by Romi Moondi
I wish I could’ve told him: “See? I wasn’t forcing you to save me from my parents. I just wanted to meet you once. Say ‘hi’ and take it from there.”
But gone was the time to clear things up.
So the showering, that segment in the day when I couldn’t stop my mind from drifting off, the showering continued to torture me.
Thank God it only lasts ten minutes.
I dried myself off and slipped into my loose-fitting Winnie-the-Pooh flannels. They were the perfect pajamas for stomach expansion.
Bring on the Thanksgiving fat!
Back in the kitchen now, I set to work on my favourite scalloped potatoes. I had the process fully memorized: spread the potato slices in a glass dish layer by layer, and all along add in the following: flour, sliced up onions, some tablespoons of milk, and of course the shredded cheddar.
Mmmm...
My mother had been kind enough to boil the potatoes, so I sliced them up into their thin little circles. It was meticulous but calming work, and since I knew what I was doing my mother didn’t scold me at all. Meanwhile my father was laughing at an Indian comedy show, which was so not funny at all.
I smiled.
Maybe this family’s not so bad after all.
My mom went out to the garage to take out the trash, but when she returned...something was very different.
She looked utterly furious.
“Lying? LYING to us?” The rest she mumbled under her breath.
My dad approached her with a look of alarm. “What is it?”
“Your DAUGHTER said she was playing golf for an office tournament.”
My sister wasn’t going to be home for another hour. But were they really surprised she was lying?
Seriously, who goes golfing in October?
“Yeah? So?” said my father.
“Her golf set. It’s still in the garage behind the ladder.”
What kind of dumbass lies about golfing and doesn’t even take the clubs?
Just as soon as the peace in my home had embraced me, my parents were now in their fiercest attack mode.
My mother approached me with a pointed finger. “Where is she? I know she told you everything.”
“I don’t know!” I cried.
And I really didn’t!
I finished with the potatoes as fast as I could, shoving them in the oven and escaping to the basement.
My brother was watching “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off,” one of my favourite movies ever, and the perfect time for a little comedy.
I sat there watching for at least ten minutes before he spoke.
“Where is she?” His face barely moved and his body laid still on the couch.
“I don’t know!” Why did everyone think I would know? She and I were practically strangers. Two sisters with the same approved outward personality profiles, but completely blind to what was really in each other’s hearts.
“When the hell is dinner?” He rubbed his belly from overtop his worn grey T-shirt. “I’m starving. There better be lots of food.”
If there was one thing Sonny and I could agree on, it was our love for rich and delicious food. And tonight’s fusion Thanksgiving dinner was no exception. The menu called for regular roasted chickens, tandoori chicken, scalloped potatoes, steamed vegetables and pumpkin pie.
“Trust me there’s tons of food. But will we even get to eat with all the drama she’s causing?” I had a feeling this night was on an ugly path.
Long after the potatoes were done (with the pie now cooking peacefully in the oven), my biggest fear surrounding dinner was realized.
Eight o’ clock, no big sister and a set of angry parents.
I checked on the pie and headed back down to the basement. Before I even made it past the first three steps, the front door opened and I saw her.
I tiptoed to the doorway and shook my head at her. “Next time you wanna lie about playing golf, take your golf clubs with you, dumbass!”
Much to my surprise, my sister’s face didn’t contort into the agony or fear I’d expected. She almost looked a little glazed over.
With steady steps she made her way into the kitchen, as I stood in the darkened stairwell within earshot of everything.
As if I’m going to miss this!
“How was golf?” my mother asked in a casual tone. She loved kicking off her attacks with a juicy trick question.
“Uhh...I wasn’t playing golf,” she said.
Silence.
Maybe my parents weren’t expecting the honest admission.
“We already know you lied,” said my father. “So now you better tell us the truth. Do you have a BOYFRIEND?” He said the word “boyfriend” as if describing a crack-head neighbour.
“No, but I’ve been talking to someone. I saw his profile on the marriage website, and we started e-mailing.” She paused to clear her throat. “Then we met to have coffee, and...we like each other. Will you meet his family?”
Wait a minute...her dude is an INDIAN guy?
My jaw dropped.
My parents’ jaws were likely in a dropped configuration as well, though I couldn’t know for sure since the kitchen was obscured by the stairwell.
My mother was the first to break the silence. “Why did you meet him without our permission?”
Was it my imagination, or was my mother trying to mask her excitement with faux “taken-abackness”?
“And why did you lie?” said my father. “If there’s one thing we tell you kids, it’s to never lie. We will always catch you. And Neema you never need to lie, you can ALWAYS talk to us.”
Oh yeah Mom and Dad, you’re just SO easy to talk to. Everything’s fine just as long as we never leave the house.
“I didn’t want you to meet him until we talked,” she said. “I can’t decide to marry someone right away. But he’s really nice.”
“Was this the first time you met him?” asked my mother, still trying hard to sound angry. “And don’t lie again.”
“We had coffee one other time,” she confessed. “And we talked on the phone.”
I had to applaud my sister’s bravery. I mean she hadn’t revealed that she’d been seeing him for almost a year (if her late nights out were any indication), but this was big.
