Life at home is hushed. My parents and I shuffle around like cordial strangers. Sometimes I can barely even muster cordial. Every time I look at them, all I see in their eyes is fear and worry about the state of their practice and the state of our lives. And they might not acknowledge it, but they must sense the resentment that comes off me in waves. It’s like we’re all unavoidable reminders to one another of what we’ve lost.
So I now have one mission in life: avoid my parents. That, and to not think of Phil. Or New York. Or all the opportunities I’m missing. My brain hurts from thinking about all the stuff I swear not to think about.
It’s Saturday night. I’m not on the work schedule at the bookstore. Violet is going to a party at our friend Monica’s house and wants me to come. She’s texted me three times in the last hour. Just what I need, to go to some party and walk in on Phil and Lisa making out. Not that I even know Phil is even going to be there, but still, can’t risk it. I can’t keep ignoring her, so I text:
too tired
and turn off my phone.
With nothing to do and nowhere to go, I drive.
I drive through town and the houses that sprouted up overnight where once there were only cornfields. I drive down the dark, empty road behind the grocery store to where Batavia’s mythic Lincoln Tree once stood. They chopped it down two decades ago when the tree got sick, but according to old Batavia lore, when the leaves were green and full, the elm looked exactly like Abraham Lincoln’s profile. It faced in the direction of Bellevue, the sanitarium where Mary Todd Lincoln was forced to stay for a while in the 1870s. They say that when the summer breeze was just so, the branches of the elm would dip down and give the face the appearance of weeping.
I drive on, unable to weep anymore.
When I find myself at the Fabyan Forest Preserve, it feels almost like an accident. Almost. I kill the headlights and drive along the road that parallels the river. The car creeps along a half mile of crunchy gravel. The pond is the best place to wallow in my wretched state. Why not go to the place that will hurt the most to see how much I can stand? It’s why I watch the Sullivan Ballou letter-to-his-wife scene in the Ken Burns doc Civil War over and over—because I’m challenging my own heart to burst. He was a Union officer and probably the most romantic guy ever. That letter is so full of longing and gratitude for his wife being in his life. My love for you is deathless, he wrote. He died a week after writing it. She never received the letter.
Their tragedy kills me every single time. Sometimes I think that letter is why documentaries need to exist—to show us the almost unbearable truth about ourselves.
As I drive up to the entrance of the Japanese Garden, I see Phil’s car parked in front of the NO TRESPASSING sign.
Damn it. My chest tightens. I clasp the steering wheel, afraid it will take flight. But I barely have time to panic. I do a quick U-turn and skid away. Gravel shoots up behind the car. He’s seen me, I’m sure of it. Or heard me, at least. And no one else comes to this place.
The space in the car shrinks, closing in on me. Was Phil there with Lisa? No. No. No. Crap. I don’t even try to stop myself from crying. I pound the side of my right fist into my thigh when I stop at the first light.
I’ve run out of road, so I drive home. The dark house is a relief. A note on the foyer table in my mom’s handwriting reads, At the mosque. Then going to the Khans’. Since the bombing last week, my parents have gone to prayers every day. I can understand. It gives them a sense of peace and purpose, a place to belong when no other place feels welcoming. But nothing at home has changed. We communicate mostly by notes now. I know they’re scared. I’m scared, too. A part of my heart aches for them. But another part of my heart can’t forgive them for reneging on their promise.
I walk into the kitchen and open the fridge. I linger long enough to hear my mother’s voice in my head: “Shut the door, Maya; you are defrosting everything.” She made parathas while I was at work. I slather butter on a paratha and throw it into the microwave for thirty seconds. Since I’m eating my feelings, though, buttery flatbread is not enough. I open the freezer and grab a pint of mint chip ice cream, find a spoon, and head to my room.
In low light, I kick off my shoes and sit cross-legged in the middle of my bed. Spoonfuls of ice cream aren’t enough, either.
I need a friendly voice. A person who understands without me having to explain. I need Kareem.
We haven’t talked since the bombing. We’ve texted. I’m not sure if I should call. But my entire body pulls me to the phone. He always says I can call him whenever. Hope he means it.
I hold the phone to my ear while I put down my food and settle into my bed. I count the rings. Of course he’s out; it’s Saturday night. I should hang up. But caller ID.
I ready myself to leave a breezy message, but a breathless female voice answers in the middle of the fifth ring. “H-h-ello?”
“Uh, I think … sorry. I must have the wrong number?”
“Who are you looking for?”
“Kareem?”
“He stepped out for a second. He’ll be right back.”
“Oh, okay. Thanks,” I say, trying to hide my embarrassment.
“I’ll yell down the hall for him. Can I tell him who’s calling?”
“Maya.”
“The documentarian?”
“I guess … that’s … me.”
“Hang on.” The woman pulls the phone away from her mouth, but I can still hear her yelling for Kareem. “Babe. Phone. It’s Maya.”
