I ask my question abruptly. “Mom, I assume Dad’s mother speaks English, right? But … but how well?”
A strange look ripples across Mom’s face. “As a matter of fact, she speaks perfect English.”
Something hangs in the air unsaid.
I hesitate, then push on. “But you still haven’t told me—what’s she like?”
Mom throws a couple of Earl Grey teabags into her pot. Her face is guarded. “Well, in a way she’s, she’s a bit like Maya.”
“Maya?” My shoulders come down. “But Maya’s so … cute.”
The rumbling of the kettle softens, the quiet before the fury.
“Yes, but she’s also…”—Mom pauses—“… formidable.”
I try to digest the word—it’s bricklike, solid.
The kettle shrieks and Mom pours water into the teapot.
As Maya comes downstairs, singing, Mom lowers her voice and says hastily, “Tara, I hope what I’ve said about your grandmother isn’t going to influence…” She catches my eye. “Okay, okay. Look, let’s just try to be nice to her.”
Then Nina thunders downstairs, complaining that she can’t find clean socks, and I escape to my room.
It’s strange, all this long-ago drama—it makes me feel like I’m looking through the wrong end of binoculars.
But it’s still patchy, the family saga, a jigsaw puzzle with pieces missing. There’s the small woman in the photograph. There’s being too Indian, or not being Indian enough. There’s the hero of the Independence movement. There’s formidable.
And shining over it all, like a welcoming rainbow, is be nice to her.
CHAPTER 7
But it isn’t until the evening that I discover the horror lurking behind Mom’s pious wish to be nice.
After dinner, Mom gathers the battalion together and barks out her orders for the weekend. Turns out, she’s deadly serious about cleaning out that basement room and fixing it up like the flipping Hilton—and she’s even deadlier serious about holding Nina and me to the devil’s bargain we made to keep our rooms.
So it starts. Hell.
Saturday is a blur of boxes, bags, dust, and mess. We sneeze and scowl as we cart the junk from the spare room to the rest of the house—six boxes end up in my room. Mom can’t throw out anything; she even insists on keeping my art folder from grade one, for God’s sake.
By the end of the day the room is finally cleared, but the walls are a grimy, puky pink and the carpet is ragged—it’ll take a miracle to get it decent, never mind gorgeous.
As we collapse in the family room after pizza, Mom wearily but unrelentingly plans the next stage of the campaign—wallpaper, carpet, furniture; even giving the entire freaking house a thorough cleaning. Dad looks seriously depressed. Nina and I gape at each other in dumb misery. Why, why is that awful woman coming? Why can’t she just keep up the feud?
Sunday, I’m so desperate to get out of cleaning that I spend hours over my math homework and practice my violin until my arms drop. But the minute Mom hears me stop playing …
I’m so exhausted that I sleep through my alarm the next morning, and it’s a mad dash to get ready for school. I can’t even sound off to Erin, because she has band practice Mondays. I tear into the lobby just as the bell goes and almost run into Tolly putting up a giant banner. Greetings from Around the World.
I snort. Too late for my drop dead in Hindi.
Tolly turns, his bushy eyebrows raised. I avoid his eye and race to my English class. It would have to be on the other side of the building, on the second floor.
The class has already started as I slide in, breathless. Good thing it’s only Ms. Gelder. She’s one of the younger teachers, and she never freaks out if you’re a bit late.
I sigh as I grab the empty desk near the back—school’s actually going to be restful after the weekend.
Doug’s complaining about his mark on the last assignment. We had to write a story, and I got an A—but I love creative writing, and Doug stinks at it.
Then I notice. Jeff’s next to me. He grins and I sort of puff and grin back, swipe my hand through my hair.
Ms. Gelder’s saying, “Well, Doug, you should enjoy the next assignment. It’s important for you to explore fiction as a medium for your voice and to stretch your imagination, but it is also a skill to write something factual in an accessible and interesting manner.”
Doug goes, “Yes,” but most of us groan. I glance at Jeff. He’s looking at me. I flush and turn away.
Ms. Gelder continues. “So—what I want you to do now is interview someone in this class so you can later write a biography on him or her. Please include their likes, dislikes, and…”
I catch Nadia’s eye and she grins and nods.
