Serena Singh Flips the Script

by Sonya Lalli

  “I’m so sorry—”

  “No, I’m the one who should be sorry,” he croaked. “You show up here today with your guard down, and what’s the first thing I do?” He pressed a clenched fist into his thigh. “Fuck.”

  “Becket and I broke up,” I blurted. “Yesterday.”

  “I figured,” he said quietly. “Still, I shouldn’t have done that. You’re not ready.”

  “And you’re ready?”

  He gave me a look, and I laughed softly.

  We wouldn’t be a good idea right now.

  Wasn’t that the truth. Jesse was still processing his divorce, and I was—well, I didn’t have my shit figured out as much as I’d thought. But sitting next to him, touching him, tasting the possibility of us getting back together, I . . .

  I wanted to believe that maybe, one day, we would be.

  “What’s on your mind, Serena?” Jesse whispered.

  He’d showered while I was asleep, and his hair was a bit wet still, drying awkwardly. I reached out my hand to smooth it down, lingering on a gray patch above his ears.

  “I’m going to be completely gray soon.”

  “That’s OK. You’ll be a silver fox.”

  I bit my tongue. I’d nearly said, You’ll be my silver fox.

  Around Jesse, I forgot everything. I forgot myself.

  I was Serena Singh, badass brown woman and creative director at the hottest ad agency in town. Could I have been her if I’d stayed with Jesse? Right now, did I have to choose between them?

  “Ainsley says I’m closed off,” I said suddenly. My hand dropped from his hair. “She’s right. But was I always like that?”

  “Serena, the past is the past. It really doesn’t matter.” He sighed, tucking his hands behind his head, elbows out to the side. “We were barely into our twenties when we met.”

  “Jesse,” I whispered. “I really want to know.”

  “Then, yes. Maybe. There was always something about you that felt . . . unreachable.”

  I nodded. I’d expected that answer, but for whatever reason, I needed to hear him say it out loud.

  “And yeah,” he continued. “Right before you broke up with me, you were closed off. No.” He shook his head. “You totally shut down.”

  I’d had to shut down. Because if he knew how I really felt, he could have convinced me that we should be together. That my fears about falling in love, falling into a trap, were completely unfounded.

  “I don’t hate you, Serena. I understand why you ended things. Your parents don’t have an equal partnership. You saw marriage differently than I do.”

  “Jesse. I’m sor—”

  “Look, we don’t need to go there. We were both kids. And Anadi tells me I have the emotional intelligence of a robot.” He paused. “So whatever happened, even if you had been open with me, it’s not like I would have known how to help. Or known what questions to ask . . . You know?”

  I nodded, even though I disagreed. Jesse was sensitive and caring and would have known exactly what to say. He still would.

  I eyed his gray hairs. “We’re not kids anymore, Jesse.”

  We sat together on the couch for another hour eating cold pizza before I tore myself away from him so I could go home to pack. There was so much to say, but right now wasn’t the time.

  And it wasn’t Jesse I needed to speak to first.

  * * *

  I slept soundly that night, and in the morning, I took my suitcase to the car rental and made for the highway.

  Richmond was my eventual destination, but there was somewhere I needed to stop on my way. I could drive there with my eyes closed, and without traffic, it took no time at all. Before I was ready, I arrived, pulling up at the curb next to the house. A few of the neighbors were out and about, mowing the lawn or watering the flower beds. The Sharmas across the street were stretching for their daily run on their driveway, and they waved to me. I waved in return.

  I had the key, but still, I rang the bell, shifting my weight between my heels as I heard the floorboards creak on the other side of the door, the dead bolt click open.

  “Serena?” Mom opened the door, and her face lit up as she ushered me in. I’d seen her only a couple of days earlier at the Hartshornes’ barbeque, yet it felt like a lifetime ago.

  The familiar smells and sounds prickled my senses as I stepped into the foyer. The rich, spicy aroma of a subji she’d whipped up that morning. The violent humming of the dryer around the corner. The light scent of baby powder she dabbed on her skin.

