What a Happy Family

by Saumya Dave

  Deepak’s on his side, snoring. His white undershirt is bunched around his waist. He can fall asleep anywhere: on the recliner while they’re watching Jeopardy!, during the short drive home from Anita and Jiten’s house, in the middle of monotonous speeches at weddings. He said it was because of residency-training sleep deprivation, but Bina’s always thought it had to do with his mind being at ease. Meanwhile, she just saw a post online that read “a woman’s brain is like an internet browser with dozens of tabs open” and she’s never related to something more.

  She pushes the cloudlike duvet cover off her legs. The blue-gray morning light peeks in through the blinds. When she’s stretched out on the recliner in the living room, she pulls up Natasha’s videos for the tenth time since Mira showed them to her. Maybe if she watches them enough, she’ll be able to view them more like a spectator than a mother.

  But as she takes in her daughter’s vulnerable but strong voice, the glint in her eyes, she knows that’ll never be true. She can’t decide if she’s in awe of Natasha’s courage, appalled by her audacity, or both.

  Bina pauses at one section of the video that she hasn’t been able to stop thinking about.

  “Some of you may be wondering why I’m here if I’m feeling so shitty,” Natasha says. “And I get that. I really do. But here’s the thing. I’m trying to get out of my head. And telling all of you how shitty I’m feeling helps me because now all that crap that was brewing around in there is out there with you. What I’m trying to say is, thank you all for coming here and being my therapists.”

  Bina presses the pause button. The only sound is the faint chirping of birds outside the living room window.

  I know why that part is getting to me, she texts Devi. It’s what I said about acting. I used to tell my parents I wanted to get out of my own head. I stopped telling them that because they just didn’t get it.

  DEVI: She’s your daughter. In every way.

  BINA: Awake?!

  DEVI: Jaya visiting, remember? Went to In-N-Out and watched that new Ryan Gosling movie.

  Devi and her daughter, Jaya, have one of those mother-daughter relationships Bina thought only exist in urban myths. They rarely ever argue and are best friends, doing everything from sharing clothes to trying new restaurants to going on road trips. Devi claims their relationship got much better after her divorce because she was less stressed.

  DEVI: Your girl has nerve. Like someone else I know.

  She adds the winking face emoji.

  BINA: That’s a nice way to put it.

  DEVI: It takes nerve to say no to getting married to someone you’ve been with for so many years. She could have strung it all along.

  BINA: True.

  Bina’s hit with a pang of longing for Natasha. Even though her strong will gave Bina a lot of stress throughout the years, she knows deep down that she wouldn’t want her daughter to be any different. She wishes she could call Natasha and tell her she knows she’s just trying her best. They both are.

  “Mom? What are you doing?” Anuj walks into the living room. His red Cornell sweatshirt is in need of a wash. Despite his six-two build and ample facial hair, his round eyes and relaxed smile give him a perpetual boyish look.

  “Nothing! Just couldn’t sleep and was texting with Devi,” Bina says. She didn’t realize she had eaten an entire sleeve of Parle-G biscuits. A pile of biscuit dust has collected on her lap.

  “Yeah. I can’t stop watching the Natasha videos, either.” Anuj settles on the recliner next to her and covers himself with a burgundy throw Bina and Deepak got on a trip to Morocco.

  A trip, she thinks. Maybe we need a family trip.

  “I know, beta,” Bina says, appreciating how Anuj comments on things so matter-of-factly.

  My sweet, sensitive boy, Bina thinks. She feels relieved, then guilty for being relieved, at being able to sit here with her son, who won’t jump into problem-solving mode like Suhani or defensive mode like Natasha.

  “Are you still really mad?” Anuj asks.

  “I’m not sure what I am, to be honest. You?” Bina sighs, appreciating this type of moment with him. She can’t remember the last time they talked, really talked, about things that weren’t logistics.

  Anuj’s curls sway as he shakes his head. “I was pissed.”

  “Yeah?” Bina asks. She rarely ever hears a statement like this from him: I was pissed.

