The Rearranged Life

by Annika Sharma

  “—seems really sweet. I like her a lot.” Max’s voice fades down the hallway.

  “She’s definitely better than the trash you brought around in high school,” Tristan chimes in.

  Something shuffles, and Tristan exclaims, “Hey!”

  I suspect something has been thrown at him. When Mr. St. Clair comments that I’m wonderful, James dryly asks his mom if she has an opinion since everyone seems to be offering theirs. I bite my lip, happy they seem to like me as much as I like them.

  “I adore her. She’s smart and beautiful. Exactly the type I picture for you,” Mrs. St. Clair says. I don’t have the chance to bask in the bubbly happiness inside me before she adds hesitantly, “But…”

  “What?” James prompts her.

  “Well, when you all got home from the beach…”

  “Mom.” Max’s voice has an edge.

  “No, Max, let me finish. Max mentioned something about how her family isn’t happy you’re dating, James.”

  The pulse in my ears is so loud, I’m surprised they haven’t heard the thump thump thump against the walls of the house. I try breathing as quietly as I can to hear what they say, but I know this is it. They are going to tell him it’s a waste of time or that it isn’t a good idea. It’s been nice knowing you, St. Clairs. I have to give them credit for being so kind. But who would want their son with a girl whose family doesn’t want him anyway? My belly hollows out, but in spite of myself, I’m curious.

  “They aren’t,” James responds, cautiously.

  “Why is that?” Mrs. St. Clair probes.

  “Something tells me Max already filled you in,” James says, a steely undertone to his voice. I can’t tell if it is directed at his mother or Max.

  “James, I didn’t tattle. It came up. Cut the attitude.”

  I haven’t heard Max sound so big brother-like since I have arrived. In the hush, I can picture James’ eyes turning jade as he stares his brother down.

  “Honey, we’re not out to upset you. Why are they not supportive?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” James says shortly, but Pandora’s box has been opened.

  The silence leaves me certain his parents are giving him interrogatory looks.

  “Their culture is different. They want her to be with an Indian,” James says finally.

  “Are you going to cause a rift if you date her?” Mr. St. Clair asks, concerned.

  “I don’t know. We haven’t gotten there yet.”

  “Family is everything, James. Not to mention, cultures like hers can have serious repercussions for breaking their traditions,” Mrs. St. Clair tries to reason.

  “You did it.” James’ tone is accusatory.

  “To be fair, I didn’t have cultural expectations. My parents weren’t sure we’d be able to survive without much money. We didn’t have to worry about religion or traditions. Nithya’s family comes from a very different country.”

  “Fine. I get it. But we thought this out before we started dating.” Frustration bleeds back into James’ voice.

  “She did mention that, Mom. I don’t think this was a choice they made lightly,” Max puts in.

  “I’ve got faith she will figure it out. She will fight if we get serious enough. I know her. Her family will come around,” James says firmly.

  “Yes, but going against family is a tough decision to make,” Mrs. St. Clair tries again.

  “You made it. You turned out fine.”

  “Yes, but what if she decides to marry an Indian, after all?” Mrs. St. Clair points out.

  “Mom–” James starts.

  “Is she promised to someone?” Mr. St. Clair cuts him off.

  “Arranged. And no.”

  “Is she supposed to have an arranged marriage?”

  It doesn’t take much to imagine James’ father in a courtroom cross-examining someone with a tone like this.

  James is silent. They have their answer.

  “James–” his mother begins.

  “Do you like her?” James interrupts.

  “Yes, we love her, but…” his father says.

  “Then stop. We’ve got it. She’s got it.”

  “Sweetheart–” His mom starts again.

  “Mom. Let it go. They’ve got it.” Tristan backs his brother up now.

  “We do like her, James. But I am really worried you’re going to get hurt,” his mother says gently. “I have been there before on a smaller scale, and it was still a lot of stress. How do you know she won’t break up with you?”

