Girl Most Likely To

by Poonam Sharma

  I met Nick’s father and sisters for the first time about a month after we began dating. He sprang it on me less than twenty-four hours in advance, and failed to even tell me their first names until we were in the elevator on our way up to the restaurant. Since that dinner, they had always worked their visits with him around my schedule, to make sure that I felt included. His sisters had even started asking him to hand me the phone just to chat whenever they called. And all of this was perfectly normal to him. The poor bastard had no idea what he was in for.

  36

  This was almost as much fun as the time my mother gave me The Sex Talk.

  Don’t do it, she explained, waving a finger at my face before leaving me to deal with my hormones and SAT review books.

  How could the three people who were supposedly the most at ease around me be so ill at ease around each other? I knew them all well enough to see what they really meant to say, despite the words that came out of their mouths. Thank God my grandmother had insisted on coming along. She was the only person whose eyes seemed to indicate she acknowledged the enormous and drunken pink elephant in the room.

  For example, my mother asked, “So tell me, did your mother teach you how to cook, or did you learn on your own?”

  When she really meant: “Is there someone in your family I can blame for the fact that you think this flavorless mush can pass for food? Or were you born without taste buds of your own?”

  And my father said, “Hello.”

  When the message in his eyes was: “Get away from my daughter, you sketchy, promiscuous American man. She may not see it, but I know that for you she is just a passing fancy. I will eat your food and I will smile at you across the table because my wife tells me that I have no choice. But I’ve got my eye on you, meathead.”

  In a way I was guilty of it myself, having asked, “Nick, honey, can you please pass the iced tea?”

  When what I really meant was: “Double Dewars. Neat. With a waterback. And please keep ’em coming.”

  At the moment, my mother was educating Nick about the light sensitivities of particular varieties of orchids, while my father wrinkled his nose with suspicion at the slices of caramelized pear he was chasing around his plate with a fork. I’d told Nick that the pears would make him look like he was trying too hard.

  “Thank you for making room for me at the table, Nicholas,” Nani attempted, with an injured glance at my mother. “Even though some people told me that I was not invited.”

  “I’m so glad that you decided to come, Nani. Vina talks about you all the time.”

  “Of course she does. She is a good girl. They think they can tell me what to do, just because I forget some people’s names sometimes. So what? Some people have names which are easy to forget. But I can still go and see my granddaughter whenever I want. And her husband also. I have been alive since before electricity!”

  “Mom, behave,” my mother interrupted, sensing my father’s eye begin to twitch at the mention of the word husband.

  Nani shot a mischievous grin at Nick, before signaling that she was zipping her mouth. Then she motioned for me to give her some more salad.

  “So, Nick, do you think the Pasta Fagiole is ready yet?” I interrupted, reaching for the salad tongs.

  “It’s fah-zsohle, honey,” he explained lovingly, holding my face as if to help me mouth out the correct sounds. “And let me check.”

  Then he bounced happily off toward the kitchen.

  Did he just touch me in front of my parents? Like it was no big deal? Was he on crack? He might as well come out of the kitchen butt-naked and smeared in whipped cream, explaining that it was time for a Nicky sundae!

  “I know I get a lot of the pronunciations wrong,” I said as a meek attempt to distract them from the gratuitous display of affection to which they were forced to bear witness. “Actually, his Hindi is getting to be better than my Italian.”

  “The only thing that has ever bothered me about your daughter is the way she says mozzarella,” he added as he walked back into the room, steaming pot and ladle in hand. “Mott-zuh-reh-luh. It sounds like a fire-breathing dragon that could incinerate Tokyo. It’s Moot-za-relle. You gotta roll your rs, babe.”

  “I know, I know,” I said, seriously considering jamming my fork into his eye.

  “Ahem,” Daddy Dearest cleared his throat in a gesture that was more of a roar than the balancing of an air passage. “So where did you earn your law degree, Nicholas?”

  Translation: “I don’t find any of this the least bit amusing or heartwarming. Let’s talk about all the reasons why you’re wrong for my daughter.”

  Way to be the alpha male, Dad.

  “Georgetown.” Nick perked up, hopeful that they were finally showing overt hints of interest in him.

  “And what made you decide to quit?”

  Where the hell was a fire alarm when you needed one?

  “Sir, I wouldn’t say that I had quit, exactly. I took some time off. I had moral disagreement with the way that the law was being practiced at my firm.”

  “Do you mean that your firm was involved in some illegal activities?” My father’s interest was piqued at the possibility of incarcerating Nicholas as a sure-fire way to keep his hands off of me.

  “No, no. It was that I learned, unfortunately, sometimes the letter of the law can be a far cry from the spirit of it. And anyway, the profession was not as enjoyable as I had hoped.”

  “That is why they call it work, and not fun. Morality in one’s profession is a luxury that most people cannot afford, you know,” he said at Nick, satisfied more with himself than with his point.

