Habitations, page 27
She began posting each week, tepid one-line messages linked to various articles related to immigration. Slowly, she began writing more. There was a strange vulnerability to it that reminded her of standing in front of Reddy, she naked and he fully clothed. She included her name, but students were often anonymous, with absurd handles: spaghettieddie; gaysian1990; therealsouthernbelle. She assumed therealsouthernbelle to be white, but one morning, she woke up to this message:
I’m a dark-skinned Sri Lankan girl. I was reminded, reading your post, of how my mom didn’t want me to spend too long in the sun when I was growing up. I don’t want to be too critical of her because I know she always meant well. But it’s like she was trying to make sure that I would never be mistaken for a Black woman. Thoughts?—TRSB
* * *
There were mundane matters in her life, too. She had a leaky faucet that had been worsening so gradually she wouldn’t have noticed had Emily not pointed it out. Emily’s uncle Bert was a plumber, she said, and the next morning at seven o’clock, Bert stood on Vega’s doorstep holding a box of tools and looking precisely as she expected a plumber named Bert to look: sunburnt and middle-aged, wearing navy Dickies pants, a white T-shirt, and an LSU baseball cap. “This is an easy fix,” he said. “Just a damaged O-ring. I’ll see if I have a spare one in my truck that’s the right size. If I do, I could get this finished up by the time you head out.” He took apart the pipe and poked the inside with various contents of the toolbox. “You’re from India?”
“I am.”
“I got a customer from Turkey.”
“I’ve never been.”
“Me neither. Furthest I’ve gone is Mexico. My wife doesn’t like airplanes and that was as far as I could convince her to go. But I watch a lot of those travel documentaries. You can really see how people live. Anyway, Emily tells me all about your little girl. She really enjoys her.”
“Asha really enjoys her too. I couldn’t manage without her.” Only now, saying it aloud, did she realize how true it was.
“Emily’s the responsible type. She was always like that. Even when she was a kid, her parents never had to get on her about homework or chores or anything, you know?” He went outside, propping the front door open with the latch, and came back a few minutes later. “No luck. But I’ll tell you what. I can get one for you as soon as the store opens. Leave me that key, if you’re okay with that, and I should have it done by the time you get home.” Before leaving, he poked his head into the kitchen. “Mind if I ask you something?” In the bathroom, he had pulled back the curtains around the tub. “Listen, this is outside the work I do. But you have this ring of mold around here. Your kid doesn’t use this bath, does she?”
“No,” Vega said, though it wasn’t true. Asha bathed in that tub every night.
“You want to get rid of that as soon as you can. It just takes some bleach. Do you have any at the house?”
She froze. “I don’t believe so.” Her house had been falling into gradual disarray since Ameya left. Other people’s suggestions just made her feel more lost and overwhelmed. Her neighbor Daphne: You need systems. Everything in its place. Rukmini: Hire a house girl! There must be some Mexicans, no? Ameya, whose attempt at consolation stung most painfully: You’re doing your best. And then, here was Bert, middle-aged plumber, watcher of travel documentaries, his words so comforting she thought she might cry: “How about I grab some for you when I pick up that O-ring. Bleach is cheap. I know it’s hard to find time for these things when your kids are little. You have an old sponge?”
“That I do have.”
“Just give it a quick scrub and let it sit overnight. Throw out the sponge. But anyways, I’ll get that bleach for you. One thing I can take off your hands.”
There was so much she wanted taken off her hands. Her fridge was a minefield of expired foods. And she was tired of the clutter, tired of kitchen cabinets stuffed with items she never used. Tired of Asha’s drawers she could barely close because they were filled with clothing long outgrown.
She wasted hours researching ways to occupy Asha during the week so she could get more done: soccer clinics, basketball clinics, swim lessons, some sort of Waldorf Saturday program, but all required Vega to be on-site. What she really wanted were the typical arrangements the women around her seemed to rely on: Daphne, whose husband took the kids on Saturday morning. Her office assistant, Monica, who always seemed to be ferrying her three children to or from her mother-in-law’s house.