“Not someone you know well,” Ms. Gelder goes on. “Just work with the person sitting next to you.”
My heart somersaults. Yes! There is a God! Jeff smiles shyly at me, and I moisten my lips, smile back. Thank goodness I grabbed a shower this morning.
Then everyone’s shuffling desks together.
“So—you want to go first, or…?” Jeff awkwardly pushes up the sleeves of his brown sweater.
“You go.” I furtively eye his hands, the fine down on his arms.
“No, you go.”
I laugh. “So why’d you ask?”
He shrugs, half grinning.
Suddenly, it clicks. Maybe he’s shy, too—he just moved here from another province. That’s a load in itself, let alone getting to know a strange girl.
“Okay, me first,” I say. “Name. Duhh! Jeffrey MacKinley. So, Jeff, you’re from Vancouver, right?”
“Yeah. Sort of. I lived there for four years, but I was born in Halifax. I’ve moved around a lot because my father’s in the military. Army brat.”
I say brightly, “Hey, it must be neat to travel around.” I realize how stupid that is even before I see his mouth tighten.
“How would you like to move just when you’ve settled in and made friends?”
Ouch. “I guess that was dumb of me.”
Jeff half puts his hand out towards me, then pulls it back. “Hey, no, I didn’t mean that. A lot of people think the same, really. Like my grandfather.” He grins. “He was army, too. Joined up for the travel, as a matter of fact. He was born in Scotland, and he went everywhere with the British army—Egypt, Burma. Even spent a few years in India. He loved it there.”
“Hey, cool.”
“Yeah, he immigrated here after World War II.” He pauses. “He’s in Halifax now. I miss him.”
“Sounds like you’re close to him.”
“Yeah. He’s pretty great. We have these long discussions about life—everything. I mean, I can talk to him. My father, now…” He shakes his head, then is silent.
“So, how d’you like living here?” I ask tentatively. “Sick of people asking?”
He smiles and shrugs. “Nah, it’s okay. It still feels kinda strange.”
“You should get someone to show you around, Jeff; Ottawa’s a neat town.”
He looks up eagerly.
Blood rushes to my face. “Yeah, sure, I could, if … if you want.…” I can’t believe I actually said that.
Jeff’s smile leaps at me. “I’d like that, Tara. A lot. There’s no one my age where I live, except this guy Steve. The only thing we have in common is hockey.”
I groan slightly.
“What? What’s wrong with that?”
I grin. “Jeff, tell me you’re not a dumb jock. Please.”
“Hey, do I look like a dumb jock?”
“Well, jock, no … but dumb, well…”
Jeff laughs.
Then we’re on a roll, talking easily. I find out his parents divorced two years ago and his mother moved to Ontario, but he stayed with his father because of school. He has an older sister who’s going to university out west, and he’s thinking about being a vet. He loves animals, but they can’t have any because his father has allergies. It’s pretty obvious that he and hi
s father don’t get along—Jeff says half-sneeringly, He’s always the Colonel, even at home. It’s sure different from how he talked about his grandfather.
“Okay, your turn, Tara. Tell me everything.” He quirks an eyebrow. “Especially about the skeletons lurking in your closet.”
I grin. That’s how Erin described this grandmother business, and it sort of fits. I tell Jeff about Dad’s mother coming from India but avoid the more controversial elements.
“So—does your grandmother speak Indian?”
I look at him. “It’s not Indian, it’s Hindi. And, yeah, she does.”
“Do you?”
My stomach sinks. Great. Another Tolly-type conversation. “No. Never have.” It comes out belligerent.
Jeff frowns slightly. “What’d I say wrong?”
“Nothing.” I scrape a stain on my jeans with my fingernail, then blurt out, “It’s just … I get sick of people assuming that because my parents came from India I should be all Indian, and different, and…”
“Hey, all I said was…” His blue eyes are puzzled.
“Yeah, well, it’s just, sometimes people try to … try to shove me into their idea of who they think I am, and…”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Forget it.”
Why, why did I spaz? It’s the Tolly thing—it’s still fresh, and I’m hypersensitive.
