Free Listen, Slowly by Thanhha Lai

like a foreigner?”
    “Uh, not . . . hum, barely . . .”
    Just then Ông Bà, I mean Ông Ba, oh forget it, I’ll just go right back to calling him “the detective,” opens his mouth and releases ribbons of bubbles.
    Anh Minh listens so intently veins start pulsating at his temples. “Miss, I apologize but I cannot fully translate his true words. They are beyond my humble English. Not to worry, I will persevere.”
    That said, Anh Minh whips out a notebook and pen from his back pocket and takes notes. Of course the international scholar would have a notebook and pen ready. I bet he has a calculator on him too. On second thought, he probably calculates everything in his head. Seeing the notebook, the wordy, leathery one lets it all pop. Anh Minh looks like he’s listening to a love song, scribbling, scribbling. They deserve each other.
    I might as well go inside.
    Bà is sitting by the window, eating cháo , a hot rice porridge, this one cooked with catfish and dill, Bà’s favorite breakfast. A covered bowl waits for me. Cháo , not to be confused with chào , meaning hello, is starting to be my favorite too, light and savory. I’m jiggling my legs to keep away you-know-what. Bà wants to laugh but she’s always too polite.
    Of course Bà would never worry about the buzzers craving her blood, pure and bland from decades of greens and grains. Anh Minh told me mosquitoes here love overseas visitors, whose blood is loaded with sugar. He said it like that’s a universal fact. True, mine has been doused with Hawaiian bread and cereal and corn chips and just plain corn, all of which you wouldn’t think have tons of sugar, but according to Mom, eating them is like spooning white sugar straight into your mouth. Well, I haven’t been eating any invisible sugars here (I don’t think), but the mosquitoes still adore me. How long before my blood turns salty?
    I’m fitting Vietnamese words together to ask about the guard, but it’s taking forever because I can only speak like thirty words. My listening brain and my speaking brain do not like to share.
    Bà notices, of course. She pats my hand and gives me that smile, the one that says she would give me the world if she could.
    “Con khổ.” I’m suffering, I tell her. “Không chịu được,” can’t bear it.
    Bà takes my hand. “Shsss, không sao,” not to worry. She’s said it a million times, and each time I do feel better. “When you can complain out loud, I know you’re still strong. When your pain has advanced beyond lament, when it’s unbearable to hear your own story, that’s when I know to truly worry . Though hidden in silence, your pain would still surface on your breaths, your eyes, your pores. I will know. Take long inhales, my child, you are more bendable than you realize.”
    I have no idea if I’m bendable or not, I just want to go home. “Muốn về,” want home, I finally say it out loud. She nods the saddest nod.
    “I know friends build your world at this age, you must miss them so. My child, lend me a bit more of your time. I am overjoyed you are by my side. Yet if my asking equals suffering, we have the option of contacting your father to begin arrangements to release you of your obligation.”
    I shrivel to a speck of dust. What kind of a granddaughter would I be if I zip home when this is the only task Bà has ever asked of me? To load on the guilt, she looks anguished, truly anguished, for my pain.
    “Không sao,” no worries, I hear myself say. I don’t quite believe it, but Bà has always been able to soothe me with these two words. “Không sao,” I say again, more for her than for me. The words work their magic because her cheekbones pump up into the bottom of her eyes.
    “Chờ được không?” Can you wait? she asks.
    I make myself nod yes, before honesty takes over.
    We eat in silence. I chant “không sao” to myself over and over. Perhaps after a while, I will wholeheartedly believe it’ll be all right