  “The same way Dad knew you wouldn’t break up with him,” James snaps.

  “James!” his dad says, his tone warning.

  I have heard enough. I retreat to the end of the hallway where I examine my reflection in the decorative mirror and try to look unfazed. Judging what I see to be a passable effort, I head back, the water bottles in hand. I drop one as I approach the door.

  “Oops,” I say, loudly, so they can hear me.

  The mutters stop.

  “Sorry it took me so long! I got distracted by those pictures in the living room!” I chirp, as I enter the family room. You deserve an Oscar for this.

  “You missed the best part! My folks were just saying they love you,” James says. The pointed tone is so faint that if I didn’t know him so well, I wouldn’t have caught it.

  “That’s sweet! I’ve loved being here too!”

  The St. Clairs are equally Academy Award-worthy. They grin so genuinely, if I hadn’t heard their discussion, I wouldn’t have believed it happened. Touché, Team James.

  he door creaks open as I lie in bed, and I’m on high alert.

  “Shit, that was loud!” James whispers, and I drop my head, relieved.

  “What are you doing here?” I whisper back.

  “I feel like I haven’t gotten to spend time alone with you in years.” He rounds the side of the bed.

  “It’s been two days.” I giggle.

  “That’s long enough.” He lifts the covers as I scoot over to give him room.

  “If your parents find us, you are so dead.”

  “I’ll set my alarm, and leave before they wake up,” he murmurs, nuzzling my neck.

  “You sound like you’ve done this before.”

  “I’m just good,” he says cockily and kisses my lips.

  Snuggling into the crook of his neck, I wrap my arm around his chest and my thoughts are finally quieter. A different kind of peace has settled over the room.

  “Have you had fun this weekend?”

  “It’s been amazing. So relaxing. You were right. We needed time away from our bubble,” I tell him. With the exception of the last few hours.

  “My family really likes you.”

  “Do they?” I look up at him, imploring him for the truth.

  “Yeah, they do. Why do you sound so doubtful?” He frowns, puzzled.

  “I heard you guys talking when I went to get drinks.” I sit up and bring my knees to my chest.

  “How much of it?” He slides up and rests against the headboard.

  “More or less, all of it,” I tell him, softly.

  “It’s none of their business.”

  “It is, James. I don’t know that your family wants me to be with you either.”

  “They’re worried you’ll want to marry an Indian if the pressure gets to you,” he admits.

  “That’s a pretty big concern.”

  “Look, you always try to understand people’s perspective, right? So why are you worried? Everyone is concerned. It happens. Besides, if your parents disown you, you can move in here and prove mine wrong.” He flashes me a playful grin.

  “That’ll be the day.” I shake my head.

  “Nithya, I know you. You don’t give up. And you’ve had two huge blows in the last month. It could have broken you, but you’re still here, worried about everyone else. I’ll do my best to prove to them I’m worthy of you. And I trust that you won’t break up with me because of this. It’ll work out,” he repea
ts, kissing me on the forehead. “Now, go to sleep. We have five hours until I have to haul my ass back upstairs.”

  “Okay.” I giggle. “Sweet dreams. I love you.”

  “I love you,” he whispers.

  I’ll never get tiring of hearing that.

  hose three words change everything. They take us to a point of no return. It’s not about being my first ‘I love you’ to a boy, no matter how remarkable that milestone feels. It’s about the depth of the feeling they evoke, and where it can take us.

  “I don’t say I love a girl just because. It’s something I really have to feel,” James had told me on one of our dates. “Because it means I can see something more with her.”

  I am the exact same way. Sophia said those words to Luca one month in–she had dated others for far longer and never felt so comfortable. But like she always says, “When you know, you know.”

  With that knowledge comes fighting for James, a process that has to be gentle. My parents have handled their own blow. The future they had in mind, nights of laughing and speaking in Telugu, or having brown grandchildren might not happen… and I have to let them mourn that, before they come around and realize the possibilities that lie in this relationship with the St. Clairs. And James’ family has their own concerns, as I rediscover when I come down for coffee.