She took a day off from work and enlisted Daphne’s housekeeper, a Filipina woman named Rosie, who helped Vega toss half the contents of her fridge, haul away boxes of kitchen appliances and Asha’s old clothes, and talked, in a steady and calibrated voice, about her two teenage children in Manila. “I’ll send for them next year. Maybe year after. My girl, she says, ‘I want come.’ My boy, he want stay because friends. But they go good school there. Private school. So, what to do? Here, school is no good.” On her way out, she pocketed Vega’s twenty-five-dollar tip. “You’re a nice girl,” she said. “Just like Ms. Daphne.”
* * *
Professor Gopalan: I knew a woman once who was unable to fly because, though she had spent her life in the States, she was not a U.S. citizen. Those of us who acquired our visas and green cards easily, who have never been forced to live apart from our children, who have been able to replicate and grow the wealth with which we arrived in this country, who have been able to depend on wealthy and well-established relatives who shared in our luck, we are just that: lucky. We are no better or smarter or more lawful than anybody else. We’re just lucky.
* * *
latinachemist: I feel invisible in this country, but also too visible. There were times when I was a teenager when I couldn’t eat. I spent years being afraid my family would be deported. I transferred here from junior college because my family has to pay international student tuition for me to attend, even though I was raised in Louisiana. I’m going to leave with so much debt that my classmates, who are citizens, won’t have.
mattfrommonroe: no one forcing you to stay here.
Taylor1989: is she a dyke?
rachelbeth: As a white woman, I really appreciate hearing stories like these. Latinachemist, I’m with you. I’ve got your back. If I ever have a million dollars (or half a million or a quarter million), I’m going to help you pay off your debts. Because that will be like paying mine off too, if you know what I mean.
mattfrommonroe: pretty sure she’s a dyke
* * *
One afternoon, she ran into the geographer Seth, at the campus coffee shop. He was more charming than she remembered, funnier and more attentive. Some days later, they ended up in his bed. Afterwards, he lay next to her, staring at the ceiling and talking about his sons—ages thirteen and fifteen—who were becoming strangers to him.
“They’re just so close to their mom,” Seth told her. “And I don’t resent her for that. But it’s so transactional between them and me. Everything is: Can you take me here? Can you buy me this? They used to get excited when I came home. Used to run to me.”
He was sweet and bookish, passionate about concepts she had never before considered—climate data, sediment transport—but also sturdy in that uniquely American way, with rough hands and a woodworking studio in his backyard where he had built the kitchen table, his sons’ bookshelves, the desk in his study.
He sent her emails throughout the weeks—articles or political cartoons she might like, or short messages telling her he couldn’t wait to see her. She imagined the two of them in a real relationship, superimposing Asha onto her picture of what their lives would be. Asha meeting his children, the five of them strolling through farmers’ markets or carrying picnics to the lake. In her mind, it was all beautiful and uncomplicated; Asha was always well-behaved, everyone got along, it was always a Saturday.
One evening, he invited Vega for dinner. They ate eggplant parmesan, washed the dishes together, then had sex where they always did—in a nautical-themed guest bedroom, wallpaper lined with tiny blue boats and anchors, presumably decorated by his ex-wife. His actual bedroom, the one he and his wife had shared, Vega had never set foot inside. Afterwards, he sat on the bed, looking tired and resigned, his chest hair matted, his stomach spilling over his boxer shorts. “I don’t know if I can do this. I’m sorry. I know what you must think of me.”
“Do what?” Vega asked, regretting the question the moment she asked it. She maintained her composure, but once in the car, she cried until she was exhausted, driving in circles around her block. Then she went into the house, sent Emily home, deleted every email she had ever received from him, and curled up next to Asha’s sleeping body.
