All Eyes on Her

by Poonam Sharma

  “Maybe we can meet in person and talk about this. I don’t want you to run around Los Angeles hating me forever.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself, Luke, and…wait a minute. How did you even get my address? I know Steel would never give it out.”

  “Monica, let’s meet and talk about it. Can we do that?”

  Was he asking me out on a date?

  “Are you actually asking me out on a date?” I was incredulous.

  “I’m trying.”

  “And I’m hanging up.”

  Rock bottom was a lot warmer and blurrier around the edges than I thought it would be. I was soaking in the tub, picking at the grout between the wall tiles with one hand and wielding a half-empty bottle of Shiraz menacingly at my reflection in the faucet with the other when, for some reason, I finally broke down and decided to call my mother.

  Loneliness does not get much worse than when an Indian-American woman decides to lament her romantic woes to one of the people who made her. Not because they don’t care, mind you, but because she has already recognized by the age of fifteen that traditional, and even not-so-traditional, Indian parents relate to the complexities of single adult life about as well as albino chimps. But the other thing about them is that they are almost always grateful to have been invited to try.

  I eyed the grisly and dismembered remains of those pretty white roses, now strewn across my bathroom counter, and readied myself to be massively irritated by how my mother would likely interpret the delay in selling her house as an indication of my disloyalty to her.

  “I was wondering when you would call,” she answered haltingly on the first ring.

  This was strange because my mother always told me as a child that to answer on the first ring was to give the impression that you had been waiting, fingers crossed, for someone, anyone to call.

  “Mom.” I was also somewhat surprised by the concern in her voice. “Hi. Listen, I have bad news about the house. It turns out that your contractor was…”

  I paused, trying to find the most appropriate way to describe to this very proper lady her only daughter’s very improper and very televised behavior.

  “I know, sweetheart.” She interrupted my fuzzy and circular attempt at coherent thought.

  “You mean,” I said, whispering, hunching my shoulders just a little bit, getting ready to cringe, “you saw it on TV?”

  Silence. Meanwhile someone was tightening miniature screws into the left side of my neck.

  “Mom?”

  “No.” She hesitated. “I did not actually watch it yet.”

  I must have missed something.

  “You mean you are planning on setting aside time to watch your daughter’s public humiliation?”

  “This was not what we had expected. Didn’t that Luke fellow explain everything to you yet?”

  I bolted upright in the tub, dropping the bottle into the bath and splashing soapy water all over the place. The deep red of the Shiraz mushroomed out like a little explosion. But I couldn’t stop it. The record playing in my brain kept skipping over the same damn word.

  Did she just say “we”?

  sixteen

  IN SOME ANIMALS THE TENDENCY TO CARE FOR THEIR YOUNG is instinctive. In others, not so much. I won’t say which side of that fence humanity falls on because I’m sure that it depends on the person. I will tell you that it has long been suggested that the extraordinary plumpness of newborn humans (typically much fatter than other infant primates) is an attempt to convince their parents that they are worth the effort of rearing. Even an infant’s smile, according to some sociologists, is little more than a part of its strategy to seduce its mother. Because woe be to the child who fails to curry the favor of those who have the option of sacrificing it to the lions, just to save themselves.

  All right. Maybe she didn’t exactly throw me to the lions. But she did sacrifice me to reality television. And honestly, wasn’t that worse? All I knew was that if she thought she had grandchildren coming anytime soon after the stunt she’d pulled, well then think again, old lady.

  Not that I had much control over my chances of child-bearing at that point. The flowers weren’t from Raj, since he’d apparently decided to break off our engagement without even so much as a goodbye. Not that I necessarily deserved one. But this wasn’t about Raj. It was about my mother, who in my book was permanently grounded. Because she may not have thrown me to a predator to save herself, but she had definitely used me to get herself a little head start.

  Or more accurately, a little property appreciation.

