The Abundance: A Novel (25 page)

“What do you two say about him?”

“Let’s go, Mom. I’ve got you.”

“What do you two say?”

My body. I think about what has been taken from me, what remains, what functions, what doesn’t. But I try not to dwell on all that. I don’t want to flatter the suffering by photographing each symptom and giving it a caption. The details are at once trivial and humiliating. Like: I nearly fainted going to the bathroom this morning. Opiates can do that to a person. This was during the week, so no one was home. I sat down, started urinating, and went dizzy and nauseous and sweaty all at once. I dropped my head between my knees to get some blood to it. That didn’t work. I knew what to do. It’s a maneuver I have. I lifted my shirt, dropped forward off the toilet, and pressed my stomach to the cold tiles. If Abhi had found me there—facedown on the bathroom floor, pants at my shins, sweat on my forehead—he would have called 911, even if I told him not to with my own firm voice. I looked like a catastrophe, like this was it. But I was in control. I waited while my heart slowed down. I savored the cold of the tiles. I could feel my aorta pounding inside my abdomen; I hadn’t felt that since my skinny girlhood.

I sat up, as refreshingly harrowed as if I had vomited. A surprising lot of urine had wet my thighs and underwear. I felt the pants bunched now between my ankles. I wet a washcloth, cleaned my skin, cleaned the floor. I changed. I walked to the couch. Here I am. I could write a book about this slow sloppy business of dying. People do. I am not one of those people.

I am never more alive than when family is with me. Even if it is Mala without the children. Vivek has kindergarten now. Mala is spending extra days with me, tacking a Thursday–Friday or a Monday onto a weekend. Her partners accommodate her. I hope she is not building up too many debts. She will have to pay them back later, when days off are less precious to her. Their nanny knows about the “situation” and has agreed to extra hours.

This coming weekend, only Mala is supposed to come. Sachin is staying in St. Louis to take care of Vivek and Shivani by himself. I marvel at his devoting his whole weekend to the children. Four
PM
Friday, when he picks them up, until 9
PM
Monday, when he picks her up. Mala’s tone on the phone sounds as if it were a natural arrangement. “He understands,” she says flatly.

On Friday around noon, I am busy imagining a menu for us. I have run out of basic dahls and subjis; I am moving on to parathas with potato bits in the dough, and the delicate fishing-out of jalebi from a basin of hot oil. I write down the supplies we’ll need. I have had two weeks since her last visit, but I put off this happy task so I wouldn’t grow impatient with the remaining days.

This is when I get a phone call from Ronak. My pulse races when I see his name on the caller ID. Usually Amber’s name shows up when a call comes from their house; she is the conscientious one. Ronak himself is calling, from his own phone.

“Ronak?”

“Hey Mom. I’ve got good news.”

This is the same voice and words he used three times before to tell me Amber was pregnant. I sit up and brush aside my grocery list. “Yes?”

“I’ve got a surprise to tell you about. You and Mala. I’ve got to tell you both.”

“What is it?”

“I said, it’s a surprise, Mom.”

Something in me still hopes. “Are you and Amber…?”

“No. God, no, Mom. Isn’t three enough?”

“You don’t have a daughter.”

“Okay, it’s not that. But it’s a good surprise. I’ve got to tell you both.”

“Mala’s flight gets in at seven. Or you can conference call.”

“I’m telling you in
person
.”

“You are coming?”

“Tonight. I’m hopping a flight. I want to be there.”

“What is it?”

“Listen. Can’t you wait, like, seven hours? I’ll see if I can arrive around the same time as Mala.”

“It’s going to be expensive, booking a flight at such short notice…”

“I’ll use my points. If my arrival time’s later, I’ll just take a cab from the airport.”

“Oh no, Ronak, I don’t want you taking a cab.”

“Dad will appreciate it, trust me. He’s not going to want to make a second trip. Most likely I’ll get onto something that times out right.”

I am overjoyed and confused. “See you … tonight, then.”

“All right. Look, I’ve got to go. I’m at work.”

“Okay. Love you.”

“Love you.”

After he hangs up, I sit with the phone in my hand. He didn’t ask me how I was feeling, but that’s not what bothers me. My condition so monopolizes the beginnings of conversations, I’m pleased to see it passed over for once. Rather it’s that phrase, “hopping a flight.” If it’s so easy for him, why doesn’t he do it more often? Why does he need some big news in order to hop a flight? I call Abhi to tell him.