  “Is Dad home?”

  “He has gone to wash the car. We are having lunch with the Banerjees soon. Would you like to come?”

  I shook my head as my whole body trembled.

  “Are you hungry? I can make—”

  “Stop it,” I said evenly, in English. I had started to cry, and my chest was heaving. I couldn’t control it.

  “Beti?” She sounded afraid. She sounded weak. “What is the matter?”

  Today, she sounded like herself. At least, the woman I thought I knew. I pressed my hands into my face, my ring fingers pushing hard against my eyelids. I could still hear it. I could still see it.

  I hated Dad for what he did, but I was angry at her, too. Because he did, whatever sort of man he was, she was the one who had chosen to stay.

  29

  SANDEEP

  Twenty-six years earlier

  Sweet, sweet fantasy, baby . . .” Sandeep sang softly, swaying her hips side to side. She trailed off, unsure of what came next in the song. Her daughter Serena had told her the name of the singer once, but she couldn’t remember it.

  Humming the tune, Sandeep scrubbed clean the final pot, set it on the dish rack, and then fetched a clean tea towel from the pantry. She could have let the dishes air-dry, but tonight, she relished the repetition of the task. The song on the radio.

  The fact that her girls were finally asleep, and she had the apartment to herself.

  Was it selfish to cherish the few hours of peace before Veer came home in the evening? It was the only time she didn’t have to worry about his meals, his mood. That she didn’t need to keep her eyes fixated on Natasha, who was now a toddler determined to run rather than wobble. Or fret about Serena, who was always quietly reading, quietly watching television, or quietly doing her homework at the kitchen table.

  By the time Sandeep dried the last dish, carefully placed everything where it lived in her cupboards, the song was over. Now, a man’s voice bellowed through the radio, and he wasn’t so much singing as shouting.

  Sandeep didn’t used to listen to the radio, didn’t know that she liked to listen to the radio, until the Singh family (another one) moved in on the fifth floor. The family was generous and, within the first month, hosted a dinner party and crammed six couples and seven children into their two-bedroom apartment, all of them South Asians from their complex. It was hot, and the men had taken up the entire length of the balcony while Sandeep and the other women fanned themselves in the cramped kitchen, took turns helping Mrs. Singh chop and garnish and marinate and fry, laughing as they listened to upbeat American music on the radio.

  There was so much food, but by the time they’d finished serving the men their third, even fourth helpings, and made sure all the children had full stomachs, there was barely a chicken thigh left to go between them. Mrs. Singh had shrugged her shoulders apologetically and then ordered them all a pizza.

  Sandeep smiled just thinking about the evening. How they’d left the men and children upstairs, confident they wouldn’t notice if they disappeared for a few minutes, and scarfed down the pizza out in front of the building, smearing it with mango and lemon pickle from the jar Mrs. Singh had brought down.

  Oh, how they’d laughed. How the time and the chores flew by. How much fun they’d all had.

  The dishes done, Sandeep retrie
ved her workbooks and set herself up in the kitchen with a cup of chai, a bowl of gur para, and an extra reading light for her eyes.

  She didn’t do her homework in front of Serena. It was embarrassing. When her daughter chose to speak, she did so eloquently and would have mastered Sandeep’s spelling and reading comprehension exercises years ago. The letters and numbers on Serena’s report card were confusing, but Sandeep’s English teacher at the YWCA said they meant Serena was intelligent. That she worked hard. That she was “vibrant” and “joyful” in class.

  Vibrant. Joyful. Sandeep would never use the translation of these words to describe her daughter, and sometimes, watching her, she got the sinking feeling that she didn’t even know her. That, by choosing to raise her daughter here, Sandeep never would.

  An hour flew by. Maybe two or even three. Sandeep was determined to finish her exercises for the week, to return to the YWCA having shown some improvement. She didn’t hear him come in.