  I should probably explain. It went something like this…

  My mother was involved in the prank from the beginning. She saw an episode of Smacked! on television and recognized it as her chance to turn a quick profit on a real estate flip. Namely, a house flip in Brentwood. Specifically, by making it the scene of a television moment starring her unwitting but slap-happy daughter, and then flipping it for a handsome profit.

  “Honestly, darling,” she said, acting as if it all made perfect sense, while I watched the last of my wine blend in with the water, “I expected you to slap him right across the face. I was banking on it, in fact. I never would have dreamed that you would kiss that man back. You’re always so…well, you know…levelheaded.”

  “Maybe that’s my problem. And maybe you should sell the stupid house yourself, Mom,” I added before slamming down the phone.

  Okay, it was my cell phone, which you can’t exactly slam down. But I did press that red button hard enough to make it clear to anyone watching that I really meant it. Almost as hard as my slamming the snooze button when some obnoxious tune yanked me back into consciousness the following morning. The only thing worse than waking up hungover, nauseous and terrifyingly unsure of exactly what it is you’re ashamed about, is waking up hungover, nauseous and painfully aware of exactly what it is you should be ashamed about.

  If I was so levelheaded, then why would I have allowed myself to kiss Luke? How could I have believed that working on Alex’s case would possibly mean nothing to me? When did I grow so cold that I failed to recognize that all Raj truly wanted was some hint of a real commitment with him? And when will I accept that I cannot drink red wine? Not only does it drain the moisture from my head, but it creates a faint ringing that usually persists throughout the following day.

  Except this time it was actually the vibration of my cell phone against the bedside table. Always the consummate professional, I burrowed farther under the covers and let it go to voice mail. I thought I was in the clear until a few seconds later, when my wily adversary tried again. I lay perfectly still, holding my breath, hoping the phone wouldn’t notice that I was still there. Hatefully, it brrrrrrrred again. Finally, begrudgingly, I snaked a hand out from underneath the duvet and pulled the accursed electronic gadget to me.

  “What!” I barked, after noting the unavailable number and assuming that it was my mother.

  But it wasn’t. It was Raj. And I had the sensation that I had just stepped off of a Tilt-A-Whirl. Dizzy, giddy, and quite sure that I was about to hurl. Worried that I might frighten him away, I chose to play dead rather than respond to his Hello.

  …The savvy male alligator is careful not to surprise his intended mate with any bold gestures or swift movements.

  “Monica,” he began, and I was sure I would pass out from holding my breath for so long. “I’m coming back. Back to L.A.”

  …The female, having deemed her suitor to be innocuous, rather than potentially infanticidal toward her existing offspring, indicates with a shake of her tail that it is safe to approach.

  “Great!” I blurted but then bit my lip to calm myself down. “I mean, I’m glad. I…I missed you.”

  …The mighty male makes his way into her immediate perimeter, breathing heavily enough to indicate that his purpose is mating, but taking care to keep his normally aggressive posturing in check. He does not want to disrupt the rhythm of their dance.

  “Okay.” He cleared
his throat. “I apologize for the silent treatment, but I was hurt, Monica. And I had to question whether you want to be in this thing with me at all. But then I just retrieved your last voice message, and I was touched…by the emotion that you showed. It was rather unlike you, and I understand that it isn’t always easy for you. To share your emotions. For God’s sake I’m practically British, so obviously I can understand it. But perhaps that was all I really needed to know…that you could make that effort for me. For us.”

  …Once within arm’s length, the female is careful not to display her backside to the male at first. She greets her suitor face-to-face, looks him in the eye, and emits an almost imperceptible, guttural growl. It is an invitation as much as a warning, and the male must proceed with caution toward her, while voicing his own might.

  “Then why did you wait until now to call?” I pressed him, wincing preemptively in case I was about to get the verbal thrashing I knew I deserved.

