by Sonya Lalli
She was pregnant. Again.
She was starting a family.
This time she’d get it right; she’d order baby furniture from IKEA and paint the room sunshine yellow, eat her vitamins and rub oil on her belly so she didn’t get stretch marks. She’d do things the right way—with Roger—with her new perfect daughter.
My whole life, it had taken so much energy to feel anything for her—love or hate, apathy or just plain amusement. Now, the feelings came all at once. Jealousy. Rage. Resentment.
Confusion.
After what just happened, here we were watching a movie about bridesmaid dresses, like nothing had happened at all.
Halfway through the movie, a car horn honked outside. Mom pulled herself off the ground. “I guess that’s me.”
“You don’t have to leave,” Kris said. He gave me a look, like he wanted me to say it, too.
“I think I do.” She let out a short laugh. “Sounds like there’s enough going on here without me.”
Kris grabbed her duffel bag and headed outside, but Mom just hovered over me. Eventually, I stood up. She was shorter than I remembered; closer in height to Nani than to me.
“I’ll come back soon?”
She phrased it like a question, as if she needed my permission. Like I had a say in her decision about the kind of mother she wanted to be. Or could be.
“And you’ll think about visiting?”
My stomach clenched, but I nodded. What was there to think about? As hard as it had been, of course I wanted a real relationship with her. I’d always wanted that. She hugged me good-bye, and as she brushed a stray hair off my cheek, I still didn’t know if she really wanted that, too.
* * *
I sipped whiskey with Kris well into the night, and we fell asleep watching late-night television. In the morning, Kris still sound asleep on the sofa opposite me, I stole into the kitchen and made two cups of tea, then quietly trekked up the stairs.
Both Kris and Mom had suggested I give her space, and so I’d let Nani retreat upstairs—crying, and alone. It was hard, but I’d known all along it would be. I took a deep breath before pushing open the door, but she wasn’t in her bedroom. I checked my room, the bathroom, and even Kris’s old bedroom, but they were all empty. I took a deep breath, crossed the hall toward the last unopened door. Slowly, I turned the handle and pushed my way through.
Nani was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed. Her pastel pink pantsuit stood out against the beigeness of the room. Our family photo album was open on her lap, and her palms were resting on the open page. She looked up at me, blinking, and then snapped the album shut.
What had Nani and Nana expected out of their lives when they left everything behind, and moved across the world? Did they really love each other? Or had their culture, their obligations, and children bound them together?
What had happened in this house before I was born? Or when I was young—too young to remember?
Mom once told me that she wasn’t allowed to decorate her room. Nani had torn down all her posters of movie stars and boy bands, and refused to cook breakfast until Mom had folded the stiff white sheets perfectly in all four corners, aligned every pillow.
But I remembered how Mom’s wardrobe poured out of her bedroom door like a waterfall, down the stairs, her handmade jewelry and shoes flooding the closets, scarves washing up on the end tables. She was different from everyone I’d ever known. She was beautiful and interesting and oddly insightful. But Nani had never seen that side of her; she hadn’t wanted to see it.
Was that why Mom left? I couldn’t really remember, and every time I tried, all I could picture was the room spinning around me. I was sitting waist deep in a pile of her clothes as she slowly plucked them one by one from around me, and stuffed them into garbage bags. Nani was holding her tea, looking in from the doorway, where I was standing now.
Was she crying?
I closed my eyes, clutched the scalding mugs in my hands. Still, I couldn’t remember. It was sunny that day, and the window was open. It smelled like lawn and pollen. It must have been summer, but I wasn’t sure. All I knew was it was the only day they hadn’t fought. The only day I hadn’t fallen asleep with my pillow over my head, praying it would all stop.
Nani cleared her throat, and I opened my eyes.
How had we gotten here? How had I gotten us here?
I took a deep breath. I sat down beside her on the bed, set the mugs on the nightstand.
“Manu has gone?”
I nodded.
Nani let out a deep breath. A sigh of relief? Of exhaustion? Disappointment?
How easy it would be to blame the mess I’d made on Mom, on Nani’s high expectations of us. But I didn’t want what was easy. Finally, I wanted to do what was right.
“I’m sorry I yelled at you. And I’m sorry I lied to you.”
Nani’s lips pressed together, and then she shook her head.
“I have no excuses, Nani. I made a terrible mistake.” Why wouldn’t she look at me? “I’m sorr—”
“You are sorry.” Her voice trembled. “Sorry? Was I not worthy of truth? Am I not strong, have I not shown you love?”
“Nani—”
“Encouraged you? Protected you?”
“Always.”
“Then? What is the truth? I want all of the truth. Right now.”
All of the truth. I trembled, looked down at my feet.
“I was tired of you telling me I should get married. Of hearing that I needed someone to be happy. But the truth is . . . that’s what I thought I needed, too.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see her blinking at me, her face unchanged. She was waiting for me to continue.
“I was scared. And alone, and then Dev moved to Toronto—”
“Dev?”
I nodded. “He moved here, and I wanted to”—I hesitated—“I thought I wanted to—”
“Reconcile,” said Nani.
