Growing Up Ethnic in America: Contemporary Fiction About Learning to Be American (27 page)

“Preeti, look, it isn’t such a big deal. I think it’s your crazy parents that have you shit scared of everything. Look, I’ll tell you what. I’ll ask my cousin where she went for her abortion. She’ll know how to deal with this. I know she didn’t tell her folks. I’ll find out, okay?”

It wasn’t enough, but it was something. Preeti tried to look placated, just to get him out of her house. She wanted to be alone now to think things through before her mother got home.

“Chuck, please leave now. I want to be alone.”

“Oh sure, baby. Now don’t worry. Everything’s going to be just fine. I’ll call tonight, okay?” He had become his usual assured self, jaunty, cocksure. Making his way out of her room as fast as his legs could carry him.

Preeti began panicking as soon as she heard the door shut. It was such a mess. How would she tell them? Was there some way she could avoid telling them? No—without money and with nowhere to go, she couldn’t hope to make it on her own. She’d have to tell them.

Preeti lay on her bed, pressing her stomach savagely, trying to stop the sickening, fluttery sensation inside. Then she got up and walked across the landing to her parents’ bedroom. She pushed the door open and stood there, unnerved by the stillness, seeing the room’s uncomplicated character as if for the first time: the white candlewick bedcover, the unadorned white walls, the clock on Sudhir’s bedside table loudly ticking the minutes away, her baby photo in a heart-shaped frame on Mira’s bedside table, the prayer table with its garlanded idols, the strong smell of sandalwood incense in the air. She sat on Mira’s side of the bed, then looked through a pile of mail on the table. A letter from Madhu, an invitation to a birthday party, a thank-you note from someone. She looked away, her
attention caught by Mira’s leather slippers lying overturned by the foot of the bed. She must have been in a hurry to get somewhere. Probably Sheela Shilpa’s. That’s where all her mother’s friends gathered every other afternoon to gossip and kill time. She could see them now, talking enthusiastically over tea and samosas about their children’s achievements at school, their career goals and college choices, their latest acquisitions, their in-laws, their long-term plans for remodeling their houses. Preeti remembered those long, tedious afternoons with a sense of horror. Until school had claimed her afternoons, she had been dragged to every one of those get-togethers. No swimming lessons or baseball practice for her: just Sheela Shilpa’s hot and spicy teas. The women talked about the future, always the future—what they could do, how things would be. As if arranging the future was any way of controlling the present. Something so unexpected could happen, suddenly and without warning, that you would have to fight just to survive. Like Janet, who in two years had gone from being a middle-class suburban kid to the life of a prostitute in the streets of New York City. Pregnancy. Then drugs. Then being kicked out of her home by her dad. Like me, Preeti thought. Yes, for her, too, and for her parents, life would change its course, no longer the safe, predictable road they had known.

She wanted to cry, but she laughed instead. A desperate, mirthless laugh that broke the calm silence like a clap of thunder. She laughed and laughed, each hysterical outburst a powerful thrust against her parents’ world.

“Yes, now you mustn’t panic,” Mira said to her caller. “Listen to me, I know all about these things. You must go into your kitchen immediately and heat some red chillies…. Don’t you know what red chillies are? … You must go to an Indian
grocery store in your area and ask them for red chillies. Yes, the Koreans will also have it. Go there as soon as you can…. No, I’m not a witch. But I know about things like this because in my country we have them also…. I’m from India. Yes, there are all kinds of wicked people who cast evil eyes on other people. You have witches here, but in my country there are all kinds of people who believe in different things—they are sometimes astrologers and sometimes cult leaders and sometimes just evil people. Some of them live out in the villages and join the dacoits…. Dacoits are thugs. They waylay innocent people and take their belongings. Sometimes, they can even murder people. You have to guard yourself against people like that…. Yes, then you must heat the chillies. No, no, not in oil. Just in a pan. Yes…. Then you must take some rock salt…. No, you can get it in your supermarket. Then you must take the name of your God and throw the chillies and the salt together over your shoulder three times.”

