Serena Singh Flips the Script

by Sonya Lalli

  And I was being honest with Becket about my friendship with Jesse. I’d even told him I’d spoken to him on the phone for hours, and Becket hadn’t even seemed to mind.

  Maybe the flash of jealousy I’d first seen on him had dissipated. Or, maybe Becket wasn’t all that into me anymore. It’s not like I wanted to drive my boyfriend crazy, but jealousy did tend to be a symptom of passion, and on the porch just now, he had high-fived me like a buddy . . .

  “Hello?”

  A voice called out from the front room, interrupting my line of thought. Deep and male. I glanced over at Ainsley, and it looked as if she’d seen a ghost. She stood up, and I followed. A beat later, the silhouette of someone appeared in the doorway.

  He was the spitting image of Nikesh, but with more wrinkles and a receding hairline.

  “You have company?” he asked without saying hello. His face soured as he gave me the once-over, his eyes lingering on my mask-covered face and then, predictably, the black ink on the side of my neck.

  “Hello,” I said flatly.

  “Sat Sri Akaal, Uncle,” Ainsley said, and I smiled at her pronunciation. It was getting better. “This is my friend Serena.”

  “Where is my boy?”

  “Nikesh is putting him down.”

  He set down his briefcase by the stairs and slowly peeled off his jacket. Every movement was precise, intimidating. His eyes were transfixed by something in the kitchen.

  “What is this I smell?” he said, placing his hand on the banister. “I do not recognize it.”

  “We made Greek tonight.” Ainsley cleared her throat. “Would you like to try some?” She brushed past me and into the kitchen and seemingly at random opened cupboards and drawers, rearranged the pots, pans, and plates on the stove and counter. “Let me warm some up.”

  “No,” he said sternly. “Thank you.”

  “Dad, what are you doing here?”

  Nikesh was at the top of the stairs, a coddling blanket folded over his arm. He spoke in Punjabi. He sounded completely different, though it wasn’t the language that was off-putting but the coldness in his voice.

  “I thought I’d drop by and visit my grandson.”

  “He’s asleep.” Nikesh crossed his arms, taking the stairs slowly, one step at a time, Becket just behind. “You should have called.”

  “You might have pretended not to be home.”

  “I wonder why that is.”

  A silence followed, and it sent a chill through the air. I glanced over at Ainsley. She was aggressively heating up something in a frying pan, the tongs clanging against the metal in an irregular beat. Her eyes were darting between Nikesh and his father, and I could tell she was trying to understand what they had just said, piece the Punjabi words together.

  “We have friends over, Dad,” Nikesh said, breaking the silence. “It’s not a good time.”

  “I see that.” He looked back at me, again right at the tattoo. “Is your friend here Greek? If your wife can manage the time to cook for her, can she not also learn how to cook the cuisine eaten by her own family?”

  “Dad, I’ve told you. If you’re going to insult my wife, then you’re not welcome in our house.”

  Nikesh’s dad laughed softly, as if Nikesh had just told him a joke, as if the tension could not cross the language barrier.

  “It’s no matter.” Nikesh’s father looked at Ainsley. Still speaking Punjabi, he said, “When MacKenzie is older, he can learn about his culture by going to the Taj Mahal restaurant and ordering butter chicken, hah? By watching Slumdog Millionaire.” He smiled at Ainsley, as if he wasn’t bad-mouthing her right in front of her. “It is such a good film.”

  “That’s enough.” Nikesh walked down the stairs, stopping on the last one. From one stair up, he towered over the man. “You need to leave. Now.”

  “OK then,” Nikesh’s dad said, switching to English. “I must be off. Enjoy your . . . Greek food.”

  He turned to me. “It was nice to meet you.”

  “It wasn’t at all nice to meet you, Uncle-ji,” I said, in perfect Punjabi.

  If he was shocked that I was Punjabi and that I’d understood every word he said, he didn’t show it. I guess the yellow mask must have blended out my South Asian features to him. Nikesh beamed at me while his dad grabbed his coat and his briefcase and walked briskly out the door.

  The door slammed shut. The house shook. By the time I looked back at Ainsley, Nikesh was in the kitchen, holding her from behind. She was shaking and tears were spilling from her face. I’d never seen her like that.

