What a Happy Family

by Saumya Dave

  Ah, sweet Zack. If only he accepted that nothing in their family ever blows over soon. They’re all master grudge holders.

  Even though there’s no traffic on I-75, she finds herself taking another route. A longer one. Cruising down the Atlanta back roads always takes her back to that exciting burst of freedom she got the first time she got in a car and drove by herself. She could take herself to her friends’ houses, Chili’s, or the mall, and her parents wouldn’t know.

  She slows down on West Paces Ferry Road, which is lined with mansions and sprawling green lawns. When they were all younger, Mom and Dad would take them on drives here. Inside all those houses, Natasha always pictured well-dressed, happy families, families with parents who didn’t have a chip on their shoulders because they were poor when they moved to America, families where everyone was accepted for who they were instead of who they should be. Who knew she’d miss those car rides when she, Suhani, and Anuj were squeezed into the back seat, Dad drove, and Mom sang along with her latest favorite hip-hop song, “Welcome to Atlanta.”

  She feels an unexpected twinge of longing that’s so intense that she’s compelled to turn onto the highway and drive home. But then she remembers the texts. For the first time ever, she knows that nobody in her family wants to see her.

  She ends up outside Fado, her favorite Irish pub. Only two other cars are in the parking lot. Nothing makes you feel like a loser quite like getting to a bar before the evening crowd.

  The inside of Fado is dark and drafty as usual. The wooden beams on the ceiling and mahogany bar always make Natasha feel like she’s in Europe. She perches on a barstool. Behind her, a group of guys a little older than her are watching a football game.

  “What can I get you?” A bartender puts a coaster in front of her. His shaggy red hair and kind eyes remind Natasha of Ed Sheeran.

  “Corona,” Natasha says.

  She finishes it in a few gulps. There’s a tingling in her body as the bitter liquid goes down her throat. But instead of feeling relaxed, Natasha has a thought: I am so goddamned alone.

  “Can I get another one of these?” Natasha asks. “And a shot of tequila?”

  Ed Sheeran gives her a questioning glance but still puts the drinks on two coasters in front of her.

  She downs the shot and then grips the sweating beer bottle, determined to make it last. The word “alone” keeps echoing in her mind. Alone, alone, alone. Maybe Karan was right and the only reason she wanted to get back together was to have some stability. Maybe some people have loneliness woven into their bone marrow.

  Ed Sheeran slides her the check and a heavy gold pen before Natasha even asks for it. She has trouble scribbling her name on the receipt. When she gets off her barstool, she feels buoyant. Damn it, she shouldn’t have had that last shot. There’s no way she can drive to Suhani’s place in this condition. She fumbles with her phone and somehow manages to call an Uber.

  A black SUV pulls up a few minutes later. Natasha watches the driver study her face and then nod with recognition. Once she’s in the car, he asks her what part of India she’s from and tells her about his daughter, who has to be Natasha’s age.

  “My daughter’s going to be a doctor.” He smiles in the rearview mirror.

  “That’s nice.” Natasha’s words come out slower than she intends, thanks to her drunkenness. Individually wrapped mints and water bottles are in the cup holder next to her. She takes one of each.

  “And what type of work do you do?” he asks. He switches the music to Bollywood songs. Indian Uber drivers often do this to Natasha. She’s never sure if they feel more comfortable listening to it for themselves or if they’re doing it for her.

  “I, uh, you know, I’m figuring it out. Taking it one day at a time.” Natasha intends to flash a confident smile but ends up feeling like she’s having a facial spasm. She leans back in the leather seat and closes her eyes.

  “Make sure you know soon.” He points his index finger into the air as if he’s about to impart some groundbreaking wisdom. “Before you know it, it’ll be time for you to get married, have babies. You don’t want to be too old.”

  “You know what?” Natasha asks. “I think I’ll just listen to some music now.”

  She catches his judgmental stare and can practically hear him thinking, There’s another one of those girls who has been corrupted by America. Thankfully, they reach Suhani’s apartment quickly. Or at least she thinks it’s quickly but is really too drunk to be sure.

