Over My Head

by Marie Lamba

  I practically snort. Mom does okay Italian food, but Indian? Well, she tries. All day today she was in the kitchen poring over an Indian cookbook, chopping onions (and nicking a finger in the process), measuring spices, simmering stuff. The end result? The dahl is too salty and the aloo gobi dish has no salt at all. The rice is sticky and the cabbage and peas dish is slightly singed. Overall, not a bad effort for Mom.

  I’ve left just about everything on my plate. I have zero appetite. This money problem is driving me crazy. What could put a family $150,000 in debt? Gambling? Ha. My parents don’t even buy lottery tickets. Blackmail? Not with their ordinary lives.

  Last night I’d decided I couldn’t take it anymore. I just had to get to the bottom of things. The house was quiet. Hari was out at work, as usual. Mom was out with Doodles on a walk. Dad was reading on the couch. It was the perfect opportunity. I sat next to him. He set aside his book, wrapped his arm around my shoulders and asked, “So, how’s my girl?”

  And I asked him point-blank, “Dad, what is up with the whole money thing? I’m worried and I really need to know.”

  “Not to worry,” he said. “It’s not your concern.”

  “But, Dad, it is my concern. I’m concerned.”

  He studied me for a moment. “All you need to know is that everything is under control. Okay, princess?” He gave me his toothy fake smile.

  “But what happened?”

  “Sangeet,” he said in his warning voice, “this conversation is over.” And he waved bye-bye to me like I was three.

  Now I’m staring across the dining table at Raina. Since she arrived this afternoon, I’ve been wondering if she knows something.

  I realize I’ve just absent-mindedly forked some cabbage into my mouth. I try to think of a nice way to spit it out. Raina is sitting with perfect posture across from me, dabbing the corners of her mouth with her napkin. So I swallow the cabbage and wince.

  Since we’re only a few months apart in age, somehow I expected Raina to look a lot like me. But she’s shorter, probably only 5’3” or so to my 5’6”, and she’s slender. I’m sort of average and a little hippy. Her skin is much darker than mine, and surprisingly, her hair is cut just above her shoulders. I expected her to have one of those typical long Indian braids running down her back. Raina is also spectacularly beautiful. She has light caramel eyes that sparkle and a gorgeous wide smile. I’d hate her if she weren’t my cousin.

  Raina is listening attentively to Doodles going on and on about selling ice pops to sweaty kids in the park. “I’ll charge fifty cents and make twenty five cents for each one. Everybody loves ice pops.” Doodles crosses her arms over her Charlie Brownish yellow and brown striped T-shirt. Once again, her hair is tangled and unbrushed. I swear the kid doesn’t look into her mirror at all. I’ve tried to give her style tips now and then, but it’s no use. She’s saying, “I’m gonna make lots and lots of money so we won’t have to ever live in a box.”

  “Cherise,” Mom says, her voice unusually sharp, “I told you, nobody will have to live in a box.”

  “Some people live in a box,” I say.

  “Yeah,” Doodles says. “Grandma told me.”

  “Your grandmother is a very special lady. Very kind,” Raina says. “She was most helpful when—”

  “So what did you think of Seattle?” Dad says.

  “Lovely, really. Of course, I did not see very much. What with all the confusion, and—”

  “Of course!” Dad says. Claps his hands. “Well!”

  “Well what?” Doodles asks.

  “Well, how nice to have Raina here,” Dad says.

  Raina lowers her eyes. She does know something.

  “How do people end up living in a box?” I say, pushing food around my plate with my fork.

  “Some have mental problems,” Mom says. “Or drug issues. At the mission in Philly they see these things all the time.” Mom’s one of those super-involved volunteers. Always helping with coat drives in the winter. Food drives in the fall. That type of thing.

  “Could a normal family like—oh, us—end up homeless?” I say, carefully laying down my fork. I look at my dad from the corner of my eye. His mouth is set in a tight line.

  “Of course,” Mom says. “If there’s a fire and they lose everything. If they overspend on their credit cards, then lose their jobs. And these days with the bad economy, there are a lot more people out of work.”

  “But what if—”

  “What if. What if,” Dad says. “What if the sky falls down?” He pushes his plate aside. There’s an awkward silence.

