In Indian families, at least in the ones I’ve met, men and women offer each other a handshake or a Namaste with their palms together. Usually, only the females hug. Even greetings are different between our cultures.
“I’ve heard so much about you!” Tristan takes ahold of my bag, and we enter the foyer.
A female exclaims, “James!” and soft footfalls patter down the magnificent arched staircase. “Sweetheart, I’ve missed you!” she exclaims and embraces her middle son.
James wraps his arms around her as she places her hand on his face.
“How was your drive?”
“Great, if my wing woman hadn’t fallen asleep for half of it.” James gives me a jokingly dirty look.
“I may not have fallen asleep if I had better company to keep,” I retort. Tristan laughs, and I am relieved to see Mrs. St. Clair do the same as she turns to me. Once again, I reach my hand out for a handshake, and like Tristan, she envelops me in a hug.
“Do you want to take Nithya’s things to the guest bedroom? Maybe give her a tour of the house before we dig into some snacks and catch up?” She gives my arm a warm squeeze.
“Isn’t she staying in my room?”
My mouth drops open. If my parents knew I was sleeping in a boy’s room, they would blow their lid. If James’ are forward enough to allow their sons to have their girlfriends in the bedrooms, I am impressed. The cultural contrast stands out once again. My parents wouldn’t allow a guy in my bedroom even if we were engaged. I’m pretty sure in high school, Amma stood outside my door to make sure nothing untoward was going on when I had friends over to work on projects. This blows my mind.
“Well, I was thinking we could put her in the guest bedroom so she doesn’t feel uncomfortable, James.” Mrs. St. Clair’s motherly authority creeps into her voice.
“Max had girls in his room, Mom.”
“Past precedent is a basis of an argument only in a court of law. Show Nithya to her room, and I’ll make you guys some tea,” Mrs. St. Clair says, firmly.
“You’ve been married to a lawyer for too long,” James grumbles as he grabs my duffel from the floor next to Tristan.
I giggle and follow him. Tristan gestures to me like, I have no idea, either.
James leads me to the right through the living room, which I now have ample opportunity to gawk at. James had mentioned on our first date that his mother owned a boutique. I assume the décor came from her shop. The cream-colored sofas surround a maroon and cream Oriental rug, all of which face the majestic stone fireplace I admired when we first walked in. Accent tables are strategically placed at the corners of each couch, displaying formal family portraits or flower arrangements matching the relaxing color scheme. The walls are lined with wood moldings, making the room look ornate, despite the simple furnishings. Delicate maroon draperies with gold accents overhang the large windows, and the hardwood floors gleam in the light pouring in from outside.
“Wow, you guys are going to spoil me. I won’t be able to go back to my apartment after this!” I gasp at the canopy bed in the middle of the blue-tinted guest room. The huge French doors lead out to the patio. Billowing white curtains hang from them. The bathtub even has jet sprays, like a Jacuzzi. It reminds me of the Ritz hotel we stayed at during my high school debate team state championship tournament.
“Maybe that’s the point. It’d be nice to stay here forever and not go back,” James says, pulling on one of the canopy curtains absentmindedly.
“You miss it, don’t you?” I sidle up and wrap my arms around him.
“Sure, I do. It feels nice not to be… stressed.”
James is right. I was too nervous about meeting James’ family to notice the change at first, but now that we are alone, I wonder how I could have missed it before. The air feels lighter, and my shoulders are not as heavy.
The lazy happiness carries into the kitchen as we dig into the snacks Mrs. St. Clair has laid out. She mentions James has told her I want to be a doctor and asks the standard questions about how school is going and whether I’ve looked at other options. I suppose all mothers want to know what their child’s significant other is up to. My mom’s interrogation comes to mind. Luckily, Mrs. St. Clair’s tone is sweet and fascinated, not nosy. It makes me want to open up and I do, about all that has happened. James appears to have told her most of it as she seems unsurprised, but she leans in to listen intently.
