Bittersweet (16 page)

Those eyes again. Soft enough to silence the frustration that hammered trapped within him. Soft enough to remind him of all the tender parts and moments and unforgettable ways they knew and continued to know each other, of all the ways she belonged to him and he, he’d always belonged to her. He’d meant to say all that. He’d meant to promise her everything, but
not yet
hung on his tongue, too. He hated
not yet
the way he hated Mala and arranged marriages and expectations never ending.

Not yet. Not yet.

But soon.

Football and Mala had become Hassan’s obsession almost to the exclusion of all else. He woke with thoughts of one or the other and nodded off while wrestling through the challenges they posed. Round and round he circled near solutions, approaching them with hint of excitement, thinking this could be it, only to fall back in dismay and begin again.

His problem was that he wanted it all. He wanted Nathan tossing a football at the five-year-old him.  He wanted his father with that obnoxious pride. He wanted his mother with that mother’s smile, forgiving him always for anything. And he wanted Edy, Edy for him and only him, on and on, forever.

Damn it.

“Hassan, what was the Reconstruction Era?”

Oh. A look up confirmed that not only was he in history class, but that Mr. McGuire was not pleased with him being startled. Either that or he’d snacked on a lemon while Hassan stared down at his desk.

“Um, yeah. Reconstruction.” He ran a hand through his hair. Being called on sucked. Not because he never knew the answer, but because school already felt like a constant spotlight. Let someone else sweat under it for a change.

“We’re waiting, Mr. Pradhan.” Mr. McGuire smirked as if he expected Hassan to bow out or something. A dumb move considering who his dad was and what his parents required.

“The Reconstruction Era focused on reuniting the South with the Union following the Civil War. They were rebuilding the South since it was wrecked.”

 That earned a couple of snickers.

“Oh, and helping out former slaves,” he added.

“Thank you, Hassan.” McGuire looked for a new victim. “Melanie Thomas, tell us an initial goal of Lincoln’s at the onset of Reconstruction.”

“Uh? Not to die?”

Nice.

Mala’s aunt seemed genuinely surprised that he didn’t know they were in Boston. It stretched the imagination to think that adults were playing tricks behind his backs, all for some big gain. Though Hassan wondered if his thinking in this was all wrong. He loved his mother. She was a good person. Only, she flew dogmatic at times and pushed at having her own way. Even as a kid, she’d give him the silent treatment if he misbehaved, questioned her too firmly, or did something that otherwise displeased her. Hassan hated her silent treatment, so he learned quickly what she liked and disliked.

He’d given more thought to Dr. Dhumal’s suggestion and he did plan on talking to his mom and dad. He expected explosions and because of that wouldn’t come like a child twisting in the wind. He’d have bargaining chips on his side and he’d be prepared for his mother’s emotional rebuttal.

School went at a slug’s pace compared to the fire rushing through his veins. Edy must’ve asked him a dozen times what was wrong, and at least once, he snapped. Even his apology felt rushed and half baked as he slammed books into his locker so he could hustle on to practice. He had a hot tip to make good on and only a sliver of time to get it right.

On the field, he ignored the recruiters and where he’d be in the eventual. He smashed helmets, got the adrenaline flowing, and tipped a nod to the guy from Alabama.

The drive from South End to Copley Library was short and parking sucked. After a bit of circling and making peace with the notion that he’d receive a ticket, Hassan trotted back to the Main Library and burst in, ready.

Every head looked up at him.

Okay, so he hadn’t thought through every aspect of his plan.

Head bowed, he managed an embarrassed cough and nodded at the stern grandpa manning circulation. Something told Hassan he had his hand on a phone, ready to report the first sign of menace.

His gaze followed Hassan as he walked.

Quickly, calmly, Hassan made to the Teen Room with what he hoped was a disarming smile.

He spotted Mala’s hair first: thick, dark, and running the length of her chair back. She sat across from another, younger girl, with a pointy nose and chubby face. They had enough paperbacks scattered between them to start a bookstore, maybe two.

Hassan snatched a stray chair, flipped it backwards, and joined them.

“Hi,” he said.

Mala jumped while her friend turned a frightening shade of cherry red. Hassan took a closer look at their books.
Confessions. Crave You. Faking It. Ripped.

Four arms swept the paperbacks and they whooshed into the girls’ laps, some into their book bags, a few on the floor, forgotten.

Okay.

“Hey,” Hassan said. “So, uh, remember me?”

Mala eyes swept the room. Dark, wild, desperate. “Yes, of course I remember you. We’re engaged,” she whispered. For some reason, the other girl flushed again, threatening a shade of lavender or maybe plum this time.

“We shouldn’t be speaking without a chaperone,” Mala said. “It’s inappropriate.”

