Far From Home

by Lorelie Brown

  “There’s hands-off, and then there’s neglect.”

  I like the way she’s full of cold anger on my behalf, but it makes me squirmy at the same time. I’ve probably gone too far, told too much truth. She doesn’t need my mess on top of her own. “It’s not like that. She’s just always let me live my own life. It’s made me independent. And besides, you should be grateful. If I had parents breathing down my neck, I might not have agreed to this scheme.”

  “Fair point.” She raises her glass in a small salute, then finishes it off. “Can we get me another one of these?”

  I wave down a waitress, and this time I just ask for a diet soda because I can barely feel my cheeks now. I’ll have another drink in a minute. Pari’s gin and tonic comes quickly.

  I cast around for conversation. “Do you like hedgehogs?”

  Pari laughs at me, but it’s entirely good-natured. “What? Where in the world did that come from?”

  “I follow this stupid cute hedgehog with vampire teeth on Instagram.” Heat attacks my cheeks and the back of my neck. I tug my shirt down. “Fine. I’ll stop trying to act like the social hostess for the night. You pick the conversation.”

  “What were you watching earlier? At the house. On TV.”

  “You haven’t seen it before?” Oh, she’s going to regret asking. The floodgates open, and I start gushing about how smart the show is. That gets her started on a web series that she’s watched and that she’d initially loved until it went downhill. Before we know it, we’re three drinks in and I’ve accidentally ordered two more vodkas.

  I feel good when she stands up and drags me onto the dance floor. We dance independently but like we’re tied in tandem. I shake my ass to the beat, and I know Pari is watching. I feel like I’m being naughty, trying to get her attention, but it’s only fair, because she has mine.

  She has my focus in a way no one has before. Or maybe I’m exaggerating, but at the very least it’s been so long I can hardly remember the feeling. It’s not that I’m asexual, but I’m not exactly comfortable with the whole package either. The rush starts in my stomach with a flip and spreads outward from there.

  Maybe it’s just being the center of attention. I know I have a problem with that. I like Pari’s eyes on me. I like knowing she’s looking.

  I let her catch my hand. The music strokes through me, and I think it’s increasing the feeling that’s making my stomach all wiggly. It’s thumping tripwires in my brain. I like it. I like her hand wrapped in mine. She laces our fingers together. It’s just dancing. There’s nothing wrong with this.

  We spin together, then apart. She lets me have space. Room to breathe. I feel like a diamond on a chain that she’s showing off.

  I’m laughing when we tumble off the dance floor. “Want to go upstairs?”

  We find a small cushioned bench behind a curtained nook. Dirty, naughty, wrong things have happened here. I know it as I lean against the satin cushions. My toes tingle. I sit and tuck my feet up under my butt, knees pointing to one side. Pari sits at the other end of the couch, but she doesn’t settle in. She waves down a new waitress and orders us another round of drinks plus a basket of french fries.

  My mouth waters. God, I have such problems. I decide I’ll have ten fries. That’s a reasonable amount without denying myself. At least I’m not having daiquiris, even though I miss them desperately.

  When the fries show up, they’re in a tiny shopping cart sized just right for a Barbie. I laugh as I take one. “This is ridiculous!”

  Pari puts two fingers on the miniature red bar and pushes it across the plate between the dishes of ketchup and mustard. “Just a few potatoes to pick up.”

  “Okay, you’re ridiculous.”

  “It’s got wheels! It’s meant to be pushed.” We’re both dying of laughter.

  We melt into each other, shoulder against shoulder. I like contact. I like contact with her.

  I think I’m drunk.

  She kisses me.

  At first I almost don’t know what’s going on. Her mouth feels so much different than a man’s. It’s a softer approach, one that’s barely a breath across my lips, and then she’s drinking my laughter.

  I jolt. Low-down deep in my body. A hard clench that shoves my lungs and squeezes my pussy. It’s not a feeling I’ve had before, and if this is what everyone else gets all the time, I can see why they turn their lives upside down for certain people.

