Serena Singh Flips the Script

by Sonya Lalli

  Leaving Veer’s family for America had been devastating, even more so than leaving her parents’ home. Sandeep put on a brave face for Veer, for Serena, but the first year, she’d sobbed herself into hysterics every time she had a moment alone. Sandeep was the first of her family to leave Punjab. In the years that followed, her brothers emigrated to the UK, and various cousins found themselves in Hong Kong, Australia, British Columbia. Her grandparents and then her own parents passed away, and the house they’d grown up in had been sold at auction and then bulldozed.

  Family kept you grounded, but they’d all been uprooted, scattered, and were now like tumbleweeds blowing recklessly around the globe. Sandeep had done everything in her power to change that, to build anew. She cleaned houses, despite the upturned noses of some her friends, so they could save more quickly, so her daughters would have space to grow up, like they would have had in the village.

  And so later on, her daughters would have somewhere to bring their families.

  She’d imagined this place would have grown lively in age. Empty bedrooms filled with boisterous grandchildren on sleepovers, running around like chickens. Serena, Natasha, and their husbands enjoying themselves, eating, filling their silent house with laughter.

  It had been too big of a dream, and sometimes, like when Natasha refused to let her host the gender reveal, it still crushed her that it didn’t come to pass. Her daughters’ lives were not extensions of her own—she understood that now—but still, it didn’t make the reality any easier. Still, she should have focused less on creating a big, perfect picture and more on the broken people inside of it.

  “Have you eaten lunch yet?” she heard Serena ask. “Let’s go somewhere.”

  “I’ve just made halwa.” Sandeep beamed. The sweet, dense semolina mixture was Serena’s favorite, especially the way Sandeep made it, with raisins and lots of cashew nuts. “Come inside and we’ll eat together.”

  “Mom, for once can you not put up a fight?” Serena’s voice was measured, firm. “I know you can cook, but we always eat here.”

  That’s because I like having you here, Serena.

  “Please? Let me treat you.”

  Sandeep was parched and sticky from the sun, and she sighed, defeated. “Sure. Chalo.”

  Veer had carpooled with a neighbor to work that day, so they took the car one town over to an Italian restaurant where Sandeep had never been. It felt trendy, a word she often heard Natasha use to describe her social engagements, and she was glad she’d changed out of her house clothes.

  “Can I help you decide?” Serena asked, staring at her over the menu. Sandeep smiled stiffly and shook her head. Just then, the waiter approached to take their orders.

  “I’ll have the pumpkin gnocchi, thanks,” Serena replied, handing him the menu. “Mom, are you ready?”

  Sandeep nodded even though she wasn’t. Panicking, she felt her blouse grow sticky beneath her armpits.

  “I will have . . .” She started scanning the long list of pastas with her pointer finger. She got all the way to the bottom and then moved back to the top.

  “I think we need more time—”

  “Nah, beti. I’m ready, sir.” She tapped on the first option. The description promised that it would be light: pasta noodles with some sort of tomato sauce.

  “Spaghetti marinara?” Serena asked, after the waiter left. “That’s so plain, Mom.”

  Sandeep nodded, fanning herself with the napkin.

  “I thought you might want to try something new. They have this four-cheese ravioli that’s to die for. You’d love it.”

  Sandeep did love cheese, paneer in particular, but now that she was over fifty, the way it unsettled her stomach overpowered her weakness for fatty, rich foods.

  “Sounds tasty, beti.”

  Serena grinned. “Then I’ll go ask the waiter to change your meal—”

  “No need to make a fuss—”

  “There’s no fuss,” she said, rushing off. “He hasn’t placed the order yet.”

  Sandeep sipped her water, wondering why she didn’t tell Serena that she would have preferred the plainer pasta, that her digestive system wasn’t what it used to be.