  “I understand what you’re saying completely. The law isn’t something I felt very passionate about. I decided to take some time to find a way to blend the things that I enjoy doing with the things that are lucrative. Since I’m not married with children yet, I feel that it’s important for me to take chances like this now. It’s sort of like Vina’s frustrations with her career.”

  It was like watching a sixteen-year-old Doogie Howser imitator try to convince a bouncer that his name really was Juan Gomez. Clearly, my parents would see these as the fanciful ravings of a free-spirited, hippie lunatic who could never really understand true commitment. Or taxes. Or anything else that mattered. And by association, they would conclude, I was buying into his manifesto.

  I was fully prepared to resent my Nani for not chiming in, when I turned in her direction to discover that she had fallen happily asleep in her chair.

  “Well, of course Vina cannot simply leave her job because things are not enjoyable all the time. Before anything else, she has to get her MBA, anyway,” my father continued, hopping happily about on the map of my life in his mind. “She has always said that. There are no two ways about it.”

  Was I even in the room?

  “Or she could become an international bestselling novelist, and then business school might not make as much sense.” Nick smiled at me, probably thinking that he was winning them over by displaying how much attention he paid to the details of my life.

  Clearly, he expected me to jump on the bandwagon he’d just erected in my honor. He didn’t know that I had found the Advanced Hindi for Dummies book hidden in his bedside table that morning, while I was searching for a missing sweater of my own. How could a man who was making so much effort to relate continue to be so unaware?

  “She can write. She can always write. Or paint, or sing songs or dance in the streets. But this is more of a hobby. Something she will do on the side. She is too sensible for that romantic lifestyle, anyway. The truth is that she really enjoys her career on Wall Street.”

  As hurt as I was, I could not bring myself to contradict my father in front of Nick. Family is family.

  “Let’s change the topic, shall we?” I interjected, refilling everyone’s already nearly full glasses of iced tea.

  “So, Nicholas, do you still have much family in Italy?” Mom offered, refilling her bowl with more Pasta Fagiole in a
n attempt to make him feel better. “I recently saw a Channel 13 special program about how the country is doing in modern times. Did you know? They said they had declining population growth?”

  “Oh, I’m sure that’s just an ill-stated statistic.” I don’t know why I felt the urge to defend Italy.

  “Actually, Vina, it’s true,” Nick interrupted me. “I was talking about it with my uncle the other day. And I think it’s a damn shame, pardon my language. I am all for women’s rights to enjoy their lives and choose whomever they want to marry. And maybe some of these women never find the right man. I can accept that. There are a lot of jerks out there. But I think the real problem is that people are not willing to compromise for their spouses. Or for their families. These people expect constant romance. But what they don’t realize is that without family, there’s nothing. Where else does society get its moral fabric? Italy isn’t the same now as it was when my father was growing up there. You know, that’s what I really love about the Indian culture, to be honest with you. I think it’s why I felt so comfortable with Vina right away. Her values make sense to me. She’s ambitious and everything, but she comes from a loving family. And I know that she would do almost anything to make you happy, because she knows that at the end of the day, that’s what matters.”

  “And what about the importance of culture?” Dad asked, clinging desperately to the shreds of his skepticism.

  “Oh, well.” Nick paused, and I knew he was choosing his words very carefully. “I would have to say that I have always felt the woman’s culture should dominate the home.”

  Who was this man? Why was my dad smiling at him? And why was my mother smiling at my Nani? Suddenly, I felt more nauseous than I had all day.

  37

  The chill that settled over the apartment was instantaneous. After he closed the door behind my family, Nick made for the kitchen without so much as a glance in my direction.

  “You did great.” I came up behind him at the sink, and slipped my arms around his waist to envelop him in a hug.

  “Did I?” he asked, giving the dishwashing liquid a rather aggressive squirt.

  “Yes, you did,” I answered, loosening my grip and sitting atop the counter to face him.

  “Okay.”

  “Honey, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Everything’s fine.”

  He was scrubbing a plate to within an inch of its existence.

  “Okay, look. I’m sorry for making you put on that show for them.” I touched his arm. “I didn’t realize it was such a big favor to ask.”

  The vein on the right side of his neck engorged, and he took a long, deep breath before turning toward me.

  “Vina, I have no problem dressing up however you want me to, to impress your parents. I’ll speak in Hindi. I’ll do an interpretive dance. I don’t care. I understand that it’s important to you that they accept me. So I did it. Gladly.”

  “Then what’s the problem? It was just one afternoon!”

  “That’s the point.” He ran a soapy forearm across his forehead, revealing eyes which were far more upset than I expected. “For me, it’s just one afternoon. But I see now that for you…it’s your whole life. It’s actually how you live. And I don’t know how to handle that.”

  I blinked. “What are you talking about?”