* * *
Dear Professor Gopalan,
I am responding to your recent message by email, as it is the format I prefer to these public discussion boards. I would like to share a small observation I have made over my twelve-year tenure at the university. Each semester, in my end of course reviews, a minimum of two or three students will say that I am inaccessible or unwilling to help them with academic struggles. At least one will complain that my accent is difficult to understand.
I am puzzled by this. I have strong friendships with many Americans (as well as people of other nationalities) who seem to understand my words quite easily. I also make myself available through office hours, though students rarely take advantage.
I wonder, often, if there is an element of bias in their assessment. Of course, one must be cautious about such quick judgments of others. But your messages have prompted such thoughts.
Sincerely,
Dr. Ranjan Vyas
Department of Biology
* * *
One spring Saturday, she ran into Priya and her children at the lake. Priya called Amin over. “Ven aqui! Tu recuerdes Asha?”
Vega settled in the grass, watching the children run off. Priya’s daughter, no longer a baby, was kicking a ball in the distance. “She’s so big,” she said.
“She just turned three,” Priya said. “And your little girl. Look at her.”
Priya had called and emailed a few times over the years, extending invitations to picnics and birthday parties, but Vega had always been noncommittal in her response, knowing every time that she had no intention of going. This information must have made its way to Ameya, who, across the distance, had become increasingly concerned that Vega was anti-social.
“Make friends!” she had shouted to her once, over Skype. It was such a hollow and useless piece of advice, like telling somebody to fall in love. Vega had tried to explain to Ameya, never with much success, that she found the veneer of friendship lonelier than being alone. The previous semester, when Suresh was in town, she had joined her department for their monthly happy hour at a dim sports bar off the interstate. It was pleasant enough, with a few funny exchanges and some banter about teaching, but there was nobody there she particularly wanted to talk to, and the experience left her feeling both vapid and indulgent. When she returned to the house, Suresh and Asha were building an elaborate construction out of magnetic tiles. There were remains of Nutella toast on the counter. Vega wished she had stayed home with them.
The three children were quickly engrossed in a game—some fusion of kickball and hide-and-seek. Asha was laughing, the deep belly laugh she had inherited from Vega’s father. Amin kicked the ball and they all scrambled for it.
“I’m not sure if Ameya mentioned,” Priya said, “but we’re moving back to Houston.”
“She didn’t mention it.” Vega felt a tug of something—not quite disappointment, but akin to it. She didn’t like Priya enough to respond to her invitations, but she liked the thought of periodically seeing her. The promise of future friendship. “Is it job-related?”
“Yes and no. I got a decent offer from a consulting group. It’s a lateral move, but good enough. Mainly, it’s because my parents are there, and my sister and her family just moved back.”
“That sounds nice, then.” Vega looked away, trying to seem interested in what the kids were doing. She had mostly broken the habit of imagining what Ashwini’s life would have been, but sometimes a phrase struck her, and she played it over and over in her mind. My sister and her family. Ashwini would never have children. Vega had not thought to grieve this loss until Asha was born. She would never be an aunt.
“Vishal’s staying here. For the time being.”
Vega looked at her. “Will he join you in Houston eventually?”
“Unclear. We’re taking some time apart.” Priya paused. “Meaning, we’re separating.”
Vega tried to remember what she wanted people to say to her when she told them about her divorce. But that was a different situation. Priya, sitting with her chin on her knees, looked like she was about to cry. “That must be difficult,” she finally said. “I’m sorry.”
Priya shrugged, not very convincing in her show of indifference. Her eyes were glassy. “You managed it, didn’t you? People do this all the time, right?”
“That doesn’t make it easy.” Vega tried to sound soothing. In reality, she was stunned. Priya and Vishal seemed such an intact unit, with their shared Peace Corps days, their weekend camping trips, their constant use of “we” and “our.” We’d love to have you over to our place! We just got back from Oaxaca! It’s our favorite city. Did couples like that actually divorce?
They sat for over an hour, Priya talking about the logistics of the separation, their plans to put the house on the market, how the children were processing the news. “If you’re up for a drink or something,” she said, “Vishal has the kids tomorrow night. If you can find a sitter, I could stand to get out.”
