XXII
The rest of Friday and much of Saturday, Birendra kept close to Mama Maddy and waited for the day of the funeral to arrive. Uncle Eddie had brought him home Friday evening and told Mama Maddy about their mother. For a long time, they sat and said nothing. And then it was time for bed. On Saturday, Mama Maddy explained to him that nothing would happen for now, that the funeral for her mother would take place on one day only, the following Friday. And that she would be buried and not cremated. She didn’t know what an atma was, and he couldn’t really explain it to her. Nor was she sure why they waited so long in America to bury a person, except that everything took time, and that people who wanted to come needed to arrange their schedules. Even dying, he thought, was different in America.
On Sunday morning, at breakfast, she told him not to eat too much cereal and that he should get ready to go someplace special. Maybe he’d misunderstood. Maybe there was more than one day of ceremonies here as well. Either way, he was looking forward to a day with Mama Maddy. She’d been working a lot lately at the big house. He missed those days just after they arrived in California, when they spent all their time together. But he was also glad to have school again, even if learning French was difficult. Now he chose his favorite sweater and jeans and went to her bedroom. He was impatient to ask where they were going, but she was biting her lower lip when he reached her doorway, as she did sometimes. He didn’t like to disturb her in these moments, so he waited until she caught his eye in the mirror.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“You look nice. Where are we going?”
She waved him over and began to pull at his cowlick, trying to smooth it down. She often did this, even though it always sprang back up.
“Come with me,” she said and led him to her bathroom. She ran a comb under the tap, then passed it through his hair, straight back, not to the side as he always combed it. “There,” she said.
His hair was standing straight up, but she was laughing, and he was glad to see she had been teasing but also happy she was not as sad as she had been. She combed his hair down again neatly and turned him toward the mirror in front of her. His cowlick was still there.
“We, my little Bindi, are going to the Huntington gardens for high tea.”
“What’s that?”
“The Huntington or high tea?”
“Um…both?” She squeezed a small mound of white mousse into the palm of her hands, then ran it through his hair until the foam disappeared.
“The Huntington gardens was once the home of a very wealthy family that, I think, made its money in railroads at the turn of the century.”
“You have trains in Los Angeles?” he asked.
“Of course we do. They’ve actually been trying to revive the whole system. There’s even a subway now, an underground train. Next time we go to dinner in Chinatown, I’ll take you to see the downtown station. It’s a beautiful old building.” She began to brush her hair now, then fixed her lipstick while he waited for her. “Oh, and high tea is just a fancy way of saying tea and sandwiches and little sweets. My grandmother liked to take me there when I was a little girl. It was my favorite place to go.” He followed her back to her bed. She’d never mentioned her grandmother before. That’s what her mother would have been for him. “There’s a museum and beautiful gardens and forests, with a koi pond and giant cacti that make the desert garden look like another planet.”
She pulled out a folded square of fabric and held it up to her chin.
“Is your grandmother with God, too?”
“What a nice way to think of it. Yes, she is, dear.” She held up a different scarf. “I was not much older than you are when she died.”
She’d told him that it wasn’t just one thing that took her mother’s life. She was on the wrong medication and she didn’t care of herself. And the man she was with was a bad influence. It all caught up with her. She seemed sad but not as surprised as Uncle Eddie. He thought of his own father, who had drowned. And the shock of coming home to find his mother gone.
“How did your grandmother die?”
“Pneumonia killed her in the end, but her body had been struggling already.”
“Was she nice?”
“She was perfect,” she said, then she walked over to him and pulled his forehead to her lips. “The best grandmother ever.”
“Was your mother like her?”
“No, sweetie.”
She held up both scarves for him to choose. He would have liked to have a grandmother. “The green one,” he said.
“My mother was not like Grandma June at all. I wish she had been, but that’s life.” She took his hand and they went downstairs. “You know how we were talking about my mother’s funeral next week and what will happen there?” He nodded. “Well, I was thinking that going to tea today might be something special that you and I could do to remember my mother, something for—what was it you called it? Her atma?”
