“Whoa, wait,” I say, panic rising in my chest. “When did you talk to Nimisha Auntie?”
“Last night.”
“Since when are you talking to her again?”
She makes a clicking noise with her tongue, the way she always does when she’s annoyed about having to explain something to me that should be obvious. “She’s my oldest friend. Of course I talk to her.”
I hesitate, choosing my words carefully. “Ma, remember, you agreed the last time. You said yourself, Nimisha isn’t your friend—”
“Besharam! Have some respect, Norah!”
“Sorry.” I roll my eyes. “Nimisha Auntie isn’t your friend.”
There is a long silence, and I glance at my phone to make sure she hasn’t hung up. Then, her tone indignant, she says, “When I came to this country in 1986, twenty-two years old, new bride, not speaking word of English, with one suitcase and ten dollars, after your father’s family turned their backs on us, you know who was there for me? You know who taught me English and took me to Woolworth and bought me my first winter coat?”
“I know.” I sigh. “I know. She’s been lording that coat over you for decades. But that was in the past. Now she’s—”
“Honest. She is honest.”
I shake my head. “No. Nope. She’s the opposite of honest.”
She sighs, and I can tell she’s shaking her head, too. We’ve hit an impasse. As usual. “Talk to Paul.”
Before I can say a word, my brother’s voice on the other end says, “Hey, Nor. How was your first night?”
“Ma is talking to Nimisha Auntie again.”
“I know. It’s been for a few weeks.”
“Weeks?” I stop in the middle of the sidewalk, and a woman behind me nearly collides with me. She shoots me a glare and steps around me. “What do you mean, weeks? Paul, you know what happened the last time she let that horrible woman back into her life. She’s toxic. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t find out until I came over here today. She’s also started shopping again.”
I groan. “Oh God. How bad is it?”
“Well, from what I can see, it’s mostly handbags this time.” His voice echoes, and I can tell he’s stepped into the garage, where my mother usually hoards her purchases. The entire floor and two racks of tall shelves are covered with the spoils of her past shopping sprees: handbags, shoes, clothes, hats, three giant Costco thirty-five-packs of tennis balls and an economy-size crate of Hawaiian coffee. She doesn’t play tennis or drink coffee. “About six Michael Kors and a couple Coach.”
“Six?” I’m still stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. Two streams of foot traffic flow by on either side of me. “Jesus, Paul. Are the tags still on?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I’ll return them.”
I find his preternatural calm in stressful situations both admirable and annoying. I hate being the hysterical one. “What’s her blood sugar?”
“Right now? It’s fine. Down to 120. I made her take her insulin. I think she’s been binge-eating chocolate croissants again, though. I found an empty family pack in the trash.”
In the background, my mother’s voice approaches. “Paul, what are you doing in here? These are my things; you can’t just take them!”
“Ma, you can’t afford all this stuff,” Paul says.
“How do you know what I can and can’t afford?”
“You know what Dr. Kendra says. You shop when you’re depressed and feel bad about yourself—”
Now he’s done it. Ma refuses to let us refer to her as “depressed,” even though every mental health professional she’s ever seen (and there have been quite a few) has told her she is. “I’m not depressed! I’m not some crazy old lady! Is that what you think of me? Shame on you! I’m your mother!”
She continues in this vein while I say, “Paul, put her back on. Can you hear me? Put her back on!”
“Jesus, the two of you!” Paul says, his frustration breaking through. “Fine, yell at each other. I have to go to work.”
I realize that it’s a Tuesday afternoon. Has Paul been there all day? I cringe with guilt. Paul is always the one missing work when Ma goes into one of her moods. “Sorry, Paul. Just let me talk to her.” I hear him hand the phone to my mother, and she grunts into the receiver. “Ma, please go see Dr. Kendra. I’ll come drive you to the appointment, if you want.”
“Dr. Kendra!” She fumes. “I have nothing to say to her, that Dr. Kendra. I’m not going to take more medicine.” Her voice becomes muffled as she pulls the receiver away from her mouth. “Paul! There’s chana masala in freezer! I made it for you! Take it home!”
“Ma, Dr. Kendra thinks your depre—I mean, your nerves would be calmer if you tried taking the Zoloft again. Can you just talk to her about it? Please?” I’m running out of energy to argue with her. This is how she wins. She wears me down, every time.
“Norah, I’ve told you million times. This Kendra doesn’t know anything. I told her how my in-laws treated me, how I came to America with nothing, how they took my wedding jewelry—gifts from my family, meant for me—and gave it to my sister-in-law. Such insult! Such slap in face! And you know what this Kendra said to me? She said I should find hobby. She said, ‘You should take up knitting or macramé.’ I don’t know even what macramé is! Why would I waste my time doing crafts?”
“Ma, she didn’t mean that literally.” I duck under the shade of a storefront awning. “She meant just find something to occupy your mind, so you don’t keep dwelling on how Dad’s family hurt you.”
“I need Indian lady doctor. Someone who understands.”
“I know, Ma, but there aren’t any female Indian psychologists who take your insurance in all of north Jersey. We’ve looked. And you need someone local that you can see when you’re . . . when you need help.”
“I am widow, Norah.” Her voice drips with melodrama. Every muscle fiber in my body twists into a knot. Here we go again. “Widow with unmarried daughter. Do you know what people think?”
I take a calming breath. Don’t react, Norah. You always react. “What people, Ma? Who are these people?”
“Everyone! I can’t show my face at community center, let alone at temple!”
“Is that what Nimisha Auntie said? Let me guess: Did she tell you that everyone’s judging you because you’re a widow with an unmarried daughter? Because that’s super original of her.” I’m like a train charging downhill, picking up speed. “Did she tell you that in India your in-laws all think you’re a curse on the family and that you’re at the bottom of the social ladder, you’re practically an outcast? Did she tell you any other respectable widow would wear a white sari and shave her head and never leave her house? And that all of this would magically be reversed if I would just find a rich Indian husband from a respectable family and pop out a couple of Indian boy-children?” I say it all in one breath.