The Beauty of the Moment

by Tanaz Bhathena

  I chuckle, listening to their footsteps recede. “Poor Leonard.”

  My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and check the screen. There is a text. A number I deleted from my phone but not from my brain.

  We have to talk. Please call me.

  Yeah, right. Afrin wanting to “talk” has never led to any good in the past and I’m sure that it has no way of leading to anything better now.

  I’m about to press Susan back to the wall and kiss her again, but she slips out from under my arm. “That girl was right, you know.” She rubs her hands as if chilled. “We will be hearing from universities next semester.”

  “March,” I point out, “which is still three months away. And I don’t see why you’re so worried. With your grades, you’ll be a shoo-in at every single university you apply to.” Unlike me. Even if I manage to keep up my grades in my other courses, it’s the D in English that will still cause problems if I flunk the final in late January, weeding me out of the sort of universities Susan is bound to apply to. I taste something bitter at the back of my tongue. The phone in my pocket buzzes again. I ignore it.

  “My father wants me to get into the medicine program at St. George. My mother told me to apply to Waterloo for computer engineering, as a backup.” Susan’s voice is tight, thinner than normal. “I wonder what they’ll say when they discover that I completely forgot we had a quiz in calculus today. Or that physics keeps getting harder and harder. At this rate, I’ll be lucky if I end up with a B-minus in that course.”

  “Why are you having such a tough time?” I pause, wondering if there’s a way to put this without offending her. “I mean, you’re … you’re…”

  “Supposed to be smart?”

  She takes a deep breath, exhaling sharply through her nose. When she opens her eyes, they are alarmingly wet.

  “Initially it was the lab work that kept tripping me up. I mean, it’s not easy now either—especially with the way Mr. Franklin marks our papers—but after midterms, I thought I’d be able to do a better job. But then my parents dropped that bombshell and … it’s like I can’t focus anymore. Every time I open a book, their separation is all I can think about.” A pause. “I wish I could ignore everything around me, you know? That I could throw myself into schoolwork like a machine, producing perfect results every single time.”

  I wrap my arms around Susan’s trembling shoulders. She leans in, her nose brushing the side of my neck.

  “My grandmother likes to say that home is forever,” Susan says. “She and my grandfather live in a big old house in a village in Kerala. It has been in their family for generations, that house.” She makes a sound that is part laugh, part cry. “It was probably silly to associate the same feeling with my parents, huh? To expect them to last as long as a four-hundred-year-old house? I mean, a couple of months ago my dad said that we’d roam the city when he came here, see the sights as a family. Now, hardly an hour goes by without both my parents at each other’s throats.”

  I’m not sure how to answer that until I catch a glimpse of something on the other side of the window.

  “Hey,” I say, “you haven’t seen snow yet, have you? Real snow, that is.”

  “What do you mean by real snow? I saw it this morning.” She shrugs as if unimpressed. “It was okay.”

  I laugh. “That? That wasn’t snow, Susan. That was a flurry. A tease.”

  I pull her toward the window. Glancing around to make sure no one’s in the hallway or on the grounds (read: a teacher or VP Han), I pop open the latch and slide the pane across. A good chunk of snow has gathered right on the windowsill, and it falls on the sleeve of my sweater like sugar.

  “This is real snow.”

  A riot of white falls from the sky like feathers from a pillow, layering over the inch already gathered on the pavement below. Ahmed, who lived in Winnipeg one winter, always says that snow here isn’t heavy enough to qualify for a boast or a complaint. But for someone like Susan, who has seen only sand, whose lashes blink several times as if she can’t quite believe what she’s seeing, it’s pretty decent. I hold out my hand, gesturing to Susan to do the same. She does better, leaning out headfirst and opening her mouth to the sky.

  When she pops back in, her cheeks are pink from the cold. “I’ve always wanted to do that. Taste the snow.”

  “Wait till we get more of it,” I tell her. “When Mahtab and I were little, we’d gather fresh snow in a bucket and then add maple syrup to it to make taffy. Maybe we can do that together.”