“Oh, Nithya, I’m so sorry you’ve had to deal with all of this.” She pats my hand.
“It’s okay. I mean, I’m trying to make it okay. I started applying for some jobs.”
“Sometimes the biggest setbacks are also what propel you forward. Keep the faith. James speaks so glowingly about you. I have no doubt your future is bright.”
“Thank you,” I tell her gratefully. “Sometimes, it’s hard to remember.”
“Nithya, something you all will learn after this competitive stage in your life, is that your value isn’t based on your accomplishments but how you make the people around you feel. People might remember your perfect GPA, but they will more likely remember if you were good to them. Don’t let this harden you.”
Her advice sounds so much like something Nanna would say that my heart hurts. She gives me a sweet smile before she turns to James, who asks where his dad and older brother are.
“Your dad and Max are at the store. They should be back soon.”
As she speaks, I get my first good look at her. Based on the fact that Max is in his late twenties, I assume Mrs. St. Clair and Mr. St. Clair are in their early fifties, at least, but Mrs. St. Clair doesn’t look it. She’s beautiful, soft but not overweight. I can see where James gets his olive skin tone. Her deep brown eyes are kind and give me the impression she’s shy. If I hadn’t heard James’ stories of his mother the disciplinarian, I would have pegged her for a softie. Her eyes are wider than James’ and framed with dark lashes, like his. Dark brown hair falls just below her shoulders, but rather than giving off the impression of forced youthfulness, it is effortless and suits her. Her height is about the same as mine, but she has better posture. She sits with her back straight, and I sense movement beneath her calm exterior, as if she’s itching to jump onto the next project.
Partway through the next conversation about college life, I catch myself moving my hands as I chat, a sign that I’m completely comfortable at this kitchen table. When Mrs. St. Clair swats at James’ hand and tells him to use a plate when he reaches for a sandwich, and doesn’t miss a beat as she tells me rejections always pave the way for something better, it’s like listening to my own parents. They are all wise and well-versed in life’s setbacks, aware that it continues on anyway. Hearing it from a stranger is validation my loved ones weren’t telling stories to make me feel better.
A car engine revs in the driveway, and I know introductions to Mr. St. Clair and Max are imminent. They are tall, too. Being amongst this family is like standing in the Amazon rainforest.
“Nithya,” Mr. St. Clair greets me with a firm handshake, something I finally get right, though I was expecting a hug.
I’m glad my Indian instinct won out or I would have been mortified. Max tells him not to hog me, and throws his arms around me like he’s known me for years.
“You’re prettier than James said.” He gives me a slightly mischievous look from beneath his glasses.
“Are you telling your family I’m ugly?!” I ask James with fake outrage.
“I told them you were beautiful. He’s trying to get me in trouble.”
“It’s working. We may not be friends after this,” I threaten, pointing a finger at his chest.
“I’m your ride home. Trust me. We’ll be friends,” James says with a laugh. His family joins him. Mr. St. Clair glances at his watch and mentions that we should leave for dinner soon.
The restaurant we dine at is called Morello’s, and it is exactly what I imagine Italy to be like. The domed ceilings and exposed brick walls transport us from Connecticut to Tuscany, and, of
course, the goat cheese ravioli is to die for.
The conversation circles around Tristan and James, with occasional questions about how I grew up and what I see in my future. Laughter is so frequent in this family that I can see exactly why James is uncomplicated and always has a trace of a smile on his lips. The witticisms are exchanged at rapid fire pace, and it’s no wonder the family watched James and I spar like a tennis match. Tristan speaks with animation–each of his stories contains hilariously imitated voices. The impressions of his friends and of his professors have us in stitches. If I ever meet anyone he’s talked about, I am sure I won’t be able to look at him or her with a straight face. Max delivers his lines more seriously, his sense of humor dryer and more sarcastic than the other boys’. When he smiles, however, all hint of seriousness is lost–he looks like a college kid. By the time we leave for home, long after the restaurant has begun to clear out, we are all loaded, and there is sleep in our eyes.
