by Lauren Ho
His tone was prickly, and I felt my hackles rising. “Well, it’s not like we’ve been communicating much since Anousha came back,” I said.
“And now you’re leaving the firm, I’m guessing to become Mrs. Deng?” His tone was cutting. “I don’t blame you: you’ve always hated your job, and now here’s your gilded exit strategy.”
So Suresh still thought I was engaged to Eric, and that little barb, from him of all people . . .
“Well, I’m glad I’m not stuck in a dead relationship where my partner treats my career as being more important than the man himself,” I blurted, too hurt to correct him about Eric.
He was bemused. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Why don’t you ask Anousha, who you never broke up with,” I replied, ducking my head and picking up the box before he could see the tears welling in my eyes. “Well, no worries. With me out of the running you’ll definitely have a clear shot at being made partner next year.”
He threw up his arms. “Andrea, what are you talking about? I quit. Almost a month ago. And I’ve negotiated an early exit from my notice period. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”
“What, because even Anousha couldn’t make you partner?” I said.
“Andrea, I’ve never been in serious contention for partnership, not this year anyway, even if I’m eligible for it. My move to Singapore was in reality a self-inflicted demotion because, and you should have known this, there was no way I could have built up my network and brought in enough business this year in time for the partnership rounds. That’s why Inderjit’s been so adamant about buying us a house in London. He wanted me back in the partnership saddle—in London.”
“But you kept talking about it!”
“I was still halfheartedly working toward it, but only because Anoush wanted an expensive wedding. Then somewhere along the line, in Jakarta, when I had a lot of time to think, it became abundantly clear I didn’t care about being partner or even being a lawyer at all. Plus I liked needling you. You seemed so obsessed with it, so I thought I’d play along.”
“B-but . . .” My thoughts were speeding in every direction; I was gobsmacked. “So . . . so . . . so who got made partner?” It was the only question I trusted myself to ask without bursting in to tears. All this while I’d been beefing with him over the stupid partnership—and he hadn’t even been in contention?
He pressed his lips into a pale line. “It was Genevieve. Haven’t you heard? They just announced it over email.”
I couldn’t believe it. I had ruined everything because of Genevieve. No, I corrected mentally, because of my stupid ego, because I was so obsessed with being the best. I was furious.
“But what . . . what will you do next?”
“My comic. I’m going to try to turn it into a graphic novel, like that agent suggested.”
“Congrats,” I said.
“But enough about me, what about you and Eric? What’s next?”
“We’re buying a castle together,” I lashed out.
“Good for you,” he said tonelessly. “I broke up with Anousha yesterday, by the way, when she got back from her one-month observership in Seattle.”
“Good for you,” I said, equally tonelessly, even though I felt as though someone had sucker punched me. So that’s why he took so long to do it. He was consistent in being a gentleman, at least.
Then I bolted with the half-packed box of stuff I’d been working on before he came in. Despite my recent journey of self-improvement, I’m still at heart afraid of confrontation; I wanted to resolve the misunderstanding, but I was terrified he’d laugh at me and say that I’d just been a distraction at work, and now that he wasn’t gunning for partner, now that he’d broken up with the woman he’d been with for over a decade, he’d want to be single or date someone hotter and more successful than me.
So while I still had several boxes in my office, I would get Kai to retrieve them for me later. I just had to get away.
I ran to the toilet, found an empty stall, and shut myself in there. I tried to stem the rising tide of tears by thinking about the spring collection of Louis Vuitton bags, but that backfired since I wouldn’t be able to afford them anymore. Shit. Then I thought about the chaos that would hit my least favorite clients, what with me and Suresh leaving, the two best hustlers in the firm, and someone subpar like Genevieve being made partner, and like magic all my tears and regrets about leaving died away.
Every dark cloud has a silver lining—but theirs wouldn’t.
All’s well that ends well—except for them.
Good things come to those who wait—and they will wait forever.
(OK, OK, I’ll stop.)
I stayed in there longer than I should admit, not wanting to run into Suresh again on my way out. Finally I got myself together, gathered my things, left the toilet with my head held high, and got into the elevator, where I promptly bumped into Genevieve, who’d been on maternity leave till a couple of weeks ago and had returned looking svelte and well rested, everything a mother with a newborn wouldn’t usually be. I savored the small happiness of knowing I’d never have to see her or smell her again. When the doors opened to the building lobby, I was about to breeze past her (as fast as I could, considering I was carrying a box of books and other trinkets), when she piped up in a conversational voice all the while side-eyeing me, “Isn’t it a shame when people leave? Especially when they know they can’t go further in a firm?”
Something in me detonated. Maybe it was yesterday’s shrimp curry. I didn’t linger to investigate. “I wouldn’t be so smug: your husband is on TINDER, and WE MATCHED!” I shouted, as the elevator doors closed on her surprised, and grossed-out, face before she could make her own exit. And I know it was childish, dear Diary, but by golly, it felt good.
I can’t believe I used to care about what she thought about my choices in life.