There’s scuffling, and then Kareem’s muffled voice says, “Give me five minutes. I’ll be right behind you,” and then I hear something like a kiss. Definitely a kiss. “Maya? What’s up?” He sounds worried.
“Hey, thought I’d give you a ring, but I guess I caught you at a bad time.” I bite my bottom lip. I want desperately to sound coolly detached but not like I’m trying too hard to sound coolly detached—basically Lauren Bacall in To Have and Have Not but less insolent and more Indian. (Another movie Hina made me watch.)
“No worries,” he says. “Everything good with you?”
“Yeah. Sure. But I don’t want to keep you from … from …” I’m fishing for the woman’s name. Obviously.
“Suraya.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt—”
“Chill. It’s fine. I’ve been meaning to call you, to see how things have been since the vandalism at your parents’ clinic. How have they been holding up?”
“You should go. You don’t want to keep Suraya waiting …” A whirling fireball grows in my chest. I have no right to feel this way, but I do.
“Maya, you sound kind of—”
“I’m surprised, that’s all. I didn’t expect someone else to answer your phone.”
“Suraya and I got back together last week.”
“Back together?” I gulp.
“Remember, in your backyard, my brokenhearted sob story? Suraya was the breaker.”
“And now you’re back with her?” I try and sound upbeat and friendly instead of simply confused. I’m fairly certain I’m completely failing.
“Funny how life works, right? The timing wasn’t right then … we both had growing up to do. Anyway, we had dinner a couple weeks ago, and the whole meal neither of us could stop smiling. We decided to give it—us—another try.”
Kareem’s happiness sings in my ear. I can’t begrudge him. After all, I’m the one who threw us away. I knew then as I do now that we weren’t meant to be together. So it makes no sense that I’m hurting the way I am.
“It may seem weird, but Suraya and I—she gets me, you know? We can be together, and it’s easy. I don’t have to pretend to be something I’m not.” He pauses. “You know how when life gets too complicated, it’s easy to overthink everything? Intellectualize too much?”
“Please, I’m the president of Overthinkers Anonymous. I’m their patron saint.”
Kareem laughs. “Sometimes you’ve got to be less cerebral and more intuitive. So I figured I’d take a chance, trust my heart, and be less concerned about all the made-up things that were supposedly getting in our way. Cue segue. So how are things with Phil?”
“Don’t ask. I think he’s back together with Lisa.”
“You think?”
“Maybe? I’m not sure. Things have been so confusing and messed up the last couple weeks …”
“Well, the bright lights of New York City are right around the corner. Plenty of new adventures to be had.”
“New York’s not meant to be, either.” My throat tightens. I can no longer even feign being cool and detached. I am the total opposite.
“Why? What happened?”
“My mom totally freaked, and now my parents refuse to let me go to NYU. I’m going to live with my aunt and go to school in Chicago. I can’t even live on campus. It’s that or community college and live at home.”
He takes a breath. “Holy shit. That sucks. I’m so sorry, Maya. They’re still being that way even though they discovered the bomber wasn’t a Muslim?”
“Believe it or not, my mom actually argued that the fact that the terrorist wasn’t Muslim added to her point. It’s too dangerous even when the guy isn’t Muslim, so imagine if the next terrorist is.”
“And your dad’s going along with it? It makes no sense.”
“I know. He’s totally on her side. No matter how irrational she acts. Obviously, he agrees with her, but he won’t say it out loud, just defers to her instead. And without them paying for it, there’s no way I can afford NYU.”
“Has your aunt tried talking to them?”
“Hina is the one who came up with the idea of me living with her so I can have a semblance of freedom and not have to live with my parents.”
“Maya, listen.” His voice grows urgent. “Whatever happens, you can’t stop making your movies. Promise you won’t give up. You’ve got to fight for what you want.”
My eyes begin to sting. “But I’m tired of fighting. I tried to step out of the stereotypical good Indian girl mold—with Phil, my movies, New York—and now my whole life is a dumpster fire. So what’s the point?”
I hear Suraya call Kareem.
“Sorry,” he mutters. “I gotta run. Listen, if you give up now, you’ll regret it later. That I know.”
“I’ll take it under advisement.”
“It’ll work out. I know it. I’m here if you need me. Listen to your gut. Okay?”
“Got it. See ya.”
If I listen to my gut, I’d be throwing up right now.
“Good Morning Springfield” TV 7
The authorities have traced the partial license plate and VIN from the vehicle that exploded to a rental agency on the Illinois-Indiana border.
The truck was rented to an Ethan Branson—a nineteen-year-old Indiana resident with apparent ties to white supremacist organizations. Mr. Branson frequently commented on right-wing extremist websites with strong antigovernment rhetoric and attended meetings of the Midwestern Knights of Brotherhood in Indiana.
Materials found in his motel room here in Springfield indicate he acted alone.