The Beauty of the Moment

by Tanaz Bhathena

  The women organized a potluck dinner on Christmas Eve, bringing in traditional dishes like unniyappam and not-so-traditional ones like pasta. Men concocted illicit wine in bathtubs—stuff neither Amma nor I wanted to touch—even though Appa always chugged down a whole glass in defiance of us and of the religious police. Presents were exchanged (to be opened the next morning), followed by a group prayer at seven in lieu of a midnight mass. There were no trees or decorations, with the exception of that one year when Emerald Verghese managed to make a fir tree out of wire and carefully cut-out construction paper, glittery streamers draped around it with homemade ornaments, and even a star on top. I had to admit that it was pretty creative, lasting a full hour into the party before Emerald’s drunk cousin Benjamin fell on the tree and accidentally ripped it in half. The secrecy aside, the celebrations weren’t entirely terrible, if a tad boring compared to the ones in India.

  Canadians, on the other hand, go all out. By the time December hits, Christmas decorations are everywhere: from St. Mary’s church to the TD Bank outside our house. Yvonne calls us one morning to reconfirm our attendance at Bridgita Aunty’s big Christmas Eve bash, an event Amma agreed to long before either of us knew she and Appa would be separating.

  “Are we still going?” I ask her now.

  “Of course,” she says, without even looking at my father. “We’re still living together.” There’s a challenge somewhere in that statement, but apart from his tightening lips, Appa shows no sign of having heard it.

  “It will be good to see my family again,” Appa says. My family. A reminder that Bridgita Aunty is his cousin and will, ultimately, be on his side when the divorce is finalized.

  Amma takes the challenge in stride, putting on an emerald-green sari for the party under her coat—Your appa’s favorite sari, she once told me—and spends a good chunk of the party with her hand inside the crook of my father’s arm, laughing and joking, her fingers lightly stroking the line of his jaw.

  “What’s this, a second honeymoon?” my aunt teases. “Look at you two! No one would know you’ve been married for nearly two decades!”

  Appa’s smile is strained, but Amma’s laughter tinkles even more than the wind chimes on the porch, her face glowing in the bright lights of the house. Yvonne, who’s home for the holidays, gives me a cheeky grin. I force myself to grin back.

  My mother, the consummate actress.

  She keeps up the charade long after we leave my aunt’s house, her voice a steady stream of chatter during the drive back home and as we go up the elevator, cutting off abruptly when Appa interrupts her to relieve himself in the bathroom.

  “When is Appa leaving?” I ask, once I hear the whirr of the exhaust fan inside.

  “I don’t know.” Now that the party is over and Appa is no longer in sight, Amma’s bright facade dissolves into the exhaustion I’ve grown so used to seeing these days. “It’s not like he tells me anything. Or like we even sleep in the same bed.”

  I feel something inside me break. I’m not married; I don’t fully understand what Amma is going through. But when it comes to love, I’ve lost as well. I get up from my chair and wrap my arms around my mother who, for the first time, feels a lot smaller than she used to.

  “That boy you’re seeing, Suzy. That Malcolm boy?”

  “I’m not seeing him anymore.” Even though, for some reason, I couldn’t return the gift he gave. Couldn’t stop myself from touching the soft fabric whenever I got the chance.

  She pulls away and looks up at me with a frown. “What happened?”

  I shrug. “You were right, Amma. It wasn’t going to work in the long run.”

  Amma is quiet for a long moment. “I always loved you, you know. From the minute the nurse put you in my arms.”

  I freeze, surprised by this sudden statement.

  “I know I criticize you more than I should. I even say things I don’t mean.” She sighs. “That letter from your Ammachi—”

  “It’s okay, Amma—” I begin.

  “No, it’s not. You need to understand. I had recently moved to Jeddah with your father. You were a baby and I had no family or help like my friends back in India. I was young and got frustrated being cooped up indoors all day. Living in Saudi isn’t easy for any woman, even one deeply in love with her husband. I would write of my frustrations to your Ammachi and she would write back with advice—not that I always took it. Who wants their mother nagging them, right?”

