As Kavita blinks into her coffee, she knows nothing is wrong with her surroundings. The world is simply carrying on as it should, as it always has, without her noticing or questioning. She is what’s different. She is what isn’t quite right. She knows she has been spending too much time alone. Listening to the hoarse whispers of Anchor and Gloom. Watching home movie memories inside her head. Isolation is a precarious loop to be stuck in. At first, the intensity of her grief caused her to retreat into her cave of sorrow, for safety, containment. But now, it seems she has stayed in the cave too long, and it has mutated from haven to prison. Now the cave seems like the only place left on earth where she belongs.
She feels a strong impulse to leave. She wants to be back at home with Coal and her ivory throw and the anaesthesia of daytime television. She wants to be alone. When she’s alone, she is safe.
Another part of her wants to stay. So much has happened on top of Sunil’s passing. The incident in London, her parents’ separation, the house being sold, and now the upcoming holidays to confront. Pain on top of pain, burying her layer by layer like wet snow, a slowly-mounting weight crushing against her chest.
If she can just talk to Chi, she knows it will help. If just one person can tell her they understand what she is going through, and why she is struggling, she knows it will make all the difference. The difference between being alone, and not.
Kavita loosens her throat with a warm swallow. You always loved gingerbread lattes, she thinks to Sunil. And hanging out anonymously in coffee shops, reading your mystery novels. You probably would’ve ordered a biscotti too. No wait, a brownie. Should I get one for you? Place it by your urn? Her mother has allowed her to keep Sunil’s ashes, only because if she takes them with her to India, their relatives will pressure her to scatter them in the Ganges.
As Kavita debates whether or not to get Sunil a brownie, Chi finally arrives.
“Hey!” Chi swoops in for an awkward hug, patting Kavita on the shoulder a couple of times, the way one might hug a sick, distant relative, as if reluctant to touch her, as if her grief might be contagious. Chi has changed her hair, cropped it into a blunt bob, tinted plum. As she pulls off her grey woollen coat and black leather gloves, tossing them onto the loveseat across from Kavita, she apologizes for being late. “I came as soon as I could. Emerg is an absolute zoo. People are animals. Sick and injured people, especially.”
“That’s okay,” Kavita grins. “I haven’t been here long.” Her hands dart involuntarily to the collar of her sweatshirt, then brush dust off her lap that isn’t there, self-conscious and sloppy in her hoodie, jeans, and ratty braid.
“So, long time no see, hey?” Chi says, still standing. “You look great.”
“I do?”
“Absolutely,” Chi nods, unconvincing in her overenthusiasm. “Wait, have you lost weight? Oh my God, you’re so skinny!”
Kavita looks down at herself. “Not on purpose.”
“I wish I could lose a few pounds without even trying. Oh, and I love that you’re growing out your hair. Look how long your braid is!”
Kavita pulls her braid over her shoulder and plays with the elastic. “Thanks.” The truth is she feels too awkward to make an appointment at the salon, weary of the inevitable chitchat. How’s life? How’s work? Questions that have no easy answers now. But it goes deeper than that. She feels too guilty to actually cut her hair, which she sees as a sign of moving on, accepting the passage of time. Growing her hair is simply a consequence of her resistance, the way her thinness is merely a consequence of her resistance to the life-giving sustenance of food. “I’m just going to grab a cappuccino. You want anything?”
“No thanks, I’m good”
“Back in two secs!”
Kavita watches her friend take her place in the short line. Meanwhile, she breathes, slow and full, to hush the busy chatter of her nerves. She craves a cigarette but doubts she will have time before Chi returns. Smoking in a rush only results in heightened edginess.
The St. John’s Wort and valerian root she has been taking for the past week haven’t offered any notable relief yet. The labels claimed the herbals were traditionally used to treat nervousness and insomnia. She imagines those conditions have mutated somewhat in modern times. So far, she hasn’t even enjoyed the happy ignorance of a placebo effect.