  “Don’t let him ruin your night, baby. Please?” he whispered into her ear. He dried her cheeks with the back of his hand, and she closed her eyes, the weight of her head falling into him. My chest hurt watching the tenderness between them, and I had to look away. My eyes locked with Becket, who was still standing awkwardly on the stairs.

  “Sorry you had to see that,” Ainsley said abruptly in my direction.

  “You have nothing to be sorry about.” I crossed my arms. “Are you OK?”

  She didn’t answer me. “So what did he say this time, Nikesh?”

  “Don’t worry about it.” He looked over at me. “I’ve told her so many times not to take it personally. He’s a cranky bastard with my brother’s wife, too, and she’s Indian.”

  I laughed. “So at least he’s not a discriminatory bastard—”

  “Seriously, what did he say this time?” Ainsley interrupted. “Did he say I was too old for you again? Used goods?” She ran her hands through her hair. “I heard the word ‘Greek.’ Does he still want me to learn make to daal? You can cook daal. Did you tell him that? So why do I have to fucking learn how to make it?”

  “Ainsley,” Nikesh said softly. “Chill, OK?”

  “Don’t tell me to chill!”

  He puts his hands up in surrender. “Babe, it doesn’t matter what he said. Let’s just . . . have a nice dinn—”

  “Serena, what did he say?” She spun on her heels toward me. “Tell me what he said. Please? Nikesh never tells me.”

  Nikesh’s eyes were on the ground, and he was shifting his weight between his heels. Was this why Ainsley was really learning Punjabi? To figure out what Nikesh’s father was saying about her behind her back?

  To figure out that she was now in an Indian family, and the truth was, she was never going to be good enough? What was the point of trying to make them happy when they never would be?

  “I didn’t really catch what he said,” I said finally. “His dialect is a bit different . . .”

  “Well, what did you say to him?”

  “I said goodbye,” I lied again, and Nikesh threw me a look of gratitude. “Anyway, Ainsley, you should really wash off the mask.”

  Nodding, she leaned over the kitchen sink and turned on the tap. The turmeric had dried to both of our faces. I used the bathroom sink, and when I came back into the kitchen, Becket and Nikesh were both in stiches.

  “What’s so funny—oh!” I shrieked, bursting into laughter at the site of Ainsley’s bright yellow face. The turmeric had stained her skin.

  “I look like SpongeBob!” she shrieked.

  “My wife,” Nikesh said, “the Minion.”

  “Big Bird?” Becket said.

  “Tweety Bird.” I giggled, wrapping my arms around Ainsley, and she squeezed me in return. Hugging her, I could feel her unclench. Her body shook—in laughter, in tears, I wasn’t sure.

  “Fuck him,” I said quietly into her ear. “Since when does Ainsley Woods care what anybody thinks?”

  25

  The whole month of July, I lived and breathed The Fifth Ingredient, and so did Vic, who was not only civil with me but, in a few cases, borderline friendly. We’d assembled a motley crew from across the office—creative, accounts, business development, and digital—to do the legwork and prep
are sample campaigns to bring with me to Richmond in early August. Jerry had already rented me a car and apartment near the office “indefinitely,” and I didn’t know if that meant he expected me to stay one week, three weeks, maybe even the rest of the summer. The truth was, it didn’t really matter how long I needed to be away. This was the opportunity of a lifetime, and I would do what needed doing until I got it done.

  The agency still had to cope with its usual workload, and we were short-staffed even with Deborah coming back with a more active creative role. Baby Spice’s internship was coming to an end, so I offered her a position as a junior copywriter, and luckily, she accepted on the spot. Ainsley, Deborah, and I also assigned more work to our roster of freelancers, which now included Becket. With the hot desks full, the office was near capacity, and the entire place seemed to be buzzing with life, excitement.

  August arrived like a tidal wave, and suddenly it was my last day in the office before leaving for Richmond. I was proud of myself for helping create this atmosphere, and selfishly, I also couldn’t help but wonder if the new business—and challenge—might help allay any doubts Ainsley was having about working here. Her father-in-law was an asshole. So what? Why did his traditional, sexist hang-ups have to get in the way of her working outside the home and doing exactly what she wanted? She’d been rather morose ever since he’d shown up unannounced, but every time I mentioned the incident, it only seemed to make her mood worse, so I’d dropped it. I hoped she could let it go.