Hassan’s gaze flicked down to
Ripped
, missed on the floor. “I, uh, don’t think you do everything you’re supposed to.”

For whatever reason, the smaller girl giggled wildly, face scarlet, fingers waving like jazz hands.

“Are you okay?” Hassan said. “Can I get you some water?”

“She’s fine,” Mala said tiredly. “But you should go.”

“Not until I know when I can talk to you. Just you.”

“On our wedding night.”

So, never.

“Sooner than that,” Hassan said. “Please.”

“I can’t be seen talking with you,” Mala said. “Don’t dishonor me by staying further. If someone sees us…”

Hassan sat back and stared at her, face contorted by her words. ‘If someone sees us.’ It could have been his mother talking; she’d phrased that so well. For a moment, he considered the possibility that his mother chose Mala for him, because of their likeness to each other and her willingness to bend. But no, that couldn’t be true. They’d been matched since birth.

“Let me get this straight,” Hassan said. “I am sitting right here. You’re sitting right here. You expect me to marry you, yet you can’t have a conversation with me because someone might see us?”

Mala cringed. “Please keep your voice down. The other patrons. They’re beginning to look.”

He’d do better than that. Hassan got up and left. He might have been gone, but he hadn’t given up. Mala had the same schedule every day after school according to his friends at Back Bay. So, he’d try her again and again, until she bent, until she broke. Mala had to see that marrying a guy who didn’t want her was an insult; it was preposterous. And if she couldn’t see that, it was Hassan’s job to make her see.

Edy woke to the rude feeling of bed covers being snatched back and a flush of cold seizing her limbs. On opening her eyes, she faced her mother stern expression.

“Get up.”

Oh jeez.

“Where am I going?” Edy rubbed her eye with a fist.

“With me. Now hurry up.”

Great. She was a regular bastion of knowledge this morning.

Edy shifted enough to face the window and saw sunlight in streams. Blocked partially by the tree outside, it hit only the foot of the bed, leaving her to wonder about the hour. Her mother blocked the view of the nightstand where a digital clock would have displayed what her body already told her: that it was too early and that she needed more sleep.

But Rebecca Phelps wasn’t the sort to repeat herself.

Edy rose, freshened up, and pulled on yoga pants with a long sleeved tee she’d picked up in Paris. When she got downstairs, she found her mother in the Lexus with the engine running.

“Do we … have an appointment somewhere?” Edy said.

Her mother sighed. “You and I need to talk. Elsewhere, that’s all.” She threw the car into reverse and they were off.

Talk. About what? The election? Her parents? Cam? Edy closed her eyes and tried to imagine whatever truth her mother was about to reveal. Cam, she decided on. She was ready to be honest about Cam.

But they didn’t need to drive anywhere for that.

Cowardice told Edy to refuse. A pounding heart told her to refuse. But how had the girl who fought Reggie Knight turned to fear when riding with her mother?

“You wear dread bold,” her mother said. The disdain in her voice hung plain. “What? Do you think I’d harm you? I’m the one who gave birth to you.”

Like she’d never hurt her before. Edy refused to spend time puzzling over that statement or why she’d put so much emphasis on
her
giving birth to Edy as opposed to another. It was a jab at Rani, she knew. But she’d always made tiny stabs like that. Far easier was it to criticize someone else’s effort at parenting than to stand up and attempt one instead.

The city fired past them in a blur. Old brick building, older trees, all swept aside by Edy’s eyelids. The rock rock of tires soothed as they raced down I-93 heading south. The air weighed with expectation. She hadn’t answered her mother. No one ever went without answering her mother. So, it became plain to Edy that she hadn’t posed a hypothetical question.

“No,” Edy sighed. “I don’t think you’d hit me.” Why would she? She never had. Then again, nothing was done until it was done, so that was clearly dumb logic. But she didn’t actually fear her mom, she realized. She feared her revelations.

A cold glance from her mother served as bare acknowledgment that both knew the question hadn’t been totally answered. After all, harm came in infinite forms.

“I’ve never hit you,” her mother pressed. “So, you haven’t ventured much by saying so.”

Edy cautioned a look and found the corner of her mother’s eye narrowed to crinkles, her mouth pinched, her hands fisted on the steering wheel.

 “Where are we going?” Edy said. How long will this take?

To that, her mother turned on NPR.

“A coalition of leaders from 30 countries met the United States president yesterday to discuss airstrike campaign and boot strategy in the ongoing war against terror.”

Edy tuned it out in the way that only a politician’s kid could. She knew all the stories, all the drama: alliances forged and broken, angry rebels, innocent victims, soldiers dead too young. Wasn’t it always the same? Man knew no other way. War begat war begat war.