Then, incredulously, “How can you not have a God? You must have been born something…. Oh, if you’re Catholic, then you must take the name of Jesus Christ, I think. Yes, I have many gods—their names are Rama, Krishna, Vishnu, Lakshmi, Siva, Parvati—there are many of them. But you should go to your priest and ask him for a blessing…. You’re welcome. Don’t be scared. God will help you.”

Mira hung up, feeling quite pleased with herself. Here was something she understood well—the world of gods and demons, spirits and superstitions. Vicky, who was on the same shift, was looking at her oddly.

“What was that all about? Sounded bizarre.”

“Oh, this poor man thinks there are some witches who are putting an evil eye on him.”

“Oh Christ, not that nut! You didn’t take him seriously, Mira?”

“What do you mean? These things are very serious.”

“He just calls in for shock value. This is great, though. He probably wasn’t expecting to be taken seriously. Perhaps now that he has, he won’t bother us again. But all that stuff about chillies and salt—you were joking, weren’t you?” She laughed. “You’re really something else, Mira,” and without waiting for Mira’s answer, she picked up the phone to answer another call.

Mira reflected quietly while waiting for her next caller. Why did Vicky refuse to take this kind of call seriously? Maybe because they didn’t have any living myths and legends in their culture. In her world, gods came in human as well as animal forms. Loyalty and intelligence brought forth the image of Hanuman, the monkey god. Wealth and prosperity and wisdom conjured up the image of Ganesh, the elephant god. And whenever you had an unexpected stroke of good luck, you knew deep inside that the goddess Lakshmi was pleased with you. And evil Ravana had many incarnations, mostly human. What was myth, what reality? For Mira, the one was part and parcel of the other.

Most of the calls she received dealt with relationships—between spouses, siblings, parents and children, lovers. She was intimidated by the male callers, unused to being in any kind of position of authority in her relationships with men. And the women were all so different from her, demanding, strident, defensive. What could she say to a woman who was contemplating divorce because her husband refused to give up his two beers a day and she hated the smell? Or to the one who threatened to walk out on her husband because he hadn’t washed the dishes for a week? She would try to remember the things she had learned in the training sessions. But they didn’t come naturally. She was constantly in awe of how these women treated the men in their lives. Sudhir would think she had lost her mind if she so much as suggested that he do the dishes even once.

The phone rang again. Mira rushed to pick it up.

“Emergency counseling,” she said. “Yes, I am a mother. How can I help you?”

The voice at the other end was weary, exhausted, desperate. “I think my daughter’s pregnant,” the woman said. “And she’s only sixteen. I don’t know what to do. Her father will kill both her and me.”

Mira paused. “How do you know?” she said.

“Because a mother knows. The girl’s been throwing up every day for the past week. Her face looks so thin and pale, she reminds me of a waif. I don’t know how to tell her I know, that I want to help. That we can talk.”

Mira felt herself stiffening, as one does when one’s instincts have already registered what the mind has not—or cannot—yet.

“What will you do?” Mira asked, sensing there was little advice she could give the woman. How could she advise someone on her own worst nightmare?

“I don’t know. What would you do?”

“I don’t know. It’s a big problem. I haven’t really thought about it before.”

“Is your child a girl, a teenager?”

“Yes, she’s fifteen.” Mira paused. “And like your daughter she’s been throwing up every day and looks like a refugee. I don’t think it’s pregnancy that is making her do that. I think she’s bulimic. You know how these teenagers think—they all want to look like sticks because that’s what the magazines tell them they must look like.”

“Yes, I agree. But bulimia is different. They usually want to get sick late at night, when nobody’s listening. The morning would be an odd time to force yourself to get sick. They have to go to school, after all. And she isn’t eating all that much.”

“That’s true. Preeti’s the same.”

“Maybe your daughter’s pregnant too?” the woman suggested.

“No, no. She can’t be. She knows better than that. She isn’t experienced. I watch her very closely. I don’t think anything like that could be the matter in Preeti’s case.”

“But if she is, what would you do?”

“I would rather die,” Mira said. Then, remembering she was supposed to be helpful, she added, “No, I wouldn’t say anything until she chooses to tell me. Then …”

“Yes?”

“Then I would try to understand, I think. But I know I would feel terrible and I wouldn’t know what to do.”

