Balance of Fragile Things

by Olivia Chadha

Erik bent down and said, “You wanna go get a milkshake?”

  At that moment, Isabella fell in love.

  Paul

  Paul looked out the window of his Kwicki Fill and smiled. He selected disc two on the CD player under the counter and hummed along to Johnny Cash. He admired the rack of tires outside the window that had been returned on good faith, and the extra tower of engine oil they’d delivered along with it. It was cloudy, as always, but today he noticed the intricate edges outlining each cloud. All were unique—the way they moved, their density or thinness, their variegation of white tinted with smoke. The clouds danced like friends at times; other times they fought like enemies. They tugged, layered, and even weighed heavily on one another like siblings. He’d never observed this before. He’d only seen them as a vast carpet of gray. He watched one cumulus give way to a bright blue sky for a minute and watched another feathery cloud close the seam.

  “Glorious,” he said to himself and to the store. He was waiting for Papaji to pick him up. They were going to an appointment with the City of Cobalt, and Paul had to collect the research that he’d left at the station. Paul felt good about this plan. He would share the results from the water testing and tell them about the connections he had made between PMI and the quality of the water. They would be required to do something. He would bring the proof. As he bent toward the shelf where he kept his papers, the old knife in his pocket scuffed his leg, so he removed it and put it with his collection of defense tools under the counter.

  “Too many paranthas,” he whispered to his reflection in the window. His waistband was not forgiving, and he would have traded anything for the one-size-fits-all feeling of the kurta pajama; its waist was cinched by a fabric cord that could be adjusted to one’s eating habits. You could hide your robustness, a full pregnancy, and many other secrets beneath the folds of the fabric. The extra inch or so in the waistband would come in handy, particularly after the wonderful parantha breakfast he had with his family that morning.

  “Urrgh.” He grumbled as the button slipped out of the eyelet of his slacks. He fastened the single button on his jacket and looked into the reflection in the window again. Not bad, he thought. His dark-brown suit and black turban looked quite regal. He looked intelligent, trustworthy, and ready for a meeting with Mrs. Donatella Mooney, a member of the city planning board, in downtown Cobalt. He placed his folder on the counter and straightened his turban, then wrote a sign and taped it to the inside of the glass door: Temporarily Closed. Will Re-open Tomorrow. —Paul Singh, owner

  It was a rare thing for Paul to close his convenience store for a whole day, but this was important business, and he wanted to be free in case other meetings followed. He fantasized about the praise he would receive from the city officials for uncovering strange goings-on across from his station. They’d nickname him The Watchdog, someone not to be messed with. They would give him one of those citizen awards and show the whole ceremony on the evening news. Maybe all the research would add up to something; maybe one of his life goals would be achieved.

  He heard a car pull into the station and park along the side. In his rush he dropped his notes, and the papers scattered across the floor behind the counter. The bell rang on the door. “Ik mint, Papaji,” Paul said without looking up as he gathered his notes, drawings, and documents and slid them into the folder.

  As he rose to his feet, something struck him with such force that his turban fell off and rolled across the floor. Stunned, Paul fumbled for the bat under the counter, but before he could grab it, he felt another strike against his skull, and his vision went black.

  Vic

  Vic looked at the forms on the clipboard. The words on the page may as well have been written in Akkadian. The nurse, whose breath was a gust of coffee, said his mother would have to read and sign them to the best of her ability as soon as possible. Vic took the forms with him into the hospital room, where he signed his mother’s name on the line that read, “The patient or responsible party acknowledges responsibility for payment,” and once more where it read, “The patient or responsible party understands hospital policies,” though he hadn’t actually read the small print in its entirety.