  “Totally,” Anuj says. “There’s stuff about her, about everyone, that pisses me off all the time.”

  “I didn’t know that.” Bina sighs.

  Sometimes she thinks she knows her son so well. Sometimes she thinks she doesn’t know him at all.

  “Well, I’m fine now,” Anuj says. “Or at least, better. I get annoyed with Natasha sometimes, especially in the past weeks. And then I’ll take a second and remember that she may seem tough but she really is fragile in lots of ways.”

  It occurs to Bina that everyone in their family has this with each other: moments of frustration followed by moments of forgiveness. Maybe that daily push and pull is what sustains a family over time.

  “Yes. She is,” Bina agrees. “You know, I was just feeling bad because I was glad you’re the one I’m able to discuss this with. If Natasha was home right now, she’d get so defensive that she wouldn’t even hear anything I was trying to tell her.”

  “Yeah, but, Mom, do you think that’s all her fault?” Anuj’s tone is gentle as he shifts to face her.

  “What do you mean?”

  “We’re all really hard on her sometimes, harder than we are on anyone else,” he says. “I kind of get why she doesn’t always feel accepted with us.”

  “So you’re saying this is our doing?” Bina asks.

  “I’m saying it’s complicated,” Anuj says. “I mean, c’mon, Mom. If you really ask yourself honestly, can you say that you parented all three of us the same?”

  As a toddler, Anuj would ask things that could have gone into an episode of Oprah’s Super Soul Sunday: Why are we on the planet? Why do you care about how you look? Can’t everyone just be nice to each other?

  Bina slumps in the recliner as she considers his questions. She’s always focused so much on how different her children are. But is it possible that she gave all her children different proportions of her regrets, resentments, and reliefs?

  The three-toned chime of the doorbell fills the house.

  “Who could that be right now?” Bina asks Anuj, who shrugs in response and says, “I’ll go check.”

  A second later, he yells, “Mom!” from the foyer.

  Before Bina can fold her blanket and throw away the empty biscuit sleeve, Mira, Kavita, and Mona walk into the living room. Mira’s holding a steel thermos. Kavita is balancing a cake dish in her hands.

  “What are you all doing here so early?” Bina asks.

  “We were all awake and wanted to make sure you’re okay after yesterday,” Mira says. “I’m sorry I showed you Natasha’s video. I shouldn’t have. It couldn’t have been easy to see that.”

  Anuj gives a quick hi and bye to the aunties, then goes to his room.

  “Don’t apologize.” Bina puts her hand up. “It was already out there. Not your fault she went and did that.”

  “Look, we’ve all been through shit with our kids, right?” Mona glances at Mira and Kavita. When they stay silent, she says, “Fine. I’ll start. When Arjun was in high school, he was caught for underage drinking and I had to pick him up from the police station. The police station.”

  Mira inhales as if she’s preparing to perform a monologue on stage. “Pooja struggled a lot in graduate school. She almost failed out. We were so worried, and it turned out it didn’t even matter because she’s not working in business anyway.”

  Mona and Mira turn toward Kavita. If they were all decades younger, this would turn into one of those drinking games their kids
pretend not to play, where everyone shares something and takes a sip of some cheap alcohol.

  “I know Sonam doesn’t want to get married because she’s scared about having the same type of marriage Bipin and I do.” Kavita’s voice is soft. “And I don’t blame her.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Bina says, turning toward her. Every time Kavita mentioned Sonam not getting married, she never told them she knew exactly why. Bina wonders how much they’ve all kept tucked inside themselves.

  Kavita shakes her head, indicating she doesn’t want to discuss it further. Bina clutches her shoulder. She wants to tell Kavita she understands. When Zack proposed to Suhani, Bina was relieved. Her daughter wouldn’t have to make herself smaller for the sake of others the way Bina had to.

  Bina feels the discomfort of vulnerability dissolve and create space for something else. Is it possible that she was so scared of being judged that she never gave any of these women a chance to be there for her? Did she let shame push her into the folds of loneliness?