  The squeak of the vinyl kitchen tile startled her upright. Before turning to him, she glanced quickly at the microwave clock. It was nearly one a.m. Sandeep knew exactly what it meant.

  “Are you hungry?” She pushed her workbooks to the side and then stood up. He didn’t answer, so she moved past him to the refrigerator, taking out the Tupperware and Corningware she’d arranged just hours earlier. After she plated his dinner, put it into the microwave, she remembered the radio.

  “Leave it on.”

  His tone was gentle.

  “I like this song. It plays on the radio at least fifteen times a day.”

  “What is it called?”

  “It’s called ‘Waterfalls,’ ” he said in English. “‘Don’t go chasing waterfalls . . .’” She didn’t understand, and a moment later, he translated the words for her.

  “Do you want to dance with me?”

  She smiled bashfully, turning back to face the microwave. A beat later, she felt him towering beside her.

  She smelled the liquor on his breath.

  “Dance with me.” He turned her around and grabbed her hands. He was smiling oddly. She didn’t like to look at him when he was like this, so instead, she looked at his feet, awkwardly hopping back and forth on the floor.

  The microwave beeped, but he held firm on her hands, twirling her in the western style. Veer was excellent at bhangra, but not at this, especially in this state. He spun her around again, but far too quickly, and she laughed.

  It wasn’t a ridiculing laugh. Nor was it one of joy. Immediately, he stopped dancing.

  “Is it funny?”

  “Veer . . . It’s time to eat.”

  She fetched his plate from the microwave, set it down on the kitchen table. It made a loud noise as the ceramic clanged against the table.

  “Is my dancing funny to you?”

  “Veer, stop this nonsense.” She set her hands on her hips, gesturing to the table. “It’s late—”

  The slap was quick, sharp. It smarted, but it didn’t hurt. She swallowed hard, pressing her hands more firmly into her sides.

  “Eat. Now.”

  “You think I’m ridiculous. Hah?”

  There was no reasoning with a miserable drunk. Right now, there was nothing she could do to appease him. There was nothing she would do to appease him.

  Occasionally, other women at their gurdwara would turn up with a conspicuous amount of concealer around their eyes or mouth, elaborate stories, excuses.

  But not Sandeep.

  The one time he’d hit her so hard as to leave his mark, she’d refused to hide it.

  “If you want to hit your wife,” she had spat at him, the morning after, as his head throbbed and he begged her for forgiveness, “then the whole world is going to know.”

  “Are you going to eat or not?” she asked impatiently.

  In response, Veer quietly picked up the radio and then hurled it at the wall behind her. She could feel the wind of it as it brushed past her face, just a few inches to the left. She could hear her radio crumble, shatter into pieces, as it slid down the wall.

  “Fine. Go to bed hungry,” Sandeep said coldly. “I’ll put the food away.” She grabbed his plate and brushed past him, throwing it heavily into the sink. The ceramic crashed and cracked in the basin, and then suddenly, Veer grabbed her upper arm and pulled her toward him.

  Violently, she pushed him away, and then he hit her again. This time it hurt, but she refused to cry.

  He was a giant next to her. Easily, without much effort on his part, he could have killed her. Nursing her jaw with her fingers, she pulled away from his grip. She looked him dead in the eye.

  “Do you feel like a man now?”

  Her voice cracked. He gave nothing away.

  “Do you, my dear husband?”

  She took a step forward, shoved both of her hands into his chest as hard as she could. He barely moved.

  “Go ahead. Hit me again.”

  “Stop it, Sandeep—”

  “Hit me, you coward!”

  Her voice echoed in the kitchen. How loud had she screamed?

  Veer’s eye twitched, and she wondered if he would hit her. If this time, it would break her. She stood there, ready to take it, and then his face broke.

  He started to sob.

