Twin tides, p.6
Twin Tides, page 6
But she coddled the delusion that they were at least written by her mother. And the mentions of Ariadne had taken on gargantuan proportions in her head, supporting her theory. Her aunt had once briefly mentioned that her mother enjoyed studying Greek mythology. At some point in the past few years, the letters started making less and less sense, to the point where she started to think her mother was having a mental break, and Aria couldn’t help her. The letters discussed events in Vietnam that Aria knew only from history books or Aunt Thu’s old stories. But her mom? She would know about them, meaning Xuân Nguyễn obviously had to be alive.
Aria picks at her fingernails; they are rough and uneven from the sharp edges of her teeth. The newest letter is taunting her, and Aria has half a mind to rip the whole thing in half. But something stops her.
She used to get excited every time she saw this familiar cardstock and her name in elegant script. It became a tradition to her—a thrill she stoked like a flame. As long as she had the letter, her mom was still alive. Now, with one phone call, that illusion has shattered.
The return address was always blank, but occasionally the notes were on letterhead listing random locations. Often, Aria looked up the addresses, hoping to discern some pattern from them, too.
They were locations around the East Coast and the Midwest, always something like a museum or a library. As a child, Aria thought they might be clues. She thought maybe her mother was traveling on a secret mission. When she got older, she started calling the locations to ask if a Vietnamese woman worked there. Most of the time, the staff was bewildered, but sometimes an unsuspecting stranger was nice enough to entertain Aria’s theories, and they would connect her to someone. However, the woman on the other end was never Xuân.
As long as Aria could rationalize it, twist the unknown into a reality that seemed plausible, she could breathe. It’s not as if Aunt Thu helped fill in any missing pieces. She never told Aria anything, and Aria never told her about the letters, so Aria invented truths where she could.
She bites her tongue, and she tastes blood.
She clutches the letter and stands.
The past is a puzzle Aria has spent her entire life trying to solve. Perhaps confessing to receiving the letters will be the key to finally unlocking the truth.
But, as she approaches her aunt’s door, her pulse impossibly loud in her ears, Aria hears another sound.
Aunt Thu is sobbing, an all-consuming and monstrous weeping. It stops Aria in her tracks. Has she ever seen her aunt cry? Her hand hovers above the tarnished brass doorknob.
“Xuân ơi,” her aunt wails. “Why can’t I have been the one to die instead? Aria can’t go, not yet. I can’t let her face you alone. I need to be healthy enough to see you, too.”
Aria turns her back to the bedroom door, holding the letter close to her chest.
She can’t do it now, not while her aunt is so distraught. The “I hate you” line probably didn’t help, either.
Once she returns to her room, Aria takes a deep breath and then tears open the letter by herself.
Dear Ariadne,
It’s been a long time since we’ve last spoken, hasn’t it? I feel a bit guilty about it, but I think it was for the best. There are only so many tales to tell, and a lifetime to tell them.
You’ve probably heard the tale of Pandora’s box at school. Although it is my belief that our institutions do a pitiful job of truly conveying the beauty of these stories.
In the simplest terms, Pandora was created as the first woman and as a punishment to humans. She was beautiful and faultless, carved by the god of fire, Hephaestus, from clay. She received various gifts, each one making her more clever, more charming, and more discerning than other humans.
The infamous gift, the one I presume you know, is the pithos, the jar that contained spirits that Pandora was forbidden to release.
I’ve imagined what it must’ve been like for Pandora, gazing upon this lovely and forbidden thing. What did she think as her fingertips traced the lines and elaborate etchings of the pithos? I know temptation. I am sure you do, too. But it can be a wicked thing.
The gods gave Pandora everything. The gods gave her a life of beauty.
What enormous greed must have consumed her to relinquish everything in exchange for the unknown?
Don’t you think it would be better to have kept the box closed? Would curiosity kill you?
The stamp at the signature line is of a vibrant purple flower. It’s a begonia—the same as when Aria was seven—the ink outlining the cylindrical spiral of the rounded petals.
