counter, gouging out a hole on my bare head with his keen pupils. “For the first time in my life, I’m speechless,” he murmurs. Then he snaps out of his daze and chuckles. “Nah nah, Rani girl. You look fly.”
I don’t say a word. Instead I form a biting smile and use my middle finger to slowly, very slowly, push the bridge of my glasses up my nose. My sarcastic gratitude. Omar raises an eyebrow. Then our eyes meet in confrontation. Neither of us can hold out for very long and we end up cracking up after less than a minute. We cool out and then Omar glimpses around the store to confirm it’s empty. He says, “Hey Rani, I wanna hear all about your voyage into baldness, but I’m here on urgent business. And it ain’t because my mom and I are out of milk. Let’s go talk on the porch.”
For Omar and me, the porch is our sober watering hole. Pretty often we hang out there and chitchat about this and that. But never about urgent business. Needless to say, I’m curious.
“Shoots,” I say, stepping out from behind the counter. Then I add, “Hold up.” I run to the chill and grab two cans of guava nectar.
“Tanks eh.” He shakes the can but then puts it down on the bench next to him without opening it. His head drops and he starts some accelerated foot tapping. Like he’s digging some ultra quick beat.
He’s stalling.
Omar’s usually not one to stall. Now I’m really curious. I take a sip of the sugary, syrupy juice. “What’s up, Omar?” I tilt my head sideways to try and meet his downturned eyes.
He jerks his head up, stomps both his feet, and slaps his hands on his thighs, as if my words are a drill sergeant’s command to sit at attention. Then he blurts out something that doesn’t quite register the first time.
“It’s your parents.”
“What?”
“Your parents. They were having a huge fight at the restaurant.”
I scrunch my face and wait for his account.
“I was on my way to check our P.O. box for a letter from my dad. I got near the restaurant and heard shouting. I went to check it out. Your mom was crying and yelling at your dad. She was screaming in Indian so I couldn’t understand. Your dad was standing there. He looked pissed. Then your mom sunk to her knees and grabbed onto his pant legs. It seemed like she was begging or something. Next thing I see, she’s pounding her head with her fists.”
The look on Omar’s face wavers between apprehension and indignation. Punching his right fist into his left palm, he grits his teeth and asks, “Why wasn’t your dad doing anything? Why would he let her do that? What did he do to make her so sad?”
Now my eyes dip. Then my head. And my face lands in my hands. I proceed to blubber.
“Oh no, Rani. Sorry. You ok?” Omar slides forward on the bench.
I take my glasses off, wiping the tears from my face and snorting in some major hanabata. “Yeah, I’m ok.”
My answer must not have convinced Omar because he says, “Come on, Rani. Talk to me. You my sistah. We got each other’s back.”
Of everyone I know on Moloka’i, Omar is the one I should trust the most. After all, he’s trusted me with all his family stuff. I contemplate hedging. But I can’t keep in the words or the tears. “My parents,” I manage to utter between sobs, “that’s why I’m bald.” I take deep breaths to prevent a complete emotional breakdown. I slip on my glasses and regain my composure. Then I proceed to recount everything. My suspicions this past year. The mounting evidence. And finally last night at Kanemitsu’s.
But why was my mom yelling at my dad? Was she calling him out? Was she telling him off? Was she asking him to come back to her? I think about my slam poem. About Indian families. About Gujarati families. About Patel families. About my family.
Why is this happening to my family?
This isn’t supposed to happen in Gujarati families. Especially Patel families. I mean Patels are supposed to be family-oriented. Extremely patriarchal, yes. But family first. I think there are more Patels in the United States than any other Indians. And we’re not all related! Not by a long shot.
Patels came to the U.S. to better their lives, to get better jobs and more financial security, to get more educational opportunities—just like every other immigrant. Patel parents are willing to work hard to make all this happen. All those 7-11’s. All the motels. Patel parents work their fingers to the bone to ensure a brighter future for their offspring. Patel parents do that. And from what I’ve seen in the Patel families we knew on the mainland, the husbands were the boss. But they talked considerately to their wives. Sure, I’ve heard of a couple of Patel divorces. But never the blatant carrying on of affairs. I cross my arms tight across my belly and stare at the ocean.
Patel Dads aren’t supposed to have affairs.
Patel Dads aren’t supposed to neglect their wives.
I’m digging my long, sharply filed nails into the soft, fleshy part of my inner arms. Deep. I don’t even know I’m doing it.
Patel Dads aren’t supposed to be indecent with their daughters.
I wrench my mind out of its gutter. But not before my nails get what they want.
Why is my Patel family like this?
I suppose there are exceptions in every culture. In every last name. I feel something wet on my fingertips. I scan my arms and hands. It’s then I spot the blood.
The tiny, self-inflicted lacerations ground me. The pain makes me feel calm. I don’t know exactly why. Maybe because I know how to deal with pain I can see. I can wash it with soap and water in the shower, then put a little antibacterial ointment on it. Which is what I did. But pain I can’t see, the pain in my mind, I don’t know how to deal with it. I usually don’t deal with it. I usually try to forget it.
And now I want to forget what Omar told me about my parents’ fight. Forget the intruding thoughts and agony that followed.
I pull Catcher in the Rye from my backpack. I’m two books ahead for our A.P. Lit curriculum and I intend on making it three. Sprawling on the carpet in my room, I flip open to my bookmark. Holden’s at Mr. Antolini’s house. A few pages in, my eyes droop. I’m too pooped to get extra ahead. Salinger gets tossed onto my desk. And I toss myself onto my bed ready for sleep.
But as soon as I switch off the lamp and hit the pillow, sleep escapes me. My mind tracks the emotional rollercoaster ride of the day.
COASTING: waking up with a bald head
ASCENSION: writing Widow
BARREL ROLL AND VERTICAL LOOP: hanging out with Mark
FIRST DROP: La’akea guilt
ASCENSION: hanging out with Omar
SECOND DROP: what Omar told me about my parents
The slamming of the front door ends the ride. I check the