I placed the box on the floor and fished in the packed Celine bag for some tissues to plug my running nose (allergies triggered by Genevieve’s ridiculous fragrance) when I realized there was something else in there that I’d managed to forget about: Suresh’s letter.
My heart hammering, I tore it open with trembling hands. Read the handwritten words, again and again, until my vision swam with it.
And then I began to run.
54
I ran all over the lobby like a loon and finally out of the building, scanning the taxi queue, hoping in vain to catch Suresh somehow, but he was nowhere to be found. Dammit. I decided to take a taxi to his place right away; I couldn’t let off now or I’d chicken out as usual. I needed to find him.
It was time to let him know that things between Eric and me were over and that he was the reason why, to apologize for always assuming the worst of him and clear the air, to kiss the heck out of him if he’d allow it, basically. In the cab, I read his note once more:
Andrea, I’m not sure how to tell you this, since we’re both with other people, but I’ve fallen for you and if you’ll give me a chance I would like to show you what you mean to me. I have to leave for New York on Monday 14 November for the next six months and I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I think we have what it takes to make it work, no matter what.
You’re my North Star, Andrea.
When I got to Suresh’s, I was so eager to see him again that I didn’t even care that I was raising a ruckus; I just started banging on the door.
The door flew open and a bleary-eyed, unshaven, and wild-haired face that belonged to neither Suresh nor Anousha peered at me. “Who the fuck?” the man said. “What do you want? Whatever it is you’re selling, Auntie, I’m not buying!”
I squinted at the degenerate still in bed so late on a Monday afternoon. He looked vaguely familiar. It took me a few moments to realize where I’d seen him before. “Chandran? It’s me, Andrea. From Catan with Suresh a few months ago.�
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“Oh.” Chandran squinted at me. “Sorry. I thought I’d seen you before, somewhere. Wait, let me put in my contact lenses. Come in.”
I waited in the living room, wondering what was going on. What was Chandran doing at home? And where was Suresh? I’d assume he’d come straight home with his stuff from work. But the house was strangely still, and when I peeked into Suresh’s study, his personal laptop and all his inks were gone.
When Chandran came back I begged him to tell me where Suresh was.
“I don’t know, man,” Chandran said. “He didn’t say. I just got here two nights ago and the place was already like this, all packed up. I have the worst headache. It must be the jet lag. Y’know, I was in San Francisco for a Catan championship and . . .”
I tuned out as he droned on and on about a new point system or something, and tried calling Suresh; no luck, it kept going to voicemail. I texted him, the same “We need to talk” pleas, the same “It’s important” platitudes, to WhatsApp and all the other platforms we used. None of the messages were read. I checked the Read receipts and realized he hadn’t actually looked at his phone in over an hour.
Shit . . . could he have left for New York already?
“. . . And my sponsors are saying I’ll need to stay in the global leagues if I wa—”
I blew up. “Enough with the Catan already, Chandran! The world doesn’t revolve around your dumb board game! This is important.” I grabbed his shoulders and shook him. “Tell me the truth, you human wombat! Where is Suresh?!” I released him, panting.
Chandran sulked. “I told you, I don’t know. I have a spare key. I always crash here when I’m in town.” He brightened. “Didn’t you know I moved to Estonia two months ago? It’s great, it’s like, there’s a whole community of Catan and Dominion and Minecraft players there, including a Church of Catan, haha . . .”
I left this font of information.
I asked the others to call him: Linda, Valerie, his friends from work (Mong, Kai), Ray, Chandran, Faisal. Nothing. It was as though Suresh had dropped off the face of the earth. I checked his personal Facebook, his personal Instagram, Twitter, even his Linked-In, for traces of his hide. Nothing. Not that I had expected much, as he didn’t really have an active presence . . . except . . .
“Ping!” I looked at my phone. A notification from Instagram—and a post from The Last True Self!
Suresh had uploaded a photo of himself (his face obscured by a smiley-face emoji) on a plane:
On my way to the Big Apple. One step closer to TLTS graphic novel! See you in New York. #midcareergapyear #crushingit
Suresh was already gone. Can’t believe he was already on his way to America. I imagined him at Comic Con being surrounded by adoring comic book groupies, some of whom had to be hot Brahmin women from the right families. And maybe they played Catan.
I dashed away the tears falling down my face. I had lost: it was too late.
55
Friday 18 November
7:00 a.m. Woken up by alarm and was confused until I recalled that I was due to fly to KL in less than two hours to visit my mom so that I can reveal how far I’d chosen to fall from her ideals. Oh God.
12:35 p.m. Arrived at my mother’s condo in Bangsar and knocked on the door, having discovered I’d forgotten my keys. She answered, dressed in a sleek long-sleeved jade cotton-silk top on gray linen slacks, looking fully operational, even if she still had a sallow undertone to her skin.
I decided to dive right in. “Hi, Ma, don’t yell, but I’ve resigned and I’m not getting married,” I said in a rush. Why not just face the music all at once? I would no longer be a prisoner of the tyranny of anyone’s expectations, even if it meant I might not live to see another day.
