Grown-Up Pose

by Sonya Lalli

  Like so many Indian men in her community, her father was incapable of functioning properly without his wife by his side. Or, at least, he used to be. Maybe people really could change.

  “It’s a really nice offer, but . . .”

  But she needed to handle this on her own and be a grown-up, didn’t she? “I took you and Mom for granted before. Priya Auntie, too. I need to do this on my own.”

  “Kyon?”

  “Why do you think, Dad? I’m an adult. I need to be responsible—”

  “Is accepting help from someone who loves you, in a time of need, not the adult thing to do?” He reached for her hand. “The responsible thing to do?”

  “You don’t have to do this,” she said, even though she wanted him to. Of course she wanted him to.

  “This is for you, but also for your mother, Anu. If I did not come, she would have insisted on coming herself.” He paused, considering his hands as if they were artifacts to be studied. “You know, only one year before you were born, we were still living in Chandigarh. She followed me here for the job offer. She left her whole family, her friends.”

  Anu nodded. She knew the story.

  “We didn’t know anybody in Canada then. There was no family to help her when you were born. We had no money for a babysitter or day care, and so she stayed home. We always planned that she would do her master’s degree one day, find a job in her field. But then, when you were older, the universities all said no.”

  Anu felt a tinge of guilt deep down her in her center. She thought back to her first year at university. Neil had finally asked her out, and she’d been too distracted and in love to ask Lakshmi why she decided to audit a few classes on politics. Anu hadn’t even said hello the few times she noticed her around campus, too embarrassed by the way she sipped from her giant thermos of chai, mouthed along inaudibly to the words as she studied in the cafeteria.

  “All the employers said no, too,” she heard Kunal continue. “She studied political theory at college in Chandigarh, but after so many years, does anybody really care what an Indian housewife thinks about women’s reproductive rights? About that Trump? About anything.”

  Her stomach churned. “Dad . . .”

  “It is true. You know the halfway house where she was working once you got older? They did not pay her for the first five years. She worked so hard like that most days as volunteer. Then she was earning maybe, maybe the same as these young girls and boys working in this café.”

  “I had no idea. Why didn’t she ever talk to me about this?”

  “Your mother is embarrassed.”

  “Why?”

  He smiled. “You are so brave, Anu. A successful working mother. Such fun and interests and what lovely friends! Your mother never had such opportunities. She wants you to have this modern life, to be happy. She truly does, beti . . . but you must understand. She—we—are from a different time. You must have patience as we catch up.”

  The hypocrisy bit at her, and sitting across from Kunal, she felt both anger and shame flush her cheeks. Why couldn’t Lakshmi have sat her down and said this to her out loud?

  Everything had gone unsaid, and now it was lying between them—bare and exposed—and her throat tightened, thinking of all the conversations that had slipped by. Replaced with accusing looks and judgment, sly remarks that passed quickly.

  “Anu, beti.” Kunal’s hand was on hers, and she squeezed back. “I see what is on your face. You and your mother have the same temperament.”

  “I’m sorry, Dad. I’m sorry about how I acted in London.” She let go of his hand. “I have no excuse.”

  “I am sorry, too.” He picked up his own glass of water, as if in tribute. “Ah, I almost forgot. Your mother sent you something.”

  Reaching into his shoulder bag, he pulled out a plastic bag and slid it across the table. Unwrapping it, Anu found layers and layers of plastic bags, and then parchment paper, and then a bundle of dried limes, lemons, chilies, and garlic. They’d dried out; some of them were crumbling, each piece tied to the next with a piece of string.

  “I told your mother we could buy here, that I need not break customs laws by bringing this into the country, but she insisted.” He laughed, leaning in closer to look at it. “She wanted to make it herself.”

