The Matchmaker's List

by Sonya Lalli

  “And Raina?”

  “She will stay with us.”

  “You don’t have the right—you think you have the fucking right to decide that about her?” Manavi laughs. “I dare you. I dare you to stop me.”

  “You are not taking that girl with you.”

  “I’ll take you to court.”

  “Take me wherever you like”—Nani takes a deep breath—“but you will not take my Raina.”

  “She’s my—”

  “Boozing, men—doing God knows what. You coming, going—we never know. Raina never knows. You think you can be her mother?”

  “I am her mother,” cries Manavi, tears rolling down her face and leaving black mascara tracks. “I am her fucking mother!”

  “You are not a mother. Grow up. Stop being child. Start acting like you care about Raina, like you want to be mother to her—”

  Manavi cries harder, slams her fists against the counter.

  “—always blaming others. Never your fault, nah? Never taking responsibility—”

  “I hate—you—you self-righteous bitch.” Her words pour out in chokes and gasps, and Nani turns her head.

  Manavi inches closer to her, and by the way Manavi is leaning against the counter, sobbing, their shoulders nearly touching, Raina has the feeling that if only her nani would turn around, there wouldn’t be so much yelling.

  But she doesn’t turn around, and after a moment, Manavi stops crying. She grabs a roll of paper towels, uses the whole of it to dry her face. Nani is motionless, still facing away. Manavi inches toward her—and then, she retreats.

  “You want her?” Manavi stares at Nani’s back and, a moment later, whips the roll at her head. “You can fucking have her.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  How long did it take a freaking kettle to boil? I tapped my socks against the linoleum floor as I waited for the water to heat up, crushing cloves, cardamom, and fennel into Nani’s favorite teapot. I couldn’t find the cinnamon sticks.

  “Sugar?” I asked the wall.

  No one answered. In fact, no one had said another word since I walked in, and it made me wonder what I’d interrupted. I snuck a look behind me. Kris was pouring himself a glass of whiskey, Mom was looking at something on her phone, and Nani—well, something was wrong. Nani always froze up whenever Mom turned up unannounced, but this time it was different. Worse. Nani’s chest was moving up and down too rapidly. And she was sitting down; how could she be out of breath?

  When the kettle finally boiled, I poured the water over the tea bags and spices, and then set the teapot on the table next to a carton of milk, Nani’s polka-dot sugar bowl, and a few teaspoons.

  “Are you not forgetting milk jug?” Mom asked, mocking Nani’s accent. “One must never pour guests chai from milk carton, nah?”

  Nani didn’t even flinch. Rolling my eyes, I went into the dining room to fetch the milk jug, and set it down on the table. Mom just laughed, and turned back to her phone.

  I sat down fuming. What the hell was she doing here? Had she dumped her latest boyfriend and needed a place to crash? Run out of money again? Around nineteen, I’d stopped wondering when she’d call or visit, and stopped caring when she did.

  It was the days after she left that were the hardest. Days when I’d come home and find Nani sitting alone somewhere, her eyes puffy and red, just staring at her hands. Days when I could do absolutely nothing to help.

  “No one’s talking?” Manavi asked, reaching for the teapot. “What, am I boring y’all?”

  Y’all? Was she trying to be funny, or had she really been living in America that long?

  Nani stood up abruptly from the table, and when Mom looked at her accusingly, Nani just shrugged her shoulders. “I am cold. I am getting something warmer to wear. Do I need your permission?”

  The moment Nani stepped out of the kitchen, Mom let out a huge yawn. “Well, this is boring. You, me, and Kris—we should go out after she goes to bed.”

  I glanced at my watch. It was nearly 8 P.M. I hadn’t eaten, and I could feel the beginnings of a headache.

  “Why don’t we go to a gay bar . . .”

  “Hilarious.”

  “Google tells me there are six in a three-kilometer radius. Since when did this neighborhood become cool?”

  “Since Drake,” Kris said. “I heard somebody in his entourage lives nearby.”