  She stumbles through the revolving doors and into the lobby. Carlos tips his hat and says, “Good to see you again, Natasha.”

  Carlos looks so kind and easy to talk to. It must be the mustache and potbelly. That’s always been one of Natasha’s favorite combos on an older man (she blames Santa Claus for this). For a second, Natasha wonders if she should just stay in the lobby and tell him everything that’s happened today.

  But then she snaps back to reality. There is no need to burden this sweet doorman with her issues.

  “Good to see you, too, Carlos.” She gives a quick nod and then heads to the elevator.

  Nobody answers when she rings the doorbell. Wait, what if they’re having sex? She presses her ear against the heavy wooden door. Nothing. She rings the doorbell again.

  After pacing the hallway for a solid two minutes, she removes the key that she never returned and lets herself in.

  The apartment is pitch-black. Atlanta’s skyline glimmers in the floor-to-ceiling living room window. A pair of gym socks and gray sweat pants are on the shag rug in their bedroom. Their bed is unmade.

  Natasha breathes a sigh of relief, her first one all day, at having the place to herself. She thumbs through Suhani and Zack’s wine collection and pours herself a generous serving of Cabernet Sauvignon. The word loops and loops in her mind like an annoying song on repeat. Alone. Alone. Alone.

  Her head starts pounding and she’s not sure if it’s from the alcohol or the pressure of too many thoughts. She sits on the cool, smooth kitchen floor and runs her bare feet over the ridges between the tiles. The wine is smoother, gentler, than the beer from earlier.

  For years, Natasha assumed happiness would come after she achieved the right milestones. But after she was in a decent relationship, graduated college, and got her first job, she realized that that’s not how it works. Some people are meant to live in a state of perpetual dissatisfaction. It’s as simple as that. She’s always had a gaping rift between who she is and who she wants to be.

  Her future reveals itself in snippets, like a drab PowerPoint presentation. She sees herself waiting for a dark, drafty club to call her back, someone to give her a chance.

  Maybe she can’t get herself to write any decent jokes because she actually isn’t a good comedian. Maybe things don’t work out because something is inherently wrong with her. Even when she was a little girl, she was always so much more reactive than Suhani or Anuj. How many times did Mom and Dad say they had to be extra careful with their words around Natasha? How many times did she know they were all more relaxed when she wasn’t there?

  It’s only a matter of time before her siblings and friends get wrapped up in their real, fulfilling lives and won’t have space for her. Suhani’s schedule will only be more packed when she’s an attending. Anuj will be consumed with his classes and friends at Cornell. He won’t have the time to deal with Natasha’s daily dramas. And her friends are all moving on, becoming legitimate adults with lives she’s so proud of but knows won’t have space for her.

  Zack’s the only one who might have the patience to keep putting up with her. But soon enough, his compassion will wear out.

  She pours another glass of wine. With each sip, the truth becomes clearer. She’s a burden to the people she loves. There isn’t a single place she belongs. And no matter how she tries to spin it, she’s a failure in every role of her life.

  I can’t take
this anymore, she thinks.

  The room starts to spin as she pulls herself off the floor. She stumbles to the bathroom. It smells like a mixture of Zack’s minty aftershave and Suhani’s floral perfume. Natasha leans over the white toilet and waits to throw up. Nothing.

  The medicine cabinet above the sink is full of luxurious toiletries and every possible over-the-counter item someone could need. Pepto Bismol, Advil, Tylenol, Tums, Q-tips, safety pins, bobby pins, tweezers, Band-Aids, an assortment of Drunk Elephant skincare products, serums for the morning and evening, clay face masks.

  Her head pounds as she shuffles through all of it. She removes a bottle of extra-strength Tylenol. She takes one and then, before she has a chance to think, she takes another. Each pill is smooth and easy. There’s a brief second of satisfaction from just doing something, anything, besides sitting here and waiting for her mind to quiet down.