  Anu was about to ask what it was, but as she lifted the wreath out of its packaging, a memory slowly revealed itself. When Kunal’s friend—his name, she couldn’t remember—had opened an Indian restaurant in Langley, hadn’t there been similar garlands across the doorway? And when Lakshmi and Priya had dragged her along to the grand opening of Auntie Jayani’s newest sari shop on Scott Road, hadn’t she seen wreaths of the stuff there, too?

  “I know it is a silly superstition,” Kunal said, “but it would make her so happy if you put it up. It will bless your new business with prosperity and keep away nazzar.”

  Anu smiled and bent down to smell the garland. Behind the sour tang, she could almost smell her mother. A bit of cinnamon, like Lakshmi had just brewed a cup of chai before she made it. Held the garland against her, for a taste of her Dior perfume.

  Staring at the wreath, Anu said, “I’ll hang it up today.”

  “These superstitions she does, these things that seem so silly—they all come from somewhere, Anu. Long ago, do you know why business owners used to hang wreaths like this?” Anu shook her head, and he continued. “It kept the insects away. It is a natural pesticide. And of course the business with no pests will flourish, nah?”

  Anu laughed. “I guess you’re right.”

  “Your mother . . . is your mother. I am the first to admit she is not always easy. But this, all of this, is coming from somewhere, Anu. It is coming from a good place.”

  chapter twenty-five

  DAMIEN: Hahaha that’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.

  ANUSHA: Are you saying you wouldn’t?

  DAMIEN: Are you saying you *genuinely* didn’t know you were entering a wet T-shirt contest?

  ANUSHA: The way I heard it, the contest was *for* a T-shirt. . . .

  DAMIEN: A wet one, though?

  Jenny?” Anu looked down the empty corridor. No one replied, and so she went into the break room next door. “Jenny?”

  The room was empty, except for a spread of cupcakes, cookies, and squares that patients had brought in, even though Valentine’s Day wasn’t until the next day. She wrapped up a handful of sugar cookies for Kanika and Kunal in a tissue, popping one of the cookies into her mouth as she continued down the hall toward Jenny’s office.

  The weeks since her dad’s arrival had passed quickly, and pretty soon it was halfway through February and the worst of winter was behind them. He had taken over the basement, or the man cave, as he liked to call it, because he and Lakshmi had rented out their own home for the year. And every morning, he insisted on preparing Kanika’s lunch and driving her to school so that Anu could be on time for work at the clinic or, on her days off, be there to open the studio for the first class of the day. Most days, she even came home to him pottering around the kitchen—FaceTiming with Lakshmi while he tried out a new recipe for dinner. And Anu was grateful for him. Every day was a blessing, and she would never again take them for granted.

  “I’m off,” Anu said, finding Jenny at the nurses’ station.

  She was texting and didn’t look up. “Early?”

  She bit off half a sugar cookie and, her mouth full, said, “I’m taking Kanika to Neil’s.”

  “Give me some.”

  Anu handed Jenny the other half of the cookie and sat down on the chair opposite Jenny. She had time to kill; Kanika had joined after-school choir on Thursdays and wouldn’t be out for a while still.

  “Wait,” Anu said, noticing the pink phone case in Jenny’s hands. “Is that my phone? When did you take it?”

  “When you were in the bathroom earl
ier.”

  “That was two hours ago.” Anu grabbed the phone, unsurprised to find that Jenny had been on Tinder. Anu’s Tinder.

  Annoyed Anu hadn’t taken the initiative to use Tinder, Jenny had been stealing her phone for weeks, swiping and messaging guys of her choosing whenever they were together. Until now, Anu hadn’t realized Jenny had been stealing her phone behind her back, too. She made a mental note not to leave her phone laying around during appointments.

  “You have seven matches right now,” Jenny said, watching Anu flick through the messages. “I’ve deleted a lot—no need to lead people on, right?”

  “Right . . . So you—I mean, I am chatting to all of them?”

  “Some more than others. A few you’re still in introductory chitchat—you know, where you work, what’s your favorite restaurant, that sort of thing.”

  “And the others?”