  Was it because Serena seemed so excited to introduce her to something new? Maybe. But if Sandeep was being honest, that was only part of it. She hadn’t told Serena the truth because that’s what she’d grown used to. If she told her every little thing—a harmless argument with Veer, a bill they hadn’t yet managed to pay, a blood pressure reading that was slightly higher than what her doctor felt comfortable with—it would only cause worry.

  Serena returned to the table, animated. She slipped off her blazer and, without any prompting on Sandeep’s part, told her about her day, the former clients Jerry and Patricia. Sandeep’s heart swelled with pride as Serena explained the new business they’d given her and how much it had impressed her new boss.

  “Deborah Kim?” Sandeep asked hesitantly, and Serena had grinned.

  “You remembered.”

  Yes. She’d said the right thing.

  Serena continued on with her story, the “creative strategy” she already had in mind. As hard as it was on Veer, Sandeep appreciated that Serena was making more of an effort to call her and come visit. To talk. As Sandeep continued listening, her ears grew hot, suddenly feeling shameful. Her daughter was trying, and Sandeep had gone and lied about something so silly as wanting that damn cheesy pasta. She should have been truthful. But now it was too late.

  The food arrived, and Sandeep ate it with relish, deciding that if she was going to be stomach sick regardless, she might as well enjoy herself now. Sandeep did her best to match Serena’s energy as they conversed. Partway through their meal, Serena’s phone buzzed. It was the first time she’d looked at it.

  “Work?” Sandeep asked, suddenly fearful her daughter would rush off to the office.

  “No. Sorry, one minute.” Her thumbs moved rapidly on the screen, and then a beat later, she set the phone down. “It was just a friend.”

  “Jenna?” Sandeep tried to remember the names of the other girls who used to perpetually tie up their landline or turn up unannounced wanting to play ball or hopscotch, but she blanked.

  “Or your new friend Ainsley? She was so sweet, hah? And her son is very cute.” Sandeep smiled, remembering the young boy. “Half Indian. Half American. I wonder if Natasha’s baby will look like him.”

  “Maybe,” Serena answered. She was holding her fork but wasn’t eating, and it sat limply in her hand. Then she sighed and set the utensil down. “And no, I was actually texting . . . Jesse.”

  Sandeep furrowed her brow, confused, but then the look on Serena’s face confirmed her fear.

  Jesse? Her ex-boyfriend Jasmeet Dhillon?

  “And no. We’re not together. We ran into each other a while back and decided to be friends.” She put her hands up. “So don’t start with me—”

  “Did I say anything?” Sandeep asked demurely. She was surprised by how even her voice sounded, although this news was causing her to sweat again.

  “We’re a lot older now, you see, and he’s just gotten divorced. We have a lot in common, and he lives in the city . . . and . . .”

  And? And Serena was acting foolish. And this was a very stupid decision for such an intelligent woman.

  “And . . . he’s a good friend now. That’s it.”

  She wanted to ask Serena if that really was “it,” then why was she being so defensive? But she bit her tongue instead.

  “Thank you for telling me.” Sandeep patted her lips with the cloth napkin and then set it back down on her lap. Truly, she was grateful, although she was more surprised that Serena had shared something so personal.

  “I’m glad you have some companionship.”

  Sandeep had long understood that Washington, DC, was not India and that times had changed
and demanded she adapt. She’d come to terms with Serena’s decision to “date,” to flaunt her modern relationship with Jesse, even though after four years it did not lead to marriage.

  It hadn’t mattered that everyone had gossiped, that Serena had lost her place as the “good girl” in the community. No. All Sandeep had cared about was her daughter’s happiness, and breaking up with that sweet boy, Jesse, had done anything but make her happy.

  So why was she seeking him out now? Was she punishing herself?

  “Natasha must be pleased by the news,” Sandeep said, curious if her younger daughter had tried to talk some sense into Serena. “She always adored him.”

  “I haven’t told Natasha.”

  The waiter arrived, interrupting them to clear their dishes. Sandeep studied her daughter as she handed him the dishes and then asked for the check.