  But it’s so much. My head is spinning. I lift my hands, but it’s not as if I’m going to touch her. If only having her lips on mine does this to me, tripping over my mouth like a butterfly dances over flowers, I can’t imagine touching her face like I want to. She tastes like salt and the juniper bitters of gin. Is this what it’s supposed to be like?

  She pulls away first. Of course she does. I want to chase her lips with mine. I don’t. I’d chase her to Mars for only scraps of attention. I fold my hands in my lap and try to focus on the space beyond our cloth cubbyhole.

  “I’m sorry,” she says.

  “I know.” I cover my face with the hands I almost used to grab her. “I mean it’s fine. Really.”

  “It’s not. I shouldn’t have done that.”

  “We’ll pretend it never happened.”

  I wake up way too early the next morning. The sunlight hurts my eyes, but that’s probably more to do with all the vodka I drank last night. There had been another round after the kiss, as if Pari and I were both pretending that it was all fine and nothing strange had happened.

  It’s all I can do to keep my head on straight. I draw my knees up and sit cross-legged as I try to balance my throbbing temples between my fingertips.

  I have to come out of the room eventually.

  I take my time.

  Pari is in the kitchen, standing in front of that beautiful center island. She’s wearing a silk blouse and a pencil skirt as if she’s going into work. I have a moment of panic punch me in the stomach, and it isn’t as if my tummy was feeling that great to begin with.

  “Are you going somewhere?” Fear makes me flighty, until I realize what I’m doing. I can’t throw a fit over feeling abandoned when I’m the one who wants to back off.

  It can be mutual backing off. That would be okay. I’m pretty sure.

  She gives a little shake of her head. She’s chopping herbs with fast, efficient motions and a knife that looks entirely too big for the task. “Not until it’s time to get my mother.”

  “Oh,” I say lamely. “I didn’t think you’d get dressed until later.” Because that’s what I’d do. But she’s not me. Duh.

  “Would you like breakfast?”

  I put a hand over my stomach, like that’s going to keep my insides where they belong. “I don’t know if I can handle it.”

  Her knife stills. Pari tongues her bottom lip, then looks up at me. “Trust me?”

  “Sure.” I’m surprised by how quickly I answer. I don’t trust myself, much less anyone else. But I want to trust her. Surely that should count, right?

  “Sit, sit.” She waves at the barstool and bustles around getting ingredients out.

  She pulls a blender from a hideaway cabinet and throws ice and bananas and a couple other things in. The result is thick and white and frothy. She pours it into a tall, skinny glass and nudges it toward me.

  “Um.”

  Her smile is gentle. “You said you trust me.”

  I have no way to take back my words, and I don’t think I want to. Probably. “Can I have a straw?”

  “A straw?”

  “Long? Skinny? Tubular?”

  “I think I may …” She digs in a drawer next to the sink before triumphantly waving a half-empty pack of neon straws. “From when Heidi brought her boy over.”

  She holds them out to me, and I pick a bright-blue one. It goes well with the pale yellow of my drink. “Who’s Heidi?”

  “We work together. Her son is four. He likes My Little Pony and Star Wars.”

  “Smart kid.”

 
I drink. The banana is smooth and sweet. Frothiness keeps it light. There’s a bite of ginger that settles my stomach. The sugar hits me quickly. I manage to suck it all down in short order.

  I don’t realize my hands are shaking until I tuck my fingertips between my thighs. My lounge pants are thin cotton, and dampness from the glass’s condensation sinks through immediately.

  “What is it?” I don’t know what Pari sees in my expression to make her ask.

  “I took food from someone else without knowing the calorie count.” I take a deep breath. “And it doesn’t feel all freaky. Not too freaky, at least.”

  “I’m glad.”

  I like her smile. It makes me feel clean. “I’m going to have to tell my therapist about this.”

  “She’ll be proud of you. I am.”

  I blush and look down at my hands against my striped PJ pants. Christ. “It’s silly.”

  “It’s not.” She reaches across the island and takes my hand from my lap. Compared to my fingers, hers are scalding hot. “If it’s a new step for you, then it’s really important. I bet your therapist wouldn’t want you belittling your progress.”