Jeff says slowly, “I guess you get fed up with people treating you like you’re the expert on everything Indian, huh?”
I look up. “Yeah. It makes me feel … labeled, somehow, even though, mostly, it’s so…”
“Well intentioned!”
“Yeah. Shining, polite interest.”
Jeff grins. “White liberal guilt!”
I laugh.
Jeff continues, “My best friend in Vancouver, his family was from China. He got it all the time. It stank. He’d never even been to China. I suppose you’ve never been to India, either.”
Now that I know he isn’t trying to slot me into a category, we’re easy again. I tell him about Maya, Dad, Nina’s BFT, and even about Mom’s feminist rants and dumb accents.
A gleam comes into Jeff’s eyes. “Hey, I could try my Scottish accent on her. My grandfather still has a thick one.”
I squeal, “No. You wouldn’t dare.”
“You bet I would.”
“Too late. She’s been watching Dr. Finlay on TV and keeps coming out with Och! The bonnie wee laddie! It’s not funny, Jeff.”
We start as the bell rings. Neither of us has made any notes.
“So—we’re going to have to get together to finish this.” Jeff sounds shy again. He scratches his head and turns red. “Some evening this week, maybe?”
I want to shout, Yes! Yes! I manage a cool, “Sounds good.”
“Your place?” he asks eagerly.
I hesitate, tuck my hair behind my ear. I mean, my family is weird at the best of times, and now, with this visit …
I try frantically to think up a good excuse as we exchange phone numbers, but Jeff seems really keen. Anyway, it’s probably better than going to his place.…
CHAPTER 8
Big mistake! Because now there’s only a bit over two weeks to go, and not one corner of our house remains unmolested by Mom’s cleaning fetish.
Jeff’s due after supper on Wednesday, and I hope and hope that when he arrives the family will be in the basement—or anywhere, just so they’re out of sight.
But, no, it’s like they’ve conspired to humiliate me. Mom’s in the kitchen, up on a chair excavating one of the cupboards, looking like a scruffy flamingo in her grubby pink leggings. Maya is wiggling in and out of one of the lower cupboards, and Nina, her hair wild and tangled, is scowling over her French verbs. I should have insisted on going to his house—I bet his father is at least normal.
When the doorbell rings, I run to the door. If I can sneak Jeff into the family room, maybe he won’t have to …
Jeff smiles and looks a bit uncomfortable.
“Hi,” I say. “Come on in.”
A loud crash from the kitchen. Then Mom shouts, “Blast! Tara, quick, I need a hand.”
My heart sinks down past my toes, through the floor, deep into the subsoil.
I say apologetically, “The cleaning—for the grandmother’s visit!”
Jeff follows me into the kitchen.
Cake pans are scattered on the floor, and Mom’s struggling with another pile. “Tara, take—”
“Mom, I’ve got work.…”
“Here, let me.” Jeff takes the pile.
Mom beams down at him. “Thank you, m’dear.” The posh British accent. “You’re too kind.”
Jeff half grins, then glances at me, his eyes bright. “Och, it’s nuthin’. Yerr wellcome.”
My jaw drops.
Mom squeals delightedly, “Och, he’s a bonnie wee Scottish laddie!”
“Aye, Ms. Mehta.” Jeff’s face is a curious mixture of shy and eager. “My grandfather’s from the Highlands.”
“Och, the Highlands! Which bonnie parrrt?” cries Mom.
She continues to pass him stuff from the cupboard as she grills him about his life in the worst Scottish accent.
I just want to die.
Then Nina clears her throat and introduces herself, her eyes raking him for details to giggle over with her friends, and Maya insists that he admire how thor-ough-ly she’s sorting out her cupboard. When I think it can’t get any worse, Dad erupts from the basement, all sweaty in his holey Blue Jays T-shirt, his hands covered in grout.
I stand against the wall, my arms tightly crossed. It’s like my family is a giant freaking amoeba engulfing any foreign body dumb enough to stray in.
As soon as Mom’s cupboard is empty, I drag Jeff into the family room before she can start another.