  The girls were fighting. They were still fighting.

  Sandeep’s lungs burned as she thought about how close the two sisters used to be. There were so many rifts in their small family already—was this cherished bond between sisters gone, too?

  From the day Natasha was born, Serena had mothered and protected her in all the ways Sandeep could not, educated her on the important things Sandeep simply did not know.

  But there was no one to do that for Serena. She had had to learn everything the hard way. Vividly, Sandeep could remember Serena translating for her at the school when they first arrived in America, explaining to the teacher that Sandeep was crying because she’d taken the wrong bus to pick her up, again. That new immigrants often felt lost, and not just by directions.

  She was only in kindergarten.

  “You’re a very good girl, Serena.” Sandeep reached out her palm and squeezed her daughter’s hand. There was so much more to say, but she finished her meal and failed to muster up the courage to say a single word of it.

  23

  Come with me to the cooking class. Please,” I begged Ainsley when the end of the week rolled around.

  Ainsley shook her head. “My parents are in town for the Fourth of July. Why don’t you come over for dinner?”

  “I don’t want to intrude.”

  “I’ve met your parents, haven’t I?” She paused. “How are they, by the way?”

  “Oh, fine.” I gestured to the lunch I was eating. After our lunch date, Mom had taught me how to cook matar paneer, and I was still eating the leftovers. “My mother is turning me into quite the chef.”

  “Was your dad home?”

  I didn’t answer, and Ainsley held my gaze as we sat eating together at the break room table. Ainsley and I had never talked about the fact that I’d cried (quietly) like an idiot after seeing Dad at Natasha’s gender reveal party, although she’d tried to ask me about it a few times. She was trying again now.

  “Anyway,” I said, breaking eye contact, “I guess this means more Tuscan food for me.”

  “Is that like Italian food? And why not take Becket?”

  “I assume it is,” I said. “And I can’t take Becket. It’s not meant to be a ‘couples’ thing.”

  “Oh. You signed up for this when you were on the prowl, didn’t you?”

  “Ha ha.”

  “Thought you’d seduce a nice young lady and make her your . . .” Ainsley looked at me with utter disgust. “Friend?”

  “Are you done?”

  “Like you did to me? Sought me out, made me like you—”

  “All right.” I laughed, standing up and clearing my dish. “Back to work, Woods.”

  She giggled at her own joke for another minute as I washed my dish and set it on the rack to dry. I turned around, studying her for a moment. We both liked to eat earlier than our colleagues and were alone in the break room. Ainsley was typing something out on her phone and shaking her left leg under the table, like she always did, probably to the beat of one of those god-awful funk bands she made me listen to.

  I smiled, watching her. And no, I wasn’t watching her like a stalker, but the way a person might gaze at someone and think, Damn, she is cool!

  In four short months, I’d grown closer to her than I ever would have predicted, maybe even than I ever was with Natasha. So what would happen if she quit?

  My throat closed up whenever I thought about her leaving, and how everything would inevitably be different. Would she still make time for me? Working together meant our lives slotted in together seamlessly, but that would change if she went freelance. Her hours would revolve around Nikesh’s business, MacKenzie, who would get older, more active, more time-consuming.

  I swallowed hard, imagining us drifting apart, even if we didn’t want to. Even if we fought it. Overcome with emotion, I opened my mouth to say something. To ask her if she was still toying with the idea of leaving the company. To make my feelings known.

  But then she spoke first.

  “Tuscan food does not sound like Italian food, Serena,” she said, reading from her phone. “At least the Italian food I’m used to.”

  I turned away, reaching for the coffeepot so she wouldn’t see my face if she looked up. “Oh?”

  “There are a lot of beans, apparently.”

  “The magical fruit,” I retorted.

  “Some of the dishes sound good, though. Save me some?”

  “No way. You’ve abandoned me, after all . . .” I stopped, betrayed by the tone of my voice.