  …The female, having had a better look at him by this point, makes her final decision. Will she beat a swift retreat in the hopes of finding a more powerful partner? Will she growl louder and begin circling him to indicate that some sparring (or foreplay) is in order before they can begin their mating dance? Or will she simply lick his face and then twist to one side, displaying her readiness to be mounted immediately? The tension is thick…and uncharacteristically, the female is unwilling to commit with any standard gesture. The staring contest could last for hours, unless one of the animals chooses to break the tension. In this case, it seems it will be the male…

  “I was stubborn, Monica. Just like you. I really wanted to call. But I would prefer to talk about this in person. We have a lot to discuss. And I would like it if you could pick me up at LAX this Friday.”

  Being as much the optimist as I am the consummate professional, which is to say, occasionally, I took this conversation as a sign that:

  He hadn’t seen Smacked!, since he would have mentioned it if he had.

  He missed me and loved me and wanted me back, (Yeah!) and

  It was time for a bikini wax.

  For most of that week I was grateful the division of labor on Alex’s case kept Stefanie out of my hair. The last thing I needed to bring along when I met Raj at the airport on Friday was an enormous stress zit. You know the kind. It forms right in the middle of your cheek, is magically resistant to all forms of cover-up and concealer and routinely threatens to swallow the rest of your face.

  Anyway, Stefanie volunteered to keep the partners appraised of our progress (no doubt to take the bulk of the credit), and was in and out of Niles’s office frequently. I was so preoccupied with Raj’s impending arrival that I had mostly been on autopilot. When Alex came in to sit down with me on Thursday, I was energized and ready to push this divorce seamlessly through. All that was left was to prioritize the marital assets in their order of importance to him, take his deposition and set up a timeline within which we would promise to deliver a final settlement proposal.

  Easy as pie, right?

  “So should we order in?” he suggested, two hours into our meeting, before I even had a chance to look up. “For lunch, I mean. I’m starved.”

  “Sure!” I was so bright that I hurt my own eyes. “Why not?”

  “Great, how about Thai?”

  “Sure. But no peanuts on the pad thai,” I said offhand, feeling a pang of guilt wrapped in a rush of affection for Raj.

  “Huh?”

  “Nothing, nothing.” I shook my head, retrieving the book of menus, yanking out the one for Sweet Basil and handing it over to Alex. “How about this place?”

  “Looks good to me.” Tilting his head, he squinted at me and asked, “Chicken with basil…and…something with green coconut curry sauce, right?”

  My eyebrows made a break for my hairline.

  “You didn’t think I’d remember? C’mon, we must have ordered in Thai food for every final exam you helped me cram for.”

  “Yeah,” I replied, musing how long ago that life seemed. “I guess we did.”

  “You helped me with a lot of stuff back then, Monica. You were always great that way.”

  I waved his compliment aside, slipping my glasses back on and leaning into the documents before me.

  “Seriously,” he paused, looking away, “I don’t know if you ever saw Like You Mean It, but…well…I never could have done it without you.”

  “Alex.” I studied him over the rims of my glasses. “I was long gone by the time you made it.”

  “Yes, but you were there when I was getting started. And besides, I think I was writing for you.”

  Poor thing. You know how patients routinely believe they are in love with their psychiatrists? Well, when it happens in the world of divorce litigation we don’t call it “transference” we just call it sad. Some people will grasp at anything, rather than be alone.

  He continued. “Maybe I still…”

  I opened my mouth, but then noticed that he wasn’t making eye contact with me anymore. He looked stunned. And he was staring…at my cleavage?

  “Umm…Monica…is that…”

  That massive zit wasn’t the only thing that was in danger of popping out that day…my engagement ring had jumped from the inside of my blouse, and was staring us both in the face.

  “Are you married?” he asked finally, finishing his thought.

  What could I say? That I had bought it for myself, hoping it would attract an eligible man the way that red attracts a bull? Instinctively, I planted my hand on top to cover it up.

  “No!” I blurted, and felt instantly as if I had cheated on Raj.