“Amber’s pregnant,” Abhi says right off.

“I asked him. He says that’s not what it is.”

“Then I don’t know why he’s coming. He said it’s a surprise. Maybe he bought you some expensive gift.”

“What do I want? I don’t want anything in the whole world.”

“Well, you want his company, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then think of that as the surprise.”

I call Mala next. She is at work, too. Maybe that’s why her voice is hushed and her initial silence is long.

“He’s coming
tonight
?”

“Did he tell you?”

“No.” Another pause, during which I suspect she is checking her phone. “He hasn’t texted me, either.”

“What do you think the surprise is?”

“He probably bought you something big.”

“He said he wanted us both here.”

“Well then, he bought you something big and wants me to know.”

“You don’t think Amber is pregnant?”

“Amber isn’t pregnant, Mom.”

“You sound very sure…”

“Amber isn’t pregnant. That’s not what it is.”

“Okay.”

“Guess we’ll see him tonight, then.”

“I miss you, Mala.”

“Miss you too, Mom. Hey, look—”

“I know. You’re at work. You have to go.”

“I would talk more if I could.”

“I know.”

“I’m literally at a nurse’s station right now. I really can’t—”

“I know.”

“Mom.”

“Just come. Your father will pick you up. Ronak will probably get ahold of you once he has his flight time. If he forgets—”

“I’m texting him as soon as I get off the phone with you.”

“Okay. Love you.”

“Love you.”

*   *   *

Ronak’s flight is due to land forty-five minutes after Mala’s: a short enough delay so they would not leave without him, but long enough for Mala to feel the wait. Ronak called Abhi earlier to insist he pick Mala up alone; she called a few minutes later insisting he wait for both. Abhi suspects some sibling spat from the tone of voice, and he knows Mala is the one not to cross. The benefit of Ronak’s borderline indifference is that he doesn’t hold grudges, which means we don’t have to worry about being forgiven. Mala would be hurt if we sided with Ronak.

Still worse, his flight is delayed by half an hour. I stay in touch by cell phone. After a certain amount of waiting, you have to follow through to the end; otherwise, the time you’ve waited is wasted. I drowse on the couch and miss the call that says they’re driving home.

The garage door awakens me. Ronak carries Mala’s luggage from the car into the hallway. I get to see him as he dresses for work: tie, gelled hair, dress shoes, thin black socks. It must have been a long day for him. He has come for me, bringing only the duffel bag he takes to his workout. He comes to embrace me. I smell old coffee, Right Guard, faded cologne: not entirely unpleasant, the smell of wealth, and exactly the way his father smells after work.

Mala sits down beside me.

“So out with it, Ronak,” she says.

Abhi sits on the end of the chaise, arms crossed. “He hasn’t dropped one hint the whole ride home.”

“Let me run upstairs and shower.”

“Now you’re going for a shower! This better be good, Ronak, because you’re really hyping it.”

He shakes his head. “I think I’ve built this up without wanting to. It’s not that huge. Let me just freshen up a little. I’ve been in these clothes since six
AM
.”

He takes the duffel bag and goes upstairs. In his absence, we speculate. Mala is convinced he’s brought me a fortune in a velvet case, but I tell her jewelry would be absurd. He’d be slipping rings on the hand of a skeleton. (I don’t say that out loud, of course.) Abhi has no idea what it is—Ronak has never done anything like this before. Abhi confesses he called Amber, who also knows nothing.

Ronak returns, hair wet, in his Umbro shorts and a T-shirt. Now I’m seeing him as he looks when he goes to the gym. He sits back on the love seat and puts his hands comfortably behind his head.

“All right, Ronak,” Mala says. “Talk.”

He resists a smile. “Why don’t we talk tomorrow morning? I’m a little tired.”

Mala throws a pillow at his chest. He hugs it and laughs. “All right, all right.” He grins. “Here’s the story. I was in the city, and I was talking to this woman at a party. About the cookbook you’re doing.”

Mala looks at him and waits. Finally she says, “Okay?”

“You know how I had it on my thumb drive, right?”

“Right. For Amber.”

“So I was talking to this woman, and she said how she loved Indian food, and that the book sounded interesting.”