  When Vic was through with the paperwork, he turned to his father, known to Cobalt County Hospital as the critical patient in Room 127. If Vic ignored the tube of oxygen in his father’s nose, the IV in his hand, and the clip on his fingertip that monitored his heart, it was easier to imagine that his father was simply ensnared in a heavy slumber. But the fantasy was threadbare and dissolved as soon as Vic looked closely at his father’s face. He dared not touch his cheek; from a distance he looked like a wax model of Paul Singh. The wax figure’s left eye was bruised and swollen shut. Bandages heavy with brown blood were taped to his temple. It looked as though a special-effects artist had created two deep cuts on his now-shaved head and had used staples worthy of Frankenstein’s monster to close the wounds. Vic pulled the extra blanket over the sheet-covered silhouette of his father’s knees. Seeing more of his body than necessary while he was a defenseless hostage of the hospital bed made Vic angry.

  He swallowed, but his dry throat only scratched.

  “Ma, do you think he’s cold?”

  His mother was sitting in a chair beside the bed, staring at Paul catatonically.

  “Ma?”

  “No,” she whispered.

  She’d been like that since she arrived. Her face was still, her breath shallow like his father’s. His mother appeared to have retreated deep inside herself. She hadn’t said a word more than two or three letters long. She was cryogenically frozen in her shock—a totally useless state, in Vic’s eyes.

  “I’ll just take these to the nurse then,” he said.

  After he handed the papers to the nurse, he went into the waiting room to speak with the others. Isabella was still wearing her white sweater, the cuffs stained with Papa’s blood.

  “Iz, I’ll trade you.” He gave her his hooded sweatshirt. He put the bloody sweater in a plastic bag. The police, who’d stopped by earlier, might need it, he thought. Maybe he should call them again to see if they found who did this.

  “Vic, we’ll figure this out.” Oma was confident and calm.

  “Sure,” he replied emptily. “It’s getting late—you should all go home. I’ll stay here with Mama and Papa. Izzy, call Adelaide to pick you all up, okay? Ask the nurse to use the phone. I’ll call home if anything changes.”

  “I should stay with you, potrá.” Papaji rested his large hand on Vic’s shoulder.

  “No, Papaji. There isn’t room. Please take care of Izzy.” He whispered the last part.

  “He’ll wake up soon. It’s only a matter of time.” Papaji nodded at Vic as he went back into the hospital room. “We’ll be back in the morning.”

  Vic nodded back, though he knew that even if his father woke, it was possible he had brain damage. All he could think of was the conversation he’d had with him that morning at breakfast. Vic had come to the table without his head covering.

  Papa? Vic had said.

  Yes?

  Don’t get mad. Vic hid behind his large pile of potatoes.

  What did you do with your hair? Paul had touched Vic’s ponytail, free of his patka. Vic wore a bandana wrapped around his scalp.

  I’m just trying something new. I’m sorry, it’s not really—I mean, it’s still clean and covered, right?

  It looks foolish.

  Just for today?

  Vic saw the disappointment in his father’s eyes. The turban is very important, but what’s more important is that you never cut your hair, puttar. Please, promise me, Paul had said.

  I promise, Papa.

  Fine, for now.

  Now, at the hospital, Vic felt helpless. The doctors had relieved the pressure around his father’s brain as best they could by drilling a hole in his skull near one of the fractures and suctioning out the fluid. Now it was a waiting game.

  The floor under Vic’s feet blurred as he walked down the
now-familiar hallway. As he passed a vending machine, he saw a bag of barbecue-flavored chips. His mother liked barbecue. She said they reminded her of summer. Vic fumbled with a wrinkled dollar that the machine rejected several times. His blood pressure skyrocketed. All he wanted was the silly bag of chips, and a thin pane of glass separated them from him. He curled his hand into a fist and put it straight through the glass, took the chips, and returned to Room 127. He placed the bag of chips carefully on his mother’s lap. Blood rushed from his wrist.

  A nurse who saw the event ran into the room.

  “Sir, sir? Okay, we’re going to have to look at that. Hold still, please, sir.”