But the next evening, just before Emily was expected, Priya called to cancel. “I’m so sorry. I’m just so tired. We were at the zoo the whole day, and it took the energy out of me. Can we take a rain check?”
Vega had a fleeting thought that she should set Priya up with Seth, then realized the absurdity of the idea. “Are you sure?” she asked. “I would be happy to just bring you dinner. I could leave it at your door.”
“Positive. I’m just beat. I might skip dinner and go to bed.”
If they had been close friends, Vega would have pushed harder. Instead, she read Asha a story, Caps for Sale, while she waited for Emily to arrive. Then she splashed water on her face, drove aimlessly for a bit, and had dinner at a Greek restaurant where she and Ameya had once eaten. She walked along Baton Rouge’s tiny strip of downtown and stopped at the Cinemark where, limited by screening times, she watched Munich in an empty row. This was freedom. If she were in New Jersey, she could leave Asha with Suresh and do this sort of thing. But the movie was devastating. She cried through most of it. Afterwards, she sat outside on an empty bench and watched a woman shutter the Urban Outfitters across the street. Why did she watch violent films? Scenes that seemed to hardly bother other people stayed lodged in her memory for years. She thought about Os Perdidos. All those people at the party who were probably still friends, the two couples that were probably still together. When we were in grad school, he used to come over and make me watch Fassbinder films with him. Do you know Fassbinder? You’re not missing much. She felt as though she were missing everything.
brownandredallover: Bobby Jindal for governor!
mattfrommonroe: Bobby Jindal is a f***ing brown monkey
Taylor1989: Yeah but you still gotta vote for him
29
In late June, one month to the day before Asha’s sixth birthday, Rupa gave birth to a baby boy. They named him Vikram. Vega and Asha cooed over him on Skype. The fridge was covered with Asha’s skeletal drawings: This is me taking Vikram for a walk. This is me feeding him. This is us if we get a dog.
“I don’t think Appa and Rupamma want a dog,” Vega said, laughing. “I think one child is enough.” She caught herself too late, the unintentional cruelty of forgetting that Asha was also Suresh’s daughter. “Two children will be enough to keep them busy,” she said gently.
But Asha didn’t seem to catch the mistake. “When we go up to see them, Rupamma says I can hold him as long as I’m sitting down.”
They flew to New Jersey on the weekend of July Fourth. Suresh picked them up at the airport and they drove directly to Shoba and Mohan’s house. It was the first time Vega had seen the house since she and Shoba visited it together. Vega recalled the smell of paint and cement, the real estate agent leading them from one empty room to another, explaining the concept of open floor plans and the importance of exterior lighting. Now, it was covered in bright Jaipur rugs. The closet was crammed with shoes, winter coats, tennis rackets, a hanging mesh organizer containing puffy hats and gloves—the girls’ in pink and purple. A small puja room had been constructed in the alcove beneath the stairs, and Vega stared at it briefly as she slipped off her shoes, taking in the incense, the garlanded statue of Ganesha, framed images of other gods she couldn’t identify.
Asha had initially been disappointed that they weren’t going directly to see the baby, but she was cheered by the sight of Tara and Veena. Shoba kissed her twice before setting her loose and the three girls ran into the backyard. Vega watched them through the window, their thin brown limbs, strangely muscular, bounding towards the swing set.
“Look at you,” Vega said, hugging Shoba. “You’re a periamma, now.”
Shoba laughed and waved Vega into the kitchen to eat. “He’s so beautiful, that boy. The biggest eyes. I tell you, he cries only when he’s hungry. Otherwise, like a sadhu, he just sits there. So calm. Like his sister.”
Asha had not, in fact, been a calm baby, but Vega accepted the comment for its intended purpose—an acknowledgment that they all still saw Asha as Suresh’s child. “How is Rupa managing with sleep?” she asked.