“But we didn’t. And we’re not going to.” I sighed. “I was so ashamed that I still wanted him, Nani. Ashamed of myself. I just—just didn’t know how to tell you the truth about him. That’s why I let you believe I was gay.” Tears again welled in my eyes, and I wiped my face. “I just wanted you to be proud of me, respect my decisions. I didn’t”—I swallowed—“want to be another disappointment.”
Nani’s lips were squeezed together. She didn’t say anything, and I inched closer toward her. I could smell the talcum she used, and overwhelmingly, I wanted her back. I wanted my nani—her sweet strength, her imperfections—back in my life.
Tentatively, I reached out and placed my hand on her shoulder. I could feel the weight of her collapse slightly onto me. “I am very sorry.”
Her eyes were glued to the floor; she wouldn’t look at me. She was barely moving.
“Nani, please say something.”
“After Manu . . .” she said finally, “I vowed that this time—with you—I would be better. I would, this time, not be like my own mother. But perhaps, this is all of our destinies. I was just as hard on you as with Manu. I must have been too hard on you if you could not tell me this truth.”
“You were wonderful, Nani—”
“Nah”—tears formed in her eyes—“I failed many, many times.”
“You did your best. That’s all we can do.”
“You thought I would blame you for still being in love, Raina. You thought I would judge, disapprove.” She smiled at me, a fading, distant smile. “Love is never easy, Raina. This I know very well. With your nana”—she sighed—“it was love, but it was not easy.”
“I wanted to tell you. I was just so . . . embarrassed.”
“There is no shame in love. We make choices, and then, we try and move on the best we can. We try and live with those choices.”
I thought about my c
hoices; how many wrong ones I’d made in the last year. I thought about Dev and Asher.
I thought about Depesh.
“Raina, my sweet. Don’t cry.”
“I wanted to tell you, Nani. But Depesh confided in me that he is gay and . . .”
“Ah.” Nani nodded, cutting me off. “I am seeing now what happened. You wanted to help him, nah?”
“But I’m not sure it worked.”
“What is it you just said to me?” she asked, her eyes twinkling. “You did your best? That is all we can do.”
* * *
Kris and I both called in sick to work that day. We stayed with Nani, helped her cook and clean the house, and in the afternoon, sat next to her while she watched her silly Hindi soaps. None of us spoke much, and even though Nani accepted my apology, I knew I had yet to earn real forgiveness. I felt lighter, slightly, but my chest was weighed down knowing Depesh still didn’t know the truth.
That evening I called Zoey and Shay and told them everything. Zoey was swamped with work and couldn’t stay on the phone long, although she was relieved that I was going to come clean as soon as Depesh finished his exams. But Shay sounded strange, and when I called her out on it, she played dumb.
“I’m okay, honestly!” I could feel her smiling at me through the phone, but it was one of her fake smiles. “I’m just . . . stressed.”
“Talk to me, Shay. What is it?”
“Nothing, really. I’m just so happy your drama is coming to an end.” She laughed. “Now it’s time for wedding drama . . .”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Loads. I’m about to add you and Serena to the spreadsheet. Do you know how to use filters?”
I rolled my eyes. “Yes.”
“Good, because I don’t. And by the way, you’re still coming to Julien’s birthday party tomorrow night, right? Can you come to the bar early and help me save a few tables?”
“No problem.” I paused. “Is—”
“Yes, Asher’s girlfriend will be there.”
I swallowed hard, nodding at the phone.
“And I don’t mean to be harsh,” she said softly, “but you’re just going to have to deal with it, Raina.”
TWENTY-SIX
I stayed the night again. The next morning, I didn’t want to leave Nani alone, but she insisted that she was fine and that I go back downtown. That she usually spent the whole of Saturdays at Saffron anyway.
Was she fine? I wanted it to be more than “fine” between us, but that would take time.
Back at my apartment, I spent the afternoon on my balcony—sunglasses, a wool sweater for the wind. I didn’t even look at my work e-mails. I tried reading a book that had been sitting untouched on my bedside table for months, but every few pages I found myself distracted, staring at the blank margins as a nervous feeling rose in my stomach.
Eventually, I gave up on the book. I showered and found a charcoal-colored dress that I’d bought in New York and still hadn’t worn. I curled my hair, and put on makeup. Staring at myself in the mirror, I took a wet cloth and wiped most of it off.
I was restless, and I fell back onto my bed to keep myself from pacing. I could feel my heart beating in my stomach, and I took a deep breath trying to calm myself down. Why was I so nervous? I was the one that screwed it up, and Asher had moved on. Shay was right. I just had to deal with it.
My phone buzzed, and I lunged for it. I thought it might be Depesh, but it was an e-mail from Dev. I pressed delete without reading it, pushing past the curiosity, past that fractional part of me still desperate to know what he was thinking and where he was. Instead, I texted Depesh.
Everything OK at home? How did your last exam go? Celebrate hard—you deserve it. ☺
I took a deep breath, and then sent him another text.
I’m aware you may be hungover tomorrow, but can we meet for lunch? Need to talk x
Shay was doubly right. I had to deal with this, too.