She surprisingly refrained from yelling at me. “So I can see,” was all she had to say.
I slumped onto a bar stool at the kitchen island and waited for her to begin the onslaught.
She stood and looked at me for a long time while I avoided her gaze. I felt her taking in the state of my unkempt hair, my bloodshot eyes, the cloud of tobacco and alcohol stink that must emanate from my pores, the weight I had gained from McDonald’s and Nando’s deliveries.
“You don’t look too good,” she observed in less harsh terms than she would normally use. “What’s wrong?”
“I’ve made a mistake,” I began. I looked at the countertop, biting my lip as I fought to control a surge of tears. “I’ve made many mistakes, and now I think I’ve lost the one good thing in my life.”
“You’re not talking about Eric Deng,” my mother stated matter-of-factly. It was her way of asking an open-ended question.
I took a deep breath and plunged right in. I told her about Suresh: who he was, where he was from, and what had happened between us; I didn’t hold back on the details. It was the first conversation that we’d ever had about a love interest of mine, and when I was done I was both elated at the disclosure and scared of her response. I could already hear her thoughts: My daughter, the one I raised with milk from my own breasts, the last of my single children, rejected a billionaire . . . for an Indian comic artist/former lawyer?
“Oh dear, what a mess,” she said with a sigh as she wearily took a seat at the bar. Suddenly she looked much older than her age, and I felt guilty for unloading my troubles on her so soon after her health scare. “Why are all my children insisting on sending me to my grave early?”
“Mom, why do you always want us to suffer just to make you happy?” I cried, hurt by her response.
“What are you talking about? I don’t want my children to suffer for my sake,” she said, affronted. “How can you say that? Do you even know what goes on in a mother’s heart when she sees her children running toward a cliff with only rocks to greet them below?”
She reached for the pitcher of water and poured herself a glass. “On the contrary, I only want my children to have the best, and to make the choices that save them from suffering. When you told me about Eric, I was so happy for you; I could see he was mature, he had made it in life, he was stable, and he really cared about you. These are all the qualities of a sensible choice. Plus I didn’t even know there was someone else. But I’ll be honest, Andrea, even if I’d known that you were in love with this Suresh person, I would probably still have advocated for Eric because when you reach my age you will know that love doesn’t conquer everything, and that someone you respect and honor, who respects and honors you back, can bring you more long-term happiness than a hot, sweaty affair.” She made a moue of distaste, as though sexual attraction was merely a good-for-nothing afterthought.
“Suresh is a good man,” I said defensively. He might be in New York and out of my reach, but that didn’t mean I’d sit by and let my mother malign him.
“Maybe,” my mother said. “I judge on the overall facts presented to me. Young people are always so ruled by their passion that they forget the realities of life. You can’t live in a couple bubble forever. We grow, we age, and sometimes we grow apart. Don’t forget I was one of those young people, too, once upon a time, believing that love was all I needed. And look where it got me and your father.” Her eyes clouded over. “There was love between us, once. You know that we met at university, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I said. I had the vaguest recollection of some political rally or something that they attended for the heck of it; I was ashamed I knew little else, mostly because when I was younger it had seemed a little obscene to me to ask my parents how they met and fell in love, when all they did was hurt each other.
“We were introduced by mutual friends and became sweethearts at university, although we were an odd pairing even in the beginning. My family was quite comfortable, respected, politically connected. I was raised in comfort, if not luxury, while he was a transplant from Kedah, a scholarship kid with little money of his own, an orphan raised by his uncle and aunt. But he was smart and I li
ked the way his hair fell into his eyes; we dated other people but always came back to each other; I couldn’t imagine my life without him, and he thought I was the only woman for him. So what if my family hated him? So what if my father threatened to cut me out of his will? Your father and I were in love. And for some time, it was enough. We were so happy in the beginning I couldn’t imagine it being any other way. I never thought that one day, twenty years later, he would cheat on me several times, the so-called love of my life.”
“What?” I was incredulous. I had not known this. I had just assumed that they were wrong from the beginning—and when he got cancer, my mother had just accepted him, to care for him, until he’d passed on . . . “Why didn’t you say anything to us?”
“It doesn’t matter anymore, and what happened between your father and me is our business, that’s the way it is with our generation—I saw it as my burden to carry,” my mother said heavily. She sighed. “And then our friends, those that ‘settled’ because they made sensible, family-approved choices, they’re still married, still together. So can you blame me when I hope my children make better, safer choices in life? Especially your sister, who, once married to a Muslim Malaysian, has to convert, and has to be OK with the fact that, in Malaysia, he can legally take a second, third, fourth wife if he wishes, without consulting her?”
I had never thought of it that way; I had always assumed that my mother had just been, well, racist. “I see your point, Ma. But maybe these are the things you need to tell Melissa, so she can assure you that Kamarul is the kind of man who would never do that to her. And maybe spend some time with Kamarul before you condemn him. You and Melissa have made such progress since your heart attack, after all. I mean, you’re actually answering her texts!”
She bowed her head and was silent for some time. “I’ll need to think about this,” she said at last.