  Then she has another thought. It’s better Anita isn’t here. This discussion would make her so uncomfortable. Maybe they’ve always been less compatible than she let herself believe.

  She realizes that this is actually the first Chats Over Chai discussion. This is what she had been hoping for when they met previously.

  “There. So we’ve all been in denial about our kids in some way. It’s all out,” Mona says, proud of herself for starting this. “Now, I’m getting some plates and cups. We brought banana bread and chai.”

  “You shouldn’t have come here, so early, and with all of this food.” Bina is taken aback by their sheer thoughtfulness, the power and comfort that only women can give one another.

  “Don’t cry,” Mira says.

  “No, no, they’re happy tears,” Bina says. “For once.”

  “Your idea for us to get together and honestly talk is what we all need,” Kavita says. “We should have started something like this years ago.”

  The doorbell rings again. What is going on today? It’s the most eventful morning Bina’s had in years.

  “I’ll get it,” Mira offers.

  A few seconds later, Bina hears Mira’s voice and then a forceful “NO!” It’s hard to tell whether it’s angry or funny.

  “Mira!” Bina shouts. “Is everything okay?”

  She hears the thump of quick footsteps on wood, then tile.

  “STOP!” Mira yells.

  “Bina?” Deepak asks from the master bedroom, his voice muffled with sleep. “Is everything okay?” Anuj steps out of his room upstairs. “Mom?”

  “Let me go check what’s going on.” Bina jumps up and briskly walks to the hallway. She sees the chin-length bob and petite frame before she gets to the front door.

  Anita.

  Anita shifts to the side of the foyer when she hears Bina’s voice.

  That’s when Bina sees Bipin.

  Shit.

  “Bipin!” Bina exclaims. “What are you doing here?”

  Bipin’s nostrils flare. He doesn’t even bother to say hi. “Where is Kavita?”

  “She’s with us.” Bina points toward the living room.

  Bipin walks past her without taking off his shoes.

  Bina steps in front of him. “Is there a problem?”

  “She needs to come with me.” Bipin raises his voice and adds, “Now.”

  “We’re just talking.” Fear lodges in Bina’s chest as she takes in Bipin’s flushed cheeks. But she can’t just stand here. “What’s going on?”

  “Bina.” Bipin holds up a palm in front of her.

  Maybe she should stop. After all, Bipin and Kavita should discuss this between themselves.

  But something about Bipin’s clenched jaw and hunched shoulders scares her and also pushes her to keep going. She glances at Anita, who is still standing by the front door with her arms crossed.

  “What did you do?” Bina asks.

  “Bipin called me and asked if I knew what Kavita was doing. She had texted me last night and asked if I wanted to come here with her. . . . I thought it was for another meeting, so when he asked, I told him . . . ,” Anita says, her face heavy with regret.

  “Well, I hope you’re happy,” Bina says. “And just because you aren’t ready to talk to me doesn’t mean you had to do this to Kavita.”

  Bina imagines how all this would play out if they were on one of those volatile talk shows she used to watch when the kids were at school. She would sit next to Natasha on one side of the stage. Karan and Anita would be on another. Anita would point to Natasha and yell, She ruined everything! Karan would then point to Natasha and add, She said I was boring in bed! In public! The audience would erupt in a loud Boooooo! A bald security guard would stand between them and hold out his muscular tattooed arms as buffers.

  Sometimes, while Bina is washing dishes or scrolling through texts, she remembers flashes of their friendship. Sharing rides to parties. Jiten opening the door in the middle of the night, five minutes after he texted her that Anita’s father passed away in India. Anita, sweeping up shards of glass after Bina dropped a stack of dinner plates out of sheer exhaustion. How they stopped keeping track of Pyrex containers because they’d go back and forth between their houses anyway. A joint family trip to France where Anita and Bina spent every afternoon sitting in cafés, drinking cappuccinos and people watching.

  She wonders if this is real loss: a tangled mix of anger, betrayal, humiliation, and longing.