  She smiles at me and I feel my face redden.

  “I never agreed with your grandmother. I might have regretted many things in life, including having moved with your father to Saudi Arabia, but I never regretted having you.”

  Tears prickle my eyes, slip out onto my cheeks before I can hold them in. Amma’s thumbs gently wipe them away.

  “I don’t know what happened between you and that boy, Susan. But love isn’t easy.” She stares at the closed bathroom door. “You just need to decide if it’s worth the trouble.”

  Malcolm

  Even though we’re Zoroastrian, Christmas was a festival our family always celebrated when Mom was still alive. Back then, the old man would get a real tree and string lights around it, while Mahtab and I hung ornaments on the branches. Mancher Mama and Roshan Mami came as well, with their kids, and the house would be packed and raucous for three whole days.

  After Mom died, everything changed. Though my aunt and uncle still visited us from time to time, no one bothered buying a tree or stringing lights around the house anymore. Dust gathered in the living room space where the tree used to be. Eventually, Freny placed a coffee table there and layered it with books and magazines no one bothered to read. So I don’t exactly blame myself for shouting an expletive this year when I come down the stairs into the living room and find a tree and our old ornaments staring me in my face, and the coffee table gone.

  “Do you like it?” Freny knits her fingers together nervously. “I know I should have waited for you and Mahtab to hang the ornaments, but they were so pretty that I couldn’t help myself.”

  “What’s all the noise—oooh!” Mahtab’s gasp borders more on awe than dismay. “That is so lovely!”

  “You had no right.” I cut off my sister before she can offer our stepmom any more accolades. “That was our stuff—our mom’s stuff! Wasn’t it enough that you barged your way into our lives? Why couldn’t you leave this alone?”

  “Malcolm!” I barely register Mahtab’s shocked reprimand.

  Freny’s lower lip trembles—a sign that she’s about to flee. “I’m sorry, dikra. I sh-hould h-have asked. I’ll t-take it d-down later.”

  I’m about to say more—like how she can’t call me dikra, when a strong little hand grabs me by the elbow and pulls me up the stairs. Behind me, I hear slippers clattering over the kitchen tiles—Freny will be long gone by the time I turn back to confront her.

  “What. Are. You. Doing?” Mahtab spits out. “Are you out of your mind?”

  “What is she doing?” I counter. “Trying to replace Mom?”

  “The tree was my idea, not hers!”

  I feel my anger begin to deflate. “What?”

  “But if you hate it so much”—Mahtab’s voice grows louder—“maybe I’ll throw it away!”

  “No! No, wait, Mah. I’m sorry.” I shake my head, feeling like a heel. “I didn’t know it was you.”

  “What if it wasn’t me? What if Freny decided to do this incredibly nice thing on her own?”

  I say nothing. Guilt, I realize, feels a lot like the beginnings of indigestion.

  “And there’s no need to apologize to me,” Mahtab says. “You should be apologizing to Freny.”

  My head snaps up again. “No way.”

  “Malcolm, she did nothing wrong. She was trying to be nice. And you need to face facts. Mom’s gone. And it isn’t Freny’s fault. Or Daddy’s. It was cancer.”

  I bite my tongue before I say something I’ll regret.

  “Freny was furious when he hit us that d
ay,” Mahtab says, a little more softly. “Do you know she threatened to call child protective services? Said she didn’t want to live with someone who abused his children.”

  I frown, surprised by this bit of input.

  “I know you don’t like her. But for some reason, she likes you. You don’t have to be a jerk about it.”

  I grit my teeth. “I’ll be in my room.”

  In my room, fuming for nearly an hour. As I cool down, though, confusion begins to set in. I think back to that awful night, when everything went wrong. The shouts after Mahtab fell down. Freny’s skinny form bent over my sister, gently splashing water on her face. She even checked in on me from time to time, though I was furious and unresponsive.

  As I am now.