“Would you suggest abortion?” the woman asked.

“No, she’s too young for that. But she’s still in school. How can she have a child?”

“This is exactly my problem too. We’re Catholics, and abortion doesn’t sit very well with our religion, know what I mean? So I can’t really suggest it. But I can’t let her have the child. Her life would be ruined.”

“Yes, we’re Indians…. No, from India. And in our culture, girls are supposed to be chaste until they get married. You go straight from your parents’ house to your husband’s. And if there’s anything like this in your background, somehow they’ll find out—I mean, the prospective in-laws. I don’t know how, but they know everything.”

The woman laughed. “That’s just like us Catholics. With us, too, everybody seems to know everything. And her father is so devout, he’ll probably whip her or something. I don’t know what’s going to happen. Don’t you think it’s difficult being a mother? When things go right, the fathers take the credit. When things go wrong, the mother’s to blame.”

“It’s the same with us. My husband would probably turn into a block of stone, stop acknowledging her as his daughter. He would start treating her as a diseased thing. And it would be all my fault. I couldn’t bear it.”

Mira could hardly believe it. Here she was, talking to an
American mother as though they were friends. It had never happened before. She savored this for a minute. It was because the woman couldn’t see her, couldn’t see her dressed as she was, her foreignness. They were two disembodied voices, really talking to each other.

Mira forgot her counselor’s role. “What shall I do if she is pregnant?” she asked.

“Well, you’ve got to protect her from her father, don’t you think?”

“Yes, but how will we live? Things will never be normal again.”

“Not normal, just different, I think. I’ve always wanted a closer relationship with my daughter. I don’t think we’ve ever really understood each other. I come from such a straitlaced background. Things are different now. You have to try and understand their point of view.”

“But how will one explain to all the others?”

“You don’t really have to, if you’re strong enough. The only explaining you really have to do is to yourself.”

“You know, this is funny,” Mira said. “You called me for advice and I’m taking it from you instead.”

“That’s because we’re both lost, both unsure of how to cope. We can learn from each other, we can take comfort in each other.”

“Yes,” Mira said. “My name is Mira, and I’m here every Tuesday from ten in the morning to four in the afternoon. You can always reach me here.”

“And I’m Helen. I’m so glad we talked. I hope things go well with your daughter. I’ll call you again next Tuesday.”

“That will be very nice. And good luck with your daughter.” Mira put the phone down and immediately started worrying. How rational, how manageable it had all seemed while she was discussing it with Helen. Yet if Preeti really was pregnant … could that be it? The reason for the mood swings, the early-morning sickness?

It was three-thirty. “Vicky,” Mira said. “I have to leave. I don’t know—my daughter. Do you think you can manage on your own till the next shift?”

“Sure, Mira. Go ahead. Is something wrong?”

“I don’t know. I’m going to find out.”

Mira opened the front door quietly and entered the house. There was a strong smell of alcohol in the air. In the living room, the liquor cabinet door was wide open and a bottle of brandy stood at the front, its cork barely pushed in. It had been an unopened bottle; now it was only half full.

She put her bag down on the sofa and slid out of her sneakers. Then she walked up the stairs to Preeti’s room. As she passed the bathroom, she heard muffled sounds of crying, followed by deep retching. Mira prayed it was the alcohol.

“Preeti, are you all right? Please open the door.”

“Oh hell, oh hell,” Preeti cursed. “Can’t you just go away?”

“No, I can’t,” Mira said. “I have to come in.”

There was silence. Mira pushed the door open and went in. Preeti was sitting on the floor, her eyes red and bloated with crying. On the floor next to her was a paper cup that looked as though it still held some brandy. The bathroom smelled of vomit and alcohol.

Mira walked up to Preeti and wordlessly wiped her face clean with a wet towel. Then she pulled her off the floor and led her into her room. Preeti didn’t protest. She seemed to be in a daze. As they left the bathroom, Mira saw the easily recognizable torn packaging for the pregnancy kit. She had used the same brand herself a few years before, when she thought she was pregnant. It confirmed her worst fears. She knew now, even without asking the question, that her daughter was pregnant.