  It’s awkward telling Susan about my childhood. About the time when my mother was still alive and healthy. When my father was still Dad and not the old man.

  But Susan only smiles and links her hand with mine. “That sounds like fun.”

  Luck is on my side when I put out my hand this time, managing to capture several big, fluffy flakes, right in the center of my palm. “Look.”

  I know when she sees them because her eyes widen and her mouth opens ever so slightly.

  “They’re like crystal fractals,” she says, almost breathlessly. “Look at those designs … Wait!” She reaches into the purse at her hip to pull out her phone—probably to take a picture—and then pauses midway, groaning. “They’re gone!”

  “Well, yeah.” I laugh at the tiny puddle in my hand. “They won’t last that long. You have to be prepared. And forget taking pictures; there’ll be time for that later. Go catch your own.”

  And she does. Flake after flake, squealing like a little kid whenever she sees a perfectly formed six-armed crystal—a diamond in a drop of frozen water.

  “Nothing lasts forever,” I say. “Not this snowflake. Not our homes, not our families. But it doesn’t mean you can’t live in the beauty of the moment.”

  In my head the words sound meaningful. Profound. Out loud, they’re the corniest thing I’ve ever said.

  “That’s the corniest thing I’ve ever heard you say,” Susan tells me.

  I cringe.

  “Maybe you should be Malcolm Kavi instead of Malcolm Vakil.” There’s a twinkle in her eyes that wasn’t there before. “You know, Malcolm Poet instead of Malcolm Lawyer? I should ask Mahtab if you guys have poet ancestors or—”

  There isn’t enough snow to make the sort of balls I normally use to throw at Steve and Ahmed. But there is enough for me to grab from the sill and stuff down the back of Susan’s shirt. Her mouth opens: a half scream, half laugh. Now I wish I had a camera handy.

  Within seconds we’ve forgotten everything—my sister, Susan’s parents, the whole wide world—as we spend the rest of the lunch period trying to stuff snow down each other’s shirts before collapsing into a puddle of laughs on the waxed floor.

  * * *

  I’m in a happy mood that afternoon.

  So happy that even Jay at Michelle’s Coffee House notices. “New girl?” he asks when I go on break. “Is she as cute as the one you were going out with before?”

  I think of Susan—how she attracts me without even trying—and only shrug.

  It’s been a good week for fund-raising as well. After my poor showing at Michelle’s, I teamed up with Isabel Abanda from the fund-raising committee and over the past few weekends, both of us have scouted local businesses and stores, managing to raise a little over four hundred dollars together. Last Sunday, Isabel was busy, so I went alone to a hardware store after my shift at Michelle’s. I forwarded Mahtab and Ronnie the owner’s email last night along with his promise to fund us another hundred and fifteen.

  When I get back home, I am grinning so much, Mahtab wants to know if I’ve applied to be a cartoon character at Disneyland.

  “Hah, very funny.” I pull out a pack of cigarettes. Mahtab’s smile drops.

  “What’s up?” I mumble through the stick in my mouth.

  “Malu, when will you stop smoking?” she asks bluntly. “You know how bad it is for you!”

  I remove the cigarette from my mouth. We’ve had this conversation before, but Mahtab usually just makes a
sarcastic comment and rolls her eyes. “Mahtab. Calm down.”

  “No, I will not calm down!” Mahtab’s cheeks redden under her glasses. “Do you know how often I think of Mom and how she died? Every freaking day. She at least couldn’t help it. But you? You’re smoking those things on purpose. Even though you know cancer killed Mom, even though—”

  “People die every day, Mah,” I interrupt. Guilt and anger thread my insides, forming a hard knot. “It’s not even the same thing. Mom had no vices. She didn’t even drink the occasional glass of wine. She still died! And then there’s Tehmtun Vakil, who should be in jail after what he did to me and you two years ago, but he’s still here.”

  Mahtab’s face gets even redder.

  “It’s true, isn’t it?” I demand. “If I’d called child protective services, they’d have taken us both away from here. But I didn’t because you begged me not to!”