  “She wouldn’t.”

  I don’t know why Pari needs me. I don’t know what I’m doing here. She’s too fucking nice. “Has your mom met any of your girlfriends before? Taneisha?” I make myself say the name with a straight face, not giving in to the temptation to sneer.

  “She did when Taneisha and I were friends. When she was … with her husband still.” She shrugs eloquently. “It was all very complicated. I assisted her through a rough patch in her life. Amma met her. Then we dated. Then we didn’t.”

  “What did your mom think of her?”

  “That I shouldn’t mess around with straight girls.” She makes a face. “Though she didn’t use those words.”

  I nibble on the inside of my lip. More proof that last night’s kiss shouldn’t have happened. “How can I help today?”

  “If you could go over your room and make sure it doesn’t look … personal? Move around whatever you’d like in my room, as if you really were moved in.”

  “Are you sure this is going to work?”

  “No idea.” Her accent seems to be getting thicker as she gets tenser. “But I have to try or this all may fall apart.”

  I go to the airport with her. I’m not entirely sure how it happens. One minute I’m helping get the rooms straightened out, and the next I’m saying, “Sure, I’ll go. Why not?” and getting in Pari’s little Audi so we can zip off to LAX. If by “zip off” I mean “sit at the exit, trying to get off the freeway for close to an hour.”

  California has its occasional downsides.

  LAX is currently under construction too, which means navigating our way to the international arrivals involves sliding past plastic sheeting and precarious-looking drywall. I worry the side of my thumb between my teeth. “Is it really self-centered of me to say I hope she doesn’t hate me?”

  “A little bit. This is kind of my entire familial relationship structure about to be tested,” Pari replies dryly.

  “Thought so.” Except we grin at each other. Maybe it’s not going to be so bad.

  A crowd spills through the gates, and a lot of them are middle-aged Indian women, but only one is Niharika Sadashiv. I know her the minute I see her, mostly because she looks like a more mature version of the woman next to me. And not-that-mature as it is.

  Her hair is down around her shoulders in a style similar to Pari’s, though her mother’s is even darker. Closer to true black. Her long, pink tunic looks like it would have been incredibly comfortable for her flight, especially with the wide-legged pants she has on beneath it. I don’t know what the style is called, something that’s unmistakably Indian and yet has a modern flare. It probably helps that Niharika is slim and elegant.

  I hope I look half as good when I’m in my fifties.

  Pari waves, her hope living in her every cell. It radiates out of her like heat from a star that could explode any moment. I hope this works for her. All the rest of it aside, she’s taking such a huge risk by bucking her family’s marriage expectations. My heart bursts with pride and admiration.

  Niharika hugs her daughter close. They’re the same height. Pari buries her face in her mother’s shoulder, and that’s when the tears start. Pari’s shoulders hitch once, then twice, then in a steady shaking stream.

  I jump, reach over, and pet her back in slow strokes. I avoid Niharika’s hands at Pari’s shoulders. I don’t know this woman enough to touch her, enough to interrupt her connection with her daughter. I can’t not help Pari though.

  I do my best to block them from the rest of the oncoming crowd, but people are mostly giving them space anyway. We’re an island of female emotion in an intersection between worlds. The scents of cardamom and masala wrap around us. I think they might be coming from Niharika. I’m not sure.

  I wish I had someone, anyone, who held me like that. Who didn’t start nudging me away after it had been too long. Who I didn’t start pulling away from because maybe they’d get tired of me.

  It’s more than fifteen minutes before Pari finally lifts her head. I look away while she wipes her eyes and then her nose on a tissue Niharika hands her.

  “My poor magal.” Niharika strokes Pari’s hair away from her sticky cheeks. The next words are in Tamil that I have no hope of following, though I do catch the word appa.

  Whatever it is, it’s enough to make Pari smile. It’s not a huge smile, just the tiniest curl of her lips, but God, it’s enough. I can breathe again.