He didn’t know if it worked that way, or if there was a priest they could ask, but he nodded. Maybe the priests here knew different ways of achieving the same results. And he was happy to do whatever Mama Maddy thought might help, like seeing the garden and eating little sweets and sandwiches so she could remember. He pulled her purse from where it hung on the hook below the mirror at the base of the stairs.
“Here you go.”
“Thanks, sweetie,” she said and followed him out of the house.
“Did your mother take you to high tea when you were a girl?” he asked.
“Actually,” Mama Maddy said, waiting for him to buckle his seat belt, “the three of us went together once—my mother, Grandma June, and me. It’s one of my favorite memories. I was obsessed with this little doll in a white dress, and I insisted that she come along. And that we dress identically.”
She shook her head and laughed a little. Then she changed the radio to her grandmother’s favorite station. He tried to think of more questions, but she’d gone quiet, listening to the music, as though she were far away. They turned in a new direction once they hit the main road, so he watched the unfamiliar landscape as it passed by. A woman began to sing. It was in a foreign language, but not French. At first the song sounded dark and scary, and then it was just very sad. It filled the car completely, and he felt even stranger than he had before listening to the music. So lonely. They passed over a bridge, and the sun was bright on his face for a moment, then it hid behind the hill. When the song was over, the announcer said the title translated as “You Are with Me,” and this surprised Birendra, for he’d never heard a lonelier-sounding song.
The bridge led to a town called Pasadena. Mama Maddy said they were getting close now. The houses were enormous, much bigger than Mama Maddy’s, more like the one she was working on in Los Feliz. They’d driven by it once, and she’d pointed it out and said a very famous singer was going to live there. He wondered if famous people lived in these houses as well. And then the houses were gone and they drove into a tree-shaded parking lot. The air outside was fresh, and there was a cool breeze. He could hear the tweeting sounds of excited birds, and he caught sight of a squirrel, staring back at him through a pair of scared black eyes. He listened for crows, remembering how they squawked constantly in India. In Los Angeles, he often saw them, but only one or two at a time, nothing like what he saw in Varkala, where they swarmed, sometimes so numerous they made the sky go black. Mama Maddy joined him and looked up into the trees as well. It was often the absence of crows, whenever he was somewhere like this, with a lot of trees around, that made him remember the crows in India. And he couldn’t remember the crows without thinking a little of his mother as well. He wondered what it was that made Mama Maddy think of her mother. He would ask her. He took her hand and they walked toward the entrance. Maybe it would help to remember her mother in this special place.
XXIII
How long had Nayana been staring at the dust ball in the corner? She looked away only to find there were others. She’d bee
n struggling all week to work, though what she wanted most was to pass the time before her appointment with Dr. Shah tomorrow. She might as well have spent it cleaning for all the progress she made on the book. She stood and collected the dust balls, then shook out the rug and fetched the broom and dustpan. She did the same in the hallway, in their bedroom, in Ramesh’s nook. She moved the coffee table. The kitchen chairs. The waste bins. It had not been a particularly good morning. She was almost used to the nausea and heartburn, but she’d been faint as well. Now she was all energy. She shook and swept until she had gone through the whole house, and everywhere she looked the dancing motes slowly fell right back into place. She removed the mop from its bucket, then filled it with hot water and ammonia. She gagged on the harsh sting of steamy chemicals, then added dish soap to mask the scent. While the dust settled, she went into the bathroom and scrubbed the sink, the bathtub, and the toilet. Everywhere she looked, she saw dirt. She felt trapped. In her flat, in London, in her marriage. But mostly in her body.