  “Well, I gotta go to work,” Hari says, standing.

  “Again?” Mom says. “Raina just got here.”

  “Sorry.” He shrugs. “Michelle’s got me signed up for like every shift she works, which is a lot. See ya later, Raina,” he says as he walks out the door.

  Michelle Baldarasi is crazy for Hari. He told me she’s already asked him out for Tuesday night. So let’s see. That means Dalton likes me, I like (liked) Gary, Gary (the supreme idiot) likes Michelle, but Michelle likes Hari.

  This makes my stomach churn. Or maybe it’s that bite of cabbage.

  “Well, we better clean up.” Mom stands and starts gathering dishes, the Band-Aid on her nicked finger dangling partway off.

  “Please, Auntie, sit,” Raina says. “You have done so much. Let me clear.”

  Mom collapses back onto her seat and gives an exhausted smile. “Are you children listening? You could learn a few things from Raina.”

  Hey, I help around the house. I do. Sometimes.

  I pick up a few dishes and follow Raina into the kitchen. By the time I put my plates on the counter, she’s already at the sink, washing dishes by hand. Raina’s wearing a deep maroon salwar kameez, which consists of a long tunic shirt that hangs below the knees and a pair of matching leggings. Sometimes the leggings are baggy, but Raina is wearing form fitting ones. The shirt has tiny mirrors stitched all over it and looks so exotic that I feel really drab in my jean mini skirt and navy tank top.

  “You don’t have to do that,” I say.

  “No, I do. I insist,” she says. “I know how hard it must be for Auntie-ji without any servants to help her.” She starts scrubbing out the rice stuck to the pot.

  For a moment I think how great it’d be to have servants like people in India do. Then I think how lousy it must be to be a servant. “But you really don’t need to wash anything,” I say. “Just put water in the pot and let it soak while you put the others—”

  “Oh, but I must help.”

  Amused, I lean my elbows on the counter and watch.

  Since arriving two hours ago, Raina has been the perfect guest. Polite. Cheerful. Nothing like Chachi was. She even played Chutes and Ladders with Doodles, telling Doodles that in India it is called Ludo. For some reason, this cracked Doodles up and she kept saying Doodles Ludo Doodles Ludo over and over again. When I offered to play with them, Doodles said, “Why? You hate this game.” She’s right, but still.

  After Raina’s delicate hands finish with the pot, I decide she’s done enough drudgery. “Raina, meet our servant,” I say, opening the dishwasher door.

  “Oh. A dishwasher. How silly of me.” She looks a little embarrassed.

  “You can help me load.” I show her how to put in dishes and glasses. “You should have seen me the last time I was in India,” I say. “I tried to make a cup of tea in Taiji’s kitchen and nearly set the place on fire. Let’s just say I’d never lit a gas stove with a starter before.”

  Raina shows her gorgeous smile. “When we’re done,” she says, “can I show you some things I brought for you?”

  We finish in record time and head up to my room, which suddenly seems to have shrunk to half its size. There’s a full-size cot about two feet from my bed, and a full-size suitcase on the floor between the cot and my dresser.

  Raina kneels in front of her suitcase and raises the lid. I expect her bag to be filled with salwar kameezes, but
instead it’s bulging with jeans, T-shirts, silky tank tops and long printed skirts. She digs around the edges and pulls out two bundles wrapped in orange and red tissue paper. She peeks inside one. “This one’s for Cherise.” She sets it on the cot. “Why do you call her Doodles?”

  “Like Cheese Doodles. It’s a snack food. When she was little she used pronounce her name as ‘Cheese.’”

  Raina chuckles and hands me my gift.

  The phone rings but someone picks up fast downstairs. So we sit on the cot as I unwrap a three-inch high stack of glass bangles, ranging in color from red to green to blue. I slide them over my wrist and give them a shake, making them jingle. “Thanks. These are really great! I feel so bad. I haven’t gotten you anything.”

  “Don’t be silly. You are hosting me in your room. What better present is there?” She pats back a yawn.

  “Raina,” Mom shouts up the stairs. “Phone for you.”

  “Oh,” she hops off the bed. “Must be Mummy and Papa.” She picks up the cordless. “Yes, hello Mummy. Ha-ji. Ha-ji. No. The flight was teek-tock. Ha.”