  “Drake. Really?”

  “Guys, I’m not going out.”

  “Don’t be such a party pooper, Raindrop.”

  “Can you not call me that?”

  Mom’s eyes widened as she reached for the teapot. She poured out the cups and then pushed one toward me.

  “Thanks.”

  “Look, Raina . . . I’m sorry I didn’t know.” I heard her sigh, and I looked back toward her. “You know I’m not in touch with anyone here. If I knew you were going through something like that, I would have called more. I would have come home sooner.”

  I snorted.

  “I’m serious.” She nodded earnestly. “Kris called me the other day. He’s been having a tough time since Serena broke up with him”—she shrugged—“anyways, he told me you’re gay. And I thought . . . I thought that maybe I should come home.”

  Her voice trailed off, and I didn’t respond. She’d come home to make sure I was okay? This time, had she shown up out of the blue for me? And not because she needed something? I glanced at Kris. He was staring at his phone, but eventually I caught his eye.

  How was it that I had no idea Kris was having a difficult year, or that he had emotions at all? Sometimes I forgot she was his sister, and that they’d grown up side by side. The same parents and upbringing, and the same lethal mix of genes: Nana’s nose and Nani’s mouth. Big, wide eyes that, when shone right at you, almost hurt.

  “I want you to know I’m proud of you,” I heard Mom say. “This is really cool.”

  My cheeks burned. “It’s not cool.”

  “Of course it is.”

  “No, it isn’t, I’m . . .” I shut my mouth as Nani walked back into the kitchen, wrapped in the woolly shawl I’d bought her for her sixtieth birthday.

  “Hi, Nani.”

  “Hi, my sweet.”

  “Should I cook us some dinner?”

  “Finally, yes,” Mom said, slapping her hands on her thighs. “I’m starving. Anyone else starving?”

  “You must be,” Nani said, sliding into her chair. “In your condition.”

  I turned to face Mom, and her pale brown skin looked to have reddened. “What condition?”

  The air in the room seemed to have lost its oxygen. Everyone was just staring at me.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Thanks, Ma. I was going to tell her on my own time.”

  “Wait, what?” I searched Nani’s face, then Kris’s, but they weren’t giving anything away. Mom had leaned forward on the table onto her elbows, and she was rocking side to side. Then, as she stood up, it hit me. Her fuller cheeks, arms, and thighs. The dark circles beneath the eyes. The slight curve of her belly.

  “You’re . . .”

  “Having a baby, yes.”

  I was frozen to the seat, and only my hands were moving. Shaking.

  “You’re going to have a baby sister, Raina.”

  She smiled. Was it a smile?

  “Are you going to say anything?”

  “I . . .” What was there even to say? “You’re forty-six.”

  “So—”

  “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

  “Hey, now. I have a good doctor—”

  “Was it an accident? You just forgot to use a condom, again?”

  She didn’t reply. She leaned toward the counter and grabbed a bag of popcorn, ripping it open.

  “You planned it.”

  “IVF.” She n
odded, shoveling the popcorn into her mouth. “First try, too. You see, Roger doesn’t have kids. We’re planning to stay put in Philadelphia. Roger’s got a sister there, and his dad’s in a nursing home. It’ll be good.” She paused, sitting down again. “And you know it’s only a quick flight from here, an hour and a half. You could do it in a weekend—”

  “Why the hell would I visit you?” I was livid, seething, and I didn’t recognize my own voice. “I haven’t even met Roger. And how many times have you come home to see me? How many—”

  “Raina, seriously. Calm down—”

  “I’m your daughter!”

  “What am I supposed to say, huh? That this is how I thought my life would turn out? That I got what I wanted out of life? No. Not even close. But, like I said, Roger never had any kids, and . . .”

  And what, Mom?

  You didn’t really come home to make sure I was okay, but to tell your old family you’d started another one?

  You actually weren’t that different from us “good Indian girls,” and you wanted a marriage and children all along?

  You just didn’t want me?