  I had wrapped up everything I needed to do before leaving, so around lunchtime, Ainsley and I decided to take off a bit early and go on an impromptu picnic with “the guys”—Becket, Nikesh, and little MacKenzie. (Deborah encouraged work-life balance and basically pushed us out the door when she overheard us making plans.) By four p.m., the five us were piled into Ainsley’s Jetta and on our way out to Rock Creek, me wedged between Becket and MacKenzie’s car seat. But I didn’t mind. I’d chosen that seat to sit next to MacKenzie.

  “Where’d Bob go?” I asked him, ignoring the others’ conversation. I spotted his favorite stuffed hedgehog on the floor of the car and dusted it off on my bare legs before giving it back to him. Perplexed, MacKenzie poked it with his thumb and then, squealing in delight, threw it back on the floor.

  “I give up,” I said to him. “There’s no pleasing you men.”

  Nikesh laughed from the front seat and said something to Ainsley, who was driving, but I didn’t catch it. I was still fixated on MacKenzie. The way his eyes bulged in delight or bemusement or anguish at absolutely anything and everything. The way he now recognized me, sought me out, squeezed my hands and cheeks or around my middle whenever he possibly could.

  “I don’t think Serena really likes me all that much,” I heard Ainsley say loudly. “I think she friended me for my baby.”

  “You’re only figuring that out now?” Becket asked.

  “It’s been twenty-five minutes. Aren’t you bored of my son yet?” Ainsley whined. “Talk to me. Hell, talk to your boyfriend!”

  “Sorry,” I said, looking over to Becket. “I’m hogging the baby.”

  “MacKenzie looks good on you.”

  “I can’t hear you over this damn music,” Ainsley said, turning down the radio. “What did you say?”

  “I said a baby looks good on her,” Becket said a little louder. Ainsley caught my eye in the rearview mirror, and my stomach curdled.

  We arrived at Rock Creek, and Nikesh led us to their favorite picnic spot. I felt my phone buzzing on our walk over to the spot, and I slowed down and waved them on when I saw that it was Mom calling.

  “Are you coming this evening?” she asked in Punjabi after I picked up. I furrowed my brow, shielding my eyes from the sun with my hand.

  “Where?”

  “To the barbeque. The one hosted by Mark’s parents.”

  “What barbeque?” I asked.

  “The Hartshorne family is having their annual summer barbeque. Did you not see Natasha’s invite?”

  “Oh.” I vaguely remembered Natasha having texted the family group about a barbeque at the Hartshornes’ Bethesda home—one of the few times Mom and I had heard from her this summer—but I hadn’t replied. At the time, I thought I’d already be in Richmond.

  “Are you coming?” Mom continued. “It will be fun.”

  I slowed to a halt, doubting that it would in fact be any fun at all for Mom. “I can’t today. I’m actually just out with some friends.”

  “Oh. OK.” Mom switched tones, and I couldn’t tell if she was disappointed or not. “So how fancy will the occasion be? I tried calling you earlier to ask.”

  “Sorry,” I said, my cheeks heating up. I had a missed call from her that morning while I was in the shower and hadn’t gotten around to calling her back.

  “Your father thinks I am overdressed.”

  I heard his voice in the background, and then she giggled. I thought about asking what he’d said to make her laugh, but I didn’t.

  “Where are you guys?”

  “On the highway,” she said. “We are nearly there. What do you think of the fuchsia salwar kameez? It has the gold detail. It is the one I nearly wore to Ritu’s anniversary party.”

  I nodded, remembering it. “It’s very pretty.”

  “We have also packed the mint green in the trunk.”

  “That one is beautiful, too.”

  “It is not too chamkda?”

  “They’re both perfect, Mom.”

  “Serena, tell me . . .” She paused. “What will the other women be wearing?”

  My breath caught. What would they be wearing?