  “He’s still our father!” she shouts. “He’s all we have left! And he’s sorry about what happened. Has he hit you again afterward? Has he?”

  “Yeah. Big accomplishment there—a parent who refrains from abusing their kid.”

  The heater in my room cuts off, magnifying the silence in the room.

  “He loves you—no, it’s true!” she insists when I open my mouth to argue. “But you’re both so alike. Too much, really. It’s why you have such a hard time getting along.”

  “I’m nothing like him!” My blood boils. “Mah, how could you even compare the two of us?”

  “See! This is what I’m talking about!” She rakes her hands through her hair and pulls the ends tight. “You’re both so angry all the time. You go on the offensive without even listening to what others have to say!”

  I open my mouth, ready to retort, and then shut it again.

  “The difference is,” she continues softly, “that you do listen sometimes. And so does Dad. I don’t think he has forgiven himself for what happened that night.”

  I don’t need to ask which night that was. I still remember Mahtab falling to the floor. The screaming match that erupted between me and the old man right after. Freny was the one who finally put an end to it by picking up a moaning Mahtab in her arms and taking her to the car. It was the first and only time I saw the old man grow pale with fear, pacing the halls outside the ER while Freny filled in the details at the triage nurse’s desk. I stare at the cigarette crushed to an unrecognizable shape by my hand.

  “I haven’t forgiven myself, either,” I tell my sister now before tossing it and the box in the trash.

  Susan

  The December after I turned fourteen, Appa bought me a set of Faber-Castell watercolor pencils. Thirty-six colors packed in a tin decorated with flowers, a set that retailed for over a hundred and twenty riyals in Jarir Bookstore. My parents weren’t poor, by any means, but they were frugal—especially when it came to hobbies. The box of watercolor pencils was Appa’s greatest indulgence of my love of art: a fact I was so painfully aware of that it took me nearly six months to open the package and begin using them.

  “You spoil her, Rensil,” Amma told him when she thought I wasn’t listening. “Why give her dreams that she’ll never be able to pursue?”

  At the time, I was hurt, even offended. Appa, who saw me eavesdropping, joked about Amma later. “Your mother has no sense of fun.”

  Now, three years later, I wonder again if Amma was always like this. If she had dreams—other dreams apart from being a scientist—that were crushed somewhere along the way.

  Outside, snow begins falling in earnest, gathering in the outside bottom corners of my bedroom window. Back in Jeddah, I never thought I’d see a snowflake in my life, let alone catch one: first on my tongue, and later on my hand, melting seconds after I perceived a pattern so breathtaking that I couldn’t help but catch more.

  I shiver, remembering the feel of the ice against my skin, Malcolm’s cold hand on my back. At the time, it seemed like the most perfect thing in the world—the only thing to do when presented with a handful of my first snow. Now in the silence of my room, it seems silly and pricks me with guilt. I should have spent that time outlining the essay Mr. Zuric assigned us for Alias Grace. Or studying physics. Or calculus. Or—

  My phone pings with the sound of a text message.

  Alisha: Where ARE you??? Haven’t talked to you in WEEKS.

  Two weeks and four days. The exact time since Appa’s arrival and his talk about separating from Amma. My mother still believes their marriage can be fixed. Salvaged through the counseling sessions they’ve attended over the past week or so. Even though Appa insists on sleeping on the living room sofa instead of in the master bedroom, and has done so ever since he arrived.

  I haven’t told my mother about the papers I found in Appa’s briefcase. Petition for Divorce by Mutual Consent. I couldn’t bear to read any further, still can’t bear to think he’s only here to get Amma to sign them. For years, I did my best to overlook my father’s imperfections, siding with him even when I knew he was in the wrong. However, what I’ve learned in the past couple of weeks—couple of months, really—has steadily peeled the film off the rose-colored glasses I always viewed him through. I understand, I want to tell Amma now. He makes me angry as well.