  Teek-tock. That’s a funny one.

  “No, Mummy. I won’t.” Raina sits on my bed and lowers her head. “What would be the point? Ha-ji. I know it is for my own good, but—” Raina holds onto the end of her salwar and twists it round and round her finger. “I said I wouldn’t. Yes. I will be. No no. Papa doesn’t need to. Mummy, please.” Raina says this in such an exasperated way, I begin to think we have lots in common. When she ends the call, her brow is furrowed.

  “Parent troubles?”

  She blinks at me. “No no.”

  “So what was she bugging you about, then?”

  “Usual motherly worries. Be good. Eat right. Dress warm. Never mind. Oh, there is one more thing I must give you.” She goes back to her suitcase.

  “Raina, no more. I feel bad enough as it is.”

  “But this one is not from me.” She pushes aside flip-flops, a brush, and a Bollywood magazine with a gorgeous guy on the cover. His white shirt is open, his ripped chest exposed like he’s Jake-ji Gyllenhaal-sahib.

  “Who is that?”

  “John Abraham. Huge Indian star.”

  “He doesn’t sound very Indian.”

  “Oh, but he is. Born and bred. He’s such an excellent actor.”

  “Plus he’s hot.”

  “Oh yes. No doubt.” Raina laughs. “Here it is.” She sits back on her heels with a small jewelry box in her hand and lets out a huge gaping yawn. “Oh, excuse me!”

  Before Raina hands me the box, I already know what it is. “My birthday necklace,” I say.

  “Compliments and love from Taoji Ravinder,” she says.

  Taoji used to send me a special datebook every year, believing that it would help me to earn top grades. For some bizarre reason, he’s convinced I’m going to become a Rhodes Scholar and then president of the United States. He even calls me his “scholar girl.” Now that I’m older, instead of a datebook, he’s started sending me golden pendants inscribed with inspiring messages. Last year’s read, “Lead Wisely.”

  I smile at Raina and open the box. There, sure enough, is a necklace with a round golden pendant on which is inscribed, “Expect Great Things!”

  I don’t exactly see myself as world leader material, but I’d never tell Taoji this. He’s the one person in the world who believes in me no matter what, even when it doesn’t make sense. When I was around three, on my first trip to India, we visited Taoji Ravinder and Taiji Parveen. Taoji would sweep me off the ground and rest me on his shoulders. I remember feeling so tall and important, clinging to his neck and resting my cheek on his stiff turban. There was nothing I couldn’t do.

  During my second visit when I was five, we were going to have a picnic on the rooftop of his building. The dark stairwell was steep. Everyone except for me was carrying up a chair. I was too tiny, so my dad was carrying mine. I begged and begged to carry my own. “Sorry, Sangeet,” Dad said. “You are too little.”

  “Nonsense,” Taoji Ravinder said, squeezing my arm. “Look at those muscles. And that determination in her eyes.” I beamed. “She can do it,” Taoji said. My father insisted I would fall. Still, Taoji handed me the chair. It weighed an impossible amount. I struggled, bumping it up step by step, almost in tears from the effort. When I finally reached the rooftop, everyone sat waiting. “Ah, there she is!” Taoji rushed to me and set my chair with the others. He squatted in front of me and said, “You mark my words. You are a very special little girl, my darling.” Taoji touched my nose with the tip of his finger. “You can do anything you want to. And you are going to grow up and make your Taoji so so proud.” I remember nodding, believing every word he said. And I remember welling up with love for my smiling uncle.

  Now I take the pendant out of the box and hold it up. It spins on its chain, flashing as it catches rays of the setting sun. Hmm. Maybe Taoji has a point. Why not expect great things? Maybe I can do anything I want. I can even fall in love this summer. I shouldn’t give up so easily. Maybe Dalton is the one. Or maybe Gary isn’t a total lost cause. Or maybe ‘the one’ is out there somewhere just waiting for me. “Taoji’s so great,” I say, putting the necklace on. “How’s he doing?”

  Raina crinkles her brow and turns to her suitcase. “Is there somewhere else you want this monstrosity?”

  “It’s fine there,” I say. “How is Taoji?”

  “I should give Doodles her present.” She picks up Doodles’s gift.

