A Wedding Invitation (28 page)

I missed Mom, too. There were times I felt I was selfish to have let my adventurous travel-loving side take over so that I had to leave her. She was alone except for a few relatives scattered here and there. At the time, she was working in retail, managing a clothing store in Fairfax County. I suppose that’s when the desire to run her own shop came into play.

Talking to God tonight with a cat by my side and a thunderstorm brewing in the east feels perfect. There’s calm mixed with stress as Milkweed meows and the thunder crackles.

I release my fears. They bounce before me as I name them. Inside my heart, I’ve kept them like shackled prisoners in bondage. First comes the fear of the past: the pain of being rejected by Carson. Then there’s the present: not knowing how he feels about me now, not wanting to give away my heart only to get it smashed again. And lastly: the unknown future. Is there even a future designed for us to share? I close my eyes as Pearl did earlier today, just letting Beanie soothe her aches and pains.

When the rain pelts against the roof and fills the gutters, I stroke Milkweed’s fur and feel an odd yet tender sense of satisfaction. I spoke to God. God heard me. Sometimes that is all I need to know.

thirty-seven

T
he new alarm system at the shop has an annoying beep whenever anyone touches it, but at least Mom feels safe. I catch her checking it every hour, pressing the top of the keypad with a finger. Once I even saw her running the feather duster over it. She’s been sold on Burtel protecting her dresses, coats, pants, jewelry, scarves, and the freshly painted wall.

On the first few days following the robbery, it seemed all the security companies called to offer their best deals. Mom soon stopped answering the store phone and just let the answering machine pick up the missed calls. I’m not exactly sure why she chose Burtel except that when Sanjay came over three days ago, she did ask him what system he used at the bakery. When he told her he used Burtel, she asked if he’d ever been robbed.

“Robbed of my dignity a few times,” Sanjay replied.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“You know, the customers who want something for nothing or fret and curse at you when you can’t get 150 turkey sandwiches made for them on a two-hour notice.”

I thought Mom would be horrified to think that people expected that kind of superhuman feat, but instead she said, “I didn’t know your bakery served sandwiches.”

“We do. We used to only have the breakfast baked goods, but now we are more known as a deli and a café.”

“Rye bread?” Mom asked.

“If you like.”

“Provolone cheese?”

“We have that, too.”

“Tomatoes and lettuce?”

“They are the freshest this side of the Capitol.”

With that information, Mom ordered two turkey sandwiches for our lunch. “Light on the mayonnaise and mustard. Add some pickle relish if you have it. No hurry,” she said. “Just call when they are ready and Sam will come over to get them.”

I rolled my eyes as Sanjay laughed and left the store.

After she and I ate lunch in the back room, she picked up the phone and called a Burtel representative. One of their technicians installed the new security system Mom wanted the next afternoon.

Sanjay pours me a cup of hazelnut coffee and listens to me talk about the phone call I received from Taylor last night. It’s a Thursday, and every Thursday the bakery has a different coffee special. Mom’s already been in the bakery to get her cup.

“Taylor found out Lien’s mom is here in town.”

“Here?” says Sanjay. “In D.C.? I thought you said last week that she was in Chicago.”

“That’s where she resettled at first. But Taylor said her last known address is here.”

“Well,” says Sanjay as he hands me the styrofoam cup, “I guess that’s why he is the investigator. So did he give you the address?”

“He had one. But it’s old.” Taylor told me he actually called the phone number that went with the address only to find that the number was no longer in service.

“Old?” Sanjay’s forehead wrinkles. “How is an address old?”

“It means it’s not current. You know, no longer up-to-date.”

“Sounds like fashion. So what do we do?”

“What do you mean?”

“If she is here, maybe someone knows her. We talk and see who else talks.” His dark eyes shine from the light coming in the front window.

“Who do we talk to?”

“We do like on the TV detective shows. You know—Magnum. He goes around asking the right questions.”

I smile and sip the coffee.

“How is it?”

“The coffee? Great, as usual.”

“You need to make a flyer. Like you did for the missing cat.”

