Loving Properly

an excerpt from my short story “Loving Properly”

Kavita[1] wrapped her arms around Hasini, smoothing out her hair and wiping away her tears. The engagement ceremony was just two weeks away.

“Do you want me to talk to your parents?” Kavita asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t know what to do, Kavi,” Hasini said, head in hands.

“His skin is so white it must have blinded them. That’s why they can’t see clearly,” Kavita cracked. Hasini normally would have chuckled, but this time she barely smiled. “Money and caste make our world go round,” she spoke more seriously this time.

“I’m a disgrace. A shame. My own parents don’t believe me.”

The next day, Hasini nearly jumped when she saw her best friend standing there in the doorway. She knew instantly what Kavita had come here for and dreaded what the outcome would be. She pleaded with her eyes but Kavita, like always, was resolute. Hasini’s mother was at the dining table with a large metal bowl of green beans, each of which she took into her hand and snapped the ends off before placing in another bowl. She sprang up at the sight of the young woman, who was like a second daughter to her, and with both hands led Kavita to the dining table.

“Come now, Kavi. You shouldn’t be walking around to and fro like this,” Hasini’s mother scolded. “When are you due?”

“Next month. And don’t worry, Aunty, I can handle myself. I’m fine,” Kavita assured her. “Is Uncle here? I need to talk to you guys.”

They all sat at the dining table. Hasini looked down and started drawing imaginary circles on the wood surface. She couldn’t even concentrate on what Kavita was saying, only on how earnest her voice sounded, how strongly and clearly she spoke. A dark, irrepressible fear was stuck inside her throat. What was the point anymore? She knew Kavita wanted so desperately to help her, but there was nothing good that could come of this.

Abruptly, her father slammed his fist down on the table. She flinched. “You’re in love, aren’t you? That’s why you stalled marriage, isn’t it? Stalled and stalled because you’re in love. Who is it? You fell in love with some untouchable bastard, didn’t you?” The word ‘untouchable’ fell from his mouth like a curse. His chest heaved up and down, and his face was red with anger. Hasini’s mother gasped in horror.

“No, Nana[2]! I’m not. I swear I’m not.” Hasini watched as her mother breathed a sigh of relief but still clasped her hands together in prayer, perhaps has a pre-caution.

Hasini’s father looked at her and shook his head gravely. “Shameful. Such a lucky match. A safe future ahead of you. And here you are…I don’t know what’s wrong with you.” He stalked off to the family room with her mother trailing behind him.

“I’m sorry,” Kavita said, holding onto Hasini’s trembling hand. Her voice was doubled over in defeat. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

---

[1] KUH-vee-tha

[2] Dad or Father

Bridge

There is a large gap in the bridge. Turning back, she still doesn’t know how she reached the other side, how she managed to clear that empty space. Some days, she is triggered. A belt buckle, a shaking fist, dirty snow, and she is assaulted by flashes of memory. These are memories without context, pieces of a larger puzzle. She flings her hands up in self-defense and lets out a blood-curdling scream, resisting the attack that hurls at her from a past unremembered.

On the good days, she feels lighthearted and free and blissfully ignorant. It is only when someone asks her does she stop, teetering on the edge of the bridge near that gap, staring down at the turbulent water below. Her brain feels fuzzy, and there is a disconnect, an uncomfortable feeling that she can’t shake. She’s taken to making things up, filling in the empty spaces with her own blocks. These self-created memories are happy ones, free of pain. They’re almost too perfect. Too good to be true.

Some days, she is unsure of everything. She awakes to find herself curled in the corner of her bedroom, or in the kitchen with a knife in her hand. Always, her face is wet with tears. Always, she doesn’t know how she got there. Doesn’t know how she arrived to this point in her life. How many birthdays has she missed? How many school events, how many friends?

Knowing might heal her. Or it could crush her. What it is she needs to know, though, she is not sure of. These broken flashes of her past scare her, leave her drained. They are not helpful, not reassuring. Not knowing means not hurting, and not hurting is better. She doesn’t want to find out. She doesn’t want to go back.

Shadow

She creates shadow puppets. Dogs, birds, and rabbits appear on the wall, as if out of thin air. They are two-dimensional and always the same black shade. Ears perk up and flop down, wings flutter, tails wag. This is how she creates her stories, stories that transform abruptly and dance across the white surface. As the story becomes more complicated, the characters leap out. They fill up, curve out, change color, breathe, make noise. She is no longer the narrator, just the listener. Control slips out of her hands, and she is left only with anxiousness.

The animals change shape again, become human. These are people she recognizes, childhood friends. Their words bite, scratch, and choke her. She shuts her eyes and covers her ears, burying herself beneath her blanket. The words avalanche still further, piling on top of her. She can’t, or won’t, understand their bitterness, their hatred. Instead, she turns her back on them and hunches over, and still she bleeds. Still, she is bitten and chewed and picked apart. She is being destroyed by her own creations.