  “The others want to meet. Damien, especially. The guy you matched with on New Year’s. He’s away right now visiting family, but he wants to go out with you when he’s back.”

  Anu clicked on her messages with Damien. She remembered him from the few times she’d opened the app out of curiosity or looked over Jenny’s shoulder while she was commandeering Anu’s phone. He was a few years younger than them, African American, a physicist from California who had settled in Vancouver after doing his master’s in the city. While Anu only had the one picture of her and Jenny on her profile, Damien had several.

  One of him making a silly face in his lab, white coat, goggles, and all. Another of him skiing Whistler Mountain, a selfie from the chairlift. A third of him at Tofino beach, shirtless, with friends.

  “He’s hot, right?” Jenny asked.

  Anu blushed, swiping away from the shirtless photograph. “That he is.”

  “He’s nice, too.”

  Anu scrolled up through their message history. It was longer than she’d expected.

  “You told him your Byron Bay wet T-shirt story?” Anu furrowed her brow at Jenny. “What if I do meet him? He’s going to assume that’s my wet T-shirt story.”

  Jenny gave her a look and then reached for Anu’s phone again. “He probably won’t even remember . . . but anyway, he seems great. I’m going to organize a date for you guys in the next week or so.”

  “Jenny.” Anu sighed at the prospect of meeting a guy. She’d have to plan ahead what she wore that day to work, as most of her work clothes wouldn’t be cute enough for a date. She would have to wake up early to straighten her hair and put on makeup, rather than opt for her go-to messy ponytail and tinted-moisturizer look.

  Would she lie to Kunal or tell him the truth about what she was doing that evening?

  Dad, I’m going on a date.

  She shivered just thinking about it. She couldn’t say that. She couldn’t just . . . date, like women her age did—and be honest about it—could she?

  “You said you’d try,” Jenny said. “I thought you wanted to try online dating.”

  “I do, in theory.” Anu imagined herself with Damien at the Italian restaurant by the water Ryan used to take her to, one Ryan probably took a lot of women to.

  They would chat, have a laugh. If they liked each other, they would go out again.

  Dating didn’t have to lead to anything. It could be what Jenny and Monica tried to convince her it was: an experience. A trial and error. A journey, not a destination.

  “Don’t you want to fall in love again, you know, eventually?”

  But falling hurt; she hadn’t realized that until recently. Of course she wasn’t picturing herself alone forever, building a life—new, interesting—all by herself. But that meant she had to date, didn’t it?

  What she’d had with Neil—for a moment, what she’d thought she could have with Ryan—Anu wanted that again.

  “You’re going,” Jenny said quietly. “Because, Anu, love doesn’t just happen like you think it does. Relationships don’t just appear out of thin air.”

  There were sugar cookie crumbs on Jenny’s desk, and Anu fought the urge to brush them off as she stared at them.

  “You got lucky with Neil, Anu. And then you got unlucky with Ryan.” Jenny smiled. “The truth is, it usually falls somewhere in between.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Anu got there a few minutes late because Damien had sent another message and Jenny insisted on replying to it before Anu left. Kanika was the last of the choir kids to be picked up, and she was waiting for Anu by the gymnasium door, her small pink gloved hand in Ms. Finch’s.

  “Nice to see you, Anusha,” the teacher said, turning to leave as Anu helped Kanika into her car seat.

  “Nice to see you, too, Sara.”

  Anu hadn’t seen Sara since before the Christmas holidays and she had bailed at the last minute on finishing the holiday set of the school play, although she had come close to finishing it. She tried not to read into Sara’s unusually cool smile and lack of chitchat.

  Initially, Anu had been alarmed by how young Sara was, that Kanika’s kindergarten class was her very first since graduating university. But despite her age—no more than twenty-two, Anu guessed—Sara had surprised them all by how confidently she carried herself in front of both students and parents. She was pale and blond, but nothing like the stereotypes that often went along with those features. Kanika’s class was diverse, and Ms. Finch had made an effort to pronounce every child’s and parent’s name correctly, and she had everything from Diwali to Ramadan to Yom Kippur marked on the class calendar—all of which the class celebrated together.