  Bina scampers to Bipin. When she’s behind him, she stretches to her tiptoes and taps him on his shoulder. “Bipin Bhai, I’ll ask this clearly so there’s no room for misinterpretation. Do you have a problem with us meeting to talk?”

  Bipin stops and turns to face her. Goose bumps erupt on Bina’s arms. How could she have missed seeing this part of him throughout the years? Sure, she always knew he was stern and even intimidating, but right now, for the first time, he’s terrifying her. She’s not sure if she’s overreacting or if she’s finally seeing him clearly.

  “I don’t want Kavita here,” Bipin says, his low voice more jarring than his yelling from before. “And that’s that.”

  When they get to the living room, Kavita is already waiting with her powder-blue satchel around her wrist.

  Her head is lowered as she walks toward Bipin. “I’m sorry.”

  Don’t apologize! Bina wants to yell. You didn’t do anything wrong.

  “Let’s just go,” Bipin grunts. “Bina, I told you how I felt about these meetings. Now you’ve given me no choice.”

  “No choice for what?” Bina asks. A dormant kernel of confidence, one she thought disappeared years ago, sprouts in her. How dare he speak to her this way.

  Bina’s phone rings. She darts to the coffee table and silences it.

  Bipin wipes a bead of sweat off his forehead. “You’ll be hearing from me. Soon.”

  Bina tells herself to look more assured than she feels, something she used to do before she went onstage. She puts her hands on her hips and takes deep, heavy breaths.

  “Great,” she says. “I look forward to it.”

  Everyone else pretends to be busy wiping away crumbs and taking plates to the sink. Mira doesn’t even bother to be subtle about staring at Kavita and Bipin walking away.

  “Should we go after her?” Bina asks.

  Mira shrugs. “I don’t know what to do.”

  Bina’s phone rings again. She takes a quick peek at the screen and sees five missed calls and a voicemail from Suhani.

  That can’t be right. She clicks on the voicemail.

  The blood starts to drain from her face the second she starts listening. From the first syllable, she knows something is off.

  “Mom, call me the second you get this. Natasha’s in the hospital. My hospital. You have to come here now.”

  Ni
neteen

  Natasha

  Natasha feels another wave of nausea as she watches three stretchers being pulled into the emergency room.

  Fuck. How could she have done something so stupid? What was she thinking?

  When she closes her eyes, the answer comes to her. She was both thinking too much and not thinking at all. Her mind kept telling her she wasn’t good enough, again and again, until it became like a steady background noise, one she just wanted to finally shut off for good.

  But it was all a mistake. Taking the Tylenol was a mistake. Calling 911 was a mistake.

  She rubs her temples in an attempt to stop her throbbing headache. But it’s no use. It’s as though someone is stabbing her head from the inside.

  Wailing sirens collect outside the emergency room. Natasha watches a cluster of doctors take fast, purposeful strides to an area marked trauma bay. All of them are wearing scrubs. None of them look anything like the ones in her favorite medical dramas.

  * * *

  • • •

  Her breathing gets faster as she hears high-pitched screams from a nearby patient’s bed.

  The rancid smell of vomit lingers in front of her. It takes her a second to realize that the smell is coming from her. In the ambulance, she had vomited until there was nothing left. The green-yellow bile collected in the folds of a plastic bag that was held by a woman in a black EMS uniform.

  “Let it out, sweetheart,” the EMS worker had said as she rubbed Natasha’s back. Her dark eyeliner and uneven haircut reminded Natasha of Janis Ian, her favorite character in Mean Girls. In the daze of her fatigue, she remembers being comforted by that thought. She may have even called the woman Janis.

  She has to get out of here. She has to see a doctor, explain that she didn’t want to die; she just wanted to stop feeling so shitty.

  She swings her legs over the side of the stiff hospital bed. The beige sheet just barely covers the squeaky blue mattress. On the wall next to her, there’s a blood pressure cuff, one of those constantly beeping monitors, boxes of purple latex gloves in small, medium, and large sizes, and a tub of antiseptic wipes. Now that she thinks of it, the entire place reeks of those antiseptic wipes. Antiseptic wipes and sickness.