“I don’t like this,” said my father. “I don’t like what you did. Don’t ever lie like that again. So...how old is he?”
“What does he do?” added Mother. Both of them had given up on being pissed. They were excited.
I continued to listen as she described this man whose existence I’d suspected for months.
Indian background? Check.
Same religion? Check.
Older than her? By one year, so check (and phew!)
Doctor, engineer or a high-powered business man? Engineer. In other words, check times a zillion!
I was happy for her...but also about to shit my pants. My parents had a spot in the local Indian newspaper advertising my sister. They also had a profile for her on all the matrimonial websites.
Would they cancel the paid memberships, or simply change the bullet point details (and jpeg) to now reference me?
I was beginning to lose my appetite.
“Come and eat!” yelled my mother.
Oh great, NOW you want me to eat?
My mother and father changed to the topic of the glorious meal that was before us. I took a quick look at the scalloped potatoes.
And I felt like I was going to be sick.
Think happy thoughts, think happy thoughts.
I somehow managed to compartmentalize my fear, and ate at least two thirds of what I normally would. As for my parents, they never once noticed my reluctance to have a third helping. Their thoughts were too busy running wild with wedding plans. I could see it in their rapidly shifting eyes.
My sister on the other hand ate her dinner calmly, with a visible weight now entirely lifted off her shoulders.
And her only words as she passed me in the kitchen once the
dinner was complete?
“You’re next.”
Chapter Twenty-One
I stared out the window, my eyes fixated on the beautiful people walking past, on my favourite little corner of Toronto where “rich” met “hot.”
It was a Thursday after work and Laura and I were right where we’d been four months ago, when she’d confessed to being faced with a “sausage surprise.”
Only now we weren’t sitting on the patio, instead safely sheltered from the wind-chill and some evening flurries.
“Are you getting a drink?” asked Laura, as she browsed the cocktail menu.
“Actually...just staring at those people out there is giving me a shiver. I kind of want hot chocolate.” I played with my long purple scarf, tightening it slightly around my neck. It wasn’t really made for warmth, but I liked the thin and almost sheer material. Slave to fashion.
“Well surprise, you can actually afford to drink all those calories! Like what would you have said a year ago, if I predicted you’d be wearing a tight v-neck sweater, without it looking three sizes too small?”
“I would’ve asked you to bring me a manual on how to be bulimic. There’s no other way it would’ve seemed possible.” I still wasn’t free of those mild stomach rolls that most people get when they’re seated, but regular workouts at the gym with the goal of joining the office stair climbs had gradually made a difference.
“How much weight have you lost in total?” she asked.
“Uhh...sixteen pounds.”
It was four pounds shy of my parents’ weight-loss goal, but it’s not like I’d been shooting for that anyway. Besides, being one pound under my best adult weight was good enough for me. And who didn’t love climbing multiple flights of stairs without hyperventilating?
More importantly, exercise was a good distraction, not to mention a needed one, when my life was so devoid of emotion.
I ordered my hot chocolate and Laura chose an “exotically spiced cider” (or named as such so it could justify the hefty price). She crossed her arms as the waiter walked away, her gaze focused squarely on me.
“What?” I said.
“You know exactly what. As in what’s your latest status?”
I ran my fingers through the tassels of the scarf, imagining all the ways I could respond.
“Be more specific please.”
“Okay. Well are your parents still cool? They haven’t pulled a fast one?”
I smiled at the thought of my parents, and how my sister’s news had affected them so profoundly. They were in love with his family, and drooling at the prospect of hosting a giant Indian wedding.
“You know how my parents used to look at my sister? Like an object.” I held up a glass as an example. “Like a depreciating asset on the market. But now that my sister’s getting married in only NINE months?” I paused for effect while Laura gasped. “Well now they seem a lot more needy. Like they’ll miss her or something.”
“Nine months? Wow. But wait a minute, if they’re acting all needy, I assume they haven’t tried the whole website thing with you?”
I laughed. “Not only have they not tried to put me on a website, but they shut down the account and cancelled the newspaper ad. And you’ll love this next little bit. My dad said ‘Don’t worry, you have plenty of time. We can wait another year or so.’ My dad said THAT, to ME.”
“Isn’t it funny how things work out?”
I smiled. “Yeah I guess so. They’re already insanely busy planning her engagement reception. It’s happening in January, and from the sounds of it it’s going to be a big one. Like two hundred people at least, just for an engagement!”
“Well that might be good…you could start to stay out later and they wouldn’t even realize.” I noticed a flicker of mischief in Laura’s smile.
I laughed. “You are a horrible white-girl influence.” She had a point though. My parents had barely batted an eye at my after-work excursions.
When the waiter arrived with our drinks, Laura looked a bit alarmed. “Oh no!” she whispered, as he hurriedly walked away. “I know you wanted hot chocolate, but you forgot to say ‘no whipped cream!’“
I examined the swirly mountain atop my drink, with flecks of chocolate shavings as the final accessory. “Well actually,” I said, “I think I can swing it...and I think I will love it.” I smiled and cradled the cup like a newborn baby (a newborn cup-shaped baby with a frothy head).