  I trudge down the stairs into the living room, a little hesitant, not exactly sure what I’m going to do when I see Freny. The Christmas tree is still there, though most of the ornaments have now been taken off. I take a deep breath and march into the kitchen, where I smell chai brewing on the stove. Freny starts at my entrance, her fingers tightening on the mug she’s pulled out of the cabinet.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, the words thick in my mouth. “That was a nice thing you did there. I shouldn’t have made assumptions.”

  To my surprise, the terror melts off Freny’s face, turning into utter joy. She aims that startling beam my way, making me even more uncomfortable than usual. “Oh that is fine, dear. A small misunderstanding. Why don’t I make you a cup of chai? Would you like gingersnaps with it?”

  Mom wouldn’t have accepted my apology that easily. She most certainly wouldn’t have offered me cookies and tea. Any other stepmother would’ve gloated, even taken the opportunity to punish me. But Freny isn’t like that. She’s not my mother, either. And for the first time, I have an inkling that she isn’t trying to take her place.

  “Yeah.” I hesitate before pulling out a chair. “Okay.”

  * * *

  “We’re all set,” Mahtab says. It’s a couple of days after Christmas and the benefit concert committee is at the food court at the mall instead of our usual space in the cafeteria. When Mahtab first said there would be a meeting during the holidays, I doubted anyone would show up. To my surprise, with the exception of three people, the committee members arrive on time. Including Susan, who I expected to be celebrating with her family.

  “I have the venue booked for the concert on January 16. I have singers—the St. Nicholas High School Choir from Streetsville! And it’s thanks to Isabel and Malcolm and their fund-raising efforts!”

  After some negotiation—the coffee shop’s name as the main sponsor on the giant stage banner, along with spotlighting it during our interviews on television—Michelle agreed to sponsor us further, offering to cover rent for the space at the Living Arts Center.

  “You don’t give up, do you?” Michelle said, giving me a rare smile. “You remind me of myself.”

  Now the kids around me applaud. Isabel takes a bow. I grin when Ronnie thumps my back. It feels odd, but good to have done something big for the group. This is different from pulling off a dare or a dangerous stunt at one of Justin’s old parties. While the rush from those acts wore off shortly afterward, I’ve been running on the high of raising the money for the venue for a whole week. At one point I even catch Susan watching me, but she looks away when I catch her eye.

  the gift didn’t work, I texted Mancher Mama yesterday. I thought I’d made progress when Susan stuffed the scarf into her bag instead of turning around and throwing it in my face. But she’s made no move to approach me yet. Or even talk.

  Nothing that’s worth having comes easy, my uncle replied.

  Initially I thought a Christmas gift was a great idea. A scarf isn’t blatant like roses or over-the-top like jewelry. That I found one in chartreuse after nearly an hour of searching online made it even more perfect. But maybe I was wrong, I think, my heart sinking. Maybe the gift didn’t impress her.

  Right now, Susan’s looking straight ahead, listening to my sister.

  “Ticket sales have already started—and are going very well thanks to some early buzz. I won’t be surprised if we sell out completely,” Mahtab announces. “As I mentioned before, we’ll have twelve VIP guests at the venue, who…”

  I tune out as she continues speaking. Yusuf and I have been over our welcome speeches a couple of times, but Yusuf thinks I should also learn a couple of Arabic phrases, so that the kids feel more welcome.

  “What if I mess up?” I asked Yusuf. “At least you know the language.”

  “Yeah, but you’re different. You have charisma!”

  Charisma won’t help with my English independent study project, I think now. I picked In the Skin of a Lion by Michael Ondaatje, the thinnest book in the pile, figuring there was less reading to do. Only now I’m totally lost trying to figure out what the theme of the book is.

  A poster catches my eye; Mahtab has been hinting around about it for a couple of days and I might have accidentally-on-purpose missed the unveiling at the end of the last meeting. This is the first time I’ve had the chance to see one up close.

  Michelle’s Coffee House presents: TO SYRIA, WITH LOVE. The title is hand-lettered in a bold, eye-catching font, followed by a line in the delicate, looping swirls I recognize as Arabic.