Sanjay points to the flyer for Butterchurn. When he heard Butterchurn was lost, he wanted a flyer for his store, too. His doesn’t have an actual photo of the cat—instead he drew a fat cat and gave it a collar with
Butterchurn
on the tag. “I will put one up here.” He motions to his bulletin board that has assorted advertisements from faithful customers.

“Okay.”

“Do you have photos of this missing woman?” he asks.

“Carson and I made some photocopies of the one picture Lien salvaged.” Carson and I had spent some time at the Office Max in Winston. After we finished there, he took me to his house to play Ping-Pong for old times’ sake.

“Get to work,” says Sanjay, breaking into my thoughts of how Carson won two games and I won two games. “There is no time like the present. If your investigator friend has tracked her to this area, then someone who comes into your shop might know her.”

You accused her.
I berate myself with the words until finally I beg my guilt to evaporate. True, I told Van and the councilmen that I believed Lien was a thief. She was, in my mind. Partially due to guilt, but mostly due to my desire to help a young woman who has been through more difficulties than anyone should face, I’m fueled up to help Lien now. At my kitchen table, I continue with the flyer, adding a photo of Lien and Thuy to the middle of it. In the black-and-white photo, Thuy’s face looks no older than her daughter’s. They have the same eyes—eyes that have seen too much sorrow and anguish. Lien’s and Thuy’s full names are written by the pictures. Underneath, in a smaller font, is my number to call if anyone has any news of Thuy’s whereabouts.

I run my finger over Lien’s photo, over her wayward hair and her lips from which I’ve heard many a wayward word. “O God,” my voice cries out into my small kitchen, “please let it be soon that Lien will be reunited with her mother.”

After that, my heart feels exposed, and as the cliché goes, my conscience gets the best of me. I dial Taylor’s number. First I thank him for all the effort he’s put into the search for Lien’s mom. Then I close my eyes as tight as I can like I did when I was a little girl in red tights and patent leather shoes. This is what I did when I had to confess to my parents that I’d gotten a bad grade on a spelling test or that it was me who broke the cookie jar. Awkwardly, I let the words out. “I still like him, Taylor.”

“Who?”

I realize then that I was so preoccupied with how my words were going to sound to him that I’ve left some important ones out. “Carson.” I’ve already told Taylor about my year in the Philippines and how I “ran into” Carson recently.

After a brief silence during which I dig my nails into my palms and wonder why I had to give in to truthfulness, I hear Taylor say, “The man you were with in the Philippines.”

“Yeah. He means a lot to me.”

“So you’re thanking me and then telling me that you don’t ever want to see me again, is that it?”

“No!” I’m too adamant. “I just want to be honest.” Quickly, I add, “But I have this friend and she’s great.”

“A great friend.” His voice is flat.

“Yes. You’d like her.” I’m too enthusiastic.

“So let me get this straight. Not only are you dropping me, but you’re trying to set me up with your gorgeous friend?”

“She’s not gorgeous.” Oh, I hope Natasha will forgive me for being this honest. “She’s cute.”

“Kittens are cute, too.”

“She likes kittens. And dogs. In fact, she loves Boxers.”

“Well, sounds like we have a lot in common,” he says, but he doesn’t sound happy at all.

I don’t know what else to say, but I do wonder why being truthful sometimes hurts so deeply. “I have to go,” I tell him. Then I hang up, bumping the receiver against the phone cradle.

thirty-eight

T
oday the boutique is filled with women of all sizes, spread out among the tall and petite sections. I pick a gum wrapper off the carpet, annoyed that people think littering is acceptable behavior.

“I’m ready,” a voice says, and I see a tall, slender woman twice my age standing at the counter by the register. I ring up her purchase for a pair of khaki pants with an inseam of 33.

“You’ll enjoy those,” Mom tells her as I slip them into our trademark beige and pink shopping bag. Mom would know; she owns three pairs of pants just like them. In fact, she’s wearing her newest pair right now.

Soon only one short lady is left in the store. The woman approaches me with a pair of navy pants. “Can you alter these a bit?” Her frosted blond hair makes her face look younger than she probably is. But her narrow hands show age spots. Mom always says you can tell a woman’s real age by her hands.