Once, after reading an article in a magazine, she suggested Sunil consider switching to herbal remedies to treat his condition. She prattled on about the benefits of St. John’s Wort and valerian, of fish oil and folic acid. Non-medicinal treatments, too, such as dark chocolate and yoga, nature walks and volunteering. Now, she clutches inside to think of his wordless expression, his eyes more sad than angry, the way one might look at a sheltered child. He knew she didn’t know any better than to say stupid things.
Now she knows, though. Understands how far someone might go to make it stop. She feels that very need growing inside her every time she falls at the mercy of Anchor or Blaze or Gloom. After each assault, it is getting harder to pull herself back up. Harder to ignore their harsh reasoning.
While at the pharmacy the other day purchasing the herbals, as she turned down an aisle on the way to the cash registers, she found herself among a library of sleeping pills. She stood in front of them, dumb, expecting to feel repulsed, to want to sack the shelves. But she didn’t. Instead, she reached for a box. Was this the brand Sunil chose? Or did he mix a few? What did it feel like to glide into forever sleep? Oh, to glide to sleep. To rest, unassailed by nightmares.
Sounds peaceful, said Gloom. Doesn’t it?
She rushed from the aisle so quickly, she nearly forgot to pay for the St. John’s Wort and valerian on her way to the exit.
Now, as she bounces her leg, she tells herself everything is going to be fine. She can trust Chi. She is her best and oldest friend, for goodness sake. She can be honest with her. She can tell her what’s happened. All the nervousness she is feeling now will be worth it. When she reaches out to Chi this time, her friend will reach back, hold her tightly, and keep her from sliding any farther.
No matter how she tries to convince herself with studious repetition, her body never lies. Her stomach hoofs in unison with her brisk heartbeat. The warning beacon in her gut blares. Danger is imminent. She is vectoring right into it. No matter what lies her mind recites, her body always tells the truth.
Chi rejoins her at the table, setting down her coffee and an almond croissant. “So, tell me all about toi. What’s new?”
“There isn’t much to tell,”
“Don’t give me that,” Chi says, rolling her eyes, as she picks an almond slice free from her croissant. “It’s been ages since we’ve had a good gab session. How’s work?”
“I’m still on leave.”
“Oh, right.” Chi averts her gaze. “Well, it must be nice to have some time off, right? I haven’t had a real vacation in years. But Tokyo this summer to visit the fam! I can’t wait to get away. Emerg is like a war zone.”
“I thought it was like a zoo?”
“That too.”
“I’m just the opposite,” Kavita goes on after a brief pause. “I wish I could work.” The comforting structure of a routine. Wake, wash, dress. Ride the bus to work. Maybe grab a happy hour drink afterward. These mundane things she once did with robotic ease. Now, cut off in her cave of sorrow, she can’t see a way back to them, as though the path has been swallowed by the dark presence in her life.
“Anyway,” Chi says, groping for another topic. “How’s Nirav? I haven’t seen him in forever. I miss that guy!”
“He’s fine. At least I think he’s fine. It’s hard to tell. Things have been pretty tense. We just got back from London. His grandmother passed away.” Kavita hopes that speaking openly about one death might lead to them speaking openly about another.
“Oh God,” Chi gasps. “Poor him.”
“I know
, it’s sad. She was sick with cancer for a while, but it still came as a shock. He seems to be handling it well, though. Actually, I take that back. I don’t know if he’s handling it well at all. Whenever I ask about it, he says he’s fine, and that’s where the conversation ends. I guess he’s dealing with it the same way he deals with everything. Honestly, I don’t know where he puts things.”
“Boys will be boys,” Chi shrugs.
Was that how Sunil saw things too? Kavita wonders. Was that why he kept so much to himself? Because he thought showing vulnerability was inherently emasculating? Can the same be said of her anger? Does part of her think it’s unfeminine, and therefore, inappropriate? A bleak thought. Both of them muzzled, without a common language to express their human pain.