“Was she Indian?”

“White. Anyway, I went down and had Kinko’s make a color printout. High res, glossy paper.”

“I was planning on doing that myself.”

“You should. You really should. It looks great.”

“It’s not done yet, Ronak. And there’re things we may have to change. Right, Mom?”

“It’s not done yet,” I say. I do not want it to be finished, either. Ever.

“Where is it?” asks Mala.

“Listen. This woman.”

“You just
gave
it to her? That’s Mom’s cookbook.”

“Hear me out. She’s a literary agent.”

Mala can sense, faintly, the coming news; she smiles an almost suspicious smile. “What were you doing chatting up a literary agent? You haven’t read a book since high school.”

Ronak shrugs. “It’s New York, you meet people.”

“Okay. So?”

Now he is coy. “So what?”

“What did she say?”

A feigned, offhand air. “Oh, she showed it to some people she knows.” He tosses the pillow she threw in the air and catches it. “You know. People who publish that sort of thing.”

Mala looks at me, then back at Ronak. “And?”

“She thinks she can get an offer.”

“And?”

He takes out his phone. “Let me show you the e-mail.” He hands it to her.

“You are kidding me.” She leaves her mouth open. She expands the screen and shows me the number.

Ronak closes his eyes and lowers his head in a small, mock bow. “Mom? Your thoughts?”

“That’s a lot of money,” I say, “for some recipes.”

“You’re not kidding.”

“Why would they pay so much?” I ask.

Mala gives a one-note laugh. “God, Midas touch! How are you so good at wheeling and dealing, Ronak?”

“Why would they pay so much for recipes?”

“That is the number she believes she can get. You know how unusual that is for a book like this? If you agree to a few things, you’re going to be famous, Mom. You’re both going to be famous.”

“For my recipes?”

“Well, not just the recipes. It’s the whole story. That’s what keeps it from being just another cookbook. She was saying a book like this does a lot better if there’s, you know, back-story.”

“What story?” I ask.

“You know, the story.” He gestures at me, at Mala.
“This.”

Mala hands him his phone.

Ronak watches us, sensing he has done or said something wrong, but not entirely certain what it is.

“What do you mean by ‘this’?” Mala asks quietly.

“You know. Mother, daughter.”

“Mother, daughter, what’s the story there?”

“You know, you two were, well, not the best of friends, at least not all the time, and then things change and, like, you guys bond over … food. It’s a great story. It’s heartwarming.”

“You told the agent all this? About us?”

“They’re in a business. You have to have something special in your pitch. A hook.”

“You told them about Mom, didn’t you?”

“Look. How many friends do
you
have in advertising? I went over the whole thing with Rakesh Gupta. I did breakfast with him even though I can’t stand him, and I laid it all out. He said if I left out the part about Mom, it wasn’t much of a hook. The book, as he envisioned it, would be a kind of book-club memoir for women, plus a cookbook. The story part first, then the recipes. That would be the hook.”

“The
hook
. God, that word. That
word
.”

On the other side of the room, Abhi, who has been listening with his arms crossed, stands. “You three sort this out. I will be upstairs.”

“Wait, Dad, can everyone hear me out? It’s not like we were keeping this a secret. We kept it a secret for pretty much forever because that’s what Mom wanted, but it’s not a secret now.”

“You three sort this out.”

Ronak turns back to me and Mala, but our faces must clash greatly with what he dreamed on the plane ride over.

“Abhi,” I say, “wait. Sit here. We are all four of us here. Okay?”

Abhi returns to the place where he was sitting. Ronak is shaking his head, a faint incredulous smile on his lips.

“Is this real? You guys are
angry
at me for trying to do this?”

“Not angry,” I say, sitting forward in alarm.

“
Angry
isn’t the word, Ronak.
Morally appalled?
Maybe that’s it?”

“All right. I should have cleared this. I didn’t know you felt so proprietary about Mom’s recipes.”

“That’s not it. It’s not that you sold a book. You sold—the story. You went and told some stranger about Mom.”

“Mom and you. Why don’t you admit that? Mom and you.”

“You know, what if it does get popular? What if people do say, aw, what a sweet story—mother and daughter reconciling over good old-fashioned ethnic cooking. Is Mom supposed to what? Do appearances? Go on TV?”