A begonia flower represents peace and gratitude.
Or caution.
Chapter Five
Caliste
Caliste knows three things to be true about her family. The first is that her father is not to be questioned. His infuriating authoritative streak isn’t surprising, as he is an only child…an only son, no less. Caliste knows there was once a time when Paul was a young boy named Phúc. She wonders what Phúc was like. Was he capable of having fun? Did he cry when he got hurt? All she knows of her father are his ambition and his absence.
Caliste learned bits and pieces of how difficult her father’s childhood was…mostly from Grandma and a cackling gaggle of great-aunts. He and his parents came to a new country from Vietnam, and he was their only hope of achieving the American dream. She’s almost sympathetic to the impossible pressure he must have been under.
But Caliste is a daughter. A girl. The eldest child. First shipped off to boarding school and then welcomed back under the murmur of gossip and whispers after skipping out on graduation. The policy, as with most scandalous Việt family rumors, is to spread them on your own time. Caliste isn’t ready to confront these nosy hens on her father’s home turf.
Alas, today is Dylan’s birthday. Dylan Hà, Caliste’s two-year-old brother, is the venerated heir. And some people she’d rather avoid are going to be at the house for a big party to celebrate him.
The second truth is that there is only one living person in the entire world who can make her dad bow down: Grandma. Bà Nội. A woman as volatile as a storm with the power to sink ships. She had only one son, who also had one son. Thus, this celebration is as much about their family’s legacy as it is about a toddler. Caliste already feels her stomach churning, thinking about the uncomfortable conversations she’s bound to have, and she chews a piece of mint gum to calm herself. This will be the first time she’s seen Grandma in years. Grandma has lived comfortably in Boston with her siblings and various nieces and nephews. Whenever she visited, it was always to see Dylan, so Caliste was able to avoid interaction.
Caliste’s white BMW cruises down the long street to her family’s house. Theirs and not hers—an important distinction. Paul moved to Brentwood the same summer he shipped Caliste off to Lockshire Academy. Once his second wife, Priscilla, was in the picture, she swiftly made it her home, too. A new era arose for a new family, one in which Caliste didn’t have a place, as if she ever really did.
The third truth is that the Hà family empire does not have time for weakness. No grief. No heartache. No yearning or panic attacks. The magnificent house on the hill that Paul Hà built from nothing is a testament to his strength. And Caliste’s only choice in life was to feign strength. She’s trained the muscle. The farce is her armor.
The iron gates of the driveway swing open as Caliste approaches, and she allows herself to frown in peace in her car. Paul and Priscilla designed everything for this bash to their taste, which is tacky as hell.
“Jesus Christ. Is that the Arc de Triomphe?” Caliste mutters as she pulls in. The structure in question spans a story high and is made from a multitude of silver balloons arranged in the shape of the Parisian arch. If not for the sheer ridiculousness of commissioning something like this for a two-year-old’s birthday party, Caliste would be impressed by the artistry. Undoubtedly, it was Priscilla’s idea. Caliste knows Dylan would prefer balloons that resembled those cartoon police dogs. Or a bunch of fire trucks.
The first time Caliste ever saw this house was when she was sixteen and returning home from Lockshire. Its enormity struck her then. It resembled a multimillion-dollar house in a prestige family drama, fitted with its own fence and blossoming cherry trees. The path to the house was long and manicured to perfection.
The razor-straight lawn was beautiful, but Caliste remembered missing her old two-bedroom townhouse in Garden Grove, tucked a few blocks away from Little Saigon. It was modest then, before housing prices all skyrocketed. When Caliste closes her eyes, she can still picture the lavender walls and her mother’s framed photo of Grace Kelly (the source of her chosen English name) perched on the vanity.
On that first day free of Lockshire Academy, she was greeted by her stepmother. Priscilla sat in an armchair in a corner, the chair’s luxurious cream contours encasing her like a cloud. Her light chestnut hair, which usually was styled and worn down, was pulled into a bun, exposing a plump face.
