“Your bedroom is the same,” Mom says, coming in from the kitchen. She hands me a cup of chai from a pot that is always simmering. “I left it, in case you . . .” She stops, catching herself. She motions for me to follow her back into the kitchen, where she opens the refrigerator. “There is juice, milk, fruit.” Pointing to a door down the hall, she says, “The bathroom is there. The shower is fully stocked with shampoo, gel, anything you may need.” She points to another door. “Linens, towels in there.”
“Mom.” I set the chai cup down on the marble island that sits in the middle of the immaculate room. Memories fill the air, of us sitting there, legs swinging, as we ate breakfast. Trisha and I fighting over the Sunday comics as Mom tried to keep us quiet. Dad liked to sleep in on Sunday mornings, and we knew better than to wake him up. “I know where everything is. I used to live here.”
She brings her hands together, clasping them in front of her still body. She closes her eyes and nods once. “Of course.” She is smaller than I remember her. Her hair is dyed pitch-black from a mix of henna and coloring. Her face, once drawn and tired, seems more alive, refreshed. She looks younger without reason to. “I just thought—because it has been a very long time.”
The question hangs in the air between us. It is what I dreaded the most when I packed my bags in New York. I could remind her of the words she spoke to me the night of the graduation. The truth I had always suspected, but never wanted to believe. But that would mean bringing up a past that demands to remain buried. The only acceptable answer is an apology for choosing to walk alone rather than among them. I rehearse the words that tell her it was my only means of survival. My way of living with the memories and still forging ahead. However, the explanation sounds hollow to my own ears. Because my escape only meant her burden became more weighted.
Thinking it safest to say nothing about that, I change the topic. “How have you been doing? In the house without him?”
“It is quiet,” she says. “I have never known such silence.” She plays with the hem of her cardigan, wrinkles on her fingers that formed since I last saw her. “I play music now. All the time.” She gives me a small smile, the first one I have seen since my arrival home. “Music from India. Songs that were in films from my childhood. They sell them now, on CDs labeled Old is Gold. Amazing.”
I laugh without meaning to. He never liked music. Said it gave him a headache. But this small taste of freedom has brought her a rare happiness. Taken aback at first, she offers another wavering smile before laughing with me. Soon we are both laughing hard, in a way that was always disallowed. Filled with relief and hope. He’s not here, and though memories of him permeate the air, we are still able to breathe freely.
“I would love to hear some of the songs.” In leaving California and my family, I also left my heritage. No more trips to the temple on Sunday. No Indian clothes for Diwali or Holi. When Bollywood films were offered in the mainstream theaters, I chose another option.
“Yes,” she says, excited. “Tomorrow morning, as you have breakfast, I will play them.” She takes a step toward me, one of the few times she has ever done so. Without thinking, I cringe. Seeing my reaction, she stops and immediately turns toward the bedrooms. The moment is lost. “You must sleep. Long flight. And tomorrow we have to . . .”
“Go to the hospital.”
“Yes. We must go see your father.”
My room is the same as when I left it. The books that offered me my only escape still line the shelves. Grabbing a worn one, I thumb through it. A story of a young man who overcomes great loss to find happiness. It was a favorite of mine. I read it often as a teenager, hoping for clues from his survival to help navigate my own. Running my hands over the spines of others, I realize each one is a survival story. All the characters face insurmountable odds in their quests to find themselves. My legs begin to buckle under me. Whether from the long flight or the weight of the day is difficult to determine.