Love, Hate and Other Filters(18)
The irony makes me squirm.
“What do you want, Mother?” I groan.
My mom isn’t always the best at picking up on my subtleties, but she knows that “mother” equals annoyed. “Mom” is for regular days, and the Urdu “ummi” for increasingly rare moments of filial affection.
She sits on the edge of my bed. “No need to be so upset, beta.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t stand when you and Dad treat me like a child.”
“But you are our child.” Her voice catches. “You always will be, even when you have children of your own.”
My mom’s eyes moisten; I quickly turn away. I’m never quite sure what to do in these uncomfortable moments, so usually I pretend they aren’t happening.
“I knooow, Mom, but can you please give me my privacy?”
She sniffs. “I just wanted to ask if Kareem called you today.”
“Mom.”
“Can’t a mother ask a simple question?”
“Not if it’s a nosy one. I already told you everything, anyway. Dinner was nice. He was nice.”
“And?”
“That’s it. End of story. We didn’t secretly get engaged or anything.”
My mom tilts her head to the ceiling and raises her hands to prayer position. This is her being sarcastic. But also totally serious. “I just don’t want you to end up alone.”
“I’m in high school, Mom. In the twenty-first century. I don’t have to get married by the time I’m twenty-two or risk becoming an old maid.”
“Aarraaayy, beta. Who is saying anything about marriage? We want you to finish your studies. But I was married when I was only a few years older than you.”
Classic Mom again: I’m not saying you should follow my precise example, but of course I really am. I have to laugh. “And you had a love marriage that Dad’s parents didn’t exactly approve of, right?”
She gives me a sharp look. “Listen to you. We raised you with too much American independence. Talking back to your elders. And all this privacy business. Who needs privacy from their parents?”
The best way to get out of this conversation is to keep my mouth shut. I totally know this, yet apparently I prefer to bang my head against the wall over and over because I think arguing can change my mother’s mind. Note to self: It can’t. It never has.
“Please. All I’m asking is that you give me a little space. If Kareem and I decide to get married, I promise you’ll be the first to know.”
My mom stands and shakes her head. “We should have sent you to a boarding school in India. Then you would have learned to be a good daughter, not like these ungrateful girls here who can’t cook and don’t know how to show proper respect to their parents. Some even marry white American boys.”
She means boys like Phil. Boys you secretly tutor and meet for surreptitious swimming lessons. Shiny eyed, beautiful boys that can pull you in the wrong direction.
I fake a huge yawn. “Can you continue your marriage pep talk another day? I swear I won’t run off and marry a heathen tonight.”
She heads toward the door. “What are you doing tomorrow?”
My pulse quickens as I make up an alibi. “Sleep in. Then maybe go to a movie or the mall if any of my friends are around. When is your last appointment?”
“Your dad scheduled a root canal at 5 P.M., so we won’t be home until later.”
“Okay. Khudafis. Have a good day at work in case I don’t see you in the morning.”
“Khudafis, beta.” My mom tosses me a final wan smile— I love you, but I remain disappointed—and shuts the door. I settle beneath the covers. If I ever direct a retro-Bollywood melodrama, my mother will be the star.
The guard straightens the back of his navy blue baseball cap with his left hand, curving the bill with his right. Stitched in bold white letters on the front is SECURITY, but the cap’s newness screams ROOKIE.
He is younger than most of the other men on the crew. Eager to prove his seriousness, he rarely betrays any emotion. He chomps rhythmically on his gum. But this morning the new teacher at the day care smiles at him, and he smiles back.
Security. Safety. She feels safe here, thanks to him.
The sun shines like it’s summer.
It is a good day.
The sun screams through my blinds. I wake up, but make sure to stay in bed until I hear my parents’ car back out of the driveway.
My mom left me a note.
Eat something. Love, your mom.
She’s hovering, in absentia. I scarf down the bowl of oatmeal she left for me on the kitchen table along with a banana, hoping doing at least one thing my mom asks will soothe my conscience.
It doesn’t.
But my feelings of guilt rarely compel me to change my plans, either.
I still have an hour and half before Phil’s supposed to pick me up. I’m not sure if breakfast was a good idea, given the way my stomach is churning. I focus on what to wear over my bikini, troublesome even without the buyer’s remorse. The temperature is going to hit a ridiculously high eighty degrees for April. It’s already a bit muggy. I reach for a crimson cotton sleeveless dress, tie-dyed Indian bandini style. The association with the method is unfortunate, because unlike the large psychedelic Deadhead patterns and colors, bandini tie-dyes are delicate and intricate. But before putting it on, I hesitate.