  “Get out.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “This is not your house.” I grabbed the milk jug and slid it hard toward her. “Drink from the jug, Manavi. You’re only a fucking guest here.”

  “Can you calm down—”

  “A guest no one wants!”

  “She didn’t want me.”

  “Quit blaming Nani. All the time—”

  “Hah,” Nani said, standing up. “Manu, you have no responsibility, no shame, no—”

  “And you were so perfect, Ma?” Mom folded her arms across her chest, and she stood up to meet her. “It’s not like this house was a fucking prison!”

  Suddenly, it was like I was six years old, powerless, as Mom and Nani stood over me screaming at each other. Kris looked at me blankly, and all I could do was stare back. I half expected him to grab my hand and lead me to the other room, distract me by letting me play with his Lego sets or Game Boy. And between the shouts, couldn’t I make out the sounds of Nana shuffling back and forth in his bedroom upstairs? Ignoring everyone? Waiting for it to end.

  But would it ever end?

  Tears running down my face, I stood up and held my arms out.

  How many times had we been here? How many times had I done nothing—just waited, watched, avoided.

  But I wasn’t a child anymore. I wasn’t just helpless Raina.

  “Both of you need to stop.” I wiped my face, steadied my voice. “It’s enough.”

  Surprisingly, they stopped. Or maybe they were tired of it, too.

  I leaned my weight forward onto the table, and stared hard at the surface. “Mom, you’re selfish and careless, and even though I know you love us, it wouldn’t hurt for you to fucking show it sometimes.”

  She didn’t respond, and I couldn’t look up. I couldn’t face them.

  “Nani, you wanted Mom and me to be perfect daughters . . . find the perfect husband.” I laughed through my tears. “You think we don’t remember how it used to be? How you took care of us, and Saffron, and Nana—and he didn’t even lift a finger for you? After watching that, why the hell would we want a husband?”

  “Do not speak ill of your nana—”

  “Did you even love him?” I reached down into my handbag, and pulled out the list. It was crumpled into a ball, and I flattened it before I set it firmly on the table. “Did you even care if I was happy?”

  “Raina, my sweet.” Was she crying, too? “All I wanted was your happine—”

  “No, Nani. You cared about what people at temple thought about her, about me. And what good is there possibly to say about an unmarried Indian girl?”

  “My sweet—”

  “Why am I not good enough on my own? First I needed a husband, then Zoey, or someone else to complete me as a woman?”

  I was gasping for air. Was this it? The moment of truth.

  “What’s the point of having a brain, or dreams, or even a heart, if this is all we’ll ever be good for, huh?”

  She was sobbing into the table now, but I couldn’t look at her. I couldn’t look at any of them.

  “I’m not gay, Nani.” I sat back down in the chair. “I was just sick of buying into this bullshit.”

  MAY 20, 1990

  “Make a wish, my sweet.”

  Raina sits on her nani’s lap, her chubby legs dangling. One of her socks falls off, and Nani reaches down to retrieve it.

  “I can do it, Ma.” Manavi lunges for the sock, and her head bangs against Nani’s with a loud thud.

  “Oy!” Nani turns to Manavi as she sits back up, plucks the sock from her hand. “Clumsy girl.” Nani massages her head with the back of her palm, shifts Raina on her lap.

  Raina giggles as her nana brings out a pan of brownies. He slowly cuts them into squares, and the chocolate drizzle drips onto the kitchen table as he sets a thick slice on a small white plate.

  “Mine!” Kris licks his lips as he eyes the brownie. He reaches out and digs his finger into the icing, and Nani swats it away.

  “First the birthday girl,” Nana says, gently scolding. He cuts more slices and passes them around. A cassette of Ravi Shankar plays in the background as they sit and chew the warm cake, as Raina squirms in delight, her pudgy cheeks dropping like jowls. She is still teething and smacks her lips together often, dark brown crumbs falling out of her mouth, and after each bite, her nani licks a napkin, dabs the stains from her chin.