  She couldn’t support his weight all the way back to the bedroom, so she helped him to the couch. He flopped over, crying and babbling like a small child, and with great difficulty, she lifted his legs up, tucked a pillow beneath his head. Covering him with a blanket, she left him there and returned to the kitchen.

  Pieces of the radio were everywhere. She fetched a dustpan and broom from where they lived next to the refrigerator and got to work, hunching over to reach the bits beneath the table. Her breath shallow, she inhaled deeply, trying to calm herself. Now, she couldn’t help the tears from coming.

  “Mommy?”

  Wiping her face, she turned around. Serena was in the doorway. Her braids were still wet from her evening bath, and she had her school backpack with her.

  “What have you got there, beti?”

  Eyes wide, Serena stepped forward and set down the backpack. “Is it time to go?”

  Sighing, Sandeep placed both hands on her daughter’s shoulders and then kissed the top of her head.

  “It’s time to sleep.”

  30

  He never hit you girls.” Mom was sitting next me on the love seat that faced the front window. We were thigh to thigh, and both her hands were wrapped around mine. She was shaking. “That was enough for me.”

  I nodded, rubbing my wet cheek against my shoulder. I remembered the night the radio broke; a version of it, at least. I didn’t recognize the mom from the story as she told it. And for the first time, I wondered if I knew her at all. Her whole life, she’d been closed off, too.

  “Does he still—”

  “No.” She shook her head. “He quit drinking after that night, and it never happened again.”

  I nodded. I had thought as much, but I needed to be sure.

  “He is ashamed, Serena. Deeply.”

  “He should be,” I muttered.

  “I know it’s hard to see, from your perspective, why I stayed. That I enjoyed my life.” Mom sighed, resting her head against my shoulder. “But I did. There were hard times, but overall, I have had a very happy life with your father, and he changed after that night.”

  I wanted her to say more. I wanted us to relive every single time it happened so I could scream about it. It had taken us so long to get here, to acknowledge the elephant in the room that had lived among us my whole goddamn life, but now that it had arrived . . .

  I wasn’t as angry as I thought I’d be. I just felt . . . sad.

  Mom was right. I would never understand or agree with her decision to stay, but I knew I was judging her from a place of privilege.
I grew up in a different country, a different time, and the choices available to me were ones that my mother, and the generations before her, couldn’t even imagine.

  I’d ended it with Jesse because I loved him so much I’d started to rely on him. For my own happiness. Sense of purpose. Even my own self-worth. I’d thought our relationship made me weak and dependent and would have turned me into my mother.

  “The past is the past, and we learn to forgive,” Mom said, suddenly. “We learn it’s OK to love the people who have hurt you.”

  All this time, I thought I was strong despite Mom. But, maybe, I had strength because of her.

  “My life is full of happiness and joy and love.” Mom turned to look at me, resting the tips of her fingers on my chin. “Two wonderful daughters. We are so proud of you and Natasha.”

  I laughed, my body tensing.

  “Serena, that’s enough now. You and your father are the exact same.” In Punjabi, she told me an idiom that more or less meant “cut from the same cloth.”

  “I’m nothing like him,” I said afterward.

  “You are both so funny, when you want to be. You both are very stubborn—”

  “Mom . . .”

  “And such hard workers, so loyal, so loving—”

  I guffawed. Loving. My father? The man who could barely meet my eye, silently passing judgment on those parts of my life I had allowed him to see?

  “Can I show you something?”

  Without waiting for me to answer, Mom grabbed a shoebox from beneath the end table. I’d never seen it before, although I recognized the box. The brand made the same dusty brown work boots Dad liked to wear.

  Mom cast the lid to the side and began unpacking. At the very top was a family photograph taken of the four of us and Mark, right after Natasha’s Sikh wedding ceremony, and beneath it, her wedding invitation.

  “Is this yours?” I asked, and Mom shook her head. Next, she pulled out a hazy photograph of the side of a highway. I leaned in, peering closer as I noticed the billboard, an advertisement for a small kitchen appliance in the background.