  I step back, making sure I have one hand on the handle of Niharika’s carry-on so it doesn’t disappear with a stranger. I try not to be intrusive while they talk. Mostly that means not staring at them too hard. I use the time to figure out which baggage carousel we need to find, but that takes all of thirty seconds reading an electronic board.

  “Amma, this is Rachel.” Pari catches my hand and pulls me near.

  I can’t even imagine how nerve-racking this would be if Pari and I were actually in love. As it is, I think I probably crave Niharika’s approval entirely too much. She looks me up and down slowly, and I’m perfectly aware that I’m medically still too skinny at the same time that I feel fat as a cow. It’s a hideous combination. Seeing the silk tunic Niharika effortlessly wears makes me wish I’d worn something nicer than jeans rolled to my calves and an Old Navy blouse, even if I like the tiny pattern of anchors. I feel like a wrinkled mess, and I only had an hour-and-a-half drive. I have no idea how she looks so good after an incredibly long flight.

  I put a hand out. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Sadashiv.”

  “Call me Niharika.” Her voice is lower than Pari’s and sweetly rounded. She has less of a British crispness to her words.

  “Niharika,” I echo.

  “No, Niharika.”

  I repeat it, and this time I must have gotten it close enough to right, because she nods. I feel like I’ve hurdled a high jump.

  “Let’s go get your bags, Amma,” Pari says, and they go.

  They walk arm in arm, heads leaning together. I follow them with the rolling suitcase, half laughing at myself and half envying their connection.

  Life is so freaking strange sometimes.

  We’re waiting at the baggage claim, listening to the creaking clack of the belt, when Niharika abruptly grabs my left hand and holds it up.

  “No ring,” she says in full-on accusatory tones.

  We’re busted. So freaking busted. My eyes go wide. My stomach drops to my flip-flops. I trade a glance with Pari, who looks just as messed up as I feel.

  She can only make an inarticulate noise, and I think I’m making something pretty similar. It’s hard to tell with the way my ears ring.

  Niharika drops my hand and then holds up her daughter’s in the same way. “No ring on you either. Why don’t either of you have engagement rings?”

  “Amma, engagement rings are Western,” Pari manages to choke out. I’
m so relieved that she does, because I have no idea what I could have said. I’m still stuck in “high-pitched whine” mode.

  “As if marrying a woman is not Western?” Her chin lifts. Her eyebrows are graceful arches that frame her brown eyes. “Which of you is to be the man?”

  Pari sputters. Her cheeks turn bright red beneath her brown color. “Amma! You can’t ask that!”

  “I am not asking how you—” Niharika flaps a hand. “Do the things. I have arrangements to make. These are important details.”

  Pari covers her face with her hands. “I’m going to die. I’m going to fall into the floor and be gone forever.”

  “Take me with you,” I deadpan.

  “Neither have rings. It makes me think both of you wish to be the man.”

  I raise my hand. “I’ll take a ring. I like rings. Rings are pretty.”

  Oh God. What in the world have I gotten myself into?

  “Good,” Niharika says with another one of those nods that I’m starting to think are her trademark. “Tomorrow we go get you a ring.”

  Pari raises her hand too. “What if I say I want a ring too? What then?”

  “Pfft. I raised you to be my daughter. Certainly you get a ring. We have two brides. Two rings. Lovely, pretty things, so everyone knows that my daughter is to be married now.”

  And there, right there … the laughter drops out of me. I wonder if maybe this is all a horrible, terrible idea. I have this feeling that I could maybe like Niharika. It doesn’t feel right to be lying to her. I catch Pari’s gaze, which is dark and troubled like maybe she’s having similar thoughts.

  But there’s no backing out now. Not if Pari is going to stay in the US.

  Two brides it is.

  I am in over my head. I spend six hours sitting on the couch listening to Pari and her mother talk about every person in the world, and they’re related to them all. When Niharika turns a smile on me and asks about my family, I panic. I’m half tempted to squeeze closer to Pari on the couch, but I don’t know if that would be okay. Either to Pari or to Niharika. I fold my arms around my stomach instead.