Caliste, for a moment, thought Priscilla was an angel. It wasn’t until Caliste’s eyes fell to Priscilla’s waist that she fully comprehended why her stepmother appeared so different from their most recent family video chat. She was pregnant, the rounded curve of her belly hidden under the soft, fluffy folds of a fur blanket.
Caliste stood frozen in place under the chandelier of the foyer, staring at her doting father and a smiling Priscilla. He hadn’t breathed a word about this, hadn’t shared even an ounce of news regarding his expanding family at any point during the one five-minute call they’d had weeks prior.
As Caliste watched her father, his face beaming in a way she hadn’t seen for years, she’d realized that they didn’t even know she was there. In front of her was a family, but she wasn’t a part of it.
After everything—especially that hellish semester that caused her to break down crying to her father’s assistant, of all people—seeing them together was a slap in the face. Even more so because Priscilla was originally meant to protect Caliste.
When Paul’s work started taking him across the country, he hired one Priscilla Ly-Weber as Caliste’s live-in nanny. Paul chose someone else to keep tabs on his daughter so he could focus on more important things. As was his habit, he intentionally selected someone well versed in Vietnamese expectations and who had an impressive (to him) pedigree. Priscilla, whose mother was a Vietnamese American housewife and whose father was a German American immigrant and Silicon Valley engineer, was the perfect choice.
Priscilla was nicer back then, but it wasn’t long before Caliste realized she was being used by the woman. After Paul and Priscilla ran into each other at a Vietnamese charity event, Priscilla became fiancée instead of employee. Caliste pretended to be indifferent to the promotion, but she was secretly hurt at being used as a trophy wife’s stepladder.
As Caliste stands in the foyer, she blinks a few times and refocuses on the chaos of a child’s birthday party. The mansion is flooded with staff going about their marching orders.
“Anh, anh! No! The ice sculpture needs to go here. That’s too close to the vent.”
“Oh, trời ơi. Here, let me do this myself. Cô Priscilla is going to get mad at you.”
“The swan cakes have arrived!”
Caliste stifles a sigh. She’s barely stepped inside, and she’s already tired of the spectacle. Swan cakes? Ice sculptures? It’s then that she hears the cursed voice over her shoulder, ringing through the foyer and silencing the staff immediately.
“Con ơi. You’re late,” Priscilla says. Caliste turns as her stepmother descends the stairs in a pink feather-swathed dress that flutters around her. Caliste hates to admit it, but it’s cute.
“I’m sorry, Mẹ.” Mother. The word is metallic and rotten on Caliste’s tongue, and she’s still not accustomed to saying it. Priscilla is closer to Caliste’s age than she is to Paul’s, which makes calling her “Mom” an effort. “I was caught in some traffic on the way. You look beautiful.” The former is a lie; the latter is the truth. Priscilla is beautiful, and Caliste has thought so ever since their initial meeting.
Priscilla is bright, a world’s difference from the austere expression Paul often wears. The energy she brings into Paul’s surly house is electric. At one point, Caliste had hoped Priscilla might love her. She’d even made herself act like a grown-up and bury the resentment and fury she carried from her own mother being declared legally dead just so that Priscilla would love her.
Of course, that wish was another unfulfilled.
Priscilla’s eyes narrow, and it’s clear she thinks Caliste is lying. She aims her glare straight at Caliste before glancing up and down her outfit. Caliste knows to brace herself for some backhanded comment on her weight, her face, how she’s dressed, or her makeup.
“You always turn into such a mess this time of year. Please keep it together for Dylan today, all right?” The words drip with fake concern. Thank God her brother’s birth date is a day after the date of her mom’s disappearance.
Forcing a smile on her face, Caliste turns away so she can’t give her stepmother the satisfaction of seeing her pain. “Is Dylan upstairs? I’m going to say hi before the party.”
Priscilla’s energy abruptly shifts, and Caliste catches an anxious expression on her face before it disappears.
“He’s been in a mood all morning, so make sure not to agitate him. Bà Nội is with him now.”