  They would be wearing designer labels Mom had never heard of, showing off necklines and toned limbs Mom had never dared to display in public. They would be drinking champagne, or gin and tonics with limes, and exclaiming over everything from the climate crisis to Herodotus to lip fillers, depending on which group of their friends she was stuck talking to.

  I had never been to the Hartshornes’ Bethesda home, but I had met their friends and knew that their version of a Friday night barbeque was different than the average American’s. And Mom would be blindsided. Although she understood and spoke English well enough, I knew she had felt uncomfortable in the Hartshornes’ world during the wedding and gender reveal party, but at least there she’d had her own group of friends. Other Indians. Allies. Me.

  Today she’d have no one.

  I wanted to tell Mom that she didn’t have to go, that the Hartshornes had probably only extended them an invite out of courtesy, which of course my hospitable Indian parents had interpreted as being obligatory. I wanted to tell her that it didn’t matter what the other women were wearing or what salwar kameez she chose to put on.

  Because all the Hartshornes would see was that she’d worn a salwar kameez. That she was the overdressed Indian woman adding a bit of color to their party.

  I kept walking in the direction the others had headed, and a few minutes later, I spotted them settled beneath a maple tree near a grouping of picnic tables. They’d already unpacked our bags of food, sunscreen, and beach toys for MacKenzie, which he was ignoring, fascinated by a piece of apple as he drove it up and down his chubby legs like a car. They all looked up at me, smiling, ready for the day.

  “Ainsley,” I said, crossing my arms. “I need to borrow your car.”

  She furrowed her eyebrows.

  “My sister’s in-laws are having a barbeque . . . it’s not far from here.” I shrugged. “Do you mind if go make sure my mom is OK?”

  Ainsley gave me a look that asked a lot of questions. I averted my eyes.

  “Is your mom . . . not OK?”

  No. She never has been OK, and I’ve never been able to do a thing about it. But I’d promised myself I’d be a better daughter, and today of all days, she needed me.

  I glanced up. “I jus
t need to go. For an hour, tops.”

  Ainsley hopped up from the ground and patted down her behind from any grass. “Then I’ll come with you.”

  I glanced at Becket. “Do you . . .”

  I trailed off, wondering if he wanted me to invite him along. What was wrong with me that I couldn’t—that I hadn’t—introduced a single guy to my parents except for Jesse? The past was the past, and I needed to get over it. Put it in a box and push it under the bed. Right? No. I needed to throw the fucking box away.

  “Why don’t we all go?” I suggested halfheartedly, glancing from Becket to Nikesh to MacKenzie, who was now ramming the piece of apple into Nikesh’s leg, squealing in delight as it squished into the hair.

  “Crash your brother-in-law’s family barbeque?” Nikesh asked, laughing. “I’m good. And I think MacKenzie is pretty happy here.”

  I glanced at Becket, praying he’d volunteer to stay back, too. By virtue of the fact that Jesse was the only guy to have ever met my parents, he’d stayed on a pedestal all of these years. But as much as I wanted Jesse knocked off, I didn’t want anybody else up there, either.

  “I’ll stay, too,” Becket said. Relieved, I crouched down and shielded the sun from my eyes with my hand so I could read his face. He didn’t look upset.

  “Are you sure you don’t mind?” I asked, lowering my voice. I put my hand on Becket’s cheek and suddenly felt hesitant to go.

  “Of course not.” He smiled, playfully pinched my nose. “You’ll just be an hour or so, right?”

  Ainsley and I listened to the radio on the short drive over, and I was thankful she didn’t ask any more questions about why we were going. I’d seen pictures of their house, so my jaw didn’t drop the way that Ainsley’s did as we pulled into the driveway. Although, I shouldn’t call it a driveway. It was a paved private road at the end of a cul-de-sac that led down a hill toward an expanse of green lawn, a small man-made lake, and a house fitting of Downton Abbey.

  Rows and rows of cars were parked on one of the lawns, and I maneuvered us into a spot on the far edge. As we climbed out of the car, I suddenly felt self-conscious, underprepared. Before heading to Rock Creek, Ainsley and I had both gone home to change out of work attire, and I’d scrubbed off all my makeup and was now wearing jean shorts, a free tank top branded with the logo of a former client, and my favorite flip-flops with a broken loop that I’d taped in place with duct tape.