James walks me to my bedroom door when we’ve reached the house. “I wish you were sleeping with me tonight,” he murmurs quietly, leaning against the doorjamb.
“Why, you think you’re gonna get lucky under your parent’s roof?” I tease. One rule at a time.
“A guy can wish, right?” He leans in and kisses me.
“Maybe I do, too.” I breathe against his lips.
His arms pull me in, and my back is against the door. He groans softly, moving from my lips to my cheeks and the crook of my neck. I put my hands on his face, wanting more than this, but trying to control myself. His hands steal under my shirt and slowly move up my back. I reach for his mouth again with my own, before we hear footsteps and I push James away. He leans against the opposite wall in the hallway, crossing his legs.
“Hey,” Tristan says, holding some extra towels. “Mom said to give you these.”
“Okay, thanks!” I say hurriedly, wondering if he saw us.
“You guys okay?” He stares pointedly at the space between James and I. My shirt exposes the skin near the back of my waist, and I pull it down clumsily.
“Yeah. Yeah, we’re fine!” I tell him, flustered. James looks amused.
“Well, um, good night, James. You too, Tristan.” I take the towels from him and open the door.
“I love you,” James whispers and gives me a peck on the lips before heading down the hall with his brother.
“You were totally trying to get it on!” Tristan exclaims in a loud whisper as they round the corner.
“Whatever, dude,” James replies in a disgruntled tone.
Giggling to myself, I climb into bed. The happiness I’ve felt at his family’s welcome follows me as I drift off, and I wish I could share it with him. I would tell him how much this weekend has meant to me, how his mother’s words have made me feel stronger, and that he’s worth going through the drama with my parents. Someday, they’ll have to see how amazing James is.
ant to hit the beach today?” Tristan asks the next morning over pancakes, orange juice, and a sampler of fruit and eggs. James passes me the pitcher of juice, and I tell them I’m game for anything.
“Well, I don’t want to be left here,” Max says, “I’m in, too.”
“We can hear you, you know,” Mrs. St. Clair chimes in, her back to us at the stove. “And we aren’t bad company to keep.”
“Let Nithya take them off our hands for a while, honey,” Mr. St. Clair says, his eyes on the paper.
A few hours later, we cruise through town in the St. Clair’s SUV. Once again, I am enraptured by the island resort vibe that Old Greenwich gives off as we drive on Sound Beach Avenue. Small businesses with striped awnings and French doors pop out at me from both sides of the street. Women pushing strollers and men in khakis and dress shirts walk along the brick sidewalks, shopping for antiques and objects I instinctively know can only be found in this beautiful place. The stores become sparser as we pass underneath an old railway bridge, which James points out as a historical site. Water begins to appear on either side of the car as we wind down the sound. A gate stops us at the entrance to Greenwich Point Park, but I hardly pay attention. The day is bright and slightly overcast, and I am taken by the tinge of gray in the water.
Max pulls into a parking lot that loops around an enormous tree, and the beach comes into focus. People with their dogs and other pedestrians amble slowly along as the breeze blows through their hair. The ocean salt in the air tickles my nose before it enters my lungs. James offers me his hand as we head toward a rocky pathway, the beginning of a short hike. The rocks crunch beneath our sneakers, and with the exception of mutters between Tristan and Max, there is silence.
“You guys plotting something back there?” I ask, and they both quickly say no… too quickly. Before I know it, Tristan has me in his arms–it takes me a second to realize the squealing girly sound is coming from between my own vocal chords–and charges toward the water. “Put me down! I am so telling your mom!” I scream.
“You are not,” he says, but I sense a moment’s hesitation.
“Ha! You may be twenty-one, but your mother will hand your ass to you on a platter. Put me down now,” I command. He finally acquiesces as Max and James tease him about being a wuss.
“You know I’d never actually get you in trouble, right?” I grin as we walk up the beach again, back to the pathway we left behind.
“I know. Besides, I’m twenty-one, how much trouble can I get into?”
