Page 68 of The Seekers of Deer Creek

Calla was watching her. She braced herself for Calla’s antipathy or, at least, her apathy. But Calla only crooked her head.

“It’s a bitch, right? Heartbreak.” She patted Vivi’s back. “Come on, kid, let’s get some food. You can tell me about it.”

At a noodle stand, they ordered bowls ofbún bòHu?and sipped slowly from the volcanic-red broth. Bobbing in their bowls were cubes of garnet—congealed blood—and pale semicircles of sausage. On a plate next to them, a verdant field of herbs that smelled like May’s garden.

“What do you miss about Samuel?” Calla asked, mouth working at a tangle of noodles.

“You really want to hear this?”

“I want to see what you see in him.” But the statement wasn’t a challenge, not this time.

Vivi set down her spoon. “Samuel can hold complicated things at once. He can look at a piece of art and take in its sadness as well as its beauty, itslife. His favorite artists are Francisco Goya and Takashi Murakami.”

“Eclectic.”

“He collects work from unknown Chicago artists. He supports their shows and gives them opportunities where he can, but in this discreet way where you’d never know unless you were watching closely. Which I was. One time, a disgruntled artist came to the galleries and tried to deface one of our Qi Baishis with a can of spray paint. It was supposed to be some statement about the deification of artists, who knows, but thank God he didn’t succeed. I was so pissed. I’d spent hours restoring that painting. But Samuel wouldn’t let the Forster press charges. The kid was only twenty, living under the poverty line. But full of desire and talent. Sam ended up meeting up with him, then buying one of his paintings for his private collection. They still have coffee from time to time.”

“That’s saint-level forgiveness.”

“That’s Samuel Noi. He always said that part of being human is understanding how much greatness we’re capable of. Great evil. Great beauty. It took me a long time to see the world as he does. I still don’t, not really. Or I don’t trust that vision, maybe.”

“You see things in black and white. And he shows you all the shades in between.”

“Yes. That’s it.”

“You’ve always seen all the shades of me, though.”

“I don’t know if that’s true, Bee.”

Calla scooped up a few blood cubes and dropped them into Vivi’s bowl, because Vivi enjoyed them and she did not. “I liked Samuel. I did. He kept finding little ways to take care of you; filling your water glass, cutting you the best portion of his steak. It was weird, but nice, really nice, seeing you get nurtured for a change. And he was cute, in that nerdy way you like.”

“So why were you and Wayland so cold to him?”

“We were jealous. Obviously. For different reasons. Wayland would be jealous of anyone you took seriously. I was jealous that you, once again, found someone to love you so purely and completely. I’m not proud of it.”

“Wayland loved you.”

“Sometimes, he did,” Calla agreed. “And sometimes he hated me. Complicated things, all at once, right?”

“You miss him?”

“Yeah, I do.”

They left the market and walked toward theSông Sài Gòn. Ships crossed the river slowly, leaving radiating gills of water in their wake. Vivi saw a couple ahead of them on the path, the woman toting what looked to be an iridescent balloon on a stick. It floated like a blue nimbus.

“What will you do about Samuel?” Calla asked. She carried a dragon fruit sinht?from a street stall, slurping at it with big swallows. Vivi was happy to see her sister’s hunger returning. The hollows in her cheeks were slightly more filled out, slicing years off her appearance.

“I started writing him a letter when we arrived inVi?tNam,” Vivi admitted. “On my laptop. I was trying to explain it all. Us, Dad, the painting. What it meant to glimpse myself in this century-old piece of art. I thought if I could find the right words, he’d forgive me.”

“Wouldn’t he?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t sent it. I probably won’t.”

“What I said about marriage and partnership, before.” Calla gave her a sidelong glance. “It’s not for me. But it doesn’t mean that it wouldn’t be for you.”

“It could have been for you,” Vivi said, a strain of blame in her voice. “You and Wayland.”

Calla threw the rest of her sinht?into the trash with a loud clank. “Damn it, Vivi, I can’t live my life for you.”