Domed by the sounds of the coffee shop, they drop into silence, each sipping at her cup, unsure of what to say next, as if they are on bad first date. All that needs to happen next is for one of them to check her watch and make an excuse about leaving the stove on, and their failed interaction will be complete.
“Should I send flowers?” Chi asks at last.
“That’s sweet. Only if you want to. I’ll let him know you’re thinking about him.”
“That’s okay, I’ll write him an email.”
Kavita’s gaze hardens. She feels Blaze begin to simmer as she remembers how Chi ignored her emails, only to secretly correspond with her husband. Were they still writing each other? Were they still talking about her behind her back?
Part of her wants to let Blaze bubble over and finally confront Chi about being a shitty friend, but now is not the time. She needs an ally more than she needs an apology.
“By the way, did you get my thank-you card?”
“Mm hm,” Chi nods, as she picks at her croissant.
“The flowers you sent were beautiful.” Kavita omits their untimely toss into the garbage. “Thanks again. I’m sorry you couldn’t make it to the memorial.”
Chi flashes an insecure grin. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it. Emerg is like—”
“A refugee camp?”
They share a faint smile.
“It’s okay,” she says. “I understand.” Kavita pushes onward despite the insistence of the warning beacon. “I’m sorry we haven’t gotten together any sooner. I guess I’ve been in my own little world. It’s great to see you, though. I’ve been bursting to vent with someone. So much has happened recently. To be honest, things have been really hard.” There, she’s done it. The hardest part. She’s reached out. Please Chi, she thinks. Reach back.
“Aw,” Chi says with a cloying half smile, half pout. Reaching across the table, she pats Kavita’s hand a few times, then pulls away abruptly, as if suddenly remembering the grief germs. “Are you sure you don’t want any of this croissant?” she asks. “I don’t usually like coffee shop pastries, but this one isn’t bad. Seriously, have some. You’d be doing me a favour!” Chi breaks into a plastic laugh.
Hope falls from her eyes. “No, thanks.” She doesn’t want a half-eaten croissant. Or to be distracted. What she wants is to talk openly about horror and hopelessness and shame. What she wants is for her friend to reach back.
With a level stare, she watches as Chi finishes the last triangle of her croissant, patiently awaiting something more, something solid to hold on to.
“Crazy story,” Chi says, brushing off her fingertips. “So, I’m on rotation at the Civic. Well, a guy comes in with a thumb that’s so infected it’s turned black. I kid you not. The smell alone was enough to make me hurl. I mean, who even lets an infection get that bad? Honestly, if I were that stupid, I’d kill myself. ”
As Kavita stares across the table, she wonders if it is possible to be both astonished, and not, at the same time.
Chi natters on about something else med-school related, but Kavita stops listening. She knows now that her friend isn’t comfortable speaking openly about horror and hopelessness and shame. Her friend would rather pretend such things don’t exist. And perhaps they don’t in her world. At least not as they do for Kavita. It occurs to her, bleakly, she really is alone in this.
An unforgiving chill hollows her out. She hugs her stomach, cold, empty. These attempts at reaching out always have a cost.
She came today hoping for a hand to hold. What she didn’t expect was another dead limb. Another sign her problems aren’t the world’s. Another confirmation it is better—safer—not to speak about these things, with anyone.
28.
KAVITA HUDDLES ON THE SOFA beneath her ivory throw with Coal curled on her lap, sipping a cup of ginger tea and watching the snow fall like shaved ice thickening the air. Daylight wanes. Soon the streetlights will flick on. She never accustoms to seeing their scalene triangles of orange light before five o’clock.
Before settling in with her cup, she had the impulse to call her home, only to remember there was no one left at home to call. Within the last couple of weeks, her parents have departed in search of their new lives, in a kind of reverse empty nest syndrome. Each of them called once to let her know they had arrived safely at their destinations. Her father told her not to expect to hear from him any time soon, he needed to cut his attachments to the outside world, and besides, talking at the abbey was frowned upon, it was a place of inner reflection, a sanctum. The few times Kavita tried reaching her mother, the connection was either terrible, or she was out visiting relatives.