“You’d be surprised. I’m twenty-two, and I’m terrified of making my parents angry.”
I appreciate Tristan not pushing me for an explanation. I’m not sure I could give one. The contrast between James’ family and mine is evident with every conversation. Max, James, and Tristan joke about their parents’ discipline even into their adult years, but for me, it’s a reality. The lines are drawn. My parents are my parents and will likely be my parents forever. But Max, James, and Tristan have already forged ahead with being friendly with theirs, feeling comfortable enough to make inappropriate jokes and tease each other.
“Do you guys want to throw a football?” Tristan asks.
“Sure, go get it from the car.” Max tosses him the keys. Tristan takes off.
“He has so. Much. Energy,” I say, awed.
“Like the Energizer bunny,” James comments.
I miss Anisha for the very same reason–like Tristan, she keeps us on our toes in the most fulfilling way.
The trees are still sparse, and a few green buds poke their heads from the branches, testing the atmosphere. The sand is wet from the tide and the damp weather. I imagine this place in the summer, and it fills me with contentment. I hope I get to return to see it. James asks if it’s cool to play for a while, and I tell him to take his time as I scan the beach for a place to settle down.
A patch of sand looks dry enough for me to sit on without catching pneumonia, so I sink in. Wrapping my arms around my knees, I watch Tristan lob the ball over to James.
Seeing James like this is like an alternate reality. I’ve gotten to know him so well in the last few months, but this is another facet of his personality–one I haven’t had the opportunity to encounter at home. Here, he is a child, carefree and silly. As he passes the football, his arm muscles curl just so and he leans on his legs. The strength from his calves travels through his quads and his torso before it goes through his arms. Max says something, and Tristan and James hunch over in mirth. Watching the three of them is warming and heartbreaking at the same time, like seeing a beautiful painting.
The boys pass the ball back and forth, ranging around the beach to increase the distance between them. The afternoon is peaceful, and the wind in my hair makes me feel like I am on a mini-vacation. I could spend all day staring at the waves, flowing in and out with their tides of white as they crash, their curls collapsing underneath. Tiny droplets hang in the air, giving off a faint chill.
My phone vibrates in my pocket while my eyes are closed, and I pick up, startled.
“How are you, Nithya?�
� My mother’s curt voice comes over the line.
“Hi Amma! I’m doing fine. How are you?”
“Good. I was thinking, Nithya, maybe you should give Nishanth a chance.”
“Amma, let’s not fight.” I feel wary already.
“I know you think James is very rare, but Nishanth sounds like him. Smart, handsome, comes from a good family. And his is so close to ours! And if not Nishanth, we can find you an Indian boy just like James.” She sounds like she’s bargaining at the street market in India, threatening to walk away unless the man at the stand agrees to her terms.
“I won’t do that, Amma,” I tell her, gently. “This is my choice.”
“Fine. Make your own mistakes.”
“Okay,” I say, as calmly as I can muster. Don’t yell. Don’t yell. Don’t yell.
“So? What are you doing?” Her sudden switch gives me whiplash, but I wonder if she actually wants to keep talking. No matter how angry we’ve been, her absence has been glaringly obvious in my life over the last week. She probably feels the same.
“I’m just sitting outside, reading a book.” I’m ashamed to have to lie to my own mother about what I’m doing, then annoyed that she’s made it this way.
“I always found you reading outside in the summer when you were little.” Her tone is still curt, but the trace of reminiscence is her attempt at meeting in the middle.
“It’s still my favorite thing to do.” I give her a small smile she can’t see.
“So much doesn’t change, and so much does.” She sighs. “Two months ago, I thought we would be celebrating medical school, and you and Nishanth would have something. Now, everything has changed. I don’t know if your unhappiness made you act out, or if I pushed you away.”
My mom sounds so sad, I forget to be angry that she’s focusing on all we have missed out on. Instead, I have a moment of clarity: Nanna was right. This is new to them, too. They doubt if they did things the right way or if this was all my doing.
The Rearranged Life Page 20