p.m. Mom’s home later than usual. The restaurant must’ve been busy. I wonder if Shawn stayed for the full shift. He’s the cook, but he’s notorious for leaving work early. Or missing work completely. Too much pakalolo will do that. The thought of Mom cooking and serving alone drops guilt on me, again, like a ton of bricks. I push back the comforter and jump out of bed. I open my bedroom door and hear Mom rummaging in the freezer. I slink to the kitchen, hoping that she’ll be in the mood to talk. I still don’t know if she finally believes me about Dad and the homewrecker. How much more proof does she need than me seeing them together at Kanemitsu’s? And they had an intense fight today. I should ask her if she believes me. Point blank.
But I should start by saying sorry for how cold I acted last night. Then we could talk about her day. Then I could ask her about the fight. If there was a resolution. If she believes me about Wendy. And I really want to ask her how she feels about everything.
But more than anything I wish wish wish she would ask me how I feel. And hug me. And tell me everything will be all right.
“Hi, Mom,” I say.
“Mmm,” she mumbles, not taking her head out of the freezer.
I stand there and try to muster the courage to apologize. She grabs the new half-gallon of butter pecan ice cream and slams the freezer shut. Incidentally, the only flavors of ice cream she really likes are butter pecan and pistachio because they taste “almost Indian,” like the kulfi flavors from her childhood.
Then she jerks open the silverware drawer for a spoon. I get a load of her expression. Her brow is in its permanent V-shaped crease. It makes her look constantly angry. I think of the V as her tiny scarlet letter. Well-defined from years of silently “putting up with Dad’s bullsheet,” as she often mutters under her breath. The skin on her face is otherwise relatively wrinkle free and soft. Her thick, shoulder-length mostly gray hair is parted in the middle. She always wears it pulled back in a low ponytail with two brown-metal Goody hair clips, one on each side holding the shorter hairs in place. She’s worn this hairstyle for ten years. At least. But the almost complete change from black to gray hair was unexpected since she’s only forty. Probably stress. That’s how she explained it to Preeti masi over the phone a few months ago, adding, “Pradip nu salu aahkuu mathu kaaru che hagi.”
Yeah Mom, I hear ya. Dad’s full head of black hair is like him saying, “In yo’ face, Meera. This pimp ain’t gonna work at all. How ya like me now?”
Umm, not at all, Dad.
Ice cream and spoon in hand, she plods to the den. I follow her. I stand in the doorway and watch as she inserts a VHS of a Bollywood film with Amitabh Bachchan. Agneepath. She settles onto the sofa and digs into the carton. Within seconds, she’s by herself in another world of intense Indian drama and dessert. And I don’t exist. But I’m still standing there. Still trying to gather the courage to say sorry, then begin the rest of my planned conversation.
I decide it’s too hard to start with an apology. So I ask, “Mom, how was your day?”
“Fine,” she mumbles, her mouth full of creamy goodness and her eyes cemented to the screen.
“Must’ve been busy. I hope Shawn stayed the whole time.”
No response.
So I keep going. “You’re home so late. I wish I’d been there to help you.”
Not a peep. She keeps watching and eating, hypnotized by her ritual of screen and ice cream. I cross my arms and keep watching her. Waiting.
Come on, Mom, look at me, please. What do I have to do now to get you to talk to me? You don’t even have to talk about what I want to talk about. You can tell me to practice piano! Anything!
I’m not sure what else to say. The fleeting emotional connection she exhibited last night is gone. What’s weird is that when I shaved my head she knew something was up. And she reached out. It was like she really saw me. I think she could feel my pain. I think she was trying to help me. She talked to me the way I’ve imagined moms should talk to their daughters. Getting a taste of it last night left me wanting more. Because for the first time I knew she could do it.
She reached out and I retreated. Did I mess it up by not responding?
Now that I’m back to playing my usual talkative role and reaching out, she’s retreated. And I’m chasing her again, like she’s a patang on Uttarayan, Gujarat’s Kite Festival. We’re in Vaso and someone cut her string. I’m darting through the narrow streets filled with dung and trash. I’m weaving around decaying concrete buildings. All in hopes of trying to get her back before she’s stolen.
But she’s always just out of reach.
I wait a bit longer.
Zilch.
I drop my arms and walk back to my room. Ugh. Frustrated with myself that I expected anything more. Why should I?
The roller coaster plunges down, down, down.
Monday morning at school. The stares are piercing, the whispers deafening. Bald head down, I trudge, wishing for another Trekker somewhere in the partially enclosed hallways of Moloka’i High & Intermediate School. With all the rubbernecking, I might as well be Lieutenant Ilia, the Deltan alien. Starfleet wouldn’t even have to make this Deltan declare the Oath of Celibacy. Because the last time a human teen showed carnal interest in me was, hmm, let’s see. Oh yes. That’s right. Never.
“Hey, Baldy!” someone shouts from a picnic table on the grassy area near the cafeteria. I turn to see who it is. Jacob, Paka, and Roger—all seniors—are sitting at the table. They’re laughing. Not a simple “ha ha.” Nah, that wouldn’t cut it. They’re pointing at me and straight up belly-cramp laughing. Paka almost falls off the bench.
Baldy.
I’ve heard worse. Back in Connecticut, the white, black, Latino, and non-Indian Asian kids bonded over their relentless tormenting of me.
Hey brownie, I saw you eating a brownie. EWWWW. Gross, you cannibal.
Feather or curry? Must be curry because you stink.
Go back to India, you cow lover.
Hey Rani, I saw you eating monkey brains for lunch. And I hear your dad rips out people’s hearts.
Thanks Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom for that last one. Although right now it’s pretty accurate. Dad has ripped out two people’s hearts. Even though Mom won’t admit that one is hers.
“Eh, bolo head. Try come!” one of them calls out again.
“Shut up!”
I look back again and there’s Omar standing in front of them. His feet are wide apart and he’s leaning slightly, his head tilted back a little. Then he crosses his arms. His B-boy stance reminds me of Joseph “Run” Simmons in one of those classic black and white photos of Run DMC in Hollis Queens, NYC. Circa 1984.
“What, Omar? We was jus makin’ anykine.” Jacob
