The Reading List(70)
Everyone was quiet for a little while.
‘Papa, you love Mummy. We all know that. And you’re allowed to be happy, but I’m worried some people will talk, say shameful things. And Nilakshimasi, I don’t know if she can make you happy.’
Mukesh stood up, still holding the phone to his ear.
‘I am lonely, Rohini,’ he said, looking Vritti and Deepali in the eyes. ‘My wife died. My wife is gone. Her memory is still in here, and here,’ he touched his heart, and his head, ‘but she is gone. You all have your own lives, you are busy. You have no time for me unless I can be useful. And when you do, you just fuss and fuss and fuss. And you don’t listen to me! You don’t actually have conversations! You just leave me voicemail messages and never expect me to call you back. You used to speak to your mother, you used to care for her. If you care for me, too, and if you understood that I want a friend … well, Nilakshiben has been kind to me.’
His heart was pounding. He could feel the skin on his head prickling with sweat. His hand holding the phone was moist; he held tighter, hoping it wouldn’t slip and fall. His ears thudded with his own blood. Vritti and Deepali looked at him. Vritti seemed pleased, trying hard not to let a smile curl the corners of her mouth, but Deepali looked sad, pitying.
Mukesh shrank back into his seat. He had enjoyed feeling big, vast, powerful, for that moment. And now, with one look from his youngest daughter, and hearing a sigh through the phone from his middle daughter, he felt small again, like a child.
He passed the phone back to Vritti, who held it at arm’s length. ‘Vritti, thank you for a lovely lunch. I must go now. Goodbye. Jaya, Jayesh, bye!’
Jaya and Jayesh were watching TV now, chicken nuggets decimated in front of them; they weren’t listening.
‘Deepali, bye,’ Mukesh continued. He collected his hat, shaking. He shuffled his way out of the door and shut it behind him.
He stood in the corridor a moment, trying to get his breath back, find his bearings, hoping that one of his daughters would come after him. They didn’t. On the other side of the door, their conversation continued without him.
‘He felt ambushed. It was clearly a set-up,’ Vritti hissed. ‘He’s not an idiot. Who calls up their sister randomly to ask to speak to their father to see if he’s in a relationship? I knew it was a stupid idea, but you never listen to me! Why can’t you let him enjoy his life?’
‘Don’t go pretending we are the bad ones. It is probably you who has put these silly ideas into his head in the first place. This independent, do-what-you-want mentality you have. At least we got it out in the open rather than just talking about it in family WhatsApp!’
Mukesh didn’t want to hear any more. He made his way into the lift, and before he knew it, he was back on the street, back on the train and, eventually, back home.
Chapter 23
ALEISHA
THE CREDITS WERE ROLLING, and Leilah hadn’t fallen asleep. She hadn’t sat down to watch a film with anyone in years. It was a Disney film, so nothing that required concentration, but it was an achievement enough. Aleisha was half baffled, half waiting for the spell to break – it had been days since their failed picnic, but for Leilah, that all seemed to be forgotten.
Aleisha had watched as her mum beamed, showing off the gap between her front teeth. Her mother’s smile always took her back to long-ago family trips to the beach, like a photograph imprinted on her memory.
She wished Aidan were here to see it. He’d tell her to be careful, to not get her hopes up – he’d remind her that there may still be a few more weeks, even months, to go until Leilah was ‘totally herself’ again.
Right now, though, that didn’t matter. They had been a dull, boring, ordinary family for an hour and a half. It was all Aleisha wanted.
She remembered film nights with Leilah when she and Aidan were little, usually when Dean was working late. They’d curl up together under a blanket if it was winter, tuck into a bowl of Tesco’s own vanilla ice cream if it was summer. Aidan usually insisted on sprinkles – chocolate sprinkles, hundreds and thousands. Aleisha preferred syrup. Sometimes Leilah allowed both. They’d dubbed these their film critic nights, because they’d watch the film and then talk for ages afterwards – discussing different characters, funny bits, the sad bits too. Leilah would ask probing questions like, ‘What did that character learn from what he did?’ Aleisha recognized herself doing this in her conversations with Mr P, trying to find out a little more about his views on each book. Leilah did it to spark conversation, to help their favourite moment last longer. To keep them in the bubble, the bubble that would burst as soon as Dean came home and everything had to go back to boring reality – getting ready for bed, then for school, so Dean could settle down in front of the TV himself and unwind with the ten o’clock news. She missed the three of them just being in each other’s company with nothing else to worry about but the character motivations and the theme music.
‘What did you think?’ Aleisha asked as Leilah watched the screen, her mother’s palms held together as if in prayer.
‘It was quite emotional!’ Leilah said softly, still staring at the credits. Her face was illuminated by the television in all its different colours: reds, blues, greens. All the creases in her mother’s face were clear: the expressions, the sadness. She was lovely.