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"Are you done, Mom? Julie and I can clean," I say.
Mom mutters another Vietnamese phrase. I don't catch this one either. My skills are beyond rusty.
But she doesn't explode or lecture. She shakes her head. "Finish first. You're getting too skinny." She stands and leaves.
To the deck, on her own.
"She's smoking out there," Julie says.
"We'd know."
"We do know." She motions to herself. "We're here. But you're right. She vapes."
"No way."
She shrugssee for yourselfand steals a bite of my stir-fry.
I lean to the right, but I can't see the deck from here. So I stand, sneak around the table for just long enough to see Mom outside.
She doesn't look like the stern woman who tries to paper over my pain. She looks overwhelmed and scared and impossibly small against the sunset.
I hurt her.
I hurt her so badly she shut down and pretended it didn't happen.
I should sympathize, I know. No, I do sympathize. But I can't access that empathy when I'm surrounded by the cold front, while I'm busy fighting with myself, reminding myself what really happened.
"When did she start smoking?" I return to my seat.
"Start? When she was fourteen. She never told you this?" Julie asks.
"No," I say. "When did she tell you?"
Julie clears her throat.
"You were smoking?"
"Pot is legal," she says.
"Not for minors," I say. "Oh my god, that was your vape pen?" Wait, Mom caught her with pot and talked to her about smoking? "You actually… discussed it?"
"Yeah, we talk," she says. "She tells me what's going on. Unlike some people."
"Are you kidding? I gave you plenty of R-rated details."
"Not what I mean. You're different. You've been different…" She doesn't mention the last year. Or the year before that. "Did something happen?"
"Huh?" I pick at my stir-fry. It's too cold and the flavors are too dull. I'm far away. I barely notice the ginger.
"Did something happen with your boyfriend? You're spacey today."
"Sorta."
"A fight?"
"No." I eat another piece of chicken.
"Seriously, Immy, I never thought Mom would be more communicative than you."