Anger

Anger seeps into the house unnoticed, growing gradually like a slow-rising flood. It hides behind peeling wall paint and wraps itself around the molded vegetables and rotten meat that stink up the refrigerator. It forms the human-shaped indent in her bed, the hand-shaped bruise on her upper arm. Anger is clutched inside his fist, stretching the skin out. It slips in between the holes of his leather belt, which makes a crack! sound every time it connects with her stomach. Anger paints the bath water a sickly red and contaminates the toilet bowl with her vomit. It strips her naked, slams into her without reservation, stings her eyes with tears. Anger brands her as “worthless,” tells her that no matter how hard she fights, she can’t win. Anger stokes the flames that curl around his feet and creep up his body. It silences his heart and allows hers to beat freely.

Again

When she tells you she is going to kill herself, you think about how any other person would probably seek help for her. You, however, just stand there and do nothing. You watch as her eyes grow larger and her frizzy, black jungle of hair gets wilder. You listen as her voice gets more shrill, her words less understandable. Your mind goes on a trip. You think about the homework you must finish for tomorrow, the pile of unwashed clothes on your bathroom floor, the chickpeas that are burning on the stove in the back, anything but her. You hear her, only partially, yell something about useless children and a worthless husband, something about running away and never coming back. She uses different words today, but the meaning is always the same, so you decide to tune her out completely, only watching just in case she actually does do something.

You think back to the first time she downed one pill too many. You were too young to understand the world at the time, but years later, you found out. You pictured her kneeling on the floor, a Tylenol bottle tipped over, pills strewn across the tiles. You pictured her gasping for air, throwing up blood, the body fluid spreading out over the kitchen floor, mingling with her sweat. You shiver., though you know that it was probably nothing like that. You don’t remember the last time she swallowed pills, and you take this lack of remembrance as a good sign, even though it doesn’t mean much.

You think back to the first time you saw her run away. You don’t remember how old you were or what the argument was about or even who was involved. You do remember the sound of your heart pulsating beneath your shirt, the feel of your lungs expanding and contracting at a terrifying speed. You remember how your sister froze up, fear tugging at her nerves. You remember how your dad told you that everything would be fine, that she would come back. He was used to this. You got used to it, too.

Your mind is jerked back by the sound of the garage door. You curse and make a feeble attempt to calm her down. You hear the sound of the car’s engine being turned off, the door being opened. You make another attempt, this time more forceful, but your dad has already walked in, has already realized that she is in one of her “episodes” again.

Suddenly, you grow angry with him. You hate him for coming home early. You hate it when he gets involved. You hate that he thinks he can handle her, like he thinks he can handle everything. You hate that he’s never sought help for her.

Most of all, though, you hate that, for a fraction of a second, you imagined the sharp point of a kitchen knife piercing through the flesh of her stomach, and you smiled.

Different Kind of Silence

When you are released from the hospital, you climb into the passenger’s seat of the car, turn away from me, press your body against the seat back, and curl into yourself the way a person does when she is unable to fight. I want to make small talk. I want to tell you how dreadful my work has become, tell you all the latest Hollywood gossip, ask you if you want to go get a massage, ask you if you want to go eat something. You’ve always liked that sub shop along Route 1. What was the name? I forget. I wonder this to myself, but I don’t open my mouth.

I know, though, that this silence has little to do with my inability to ask you questions. This silence is new, formed from my guilt, and that guilt forms the tension that spreads between us, thick and poisonous, like the smoke dispersed into a gas chamber. This suffocating silence is another byproduct of that silence, another domino in the domino effect initiated by that silence. This is an I’m-sorry-but-I-don’t-know-how-to-say-it silence, a What-should-I-say-to-make-you-forgive-me silence.

That silence was a different kind of silence, a deadlier, more shameful silence. It created the abstract pattern of flower vase fragments and china plate pieces on my kitchen floor, pillows indented with the shape of a fist, and tear-streaked cheeks. That silence was born out of fear, a fear that grew in my body like a tapeworm, wrapping itself around my organs, squeezing out every drop of courage that I had in me.

I’ve thought of possibly ten different ways of saying I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please forgive me. I’m truly ashamed. I never meant to turn my back on you. I’ve never felt more guilty. No matter how I mold my apology, though, it doesn’t feel right. Instead, I just stay quiet. Fear kept me from saving you. Guilt kept from visiting you. The two wretched demons stretch themselves out between us, folding into one another, growing heavier with each passing minute.

“Why?” You ask, cutting the thread of silence between us with a small whisper.

I dig inside me, wading through layers of cobwebs and pitch-black tunnels, trying to find my voice, the honest one, the one that, once upon a time, was not afraid to stand up for itself. I stumble around, fingers outstretched, feet moving cautiously, one in front of the other. Step by step. Inch by inch.

“Why?” You repeat. Your voice is more firm this time. You want an answer.

I force my feet to run faster, plowing through the dark. Am I lost? I don’t know, but still, I keep moving forward.

“Why?”

I come to a complete stop, so sudden that my left foot trips over my right, and I am crashing against the cold, hard floor.

I don’t know.

I was afraid.

I didn’t want to get hurt.

I was afraid you would hate me.

I don’t know.

“I’m sorry.”