  Out, damn spot! Or better yet, I thought…On, damn ring!

  I slipped it onto my finger so hastily that I forgot it was still connected to my neck. So I had to reach around and unclasp my chain in front of Alex, which naturally caused me to choke myself.

  Yes, I am the queen of the elegant gesture.

  “I mean, I’m engaged,” I explained, gagging a little bit, wishing I could crawl inside the dirt of the potted plant that had so abruptly heralded Alex’s disruptive return to my life.

  “Well.” He nodded aggressively, looking anywhere but directly at me, as if the sparkle of that ring might turn him into stone. “That’s great. Really. Congratulations, Monica. He’s a lucky guy, whoever he is.”

  It was ironic. In preparation for Raj’s arrival I had acquired his favorite wine, had my apartment professionally cleaned, set out fresh flowers and scented candles, spun myself into oblivion at the gym every morning that week and booked myself in for the total treatment at the salon. But it still hadn’t occurred to me to slip that ring onto my finger. And it was probably the gesture that would have meant the most to him.

  Maybe Raj was right not to want to marry me.

  And maybe I needed to figure out whether I was more ashamed about neglecting to put the ring on after all this time, or about wanting to hide it from Alex.

  Nobody likes waiting in line. I have at least three pairs of pleather pants tucked into the back of a closet somewhere that can attest to that fact. Oh, come on! They were the thing back in 1995. And don’t act as if you’ve never wiggled into anything way-too-tight and leopard-print just to make it impossible for the bouncer to consider making you wait in line with the huddled and less fashionable masses.

  Anyway, patience is not a virtue with which my people are more than passingly familiar. And by my people, I mean Indians. Tolerance, deference, and in some cases even abstinence, sure, but not so much with the patience. So is it any wonder that I’m usually unable to wait more than two minutes for my morning latte without imagining several ways to disembowel either the cashier, the barista or the person standing before me in line? Of course it doesn’t start out that way in my mind. But if you know that there are five people in line behind you, and you know that finding your wallet inside your massive purse will require a search-and-rescue team, and you plan on paying with exact change, which will be scooped from the bott
om of your handbag, then why oh why would you wait until you’d ordered to think about unzipping your purse?

  My anger management skills aren’t my favorite thing about myself, but I swear it’s a genetic predisposition. According to Hindu mythology, one of our gods had asked her son to guard her privacy while she bathed one morning. When her husband returned from a long battle that same day, her son neither recognized him nor was prepared for his arrival. True to his mother, her son refused to let him pass and see her until she was fully decent. True to our impatient nature, (and furious to have been told to wait) her husband was so infuriated that he pulled out his sword and lopped off the head of his only son. And bouncers who have to deal with sloppy investment bankers think they have it rough.

  All right, so I have yet to decapitate anyone at a Starbucks. But I had huffed more than my fair share of discontented breaths, and was distracting myself with a glance at my Pucker horoscope—tucked inside a folder of legal briefs, of course—while waiting for the unbelievably slow line to lurch forward when Jonathan suddenly materialized.

  He caught me completely off guard by waving a twenty dollar bill in front of my face. It wasn’t a sword, exactly, but still. My people don’t appreciate surprises before we’ve had our morning coffee, either. And by my people, I mean women.

  “Umm…is this the part where I’m supposed to shake it like a salt shaker,” I asked, as sarcastic and defensive as was possible without the benefit of any fuel in my stomach, “Or is that your way of implying that maybe this skirt isn’t age-appropriate?”

  “Can’t a guy buy a girl a coffee?” He joined me in line.

  “What’s your angle, man?” I squinted sideways at him. “Do I have some hot friend you want to be introduced to? If so, it’s gonna cost you a lot more than a latte.”

  “I had no idea you were so cynical,” he mocked, as we inched forward and then stopped again.

  “Just a small-town girl,” I pleaded, and put my hands up, “trying to protect myself in the big, bad city.”