  She takes another Tylenol. At some point, she starts existing outside herself. She has to get rid of this pain, to stop feeling anything, to escape.

  As everything becomes hazy, she rolls multiple pills in her chapped palm and tosses them into her mouth. Fuck it. Just fuck everything.

  In moments of emotional chaos, she’s always caught a brief glimpse of clarity. It hits her now. She’s so tired of caring. She’s just so fucking tired.

  She crawls out of the bathroom and back into the living room. There’s a sharp pinch in her gut. Maybe she should call Suhani or even Dad. One of them would know what to do right now.

  But she can’t pick up her phone. She can’t bring them into this. Just before her eyes close, she enters her passcode and lies on the floor as everything starts to feel numb.

  Seventeen

  Suhani

  It takes Suhani a few seconds to process the summer evening sounds of the suburbs: cars slowly gliding over pavement, the occasional barking dog, the hum of voices and clink of glasses on the neighbor’s back deck.

  How did she fall asleep at this hour? The last thing she remembers is watching Natasha’s videos again and again, until she had the words memorized, and then texting Vanessa the link to Natasha’s YouTube channel with the message I can’t even.

  She sits up and runs her hands over her pink rose-printed sheets. Mom has been using the same floral, frilly bedding since Suhani was in high school.

  She checks her texts. None from Zack. I hope you’re doing okay, she types to him. Before sending, she adds, I miss you.

  There are messages from Vanessa and Natasha.

  VANESSA: WOW. I have a LOT of thoughts on this. Call me when free.

  NATASHA: Don’t be mad.

  The three simple words are a time capsule, transporting Suhani back to all the moments over the years when Natasha was well aware Suhani was furious with her but made the request anyway. Don’t be mad.

  Suhani types, “What did you expect?” But something hinders her from sending the message. Buried underneath her embarrassment and anger, she feels something else emerge: pride. Pride for her sister’s innate talent. The videos take away Natasha’s usual stage fright, leaving space for who she is underneath the nerves. And she is funny. The type of funny people would want to pay for and hear more of. And even if she hit below the belt, a lot of what made her videos so biting was the truth woven into her words.

  Suhani shifts to her e-mail. Dr. Wilson hasn’t responded yet about whether she’s still in the running for chief. His last message to her ended with I’m sure you understand the committee members still have various factors to consider before making our final decisions for chief.

  Even though he didn’t write it, she knows that by “various factors,” he’s referring to the conversation with Roshan. How could she have been stupid enough to lose her cool like that? Now everyone knows something happened between her and a faculty member and that’ll be it. She will have lost the one thing she’s been working for for three years.

  From downstairs, she can hear Mom, Dad, and Anuj, busy with their post-dinner ritual of cleaning the kitchen and watching Jeopardy! She doesn’t have the energy to see them right now. They can read her better than anyone else, so it’ll be a matter of seconds before they know she’s lying about why she came home. As much as she takes pride in being a real, respectable adult, she regresses into an eager-to-please sixteen-year-old whenever she’s here.

  The tall white bookshelf next to her bed is as unchanged as other parts of her room. Old issues of Glamour magazine and yearbooks from fifth grade to senior year line the bottom shelf. There are framed photos of her with friends from high school, many of whom she’s no longer in touch with outside the occasional like or comment on social media. Stray safety pins are in the corners of the shelves, which are no doubt from the itchy, confining saris she pulled off over the years. Growing up, Suhani’s favorite ritual after weddings or pujas was to come home, rip off her Indian clothes, change into flannel pajamas, and watch Disney Channel shows with Natasha and Anuj.

  She’s usually too rushed and exhausted on her visits home to go through any of the stuff in her room. But today, her eyes pause on the gold spine of her seventh-grade yearbook. She flips to her picture. Nobody who knows her now would believe that’s actually her. The baby fat, braces, frizzy hair, thick glasses, and forced smile make her look like another person. A sadder, softer person.