I mumble, “Look, I’m sorry about that.…”
Jeff’s shoulders shake with laughter.
“It’s not funny, Jeff.” I roll my eyes. “And why did you have to encourage her, anyway?”
“But it’s research, Tara.” He’s still laughing.
“Cut it out!” I whack his arm. “She’s bad enough without you—”
“Hey, come on! I think your family’s great. I can’t imagine my father unbending enough to … You’re lucky—”
“Yeah, right.”
“Oh, lighten up, Tara.…” Jeff’s arm brushes across my back for a few seconds.
My face flames. But my heart rises marginally from the subsoil.
After we finish our work, we actually manage to get some time to just talk. We’re so easy together, it’s pretty great—even though Mom interrupts with more Scottish banter and a plateful of god-awful homemade cookies she’s thawed for us, and Normy wanders in and rubs against Jeff, until he picks her up and feeds her tiny bits of the cookies.
It’s late when Jeff finally leaves. At the door he reminds me, “Don’t forget, you promised to show me around. Next weekend, maybe?”
The look in his eyes makes me flush, but then Mom shrills from the kitchen, “Ye be surrre to come back agin, laddie,” and Jeff calls back, “Aye, I will, Ms. Mehta, ferrr surre,” which pretty much kills the mood.
* * *
And now the countdown to the visit really begins in earnest.
All week, I babysit Maya uncomplainingly. I scrub and clean. I even bite my tongue as Mom oscillates from Marmee to banshee, rushing between her job and the cleaning, decorating, and shopping. Hey, on Saturday, I’ll get time off for good behavior to hang out with Jeff, right?
Yeah, right! We have a huge fight, but Mom flatly refuses to give me even a crappy half-day off. I call Jeff and cancel; I rave and rant about the cleaning, promise to show him around the first weekend I’m free—but what if he thinks I’m trying to get out of it?
The weekend passes in a whirl of misery and grime. I scrub walls like Cinder-flipping-ella, while my hands shrivel into prunes. Even Dad’s good humor flags, and he slips momentarily from his soothing, supporti
ng role. I hear snatches of them arguing: Mom’s voice squeaking with indignation, Three weeks’ notice, if that isn’t just … and Dad’s, unexpectedly loud, I asked you, why didn’t you …
By now, I’m painstakingly particular about my homework; I stretch it out for hours. When Mom mutters, I snap, D’you want me to flunk? Nina, too, catches on, and her marks skyrocket. I also practice my violin like crazy. Poor Hélène is super-impressed—she thinks I’ve developed a real passion. I’m amazed at how good I’m starting to sound.
Then it’s less than two weeks to go, and to our relief, Dad insists on hiring wallpaper hangers. But all he gets at short notice are two burly, beery guys, Ronnie, and—don’t ask why—Twinkie, who flash their cracks every time they bend over. Mom shudders but is too tired to protest.
School is now a wonderful rest. It’s also the only time I get to see Jeff. We hang out after class a couple of times, but it’s not the same as actually doing something together. I don’t know if he quite believes me when I tell him Mom hasn’t done an accent in ages. Erin is totally disgusted because Mom’s too busy to cook Indian food. I’m in withdrawal, she moans.
Then we roll into the final week before D-day, and the new carpet is laid, but Mom still shops like fury for the perfect towels and duvet, while I resentfully polish the banister and babysit Maya. Nina’s majorly miffed, because for once Mom won’t let her have her horde over, in case they wreck a room that’s already DONE—Mom actually says this as though it has been blessed and sanctified.
Nina and I can’t decide who we hate more—the grandmother, Mom, or even Dad, for giving in to Mom’s neurotic demands. We share every scrap of information about the dreaded grandmother, which isn’t a lot. All we get out of Dad is that she’s in her early seventies and her name’s Savitri, after an Indian goddess. And nothing from Mom—I avoid her like the plague, but even Nina can’t overhear any juicy tidbits, because Mom discreetly vanishes to her room every time she phones Rittie.
The only person more or less unaffected by all this is Maya. She glides through the chaos in her own sweet little world, but somehow she manages to get Mom to respond to her needs—she just expects it. I begin to understand Mom calling her formidable.
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