  The words warbled in his ears. The nurse grabbed his willing hand and called for a doctor. Someone came in with a sterile sheet and tools. Vic looked at the purple and blue squiggly patterns on the hospital floor. He didn’t respond to the prick of the needle that someone told him would numb the area, nor to the tugging on the skin on his wrist as the needle went back and forth. His mother had screamed only once when she looked at him, but other than that she hadn’t made a sound. When the doctor finished repairing his wrist, with six stitches and a bandage, Vic swallowed a pill in a small paper cup. He picked up the chips that had fallen to the ground, sat in the other available chair, and ate them one at a time, succumbing to the artificially relaxed state.

  ~

  Vic and Isabella had received a call from Papaji just as they were about to walk to school earlier that morning. The two of them had run to the station while their mother called the police.

  Vic had pushed on the glass door, which opened easily enough. He’d made note of the sign. Time had moved strangely: He saw Papaji sitting behind the counter, desperately holding onto someone. Then he saw a man that looked like his father, except that he didn’t wear a turban, and his head was caked with blood, his face badly bruised. Blood pooled on the floor around the side of his head, and his turban had unraveled across the floor. His suit, which had been nicely pressed only an hour ago, was crumpled.

  Isabella cried and took his turban to him.

  Get off him! His neck could be broken! Vic pulled his sister and Papaji carefully away. Call 9-1-1.

  Isabella held the turban to her chest and cried. Her fingers had pressed into the puddle of blood. Vic picked up the receiver and dialed the number himself.

  Hello? Um, my dad’s not moving. There’s blood on his face and the floor.

  The voice on the other end of the phone said, Sir, my name is Sue. What’s your name?

  Vic.

  Where are you?

  Vic gave the address.

  Is he breathing?

  Vic put down the phone and went to his father. His body was warm, but he couldn’t see his chest move. He leaned close to the floor and listened. He felt warm air.

  He picked up the phone again. Yes, I think he’s breathing.

  Okay. I’m sending an ambulance right now. Vic, it’s important that you don’t move him, okay? Not until the EMTs stabilize his neck, okay?

  Okay.

  Vic, are you alone?

  He stared at Isabella, who was hyperventilating, and Papaji, who was staring intently at Paul. No, my sister and grandfather are here.

  Okay, Vic, are you safe where you are?

  Yes, um, I think. What do I do? What should I do?

  You did the right thing calling, Vic. It’s important now to stay calm and wait for the ambulance. They should be there in five minutes. It’s important that you stay on the phone with me until they arrive, okay, Vic?

  Okay.

  Vic looked at the floor, and when he saw his father’s knife, he took it and stowed it under the counter. By the time the EMTs and police arrived, Isabella had run out of tears. Vic had met them near the gas pumps and tried his best to stay out of their way. He’d helped his sister and Papaji into the back of the ambulance before he entered. He held Isabella’s hand the whole way and kept his gaze set firmly on his father, whose eyes were closed. In his lap he held his turban.

  Isabella

  After two days of seeing her mother suspended in time and space like a leaf petrified in amber, Isabella forced her to take a break from the hospital and go home to shower. For motivation, she told her she smelled.

  “Like those towels that sit on the bottom of the bathroom floor molding away. It can’t be good for Papa either. He’s in a coma, but he can still smell and hear what’s going on around him.”

  That got her home for an afternoon, at least, though Isabella hoped she would fall asleep and wake the following day. Adelaide, always the helpful friend, drove Isabella to and from the hospital on the successful retrieval mission.

  Isabella felt like an orphan. The attacker had taken both her parents the day he walked into the Kwicki Fill. Her father’s hospitalization and her mother’s immobilizing distress left Isabella to question her role in their family. She’d defined so much of who she was against her mom, dad, and brother. Vic, as the eldest child, was supposed to be strong, sharp, and in control. Isabella, however, didn’t have a clue what was expected of her, or what she could do to help. On TV when a tragedy struck a family, the characters separated into binary camps: those consumed by sadness and those who rose above their personal feelings to save the day. She wasn’t a hero or a black hole of suffering. What was left for her?