Nirav will arrive home in another hour or so. She has already prepared dinner, vegetarian shepherd’s pie—one of his favourite meals even without the mince—and left it to warm in the oven. The meal wasn’t entirely innocent. Weeks have passed since their trip to London, with neither resurrecting the incident, but tonight she hopes they will finally talk, and if mashed potatoes and gravy can help soften him up, even a little, it will have been worth the effort. Anyway, she has to try. She vowed on the moon.
A few times she came close. She even made chicken parmesan once although the smell made her retch. She practised what to say, scribbling out lines and rehearsing them aloud in front of the washroom mirror until they felt natural. Despite all her preparations, in the end the words never made it beyond her tense lips.
She strokes the flat bridge of Coal’s nose with one finger, thinking to herself, that she understands why people put things off. When you put things off, your mind is free to occupy itself with pleasant lies, that you are fine, your life is fine, your marriage is fine, everything is fine. The pleasant lies transform the unlivable into livable. They distract away from questions that have no easy answers, like: Will Nirav understand? Or will he brush her off? Tell her she’s got it all wrong, she’s overreacting. When she needs her husband the most, will he stand by her? Will he call her selfish, again?
She wonders if Nirav has been nauseating over similar worries. It is possible he hasn’t wanted to upset her by raising the subject, but she fears his silence means something else.
What about her reticence? By not speaking up has she inadvertently communicated that what happened was acceptable? By waiting, has she lost her right to justice? Will her silence—a function of the time she needed to process the traumatic event—be used against her?
A grey image of Sunil seeps into her mind: deep frown, chin tucked, arms crossed.
He never let anyone even look at you the wrong way, says Anchor. But now, when he needs you to defend him, because he can’t defend himself, you’re too scared to get the words out.
No, no, she just needed a little time to catch her breath after what happened with her mother and father, and the house. She just—
Every time you whimper you only make things worse. “I’m sorry, Sunil. I tried. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.” It’s unbearable. If you’re going to do something, do it.
She will.
Gloom sneers. But you won’t.
This latest assault leaves her head buzzing as if struck, as
if the tender flesh of her brain is ballooning against her skull. She thinks she might be sick. Her body goes limp and her chest sinks forward, as she folds into a position she has only ever seen on television when someone is hyperventilating. Coal springs out of the way with a high-pitched squeak. With her head between her knees, she tries to breathe.
Yet somehow this position is not lowly enough.
Rolling forward, she settles on the hardwood and hugs in her knees until she is curved like a C. Her body feels heavy against the floor, maybe as heavy as it has ever been. She looks out the terrace window at the thick snowfall, descending like a curtain, hiding her. She knows she will have to get up soon, and fake cheer and make conversation and function. But for now, as she lies pinned to the floor, she can be herself.
Black, black, black.
Gloom, gloom, gloom.
They are seated across from each other at the island. Kavita rolls a pea around her plate through a smear of mushroom gravy. She has already swallowed a few mouthfuls of shepherd’s pie. Nirav is on his second portion.
“Want any more gravy?”
“No, no,” he mumbles with his mouth full. “This is lovely, darling. Really, really nice.”
“I’m glad you like it.” She reaches for her glass of water and sips. They have already talked about their days. He had back-to-back meetings, tedious and over-long, but otherwise it was an ordinary workday in accounting. She lied about trekking through the snow and spending the afternoon at the library, and also about the chef’s knife slipping as she was cubing potatoes for the shepherd’s pie, when he had asked about her fresh bandage.
Soon the meal will be over, the mollifying powers of shepherd’s pie all but gone, and she still hasn’t found the courage or opportunity to raise the topic. Her legs starts to bounce on the footrest of her stool. She can’t delay any longer. Purposeful, she clears her throat.
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