  Ainsley hadn’t abandoned me. At least, not yet.

  * * *

  That evening, I found myself on the bus to a bougie kitchen shop on the H Street Corridor, where the cooking class was being held. It was too hot to walk without turning up like a total mess.

  I’d been tempted to forgo my deposit and bail, but I fought through the urge. Work that day had been hellish—between handing back projects to Deborah for supervision, diving into the research phase of The Fifth Ingredient campaign, and figuring out staffing issues and team assignments with the increased workload.

  I had even sat down with Vic and asked her to work alongside me on the new campaign. She agreed, smiling and saying the right things, although I couldn’t tell what she actually thought about the arrangement. We’d have to spend a lot of time together, and maybe she would grow to respect me, even decide that she could learn from me. Maybe there was still hope that the two of us could start our relationship over.

  “Over here!” a friendly looking woman called out to me as I arrived at the class. “Are you Serena?”

  She pointed at my name tag at her cooking station, right next to one with Rachel on it.

  “Nice to meet you. I take it we’re partners?”

  She nodded. “I’m so glad you showed up. I thought I’d get stuck up here alone.”

  “Sorry. My bus got stuck behind a motorcade.”

  “No worries.” Rachel handed me a recipe card. It had Italian words on it I didn’t recognize.

  “Is this what we’re making tonight?”

  “Mm-hmm. Fettunta, panzanella, acquacotta . . .” Rachel lowered her voice. “I was expecting we’d make . . . tortellini or something. I have no idea what any of this is!”

  “Me neither.” I laughed, turning over the card. “But the recipes all call for a lot of olive oil and salt. So I bet it’s going to be really good.”

  The instructor must have been waiting for me, because she immediately started the class. After an introductory spiel about Tuscan cuisine, the basics to good cooking, and what we’d be preparing that evening, she asked us to set out all of the ingredients and start with the washing and chopping. I peeled and chopped the garlic while Rachel did the herbs and introduced herself. She was a lobbyist and had lived in the DC area since college, although she grew up in South Carolina.

  The instructor handed out a glass of white wine to everyone in the class, and I didn’t want to be rude, so I accepted, even though when I brought t
he glass to my lips I only pretended to take a sip. Rachel was very chatty and also in good spirits, and I found myself having a lot more fun than I had expected. This was the kind of experience I’d been looking for when I first started trying to make new friends and regain a social life months earlier. Women enjoying one another’s company, supporting one another, getting to know one another—and over Italian food, no less.

  The first course turned out well, and we were allowed to have a small taste of our fettunta, a delicious bread, before moving on to the next course. I diced tomatoes as Rachel worked on the onion and told me about her job. I was grateful that she hadn’t asked me too many questions about myself. I had never really understood what lobbyists did exactly, but I got distracted during her explanation by the buzzing in my back pocket. It went on and on; someone was calling and not giving up. Finally, it stopped, but Rachel had moved from politics and was now telling me about her roommate’s elderly cat, who kept ruining all her clothes. I didn’t want to be rude and check my phone, so I left it.

  “Can you believe it? She said she wouldn’t pay me back for the shoes. I’m so nice, I didn’t charge her rent last month because she had to fly home unexpectedly for a family emergency. And I took care of that flipping cat while she was away!”

  “That was very generous of you.”

  “Right? I . . .”

  My phone started buzzing again. It was another phone call. I glanced over at Rachel. She had stopped chopping the onion and was wiping the corners of her eyes with her sleeve, so I quickly wiped my hands on a dishrag and reached for my phone. It was Jesse. He never called, only texted, so I replied.

  Busy! What’s up?

  I texted Jesse back in a hurry and then surreptitiously hid my phone on the counter partway beneath an oven mitt.

  As Rachel continued talking, I snuck a look at my phone. Jesse had texted back.

  Anadi and her parents are taking the kids to Disney World. I wanted to take them to Disney World. It was my idea, Serena. MY idea. And she took it.