  There’ve been times over the past month when I’ve been tempted to call Alisha or write her an email about what’s happening with my parents. About Malcolm. But each time I try, my words come out muddled. Wrong. If Alisha was here, I would tell her everything. But she isn’t and everything is so complicated right now that I text back: I’m here. Sorry. Have been busy with school instead.

  Alisha: When are you coming to visit me?

  In October, the question would have soothed my wounded ego, had me thinking of ways I could convince Appa to call us back to Jeddah on vacation. But how would things work now? My parents are barely talking to each other (if I don’t count the shouting). And I could never leave Amma alone here, no matter how much she annoys me.

  Not sure, I text back. And then: I gtg.

  There’s a pause of thirty seconds before Alisha texts a simple: okay. There are no exclamation points. No barrage of hearts and kisses. I know I’ve hurt her so I send back a heart. It’s a poor response to my best friend, but I can’t bear to talk about anything right now. Not on text nor on Skype.

  On the plus side—if I can call it that—I’ve been driving a lot better over the past two weeks. Or at least Joseph no longer criticizes me as much. Last Saturday, he made only three critical comments during the entire lesson—a record as far as he is concerned.

  Seconds later, I hear shuffling outside my room. Without even opening the door, I know it’s my father, his gait heavier than Amma’s, the tread audible even when he’s walking barefoot on a soft carpet. A series of knocks—the sort he used when I was a little girl.

  “Password?” I call out.

  “Garden gnome.”

  I remain silent.

  “No? Is it kalaripayattu then? Saudi champagne?”

  He goes through a series of old passwords, finally ending at one I never even made up.

  “Suzy?” My father sounds hesitant, less certain that I’ve ever heard him. “May I come in?”

  “I’m busy,” I say finally. “Studying.”

  “Oh.” A long pause. “Of course. We can talk later.” He’s back to using the Doctor Voice. Calm and comforting: a tonic for a sore heart.

  My mouth feels dry. I wait for him to open the door the way my mother would, shouting at me for my rudeness. Is this how I raised you to talk to your elders? But Appa has never liked confrontations. He walks away, heavy footsteps fading into the carpet.

  “Why are your passwords so difficult?” Appa asked me during our final months in Jeddah. “Your old appa will never be able to remember them!”

  My throat tightens.

  It’s strange, I think now, but maybe not a complete surprise that he forgot the first ever password he picked himself. Family.

  * * *

  H
ere, we watch the news and long segments on local weather instead of Indian soap operas. Appa tells us that we can get the ATN channel on Rogers if we want to watch them. “You can catch up on Naagin and CID,” he tells Amma in a weak attempt at making conversation.

  She pays him no attention, staring instead at the TV where they’re doing a news segment on refugees from Syria. A host family is preparing for the arrival of a family of four from Aleppo on December 31. The reporter waxes poetic about the guest rooms and the play area set up for the children in the basement.

  “… are welcome and Canada is a society tolerant of all differences.” The reporter’s smile is so wide, I’m sure it will crack her face. “For CTV News, this is—”

  “I really hate that word.” Amma’s voice muffles the reporter’s. “Tolerant. What are they, flies? Or some other form of annoyance?”

  “Come now, Aruna. They don’t mean that.”

  “Tolerant.” Amma snorts, ignoring Appa. “Remember that politician on TV, Suzy? About how she wants to screen potential new immigrants for ‘anti-Canadian values’? Tolerant, my foot.”

  I say nothing. It’s been like this ever since we returned home after that awful revelation in the car—Amma directing her comments at me instead of at Appa, even the ones that are technically meant to taunt him.

  “Of course your father would understand. He tolerated us, didn’t he? Unwanted wife, unwanted daughter, never living up to his expectations—”

  “Amma,” I begin. “Amma, please—”

  “I’ve heard enough.”

  Appa rises to his feet and stalks out of the room and into the corridor. A moment later, the front door slams shut.

  Malcolm

  It takes four tries to get Susan’s attention on Monday—five if I count the fact that she seems distant even when I kiss her hello.

  “What’s up?” I ask.