She was always tired. And after all these years, she had discovered that even Ramesh’s patience had limits. She’d worn him down, and he’d all but agreed to let her go to India. She’d called the airline and found a flight. She’d almost purchased the ticket. But her doctor had ordered an ultrasound, and, with India in the balance, the uncertainty was driving Nayana to distraction. She’d been taking it out on poor Ramesh, hot then cold, wanting his help, then biting his head off for coming too close. She was mopping the hallway when she heard the front door open. He was home early, and she couldn’t even be sure if she was relieved or annoyed, if she wanted to be held or tell him to turn around and go.
“It’s wet,” she called, keeping her eyes on the tile. She cleaned one thing only to find grime and grit clinging to another. How had they stood it so long? “This place was filthy.”
Ramesh didn’t say a word. He was taking his socks off at the door with one hand when she looked up. In the other, he held a bottle of wine. He appeared hurt, as though she had been accusing him of dirtying the place by himself. Or maybe he was frightened by her appearance. She leaned the mop against the wall and collected her hair into a neater, tighter bun, then wiped the sheen of sweat from her face.
“It’s from Beth,” he said, holding the bottle up. “A thank you for watching Felix. There’s a card.”
“It’s all yours,” she said with a weak smile. “You earned every drop.” Then, hoping to put him more at ease, she added, “Sorry I’m such a poor housekeeper.”
He set the wine down and retrieved the mop.
“Jaanu, what are you doing? You should be resting.”
“I can’t just sit around all day.”
He took the mop and bucket into the kitchen and left her standing in the hall. She must have looked like a madwoman. She was buzzing from her cleaning spree, as though she’d drunk a pot of coffee by herself. He didn’t look at her as he passed by in the hallway again, pulling his tie loose on the way to their bedroom. If he was going to pout, she was going to close herself in her office. She stopped the door from slamming, then nearly collapsed in her seat. A few minutes passed, and he knocked and opened the door. She might have fallen asleep like that, with her head on her desk. He had once again set his frustration aside and was trying to care for her. Would she like a bath drawn? No. Maybe some tea? No. He was at a loss. What could he do to make her comfortable? Happy? Nothing. Wounded, he left the way he had come. There, she thought. Now everyone I love is disappointed in me.
She’d been making herself sick all week, trying to serve a twofold purpose with one visit: the purpose Ramesh knew about—the ultrasound, which her doctor assured her would have been routine regardless of her intended travels—and the one he didn’t know about, the paternity test, for which Nayana planned to sequester a few strands of his hair from his side of the bed.
She was sick of herself, and now she got up to check on him. He had retreated to his chair, as she knew he would. She would do something nice for him. Rub his shoulders. Cook something extravagant. She had to keep in mind that he was just trying to care for her. He would find a way to blame himself if anything happened. She told him she’d invited her sister-in-law to accompany her to her doctor’s appointment, thinking it would ease Ramesh’s concern as well as ensure he would not insist upon coming. She knew Tahira would sit politely outside in the waiting room rather than join her in the examining room, as Ramesh surely would have.
“So we’ll tell them?” he said.
“Of course, dear,” she said, to appease him. Her preference was not to tell anyone in London for a while yet. She simply wanted to be on a plane, leaving. Ramesh could have the pleasure and pride in telling them after she’d gone. Or they could call and make the announcement together if he wouldn’t wait. Anything to avoid feeling like a brood mare paraded around for her mother-in-law’s benefit. She retrieved the bottle of wine and placed it on the table in front of him. Ramesh would be missing having the flat downstairs to escape to. Had he kept something to drink at Beth’s for those visits?
“Why don’t you open up Beth’s wine and pour yourself a glass? I’ll be back in a few minutes, and we’ll have something nice for dinner.”