  “Raina, what’s up?”

  “Nothing. Why?” She gives me a fake smile. It’s all toothy, just like my dad’s.

  My heart starts to pound. “Has something happened to Taoji?”

  Raina looks at the floor.

  “Raina, please.”

  Nothing.

  “Raina, he’s my taoji too.”

  Raina is silent for a long while. Suddenly she goes to the door. I think she’s leaving, but instead she closes the door and turns to me. “Sang, I am so sorry. Uncle-ji didn’t want me to say.”

  *****

  Raina’s sleeping like the dead from jetlag—not only because of the trip from Seattle, but also because of the one from India a few days before. And me? I’m lying in bed in the dark, reeling from what my cousin has told me.

  Myelofibrosis. Taoji has myelofibrosis. It’s a rare kind of bone cancer. He needs a bone marrow transplant and he needs it fast. They wouldn’t do the surgery in India because the medical community there felt he was too old. So he’s over in Seattle getting it. Raina’s dad, Taoji Munjeet, is a bone marrow match, so he is the donor. He and Raina’s mom (Taiji Suria) and Taiji Parveen are staying in an apartment provided by the hospital, waiting for the costly procedure to start. Taoji’s insurance won’t cover it.

  So that explains the money problem. But it doesn’t explain why my parents wouldn’t tell us. Raina thought they didn’t want us to worry. They were protecting us. But I don’t feel protected. I feel hurt and angry. Raina also thinks it could be typical Indian superstition. Maybe my father is just like her dad, and believes that speaking about it might make the worst happen. She may be right. I’ve seen Dad afraid to talk about an upcoming job promotion because he might jinx it. Or not admit he was starting to feel symptoms of a cold because he believed talking about it would doom him to pneumonia or something.

  After Raina told me all this, I wanted to corner my parents and tell them how I felt. Get the whole story. But Raina grabbed my hand and squeezed it tight. She begged me not to say a word to anyone because she promised my dad she wouldn’t tell.

  More secrets.

  How is this cancer thing even possible? Last time I saw Taoji, he was fine. True, it was almost two years ago, but still, he was his usual warm and smiling self. He even helped us get rid of Chachi. Because of him, she is now living in an apartment near her son’s graduate school.

  But suddenly an image flashes into my mind. It’s of Taoji at the gurdwara. We had all visited the Sikh temple in New Jersey.
Like everyone else there, Taoji kneeled in front of the holy book. I remember watching him struggle to stand again. At the time, I thought it was probably just a touch of arthritis. I should have run to him. Helped him up.

  I roll onto my side and sigh.

  I hear some sniffling. Raina’s crying.

  “Hey, you okay?” I ask.

  No answer.

  Chapter 6

  Bright orangey sunshine burns through my lids. I open my eyes and immediately squint, holding up a hand to shade away the hot sun.

  “Here, let me help you.” A strong hand reaches down and pulls me to my feet.

  It’s a guy, tall and bare-chested, his face silhouetted by the glare. “I missed you,” he says.

  “You did?”

  “I did.” He moves to the left, out of the immediate sun.

  “Gary, I didn’t recognize you.” My heart thrums in my ears. My knees get weak. There are sparks. Lots of sparks. “You’re so…” Muscular. Tan. Into me. “You’re a lifeguard?”

  He shrugs and grins, brushing his long bangs out of his eyes. Then he looks alarmed. He blows on the silver whistle hanging around his neck. “Hey, you! Stop that.”

  Gary runs past me, a bright orange plastic buoy in his hand. I turn and see him jogging toward the ocean, which is spangled by the sun.

  Gary dives in after an old man struggling to stay afloat.

  Tweet. Tweet tweet. Whistles blow all around me as other guards figure out what’s going on.

  Gary pushes the man onto the buoy and waves to me.

  Sigh.

  Tweet. Tweet tweeeeeet.

  Sharp stab in the ribs.

  “Come on,” Doodles says.

  Huh?

  “Don’t you hear your stupid alarm? We can’t be late.”

  Groan. I slam my hand on the annoying clock. I wish I could do the same to Doodles. She’s bouncing on Raina’s bed saying, “Hurry, we can’t miss a minute. This is gonna be the best.”

  I cover my head with my pillow.