  Kanika prattled on about Sara on the drive over to Neil’s, and Anu half-listened while she became increasingly nervous. She hadn’t seen Neil in what felt like forever; her dad had been the one taking Kanika to visit these past few weeks. Neil opened the door while they were walking up the driveway, and Anu couldn’t help but notice how much better he looked than he had the month before, like he’d been eating and sleeping. Like a woman had been taking care of him.

  “Daddy!”

  Kanika ran up the porch stairs and flew into his arms, nearly knocking him over. Picking her up, he smiled at Anu, and for whatever reason, she nearly tripped forward up the steps.

  She walked inside behind them and immediately noticed the difference. It smelled different. The house had always been full of rich, simmering smells—aloo gobi or rajma, deep-fried pakoras or dal makhani. Now it smelled like garlic and tomatoes, something else, too. She couldn’t put her figure on it.

  “Is Dadima asleep?” Kanika asked.

  Neil shook his head, setting her back down on the floor. “She’s awake. I think she might even have a present for you. . . .”

  Kanika beamed and vanished down the hall. Her disappearance made the house uncannily silent, and Anu wondered why she had gone inside.

  Her life had been so busy the past few weeks, it had been easy not to think about him. Every time her mind had wandered, or her heart had pondered questions she’d never know the answer to, she distracted herself—with Imogen or Kanika, an e-mail, a task. But standing here, mere feet away from Neil, all the questions came rushing back.

  Did they look alike? Did he give Neil those kind, soulful eyes? His perfect lips?

  Had he ever tried to reach out? Did he ever care about his son?

  It struck her now that she had only ever seen one photo of Neil’s father.

  “Where’s your dad?”

  The question startled her, but then she realized Neil was asking her about Kunal.

  “At home.” Anu cleared her throat. “I wanted to come see how you and M—Priya Auntie are doing.”

  “She’s been walking around more. She even wants to move back into her room upstairs, but I told her to wait a bit longer.”

  Anu could tell that he wanted to say more, but that he wouldn’t. No matter how many times she t
old him she was here if he needed her, no matter how many times she volunteered to come over and help, he refused. He didn’t want her here. He didn’t need her in his life. Why couldn’t she just accept that?

  Kunal had been the one to fill Anu in lately on Priya’s recovery, her checkups with the doctors. Her diet would have to change. Less oil, more vegetables, and she was now on a string of medications and being treated as prediabetic. One day, Kunal drove around to all the community centers, yoga studios, badminton clubs, and recreation centers in Burnaby to collect pamphlets for her. If Neil wouldn’t let Anu help, at least he wasn’t saying no to Kunal.

  “Shit,” Neil said. “The stove is on.” He moved toward the kitchen and beckoned Anu to follow. The kitchen counter was a mess, but rising above the debris, she could make out a Caesar salad in one of Priya’s CorningWare dishes. Thick rigatoni pasta boiled on the stove, a saucepan on the burner opposite full of a rich red sauce. Was that eggplant in there? Fresh basil drying on the chopping board?

  Her heart dropped into her stomach as she remembered that tomorrow was Valentine’s Day. Was all of this for Ms. Dirty Messages?

  He picked up a block of Parmesan and started grating it into a bowl.

  And he was cooking?

  She swallowed hard. Maybe she was wrong about Neil. Parading this in front of her, maybe he was trying to hurt her.

  “Sorry about the mess,” he said, moving to the stove. “I was folding laundry and haven’t had the time yet.” He tapped a wooden spoon on the edge of the saucepan. “Do you want to stay?”

  “For dinner?”

  “It’s the third time I’ve made it. Mom likes pasta now, apparently.”

  She squinted at him from across the kitchen, the air coming back into her lungs. The acid settling in her stomach.