Counting by 7s(23)

She pulled out a large ring of keys, and with Dell now on the sidewalk, she went back into the salon and began locking the heavy door at the bottom.

Dell was on the wrong side of the thick plate glass. But he continued as if he were still in the room, raising his voice as he said: “Okay then. I should be going. Which I’ll do. Right now. Long day. For all of us . . .”

He strained to get a better look at Willow, but she was crouched down with Mai at her side.

He hadn’t even said good-bye.

Pattie then snapped off the bright fluorescent ballasts. The windows were tinted, making it hard to see much of anything inside.

Dell walked to his car. When he glanced over his shoulder the salon was just shadows. They had to be leaving out a back door to go home.

He thought about following their car as they drove away, but suddenly the weight of what had happened, the enormity of the situation, hit him hard.

Dell got into his Ford, slid the key into the ignition, and then burst into tears.

His neck muscles seemed to give way, and as he sobbed, his head fell forward and hit the steering wheel.

And that’s when the horn sounded, startling him and the world around him into a new consciousness.





Chapter 20





I’ve never seen this person in my life.

But her arms are around me.

Tight.

Because the woman is so strong, you’d think her hug would choke me.

But instead, it’s the first time I can get a full breath into my lungs since I heard what happened.



They live behind the nail salon in a garage.

A real garage, not one converted to anything. You could move things and still drive a car in here.

There is no bathroom.

They walk across the alley back to the salon, where there is a toilet and a tiny shower stall made of molded plastic.

They don’t think living in the garage is weird.

Because they are used to it.

The garage has only one window and that looks like it wasn’t part of the original construction.

I’m certain someone just cut out a square in the un-insulated stucco-on-plywood wall.

There is an ancient-looking air conditioner hanging on to the ledge of the bootlegged window, and the glass above the machine has been covered with a piece of decorative cloth.

The fabric has completely faded on the side exposed to the sunlight, and whatever pattern was there is gone. Scorched away.

Despite the air conditioner, it is still incredibly hot in the garage.

Even with the machine on the highest setting.

Mats cover the cracked concrete floor, making a crazy quilt of colored rattan and woven plastic.

There is a queen-size mattress and a single cot pushed together at one end of the garage. That is the sleeping area.

The other space is taken up by a long metal table where two hot plates and a microwave can be seen next to cans of bamboo shoots and water chestnuts.

An assortment of pots and pans hang from hooks on the wooden studs next to ladles and strainers and big boxes of breakfast cereal, which must come from Costco.

Mom buys those.

And just that fact makes my heart beat in a messed-up way.

A small refrigerator is plugged into an adapter that has six different electrical devices all feeding into one outlet.

I know for a fact that’s not safe.

And then my thoughts shift.

It might be a good thing if the garage caught on fire.

If I were alone in here.

Because if I got trapped in a blaze started by arcing electrical overload in the wall of the garage, the searing pain of losing my mom and dad would go up in smoke with me.

I would be released then.

I would be set free.



Mai wants to know if I want to lie down.

But I can’t speak.

In any language.

Pattie makes soup that is cloudy white with curly pieces of green onion floating on top.

And then there is suddenly a plate with salty pork strips, which appear from nowhere.

Dysphagia is the medical term for not being able to swallow, and I know that there are two kinds of dysphagia: oropharyngeal and esophageal.

But maybe there is also a third kind of dysphagia that comes when your heart breaks into pieces.

I can’t swallow because I have that kind.



Mai tells her brother to go across the alley.

He only snarls at her.

He asks in Vietnamese:

“Why are you always telling me what to do? It’s just not right.”

He takes his sweet time, but finally leaves.

Once Quang-ha is gone, Pattie and Mai help me out of my shoes and baggy pants.

They put me into my red pajamas. I don’t know how the clothes got here.

I still can’t eat any of the food.

And not just because I’m a vegetarian.

Mai’s mother pours some of the soup into a coffee mug and she holds it to my lips.

It’s like coaxing a baby bird. Little tiny gulps.

I know how hard that is because I was a parrot-parent.

And so I take small sips that taste salty, like drinking someone’s cloudy tears.

And then Pattie lights incense that is in the shape of a triangle and she places it on a red plate.

She bows her head as her eyes glisten and she takes my hand and we both cry.

Mai leans against her mother, and for the first time in my life, my memory disappears.