer takeout, even delivery. I’m thinking about a cheesy slice of lasagna when Carson calls. Without a proper hello, he tells me Lien is in tears. Her mother has changed her mind and will not come to the wedding.

“What?” My voice ricochets off my kitchen walls.

“She has M.S.”

“What?”

“Multiple sclerosis.”

As I walk into the living room, I feel my heart pump vigorously, and I find respite on the sofa in case my body decides to give out from the rapid increase in blood pressure. “But why does that mean she can’t come to the wedding? We are having it locally for her benefit.” I think of my long talk with Pastor Jed last week about having the ceremony at our church. I had to explain the whole story. He was interested in details. He suggested that Lien and Jonathan come to him for some premarital counseling. “That’s my standard,” he said. “I like to offer this to all the couples I marry.”

I left his office with mixed feelings. On the one hand, I was grateful that the church had nothing scheduled for November 13 so the wedding ceremony could take place in the sanctuary. On the other hand, I wondered how in the world I was going to get Lien and Jonathan to agree to be counseled by my pastor. Later, I called Pastor Jed and asked if he would be willing to talk with them via phone. He said that would work, although he preferred face-to-face. I guess we are all a viewing-faces generation in spite of telephones and computers.

Now Carson tells me that Lien’s mother isn’t even going to show up for the wedding. “She says she can’t come.”

“But why?” I cry.

“All she told Lien is that she’s unable to be there.”

“No, no,” I moan. I let the receiver slip from my weakening grip.

“Sam. Sam?”

I pick up the receiver off the sofa cushion. “I’m here.”

“Don’t give up so quickly. I think Thuy is worried.”

“About what?”

“She’s in a wheelchair. I think she’s not sure she wants to be seen.”

“Can’t she think about how much her being there means to Lien?”

“We are working on that.”

I swallow. I must release this hold on wanting things to go my way at this wedding. Gulping, I lower my voice and say, “Okay. I’ll trust God to make it happen.” Yet my heart is packed with doubt.

I try to read from where I left off in my Busboy mystery, making myself comfortable on the sofa with a cup of coffee and a light quilt over my legs. When the coffee grows cold, I reheat the mug in the microwave and again think about what to eat for dinner. While my stomach craved Italian before Carson called, now I think it wants something Asian. A steamy serving of pho would be tasty tonight, but I don’t feel like getting into my car to drive to the local Vietnamese restaurant, and I certainly am not in the mood to dine alone in public. So I heat a bowl of ramen and add a few fresh carrot slices to the broth and watch the news on TV. I rethink the whole pet concept. If I had someone else living with me, I would never have to eat alone.

When Dovie phones me an hour later, she cries, “They found her.” I think she means Lien’s mother, but my aunt is talking about Little’s daughter, Liza. “Liza wasn’t going to France. She went to England. Little got it mixed up.”

How does one get France and England mixed up? I wonder silently. And then I ask it. “How do you confuse France and England?”

Dovie laughs. “Little doesn’t quite know.”

“Has she lost her hearing?” I know she has a speech impediment, but I always thought her hearing was fine.

“No. I think the truth is, Little has always wanted to go to Paris to see the Eiffel Tower. She has Paris on her mind. ’Course she’s too afraid to fly there, so I’m not sure how she’ll do it.”

Just because you have a country on your mind doesn’t mean you panic when your daughter isn’t there. I wonder if the women at Dovie’s have found some of Uncle Charlie’s old moonshine in the basement.

“Little wonders how she got confused, too. I guess old age makes you silly.”

“Is Liza okay?”

“Yes, she’s really in love. With a Frenchman. She’s happier than happy.”

I try to get this straight. “So Liza is in England but in love with someone from France?”