  “Let me ask you this. Is it that you’re ashamed of me for not being Indian, or is it that you feel like you have to apologize for having any part of a personality that might be different from what they planned for you?”

  “You’re not making any sense.” I slid off the counter and started for the living room.

  “Yes, I am. I make perfect sense.” He slammed a soapy melon-baller into the water before following me. “Those are the only possible reasons why you would act less like yourself with them around, than I have ever seen you act in the entire time I’ve known you. You swallowed everything you wanted to say. You were walking on eggshells, Vina! You never walk on eggshells with anyone!”

  “Look…” I launched back into teacher mode, reminding myself to be patient because he knew not what he was saying. “I am a lot further along than anyone I know who has parents as conservative as mine. It’s not something that…”

  “I know, I know. It’s not something that I would understand,” he said, mocking me for the first time. “Because I’m just the white boy. Well, to be honest with you, I don’t want to understand them. I want to understand you. And I want them to understand you. Or maybe I want you not to care anymore whether or not they ever do! I’m the guy who’s with you every day and every night. It’s like you think you have to apologize for so many of the things that make you you. And I love all of those things! Every single one of them! I don’t want you to change them, and I don’t want you to apologize for them. I love it that you say what you think even if you know I won’t agree with you. I love how complicated you are and how such a confident woman bites her fingernails when she thinks I’m not looking. I love all the different things that you’re able to be passionate about, even if they’re so different. And I love the way that you wear your emotions on your sleeve with me. I love the whole person I’ve gotten to know who has already changed my life so much more than she understands. But you turned into another person around them. And it breaks my heart. That’s not the woman I love.”

  I dropped to the couch.

  “Vina, I don’t see why you can’t do everything. Write, work on Wall Street, dance in the streets if you want to, like your father said. I want to see you do everything you secretly think you can do and wonder if you’re capable of doing. And I have always believed that you will, when you’re ready. But now I wonder if maybe the reason you’re holding yourself back is because you feel like you need them to approve before you can take your own interests seriously. And I can understand that, a little bit, because I used to do it in my own way for my dad’s sake and my mom’s memory. But I’m not sure I can handle seeing you do it. Why do they have to cut off any idea of yours that differs with theirs? And more importantly, why do you let them?”

  “They never told me to give up writing, completely. It’s that they don’t really…value it.”

  “I don’t care what they value. They’re…they’re so dismissive.”

  I felt quickly protective. “Nick, they’re my parents.”

  “And you’re a grown woman. So the important question is, what do you value?”

  I realized then and there that it really wasn’t their fault. It was mine, because I had never asked myself that question before. And I felt embarrassed, for the first time, in front of Nick. I bowed my head.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He knelt before me. “I don’t want you to be sorry, Vina. You are already everything that you should be, and the rest is gravy. I can see it so clearly, and I don’t want you to hold yourself back like that. Nobody who loves you would ever want you to.”

  It was the first time that he had said it, and I knew for sure that it was real. The kind of love that I needed, and that I never would have recognized had I not gone through everything that came before that moment. Salt-and-Pepper had said that love would recognize that I was searching, and want me for who I was as well as for who I wanted to be. If this outburst wasn’t evidence of Nick rejecting the idea of me silencing myself, I didn’t know what was. From the start I had felt as if he knew me, but I had kept it to myself. Partly because it would have been like pointing out the wetness of the water. But now, expressing it felt like the most logical thing in the world.

  So I swallowed, and I smiled, taking his precious soap-splattered face in my hands. And the words seemed like a whisper in comparison to the emotion that was coming from inside me for this man.

  “I love you, too.”

  I paced back and forth in front of the dining table, trying not to be distracted by the bickering in the kitchen. Prakash and Christopher had argued incessantly since applying for adoption of their Chinese orphan last month, probably in an attempt to simulate t
he stress of the pregnancy they would never have to endure.

  “What could possibly be taking Nick so long?” I asked Booboo, who responded by licking his own belly.

  In the months since Nick had met my parents, I had secretly submitted an op-ed piece to the New York Times every week, opining on everything from sheep cloning to reality TV. I had received so many form-letter rejections from them at that point that I was considering wallpapering my kitchen with them. And eventually the letters got their message across—nobody was interested in what I had to say. That was why, when the Times called three days earlier to explain that they were publishing my latest submission, even Nick had trouble acting as if he wasn’t surprised. Apparently, my life was more interesting than my opinions, and my latest submission was good enough to print. But my own bemusement gave way to a serious case of neck stress when it occurred to me that the whole world was about to share in my most personal thoughts and feelings. What would they think of me? How would they react? How would I feel about myself, once I saw those words in print? It was a good thing I knew people in Fiji; nobody could find me there. I had sworn Nick to secrecy and sent him out in search of the paper since we didn’t have time to stop at my place before coming over to Prakash’s that morning.