  “Good morning, Nithya,” Mrs. St. Clair says cheerfully when I come to the kitchen. “James is showering, I think, but help yourself to breakfast. You have a long ride ahead.”

  “Thank you!” I go to the coffeemaker to pour myself a cup.

  “Did you sleep well last night?”

  “I did. That bed is really comfortable,” I tell her, not adding James left me before sunrise. We had cuddled all night, my head resting on his chest as we slept.

  “Mr. St. Clair says so too, when he gets in trouble.” She raises her eyebrows in fun. I chuckle before taking a sip of my java.

  “Thank you for having me this weekend. It’s been wonderful getting to know you all.”

  “It’s been so nice getting to know you too. James hasn’t brought a girl by yet, but he’s talked about you a lot in the last few months. You mean a great deal to him.”

  “I feel the same way,” I tell her.

  “It must be a struggle to face your family when we are so different,” she says, and there is no doubt in my mind she knows I heard their conversation last night.

  “It is. I won’t lie to you.” Honesty is the best policy. “But I think James is worth it.”

  “I hope so, Nithya. Honey, don’t get me wrong, because I like you better than most of James’ friends I’ve met,” she says hesitantly. “But as a mom…”

  “You worry,” I finish her sentence for her, and she nods.

  “Can you handle this?” Her eyes hold mine. “It’s going to be a lot of pressure. You come from a very different culture, and I know you respect your family.”

  “I’m going to try, Mrs. St. Clair. The last thing I want is to hurt your son,” I say with conviction. “I’m going to do my best to give him what he deserves.”

  She smiles at me, but I know her approval comes with reservation. It’s something I will have to face. James and I are in for a long road ahead. At first, it seems daunting to face four parents who have differing opinions on our relationship, plus three siblings who are all over the place as well. But then, strength radiates from inside of me. James is worth it. And while he spends his time proving to my parents he is right for me, I need to put in the same effort with his.

  “Call me when you get home, James, and let me know you arrived safely,” his mom requests as we all walk to the car. She gives us both big hugs.

  “Will do,” he replies, before giving her a kiss on the cheek.

  Mr. St. Clair gives him a quick hug and a handshake. I catch a glimpse of some cash in James’ hand as he pulls away and tenderly think of my parents and the number of times I’ve found twenties hidden in my bag that weren’t there before I went home.

  “Nithya, come back real soon, okay?” Tristan gives me a big hug.

  “You’ll be at graduation, right?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

  “We may have to get in a little trouble then,” I tell him, and his eyes light up.

  Max gives me a hug too, followed by Mr. St. Clair with a handshake. They both tell me how great it was to meet me.

  “Call me if you need anything,” Max tells me quietly, “even if it’s just advice about school or something.” His kindness is staggering, and I give him one more hug before climbing into the passenger seat.

  As we pull out, our arms waving out of the windows, the family’s reflection shines in the side mirror. The kindness they have shown me means I need to think of them as we move forward as well. It’s not just my family this situation affects; it’s James’, too.

  “You know, Nithya, I’m a little surprised at how well you’ve handled this,” Sophia observes when we go out shopping.

  “Why’s that?” I ask, holding up a crisp white shirt. I’ve been invited to interview for a research position in New York, one of the three I’ve applied to.

  “It’s too boring.” She curls her lip at the shirt before continuing. “A year ago, you would be freaking out before finals, making note cards, creating schedules… And we’re three weeks from it now, and from graduation, the biggest change in our lives. And here you are, calmly shopping and not letting your family or James get to you at all. You’ve changed.”

  “I guess I have.” I hand her a pink blouse to try on. “I just realized how little control I have over everything. Sometimes you just have to roll with it, I guess.”

  “I never thought I’d see the day where you’d be saying that.” She laughs.

  And the truth is, neither did I.