* * *
Alice was out of town, and so I took Zoey as my date to Julien’s party. The lounge was typically urban: chic decor and angular couches, a DJ in the far corner playing classics from the eighties and nineties. We perched by the back tables to hold the area while Shay and Julien fluttered from guest to guest as each person arrived. Just as Zoey went to the bar with Serena to buy another round, I spotted Asher at the entrance.
His jeans and faded leather jacket had been replaced by khaki trousers and a white button-down shirt, like he’d been dressed by the brunette beside him: petite and rail thin, wearing a white silky dress that stopped right below the crotch. They stood in the entranceway talking to each other, her hand on the base of his spine, and as she leaned up and whispered something in his ear, he caught my eye. He smiled at me, and I waved in return. He started to walk toward me, and the girl grabbed his hand and trotted along next to him.
I tried not to look at her too much as he introduced us; how she constantly flicked her bangs around, the way her glittery eye shadow made her look stupidly young.
As her eyes skirted around the room, I wondered how old she was.
“Rebekah is also a teacher,” said Asher, as if he knew I had my doubts. “A middle school teacher.”
“I teach music,” she said, rifling through her purse. She pulled out a fat tube of lip gloss and began to smear it onto her pout. “Orchestra band, jazz band”—she smacked her lips—“and what else, sweetie?”
I winced.
“Choir, right. I run the choir.”
I nodded. “That’s great.”
“She’s also a musician,” said Asher.
“And do you play basketball, too?”
She shook her head. “Too short. Always been more into singing.”
I smiled, trying to look earnest. “Good for you. I sing terribly.”
“So do my students.” She laughed, and then tugged twice on her ponytail. “So”—she turned to Asher—“why don’t we go buy me a drink?”
“Sure.” Asher glanced at me. “Raina, would you like something?”
“Mine’s coming, thanks,” I said to them both, although Rebekah had already started to walk away, tugging at Asher’s sleeve behind her.
They disappeared into the thick queue of bodies around the edge of the bar, and I watched Asher’s head, a foot taller than most, bob above the crowd. It was dark, and for the next few minutes, I tried to make out whether he was smiling, and to whom he was talking.
“Who’s that?”
I hadn’t noticed Zoey reappear, and she pressed a drink into my hand. I took a long sip through the straw, just as Asher disappeared out of sight. “That is Asher.”
* * *
The night passed painfully slowly, and I only had the chance to speak with Shay again briefly as she darted between Julien’s cousins, friends, and coworkers, all of whom were pawing at them like they were a scratching post. Zoey and I chatted with the groups we met—friends of Julien’s from the hospital, rec leagues—and then a whole crew from Quebec who’d rented a bus and drove in that day and, now drunk, indulged me as I tried out my remedial French. But I kept seeing Asher and Rebekah everywhere; standing in line again at the bar as she played on her phone; and then later at the edge of the dance floor, Rebekah bobbing her head up and down as Asher and Victor talked, it seemed, about the Raptors playoff game.
What did he see in her? Maybe Rebekah was the kind of girl Asher briefly thought I was. One who was passionate and talented and followed her dreams; one who could stand in a crowded room and not care what anyone else thought; because she knew exactly who she was, and didn’t give a damn who cared or judged her for it.
I left Zoey at a table with two chatty residents Julien worked with, and got in line for the restroom. Half a dozen girls were lined up on the far wall—texting, applying lipstick, whispering—while the other wall, leading toward t
he men’s room, was empty.
I took my place at the back, and a second later, I saw Asher appear in the far doorway. He smiled, and gave me a big, goofy wave as he walked toward me.
“So she’s a teacher,” I said, the words coming up uncontrollably.
“Yeah.” He nodded. He seemed almost embarrassed. “She’s a teacher.”
“She seems nice.”
“Rebekah can come across a bit—I don’t know.” He shrugged. “But she’s really good with the kids. Even if she isn’t exactly passionate about the job.”
“I see.”
“I think so many people end up teaching because they don’t know what else to do.”
I shrugged. “It happens, doesn’t it? I’m not passionate about my job; not sure I ever was.”
“What are you passionate about then, Raina?”
The way he said it made me stop short, and I wished I had an answer. I wished I knew what I was passionate about.
“I don’t think I’ve ever felt about anything the way you feel about teaching.”
“What did you want to be when you were little? Astronaut? Fashion designer?” He grinned. “National basketball player?”
I slapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Hey. I could have been in the pros.”
“Yeah?”
I was about to joke back, but then I shook my head. “No, I couldn’t have. It would have been too risky.”
“Risky how?”
“My grandparents were really poor. They were immigrants. They worked hard, and after my mom never amounted to anything in their eyes, there was so much pressure on my uncle Kris, and then on me, to really . . . become something. To get jobs that were—I don’t know—impressive. Stable. That earned a lot of money.”
“So you always wanted to be an investment analyst,” he said softly.
“I never knew what I wanted to be.” I shrugged. “I suppose I never had a chance to figure it out.”
“It’s not too late,” he said after a moment. Then he winked. “You’re not that old.”