  She’s taken back to the musty gray locker rooms where she was too self-conscious about her weight and hairy legs to change in front of the other girls. One day, Blair, the school’s queen bee, asked why Suhani always ran into the bathroom stalls after PE. Suhani tried to ignore Blair (in her fantasy, she told Blair off, but really, she awkwardly laughed, then ran away). Blair then appointed the rest of the popular girls to start chanting “Suhani is a dark and hairy man!” every day after class. For the rest of middle school, Suhani gave up on getting out of Blair’s way. Instead, she cried on the bus ride home every afternoon, and when she walked through the door she focused on the two things she could control: getting perfect grades and pretending she was fine. It was too easy to tell Mom and Dad everything was great as she asked them to sign below her row of straight As. The only time she felt anything close to relief was over the summers, when she’d sit in the backyard alone with a dripping grape Popsicle and a Baby-Sitters Club book in her hands.

  Two years later, in an attempt to be less of a target at school, she mastered the art of being likable and polite. She learned to keep controversial opinions to herself, nod even when she disagreed with someone, and brush off insults. She also discovered waxing, contact lenses, calorie counting, and makeup tips from the Glamour magazines she still has. Beauty was supposed to shield her, but sometimes she forgot whether she was growing up or giving in and just becoming who the world wanted her to be.

  And while the bullying stopped, the more subtly corrosive discrimination continued. She got called “exotic.” Minutes after she was voted “Most Likely to Succeed,” a teacher asked if her parents were setting her up to have an arranged marriage. Once, when she picked up tampons from CVS, a customer told her to “go back to India.” During her lowest moments, she had fleeting thoughts about what it would be like to end it all, and then she’d snap back to reality.

  She never told Mom and Dad about any of it. There was no need. They had already been through bigger, tougher things. She was supposed to be the one who made them proud and set an example for her sister and brother. When Mom used to go on her solitary, late-night drives, Suhani gave Natasha and Anuj bubble baths, packed their lunches for the next day, and taught them how to properly eat rotli and shaak, by ripping off a piece of rotli and using it to scoop up the vegetables. When Suhani scored below average on her PSAT, Mom shook her head with disappointment and said, “Suhani, this is unacceptable. You have to focus if you really want to make something of yourself.” Mom then muttered something about the importance of “making enough of your own money one day” and “doing everything to be
taken as seriously as a man” and “never forgetting we have to prove we belong in this country.”

  Suhani only realizes now that she never told Zack about any of this, either. She scrolls back to the last text he sent her two days ago:

  You always have the right to your privacy. It just feels like there’s constantly been stuff you don’t tell me, whether it’s big or not. You don’t trust me to be able to be there for you.

  Maybe he’s right. Is it possible that she used to keep things from her parents for the sake of self-sufficiency, and now she doesn’t even know how to be vulnerable with her husband?

  When she opens her room door, she can’t hear anyone. Her parents and brother have retreated to their own corners of the house. She puts the yearbook back in its spot, grabs her phone, and tiptoes down the stairs.

  To her surprise, Mom’s whispering on the phone. “Now, you remember what I said: tell his mother you won’t take her nonsense anymore! Yes, it was nice to meet you, too! Maybe I’ll see you next time I’m in line at Target.”

  Suhani suppresses a laugh. Mom makes friends wherever she goes. Both she and Natasha do. People turn to them whenever they enter a room. People love them. People rarely ever have to deal with their difficult parts.

  “I was wondering where you were, beta.” Mom’s fingertips are covered in flour. She dips them into a glass container that’s stuffed with a massive ball of dough.

  No matter how old Suhani is, whenever she thinks of Mom, this exact image comes to mind: Mom shaping a piece of dough into a sphere and using the wooden rolling pin to flatten it into a perfectly round rotli.

  “Why are you cooking this late? I thought you’d be getting ready for bed by now.”

  “There’s no way I can sleep right now after everything,” Mom says. “I can’t stop thinking about it. I’ve been trying to distract myself with phone calls and TV, but none of it’s really helping.”

  “I know what you mean,” Suhani says.