Fifteen minutes later, smoked salmon, lemon, and parsley in hand, Nayana returned from the store to find Ramesh snoozing before an unopened bottle. She put it on the dining table, along with the candles, and went to the kitchen, resisting the urge to fall asleep beside him. She began cooking before she knew what she was making. She ended up with several sides and no main course: peppers seared black, steamed asparagus, smoked salmon with the lemon and parsley as a garnish. He awoke when she turned off the light and was impressed by the candles she’d lit. She poured him a glass of wine. The smell of the alcohol turned her stomach, and she suddenly wasn’t sure she’d be able to eat the salmon at all. She was sweating again, and her back ached. She sat down and called him to join her. He leaned across the table to kiss her cheek before taking a seat. He lingered a moment, whispering his thanks in her ear. She told herself she was just tired. There was nothing to worry about and no need to worry Ramesh. He served himself, and they spoke about his work. He seemed not to remember when she repeated a question she’d asked just the day before, about Raj’s progress. He was silent for a moment, then said he’d mentioned to his boss the need to schedule a trip to India. The hesitant way he spoke made her think he hadn’t planned on telling her.
“Just in case you get the all-clear, I wanted to plant the seed. It’s as I expected—mid-February at the earliest.”
“That’s wonderful. It’s only a few weeks away, and I’ll have Adi to care for me until you arrive.”
“I wish you’d wait.” He shook his head at the pepper dangling from his pinched fingers, then ate it in one bite. “Mum will think it’s foolish, of course. And a waste of money.”
“What she’ll think is that I’m trying to steal her son and take him back to India without her.” He smiled because he knew she was right. “She thinks I’ve sullied her golden firstborn boy.”
“Am I sullied, my love?” She was relieved to see him acting playful again. “I think I have the perfect solution, actually.”
He raised a mischievous eyebrow. Nayana shot him a skeptical glance as she rose from the table to get some water. She was suddenly parched, but standing had made the room spin and go dark. She put a hand on Ramesh to steady herself, but he just thought she was being sweet and squeezed it.
“Let’s ask Mum to organize a baby shower for when we’re back. She will be so pleased to plan the party that she won’t be thinking about your trip at all or about the fact that I’ll be joining you.”
Her balance was back, but she remained at his side. He was right: his mother would be thrilled to have Nayana out of the way while making all the arrangements. Ramesh was too generous, assuming his mother would relish the opportunity to plan this for him and Nayana. She would be planning it for herself. Her friends, her menu, her grandchild! Nayan
a reached for the chair now. Ramesh’s voice came through as though under water. The room was spinning again.
“Naya? What’s wrong? You’ve gone pale.” She pulled the chair toward her.
“It’s a brilliant idea, Ram,” she said, and, trying to wave his concern away, she released her hold on him. Then he stood up, or maybe it was that she fell down.
Nayana felt she’d been reduced to a pair of eyes, eyes that rejected the light cast by the bedside lamp, light that failed to illuminate the familiar molding of her bedroom ceiling. How and when had she gotten there? And why couldn’t she feel the collective entirety of her body? She tried to shift her head toward the light, but there was a disconnect between thinking the movement and the movement itself. Only her eyes were free to employ their limited range. There was a shadow just beyond her peripheral vision, someone walking there. She closed her eyes for a long second and felt her tear ducts at work, quenching the dryness. If only they could quench her terrible thirst. A steady buzz gave way to the muffled sounds of a voice. Ramesh. And then she remembered. When she opened her eyes again, her body had returned to her. And the room sounded louder than it had any right to. It was cold, too, but she was damp with perspiration. She wanted to know what Ramesh had been saying to her.
“What was that?” she asked.
But he hadn’t been speaking to her. He was on the phone, repeating their address, with such urgency. She tried to push herself up, but she couldn’t move through the pain, which sat on her midsection like a weight. She looked down and saw it in the dim light, a small, terrible stain, a black hole collapsing.
“Ram?”
“Nearly three months.” He was still speaking on the phone. “I don’t know. We were at dinner. She fainted. There’s some blood.”
His voice cracked. She closed her eyes again. He soon came to her with a damp towel, no longer on the phone. He pressed it against her forehead and whispered to her as the water trickled down to her temples.
Bindi Page 15