“Well now I am officially jealous.” She stared at her cider and sneered. “So my next question...have you forgotten about ‘you know who’ yet?”
I stirred the whipped cream and tried not to flinch at the thought of him. “Well A: it’s only been five weeks. And B: I’m pretty sure I’m thinking about him NOW since you brought him up!”
“Oh, sorry,” she said. “But you know what I mean. Is he still on your Facebook?”
I rolled my eyes. “He sure is. And he seems to be having a blast. At least if you go by the beautiful pictures from the beach he just posted. The beach…at sunset.” I sighed. “It’s so much nicer at that time, since that’s when all the people put their clothes back on.” I continued to over-stir my drink.
“Any girls in those pictures?”
I shook my head. “Nothing beyond the usual suspects. I just wish he’d do something really jerky. Like post a picture of himself sucking face with a model, along with a caption of ‘Ha, ha, ha, Romi!’“ Laura laughed as I went on. “I just wanna stop caring. Hopefully he’ll commit a heinous crime and I’ll hear all about it.” I took a big sip of hot chocolate. It was so damn rich that my body instantly calmed.
“But you’re doing so much better now!” she exclaimed. “You’ve gotten over him like ninety percent by now, right?”
“It sure doesn’t feel that way.” Suddenly my chin started quivering. Oh god, not now. I’ve been two whole weeks without tears!
“Oh no, you’re getting upset. Let’s change the subject!”
But it was too late for that. The “sad little girl train” had already left the station.
“You know what the worst part is?” I looked at her with eyes full of sorrow. “I actually feel like I’ve gotten progressively stupid.”
“You’re not stupid at all! Every experience makes you wiser.” She quickly nodded as if to convince me.
Sorry dude, not buying it.
“How am I wiser?” I whined. “With the ‘latte guy’ at least I had actually met him! We spent some time together, so at least there was a basis for getting my heart broken. But this time...I fell for someone I never even met. And according to him I imagined it all!” I slammed my fist on the table, and the cutlery bounced with a shock.
“I promise you you’re not stupid.” She pointed to my drink. “Now finish that amazing hot chocolate before it gets cold!”
I ignored her and continued on my path of self-destruction. “Imagine if I told anyone this story. If I told someone that AFTER being crushed by a long-distance dude, I let myself get crushed by an Internet-dude next. Do you think they would believe I finished high school?”
Laura frowned and furrowed her eyebrows intensely. “I do NOT accept this sadness,” she said. “You act like it’s the end of everything!”
“Isn’t it? The ‘year of the chick’…what a bust.”
For some inconceivable reason, my admission of failure was a happy occasion for Laura. Or it must’ve been...why was she smiling?
“I change my mind,” she stated. “You did NOT finish high school, because you’re totally blind to the awesome position you’re in!”
Laura seemed to have lost it, but my “chin quiver” was stabilized, so I decided to listen for more.
She took a deep breath. “I’ve been keeping up with your blog, and I know you never wrote about ‘him,’ but your posts are getting funnier and funnier. It’s like you don’t even believe in fairytales anymore.”
“I don’t. I mean that damn Cinderella getting everything she ever wanted? I wish I could meet
her and say ‘Hey Cind, I found your glass slipper! Now please bend over while I shove it up your ass!’” I shook my head in disgust.
“Okayyy. But also,” she began, “maybe next year you’ll get around to writing that book you always talk about, you know beyond just the brainstorm. So tell me again: how does this seem like the end of things? Hmm?” She smiled with an air of victory.
Bitch needs to get off her happy pills.
“You know what the funny thing is?” I said. “When we first started talking about writing, and he asked me if I wanted a happy ending for my novel, I practically squealed when I said yes. And now…I’m not entirely sure that I won’t kill off the heroine.” I sighed. “I’m not entirely sure if I even want to write it anymore.”
“Romes, shut your face!” she cried. “You’ve come so far on this writing thing, and a lot of it’s because of him! At least be grateful.”
I sneered.
“Okay, forget the writing,” she quickly said. “But remember, you thought this year would end by being forced into arranged marriage doom. Instead it’s like a new beginning! So no more ‘pity party’ Romes, or I will put on my coat and march right out of here.”
I smiled, but I really had no idea how another twelve months would bring me closer to love, when the first twelve months of trying hadn’t even caught a glimpse of it. But at least I wasn’t getting any closer to arranged marriage hell.
Fine, I’ll take it as the consolation prize.
“Okay, your pep talk worked,” I said. “I won’t jump off a bridge.”
“And you also won’t sit at home every night watching rom-com DVDs.”
“Trust me, I am well aware of how those cutesy little movies spread their poison. Or maybe I poisoned myself, but dammit I’m very impressionable! Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan are more destructive than crack cocaine.” I shuddered.
“Yeah…but I still kind of loved him in ‘You’ve Got Mail.’“
“But he isn’t real! There is no knight in shining armour outside of movies!” I cried. “And you know what I realize now? At a certain point, you have to be your OWN knight in shining armour. It might mean pumping iron, growing a beard, and ruining your manicure, but is it worse than kissing a flat-screen version of a nineties Tom Hanks?”