  I took a philosophy class freshman year where I had to read The Education of Henry Adams. He wrote, “Chaos was the law of nature; order was the dream of man.” My dreams have always been a bit more formulaic than most. My path, a linear one, set me up for success, but it was always predictable. I liked it that way. With James came choices, which I equated with chaos and a lack of control. It has begun to dawn on me recently during my early morning runs that control doesn’t mean ease. It doesn’t mean right. Control can be stifling. Before James, I never would have seen the options in front of me to date someone else, to pursue another dream, or to stop and feel things before moving on. But now, I can’t see anything else.

  Anisha’s birthday rolls around at the end of April. Krishna Mavayya and Neelam Atta come to the house to celebrate with a family dinner, which means I have to go home, a fact I decide to face bravely.

  “Nithya! Have you heard back from medical schools?” Krishna Mavayya asks over dinner.

  There’s a trace of curiosity on my dad’s face as he lets me handle the question, and Amma’s back stiffens slightly. We haven’t told anyone my plans perforce changed, a request I made when I was home last time. While I can try and move on, and my parents have full faith that I will land on my feet, family members can be relentless in their questions and assumptions.

  “Krishna, no talk of school during dinner–” Amma comes to my rescue, thinking I’ll break down, but I have this handled.

  “I’m taking next year off. I have some research interviews, and I’m going to work before sending in my applications.”

  “Good for you. Work experience is never a bad thing.” He thankfully changes topics and misses Amma’s small sigh of relief.

  “But didn’t you apply throughout the fall? Did you not get in?” Neelam Atta pushes where it hurts.

  “Neelam, are you not listening? She said she’s going to work.”

  “I heard her. She also said she was applying so I wondered what happened,” Neelam Atta answers.

  “Things change, Atta. Sometimes you realize you have to grow up,” I tell her patiently. It’s hiding the truth, but it’s not a lie. I’ve slowly come around to rebuilding my life, and I’ve reali
zed I do have a lot of room to grow before I handle other people’s lives.

  “But why didn’t you–” Neelam Atta starts before Amma cuts her off.

  “Nithya, we wanted to get some birthday ice cream and forgot. Why don’t you and Nanna go get some?” Amma gives me a protective smile. Playing for the same team never felt so good.

  Nanna and I drive to the local Wegman’s. The next time I’ll be in Philadelphia, I’ll be a college graduate. The last year has been so tumultuous and so blissful, all at the same time.

  When we arrive at Wegman’s, I turn off the ignition and grab my bag. My dad wordlessly hands it to me, pulling it from near his feet where he knows I always put it. When I look at his face, he’s observing me with interest.

  “What’re you looking at, Nanna?”

  “You,” he says, simply. In English, not Telugu. I don’t know what to say.

  “What do you see?”

  “An adult,” he replies. “A very smart adult.”

  I’m grateful. I once heard Sejal’s parents tell her, “We are the parents, and you are the child. We talk and you listen.” The parental hierarchy was something I was used to, but my father’s words mark the transformation into equals. The shift in language also signifies a change, but I’m not sure to what.

  “It’s funny. When I’m making my own choices, I feel like a grownup. When I make anyone sad, I feel like a kid. Guilty.”

  He smiles at me before changing the subject abruptly.

  “Did you know Krishna Mavayya and Neelam Atta had a love marriage?”

  “What.” It’s a statement, not a question. “How did I not know that?” Then, “Amma always said they were married after college!”

  “They were. After they created a hungama that no one in Amma’s family saw coming.” Nanna says with a sheepish raise of his eyebrows, throwing in the universal Indian word for chaos.

  “Wow.” My jaw drops. History feels like it’s being rewritten. “What happened?”

  “Krishna Mavayya met Neelam Atta in college. She was not from our state. Her family settled in Vijayawada, but they are originally from Maharashtra, like Sejal. They spoke Marathi at home. Neelam Atta ate fish, something your Amma’s family wouldn’t accept. I have a feeling they even lived together.”