Bingo. Caliste knew something was off. Priscilla’s a little mean, but Grandma is meaner.
Caliste doesn’t reply before making her way up the spiral staircase, while Priscilla huffs behind her. In truth, Priscilla is merely a distraction—she’s an easy target for Caliste’s ire. Especially when Caliste’s father is nowhere to be found. It’s not like Caliste can be moody at thin air.
Paul Hà has been too busy growing his empire. First, there was the grocery store in Orange County that expanded to two more locations and then a dozen. By the time Caliste started middle school, the chain had stores on the East Coast, as well as in Vietnamese enclaves in the Midwest and the South. Restaurants came next, both fancy and fast-casual eateries. Ha Foods was a behemoth of Paul’s making, and he was worshipped for it by those in the local Vietnamese community and beyond.
“Chị! Chị!” A small voice and the clatter of clumsy steps emanate from the primary bedroom, making Caliste smile. Dylan, dressed in a tiny yellow suit, scrambles down the polished parquet toward Caliste with his arms outstretched. Caliste doesn’t like Priscilla, but that woman did make an adorable-ass baby.
“Em!” Caliste coos and reaches out to swoop Dylan into her arms. His dark hair is soft, the messy tufts cuddling into her cheek before he plants a wet kiss on her face.
“I’m two.” Dylan’s face is beaming when he says this, a little dimple on his cheek indicating a smug little smirk on his face.
“You are,” Caliste says as the weight of Dylan’s warmth in her arms instantly calms her and slows her restless heart. He smells like roses and baby powder.
“For once, you’re dressed respectfully,” a voice echoes down the hall, and Caliste bows her head immediately.
“Greetings, Bà Nội.”
Caliste inhales, concentrating on not dropping Dylan as she finally looks up. Her grandmother wears a simple garnet-colored gown, its cowl neckline and a strand of pearls framing a face both fierce and elegant.
As Bà Nội approaches, Caliste suppresses the irrational thought that her grandmother can read minds (and see that her black sheep of a granddaughter puked her guts out last night from underage drinking).
“Come. Take a walk with me, con.”
There is something soft about the way Grandma says this, so much so that Caliste is caught off guard. It’s suspicious.
“Why, Bà Nội? The party is about to start.”
“I need to talk to you about some news. It’s about your mother.”
Caliste’s heart seizes inside her chest, and she can’t stop her own outburst.
“What? What about Mom? Tell me.”
The gaggle of staff milling about in the foyer below them glance up at Caliste’s standoff with the senior Hà matriarch, who sighs as if she’s dealing with a child’s temper tantrum.
“Keep your voice down. Grace…your mother, she’s been found.”
* * *
Grandma did not care for her daughter-in-law, Caliste’s mother. Caliste doesn’t know the whole story behind their friction. Then again, the story of the Hà family is more fable than actual history—at least, it is for Caliste. She’s heard many iterations of it, some dramatic and others more somber.
It starts with Grandpa, Ông Nội, or Hà Văn Lai, who was a high-ranking officer of the South Vietnamese military. In Grandma’s version of events, the family left Vietnam in 1975, with Caliste’s father in tow. The family settled in Southern California with Grandpa working as a civilian for the first time in his life. After years of hard work, they sent their son to an Ivy League school, and Paul became a success. Professionally, that is.
They wanted an educated and obedient Vietnamese daughter-in-law, and Grace was far from that. She was headstrong and independent, as well as vocal about her disdain for traditional Việt gender roles. This is as much information as Caliste was ever able to glean from Paul. Periods of Paul and Grace’s marriage were often glossed over with sanitized language. Caliste had always assumed the strain was due to her grandmother’s disapproval.
Grace was a unique girl, she’d say.
Caliste once asked Yến, her cousin—technically, by American standards, Yến is a first cousin once removed, but all that gets simplified in Việt culture; they are simply family—about the time between her parents’ marriage and her mom’s disappearance. Yến had frozen, then reprimanded her for being too curious. Caliste never asked again.