  The police had contacted them at home a few times for information they’d forgotten to record at the scene. They asked if Isabella or Vic had noticed any cars parked at the station when they’d arrived, or whether they could think of anyone their father had recently pissed off. The police didn’t have any leads, but Papaji and Oma were working hard on the case. They wouldn’t leave these things up to the authorities.

  While her mother was napping, the four remaining members of the Singh/Mazur brood came together over tea and piragis. When Isabella sat down on the couch, she noticed that both her grandparents had lost about ten years. Oma’s white fuzzies, as she referred to them, were curled tightly to her scalp, and her lips wore red lipstick. Papaji’s long white beard was rolled neatly under his jawline; Isabella could see her father in his jaw. Because of her father’s attack, routines such as grooming had gone out the window for the entire family—but her grandparents’ fresh look meant business. They’d even brought notepads.

  “Okay, zoh, there are some things that everyone should know. No secrets now, okay? It’s important to flush them out into za open.”

  Isabella wondered to which secrets her grandmother was referring.

  Papaji cleared his throat and said, “I’ve made an appointment with Mrs. Mooney, the woman we were on our way to meet. We think that’s the best place to start. I have put together some of his notes along with a copy of test results Paul had kept in his top drawer in the garage. Maybe this lady knows what they mean.”

  “That’s good you didn’t give them to the police. I could take a look, you know.” Vic was eager to be involved.

  “Just leave it to us, neh? We don’t know who did this, but we know they are willing to—” Oma paused when she looked at Isabella. “But you can help mit other things, Vic.”

  “Like what?”

  Papaji said, “To begin, you are the man of the house temporarily. So it’s important that you do the things that your father did for you before. That’s how it is done in the Singh family.”

  “But I don’t know—”

  “You are doing just fine.”

  “What about me?” Isabella wanted to be a part of the family’s restructuring. “I can do some stuff, too.”

  “Yes, Izjah, we need you to do za most important part of our investigation.” Oma took a small sip of her tea. “You will keep up za appearance that we aren’t looking into Paul’s attack ourselves. You need to continue back to school and to rehearsal. This way, whoever’s watching us now relaxes back into their normal routine.”

  “So,” she said with a sigh, “you just want me to stay out of the way.”

  “No, you are much more im
portant than that. Potrí, you are our representative to Cobalt.”

  “Whatever.” Isabella didn’t buy it. She felt as if they were talking to her like a child again.

  “Iz, I get it. You see, when you go back to school, everyone will be asking you what happened. Think of your job as the PR person or something.”

  Isabella knew her position yielded the least power. “You’re not coming?”

  “I’ll go back tomorrow.”

  She shrugged, went to her room, and shut the door quietly behind her. She listened to their voices whispering plans and ideas she knew they didn’t think she could handle because she was too young, or too weak.

  “It’s not fair,” she said aloud, hoping they would hear her. Isabella jumped into her bed face first and let the events of the recent past press her into the pillow. She missed her father. It was an awful thought, but it was a spot of light on a very dark cloud that she had been able to stay at home from school because of what happened. The kids at school would feel sorry for her. Tewks—well, she hadn’t figured out what to do about him. Their awkward exchange had frightened her, until she realized he was all bluster and no punch. He was not threatening even when he was making threats. She knew the show would continue, and Tewks would probably pretend she had always been his favorite.

  But now there was Erik, the real bright spot in her life; they had enjoyed a milkshake at the Burger Depot together. He called daily now to see how she was doing. He even offered to do all of her homework and anything else that would make her life easier. Isabella felt guilty for experiencing a blossoming in her heart when it was simultaneously breaking.

  The door opened, and Oma’s scent preceded her body into the bedroom. Isabella stayed motionless, with her face planted in her pillow. When Oma sat down on her bed, it creaked but still Isabella didn’t stir. She felt Oma’s hand on her back.

  “Darlink, I know this is hard on you, especially you.”

  “I’m not weak.” Her words were muted by the down surrounding her cheeks.