My mother’s voice is steadier now, probably because we’ve performed this exact routine dozens of times before. We know all our lines by heart. “When Nimisha says those things—”
“When she says those things, she’s trying to upset you. She gets a charge out of knocking you down. It makes her feel better about herself.”
“You think you understand, but you grew up here. You don’t know.”
“Ma, I do know. I do understand. But you don’t live in India anymore. It’s not 1986 anymore. You don’t talk to Dad’s family. Why do you care what they think, anyway?”
“If you understood, you wouldn’t have to ask that, beti.” She sighs. “I’m going to go take nap, since I didn’t sleep whole night. I only called to make sure you were safe.”
And, just like that, it’s over.
“Okay, Ma. Don’t forget to take your afternoon dose of insulin.”
“I won’t. I love you, beti.”
A familiar, volatile mix of guilt and anger threatens to blow me apart. I’ve lost again. I know I have, and so does she. “I love you, too.” I hang up and press my hands to my forehead.
Smells waft toward me from the open door of the shop. Lavender, cherry, lemon, all swirling together, light and soapy.
“Would you like to try our new hibiscus perfume? Or our organic chamomile hand cream?” A woman with a denim apron and a silver tray covered with little apothecary bottles approaches when I step inside. I raise the bottle of perfume to my nose and breathe in the calming floral scent. I tell myself to walk out of the store because I’m not my mother. I tell myself that this is a pattern, and I’m going to regret this later. I tell myself that there is a psychological term for this, and it’s called “maladaptive coping,” and it’s triggered by increased blood levels of the stress hormone cortisol.
“How much is this?” I ask.
“For the little bottle, it’s $49.95, and for the big bottle, it’s $65. It’s on sale today.”
“I’ll take the big bottle,” I say. “And the hand cream, and two lip balms. And whatever this one is.” I hand her a little amber bottle of something called pomade that smells wonderful.
She smiles happily as I offer her my credit card. “Okay. Sure, okay, great! I’ll just ring them up for you.”
I walk back out to the sidewalk, a pretty fabric shopping bag on one arm, having never caught the name of the store. I should go back and return all this. But I can’t do that now without looking like a crazy person. No, I’ll return it all tomorrow, or this weekend. No harm done.
I walk four blocks to my apartment building, which is sandwiched between a store that sells knockoff watches and a threading salon called Karma Eyebrow Emporium, climb three flights of stairs, open the door, and collapse on the foyer carpet. It’s wonderfully dark, cool, and silent, with no beeping heart monitors or loudspeaker announcements. I consider falling asleep right here, my face pressed against the welcome mat.
“You’re out of milk,” a strange man’s matter-of-fact voice says.
I scream and spring to my feet. A wiry man, naked except for tiny yellow boxer shorts, is sitting at the kitchen table, eating a bowl of Lucky Charms.
“Who are you?” I back toward the door.
“Um . . . I’m Albert Moosally,” the man says, after a period of contemplation. I wait for him to elaborate, but, based on his expression, he has no plans to do so. He spoons cereal into his mouth and chews it noisily. With his aquiline nose and broad ears, he has a distinctly rodent-like appearance.
“How did you get in here?” I have one hand on the doorknob.
His chewing slows. After what feels like a very long time, he says, “Beth let me in. Yesterday. Before we had coitus. I used the last of the milk.” He has a dreamy look in his eyes, as if he’s just recited a haiku. I sniff the air. No, I don’t smell weed.
I hear the bathroom door down the hall open, and my roommate, Beth, appears, dressed in a bathrobe with a towel wrapped around her head. Beth and I have been living together in this tiny two-bedroom, one-bathroom apartment for the past three weeks. A resident in her second year, Beth is placid and humorless in a way that makes me think her ancestors were the sturdy Germanic sort.
“Oh, hey, Norah,” she says, breezing past me. “Was that you screaming?” She opens the refrigerator and roots around inside like an animal making a burrow. “There’s no milk.”
Albert says nothing but pours more cereal into his bowl. Beth switches on the coffee maker and begins to leaf through a newspaper. I stare at them both with my mouth slightly agape. “Beth!” I say. “Who is this?”
“Hm?” She looks up. “Oh sorry, this is Al, my boyfriend.”
“You didn’t tell me you had a boyfriend who would be staying over here,” I say, smiling and crossing my arms as if this information is a delightful surprise.
“Al is a Neurology resident.” She beams at him proudly.
“Okay, but when we discussed rooming together, you never said anything about having a boyfriend who might stay overnight or”—I glance at my watch—“well into the late afternoon.”
Beth’s smile is patronizing. She sits, folding her hands on top of the table. “People have boyfriends, Norah. I’m a twenty-eight-year-old woman. Of course I have relationships.”
“Of course,” I say defensively. I glance over my shoulder into the living room, where a yellowed pair of men’s socks and one muddy sneaker sit on the sofa cushions. “But in the housing questionnaire there was a section about having visitors over to the apartment on a regular basis. I answered ‘No,’ and so did you. That’s part of the reason we were matched as roommates.”
“A boyfriend is not a visitor,” Beth says. “A boyfriend is more like a pet that lives with you. If Al were a cat, would you object to him living here?”
“Wait, Al is living here?” I’m thrown. “And yes, I would object to you having a cat. I’m allergic to cats.”
She nods. “Mm-hm. So, then, this has worked out perfectly.”
“What has?”
“Al is very handy. He’s going to install shelves in the bathroom. And this morning he killed a roach.”
“Wait, we have roaches?”
“This is Philadelphia,” Beth says pointedly. “People have roaches, Norah. Now, I need to talk to you about this electric bill that’s been sitting here on the table for the last three days.” She hands me an envelope with a plastic window. “I put my half of the money in. I don’t see your half in here yet.”