  “Just leave it until she’s done,” says Manavi. “Babies get dirty.” But it’s as if no one has heard her, because nobody answers.

  Raina no longer likes eating baby food. She likes unspiced aloo gobi, rice and dal mashed together, spoon-fed by Nani’s fingers. She drinks apple juice and mango juice, bottles of fresh whole milk. She knows only the scent of a heated home and a warm bath, the beige and wood paneled walls insulating her existence. She knows only love and security. Abundance and affection.

  Raina’s skin is lighter than the rest of her family’s; and this seems to be something that excites her nani. Her hair sticks out in two short pigtails above her ears, and saliva bubbles out of her lips as she tries to blow out a candle.

  Nana focuses the lens of the Pentax. “Say cheese!”

  Everyone else is smiling, and so Raina smiles, too.

  “Good girl!” Nana sticks out his tongue, and Raina giggles. She claps her hands together as if the performance is just for her.

  “Can I hold her now, Ma?”

  “Manu, clear the dishes.”

  “Ma, I want to—”

  “Dishes.” Nani shifts Raina to her other knee. “Now.”

  Manavi gets up from the table, a load of dishes piled on her forearm. She turns back to Nani, and whispers, “May I at least put her to sleep tonight?”

  “Did you finish schoolwork?”

  Manavi breathes hard, sharp, and then she turns back to the sink.

  * * *

  Raina has chocolate frosting all over her face, in her hair, and on her clothes. Nana and Nani carry her upstairs to the bathroom, where they fill a warm bath with strawberry bubbles. Later, they carry her to bed, envelop her in a baby blue sleep suit, and tuck her into her crib.

  “How fair she is, nah?”

  “A beautiful girl,” the deeper voice says. “She will have no trouble finding husband.”

  “It is Manu that will cause trouble. What boy from good family will take her knowing she has mother like this?”

  Raina is drifting, her eyelashes batting.

  “There are options, Su. We will explain . . .”

  Raina’s in a dreamlike state, full of chocolate and love and laughter. Nearly asleep, she hears the door shut, then open again. Light cuts into the room. She opens her eyes and, star
tled, sits up in the crib. Manavi is in the room, and Raina squints as she watches her tiptoe across the carpet, sit down on the floor beside her. Manavi reaches her hand through the rails and strokes her hair, brushes her fingers along her face.

  “Say MA-MA.”

  Raina whimpers.

  “MA-MA?” And when Raina says nothing, no noises come to her lips, Manavi stands up, lifts Raina out of the crib. She squeezes her tight, presses their cheeks together. Raina struggles to pull free. She squirms, tries to unfasten her body from Manavi’s grip, and when she is unable to, Raina starts to cry.

  “Oh, baby. Please don’t cry,” begs Manavi. She rocks Raina back and forth, pats her on the back lightly the way Nani does. But Raina keeps crying, marble-size tears rolling down her cheeks, and she presses her tiny fists against Manavi. Pounds them—trying to push her away.

  “My Raindrop, please—”

  “Manu!” The light flicks on, and Nani sweeps into the room. She pulls Raina into her arms and cradles her. “Manu, look what you did.”

  Raina is quickly soothed. She is basked in a warm light and the soft touch of her nani. Comforted, firm in her nani’s grasp, she stops crying; and the sharp voices around her fading, she drifts safely toward sleep.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  “The Tonight Show?”

  I shook my head. Kris set down his whiskey glass, and then reached for the remote control.

  “What about The Daily Show?”

  “Nah.”

  “You don’t like Trevor Noah?”

  “No, I do.” I shrugged, pulling the blanket tighter around me. “I’m just not in the mood . . .”

  I heard him sigh, and then the television flashed to another channel. Then another. When it stopped on a Katherine Heigl movie, Mom let out a soft grunt of approval. Kris sighed again, and set down the remote.

  I couldn’t remember the name of the movie, but I’m sure I’d seen it a half dozen times before. Mom, propped up against a pillow on the floor in front of me, moved her head to the side, obscuring my view.