“Do you remember my first birthday in America?” Marin asks aloud, watching Brent for a sign that he can hear her. None comes; it is the first time she can remember him silent. Unable to afford a party, Brent had taken Marin to the local ice-cream store for a birthday cone. They left Trisha at home with Ranee—Sonya wasn’t born yet. Marin’s birthday was her special day. Brent told her she could have a double scoop, so she perused all the options carefully. The smell of cream and sugar saturated the air, making her mouth water.
“Hurry,” Brent said. He was still in his work clothes. He hadn’t found a job as an engineer, so his uniform was soiled with the oil from the gas station where he worked. “Choose.”
Marin nodded, but, caught up in the excitement, she failed to notice her father’s growing agitation. “May I try this one?” she asked the teenager behind the counter.
“Sure.” Bored, he took a tiny pink spoon and scooped out a small amount. Marin savored the melting milk on her tongue. In India, sherbet was the closest thing they had to ice cream. It paled in comparison. Marin had never had anything so delectable before.
“It is wonderful,” she said in perfect English. “Thank you. May I try another?”
The boy shrugged, unmoved by her excitement. “Yeah. Which one?”
Marin tried three more before finally deciding on one scoop of vanilla and one of chocolate. “Thank you, Sir,” she said to the boy while her father paid. They walked out of the store and started back toward their apartment, Marin licking each side carefully to make sure not even one drop would fall. Daring to take a full bite, she closed her eyes at the taste of the two flavors combined.
“It is so wonderful, Daddy. You must taste it.” Marin held her thin arm up, carefully balancing the cone for him to taste. Just as Brent bent down to take a lick, Marin’s arm wobbled and the melting ice cream scoops fell out of the cone, splattering on the ground below. Tears filled her eyes, but before they spilled out, she felt the slap across her face. Shocked, Marin glanced at her father in confusion. It was the first time he had raised his hand to her.
“Look what you did,” Brent barked. Stepping over the puddle, he continued walking, leaving Marin to stare after him. “What a waste. I never should have bought it for you.”
It was an important lesson to Marin, one she didn’t forget: never depend on another person for your happiness. If someone had the authority to give, then he or she had the authority to take away.
TRISHA
I recheck the dining room table to make sure each setting is in its place, and I wipe the glassware. Every wineglass is set exactly five inches from the plate. I have used my best silverware, a gift to myself after my wedding. The smell of simmering chicken drifts in from the kitchen. Eloise, our housekeeper, has been with us for the last two years. Though she is not Indian, she has learned to make my favorite dishes. My mother has spent hours patiently teaching her just the right amount of cumin to mix with ginger and red pepper to enhance the flavor of cooked vegetables. As I get older, I find myself craving almost daily the authentic Indian meals I grew up eating. Eric laughs at me whenever I tell him that. Twelve years older, he insists that at thirty I am still a child.
“Everything looks perfect. As always,” Eric whispers. He wraps his arms around my waist from behind, his fingers sneaking below my shirt to touch my bare stomach. It is flat, thanks to the hours I spend in the gym. “Are you OK?”
I lean my head back, just for a moment, absorbing his strength before stepping out of his arms to face him. His green eyes fill with warmth and kindness. I run my fingers through his blond waves and rest them on his nape. “I want everything to go right for Mama.” I glance around my immaculate house. She is standing by the window, waiting. Resentment starts to rise in my throat, but I swallow it. This is not the time. “She hasn’t seen Sonya in years.”
“Neither have you.”
I fill the crystal pitcher with water, set it in the middle of the table, and take a moment to admire the display. An elaborate celebration to welcome home the sister who abandoned us years ago. Eric watches me, waiting for an answer that I don’t have. “It doesn’t matter,” I finally say. “She made her choice.” One I have never understood but have had to accept.