Suddenly, they were no longer on the interstate, but in Quincy. Not near, but not far from home either. It wasn’t a place she went to on purpose, but she could take the T and get home if she needed to. Or if things somehow went horribly wrong. She made up her mind to watch the roads and note the street signs.  

Edy sat up a little straighter. God, they were the worst sort of dysfunctional, weren’t they? Here she was planning escape routes from her mother, just in case. Just in case ‘what’, she should have asked herself.

“Here we are,” her mother said.

She pulled into the drive of a two-story old world white house of clapboard with broad school house windows. When Edy glanced at her, she killed the engine.

“Lesson one,” her mother said. “Have possessions of your own. Have
options
of your own. The house at 2260 Dunberry belongs to your father and rightfully so. It’s been passed down for generations. This house belongs to me. One day, both will be yours. Now get out so I can show you around.”

Edy’s mother climbed out the car, leaving her to scramble after.

“Why would you need a second house …” Edy’s words died with the look of impatience her mother gave.

“Indoors, please. Private affairs belong in private. I know your Facebook generation has forgotten that, but...” She headed for a flaming red door.

“Whatever,” Edy muttered and followed her.

The door opened to a short sweep of hall, where Edy’s mother hung her keys. From there they entered a fully furnished living room decked in sweeps of robin blue and green. Lush curtains hung from windows trimmed in gold, while a massive stone fireplace spoke of elegance and refinement.

On the mantle sat a picture of Edy and Hassan. Next to it was her mom, Cam, and Kyle.

“Would you like the tour?” her mother said.

“No.” Her eyes wouldn’t tear from that picture, from her mother’s smile, from Cam’s arm around her. Were they a family now? Were they a true family? Were they the family the Phelps never managed to be?

“Edy. You know that your father and I aren’t working out, right? That we aren’t … compatible? This house is only a tangible result of that.”

‘A tangible result.’ How very removed of her.

“For years now, your father and I have been separated, divorced in everything but name.”

Liar. Cheating liar.

“I brought you here because I want you to be a part of my new life. I’d like for us to have a better relationship than we’ve had before.”

Edy looked at her. “Take me home.”

Her mother hesitated, hands wringing. “Think of this as home, too, Edith.”

“Take me home! Now!” She should smash all the pictures of her and Cam. She should smash Kyle when she saw him. Lying, no good imposter that he was. He
knew
what their parents were up to and said nothing.

“I love you,” her mother said.

Edy’s nostrils flared and her vision—her vision up and abandoned her. She wasn’t upset. She had no reason to be upset. Her parents had a rotten marriage and now it was over.

“Oh sweetheart, please don’t cry.” Her mother stood.

“I’m
not
crying.” Edy raked a hand across her face and saw it came away wet. “I’m sweating. You need to get your AC fixed.”

Her mother halted, arms in the air, and guffawed loud. “You sweat out your eyes, little one?”

Edy smiled only a bit. Then she froze with the realization that her mother called her ‘little one’ like she used to long ago. And wait. Had she been about to hug her, too?

“Nothing will change in the meantime,” her mother announced. “Your father and I are waiting until an agreeable point in the future to initiate a divorce. The timing has to be just right.”

Right. As in, post-election right.

“I’d like to talk to you about something else,” she said and paused for effect. “I’d like to talk to you about Rani.”

Edy eyed her cautiously. It was impossible to turn off the guard with her mother. Few things came out the woman’s mouth that didn’t benefit her in some way, too.

“I’m listening,” Edy said.

“You should pay closer attention to what’s happening around you and why. I know I’ve created a weakness in you that’s easily attacked—”

“Yes, right, I know! I’m weak!” Edy cried. It was the same with her every time.

Her mother paused. “Edith, please. If you could forget your feelings for a moment—”

“I don’t want to hear this.” Edy threw up a hand, started off, and got snatched back by the arm.

“You
will
listen to me. I’m your mother. Me. Now use your brain if it’s not too much trouble. Mala Bathlar lives here, Edy. You think that’s an accident? Rani has a standing appointment for tea with her aunt. They are friends who want to become family. You know who is not part of that equation? My daughter. The same daughter she encourages to pursue ballet instead of college. Why does she want you in ballet instead of college, Edy?”

“Because I’d be away from Hassan for four years.”

She knew all this and felt it rotting within her, sour truth mixed with denial and a tinge of hopefulness. Not so, she tried to tell herself again and again. Not Rani, not them, not ever.

“She can’t force him to marry,” her mother said, “but she can poison your relationship. She will poison it, given the chance.”

Could Rani really? Edy wondered. Edy wondered if anyone could between them. Or were those naïve thoughts made by a girl with too much confidence?

“After the divorce,” Edy said. “Will Kyle and Cam live here, too?”

 Her mother shook her head. No. No more questions. No more talking. Time to go.