  My mouth drops at what I see next: The rest of the poster has been divided into four panels—like a graphic novel. I follow the story of a brother and sister forced to leave after their home was destroyed by a bomb. They trudge through the countryside in the cold and then stowaway on a boat, only to be turned away by another country’s barbed wire. The third panel is the most elaborate, showing the inside of a refugee camp: white tents as far as the eye can see, the boy carrying a drum of water over his shoulder, his sister cooking over an open flame, her face covered with soot. There are no words on the first three panels. There is no need. The pictures are enough to convey the story and I can’t help but be impressed by Susan’s talent.

  The final panel consists of a group of kids wearing maple leaf jerseys standing onstage in front of a conductor. They’re holding up a sign with a picture of a giant heart.

  The last panel is followed by details about the event, at the bottom of the page: it’s a charity concert by the St. Nicholas High School Choir, on January 16, at 3:00 p.m., at the Rogers Theatre in the Living Arts Centre. That’s followed by the prices and the link to an Eventbrite page that the school helped us set up. The other sponsors’ logos are printed at the bottom. I’m looking over the drawings again, marveling at the detail, when my gaze falls on one of the boys in the last panel.

  It can’t be … I squint to see if it makes a difference to the picture. It’s not like I’m the only skinny, brown, spiky-haired kid in the world who wears baggy jeans. Right? I look up, my eyes finding and locking with Susan’s, almost by instinct. This time, neither of us looks away.

  Susan

  I see his eyes widen when he catches it, that little depiction of him on the poster. I don’t know what made me do it—only that one minute I was drawing, and the next minute, he appeared on the page. I was tempted to rip everything up and start over.

  But Malcolm is impossible to ignore these days. With the note. The scarf. Even more so when he looks up from the poster and right at me, scattering the steady rhythm of my heartbeat. It’s Isabel who breaks the spell, tapping Malcolm on the shoulder to ask him something. Isabel has shown no indication of being interested in Malcolm. But my face burns anyway when I see her bright eyes, hear her silver laugh.

  It’s over, I remind myself as I begin gathering my stuff. I glance at my watch. Amma said I should come home early today if I could. That she and Appa have something important to tell me. I don’t know which is worse, home or here.

  Normally I can’t wait to get out of a meeting, to avoid the awkwardness that might come with being around Malcolm. Today, however, I trudge past the mall’s different food joints, dragging my feet more than usual. I pause in front of the
restaurant where Malcolm and I first ate shawarma and, for reasons I don’t quite understand, turn one last time. I glimpse Isabel smacking Malcolm on his arm. Him laughing in return.

  Over, I repeat. There was nothing there to begin with.

  * * *

  “I’m leaving for Jeddah at the end of February,” Appa tells me when I return home. “I wasn’t planning to stay so long, but things haven’t been working as I hoped.”

  Which probably means my mother hasn’t signed the divorce papers yet. I glance at her, but Amma avoids my gaze, making a nervous, clicking sound inside her mouth.

  “I’ve been lucky that the clinic gave me such an extended leave,” Appa continues. “But I can’t stay any longer than February. Also, I think it’s best … given the circumstances.”

  “Fine.” I wonder if my voice sounds as brittle to them as it does to me.

  “Suzy, I am still doing what’s best for the family. For you.” Appa looks at me pleadingly and, for the second time in my life, I can no longer see him as my father, but as a grown man with flaws.

  “You can smoke in peace over there, I guess.”

  Appa winces. I expect Amma to be shocked or surprised by the revelation, but she only looks angry.

  “You told me you wouldn’t smoke in front of Susan,” she says. “But then, I shouldn’t be surprised, should I? Eighteen years of marriage and I’m finding out that I don’t know you at all, Rensil.”

  “Aruna—”

  “Why do either of you care?” I ask them. “It’s not like you’re planning to live together anymore.”

  “Susan—”

  “I have to go,” I cut her off. “Exams are coming up. Lots of studying to do.”