Ma picks me up from the airport and she doesn’t have a whole lot to say besides asking me how my flight was and whether or not I’m hungry. She’s quiet and I don’t want to be bringing up anything that will send me back to the roti shop, so I just keep my mouth shut until we get home.
She pulls into the parking lot and turns off the car. I’m about to get out but she stops me. “Trisha, I have to talk to you about something.”
For a moment I think she’s going to bring up Dad, but then she says, “Ravi is going to be around more often. I know you don’t like him, but I think you should give him a chance.”
I think she shouldn’t give him a chance, since he ditched her on New Year’s. She gets out of the car before I can reply.
It takes me a while to follow her into the townhouse, which has always been her space. Never mine. Even when Ma’s not there, her presence spreads like bacteria after a sweltering July day at the gym. It’s everywhere. In the furniture she’s chosen, the colours on the wall, right down to the arrangement of the dishes in the cupboard. Even my father, when he was alive, was careful to leave as small an impression as possible on her house, since he lived half the year knocking about in Trinidad anyway.
But now there’s Ravi, and his presence feels like a more permanent thing.
When I go inside, there he is. Fixing the back door. “I already did that,” I say, as I grab clean hand wraps from the clothesline.
“You did it wrong. I should have fixed this weeks ago.”
He digs through his toolkit for something. “I knew I broke it when I came in,” he says absently. “Damn flimsy thing.”
I stare at him. “You’re the one who broke the lock on the back door?”
He freezes. “I hear your mother calling you. You better go see what she wants.” He says this easily, like I’m going to forget about this anytime soon. Ravi broke our back door trying to get inside, even before he and Ma got together.
Around the time Dad died.
What the hell is happening here?
“Ma,” I say, when I get upstairs. She’s in the kitchen, heating up some lunch. “Ravi’s the one who broke the back door—”
She slams a pot down on the counter. “Trisha, I swear if you bring up that door again, you won’t be going to that gym for the rest of the school year.”
“But—”
“I mean it!”
This is so ridiculous! But effective. She really knows how to get to me sometimes.
Fine.
I ask her if by saying Ravi’s going to be around more often, she means he’s living here now and if he’s got a job to go to maybe?
“Yes, he’s here now. And he works at a warehouse.” She sighs and turns away from me.
I’ve never seen her so tired. I get the feeling that Ravi keeps her up a lot at night, but I don’t really want to think about that, because ew.
I find out later his part-time warehouse job is in Mississauga, where he operates a forklift. When he’s not doing that, he’s shirtless on the couch, his saggy chest sprouting new hairs every day. My father was no peach in that department either (too much roti and fried rice can do that to a person), but at least he kept his shirt on.
And apparently we have an accident at his work to thank for Ravi’s constant presence in our house.
Using up all the hot water in the mornings. Replacing my whey protein with a disgusting vegan version, on account of his old-man digestive issues. Looking at my biceps with judgment, as though they’re puny. Which, of course, they’re not, because even though the trip to New York has me off my regular training regimen, I’m working my chin-up bar and I can lift like a motherfucker. Well, myself. Still. Lifting yourself like a motherfucker is no small feat.
“What’s up with this Ravi guy?” asks Columbus, the day after I return. We’re on his bed, as per usual now that Ravi is a constant fixture in my house. Tomorrow is our first day back at school from break. We don’t talk too much at school, so Columbus likes to get in these little chat sessions outside of class time. “Why is he always there? Doesn’t he have his own place to go to?”
“No, he’s moved in for good,” I say, beyond depressed about this. “He hurt his back a couple years ago. A crate fell on him at work or something. So apparently he needs a lot of rest, according to my mom.”
“Shoulda fell on him harder,” mutters Columbus. No shit. It’s about the first time Columbus has been right about anything. “So what about New York? Any hookups?” he asks, abruptly changing the subject.
“No.”
He rubs his puny pecs. “Not even some up-top action? Christmas holidays before college and you’re in New York City?”
Which, to Columbus, is like hookup central because he’s never actually been.
“Don’t worry,” he says, with one of his baby punches to my shoulder. “You’ll get laid in college. But it’s kinda pathetic, still.”
Apparently he spent his break having butt loads of sex with a (slightly) older woman who worked at the accessory store at the mall. She is, as he put it delicately, a fine piece of ass, a Guyanese import (who likes her men skinny and barely legal, I guess). If Columbus is telling the truth, which is up for debate.
“I gotta go train,” I say, pushing him off the bed.
“Right,” he says, as I step over him. “You know real men don’t like women with muscles.”
“When I see a real man, I’ll ask him.”
But it bothers me all the way to the gym. I see Ricky at reception and bring up my demo fight with Jason, making sure to comment on his cardio. Naturally, Ricky takes this opportunity to tell me everything he knows about Jason. College boy. Training for less than a year. Has “heart.” Lives in res but comes back to the east end most weekends to do his laundry at home.
“Girlfriend?” I ask.
Ricky smirks. “Why do you want to know?”
“Why don’t you want to say?”
“Lucky wants to get lucky,” Ricky teases. “Lucky” is what they call me as a private joke since I never win my fights. He’s about to say some other douchebag thing but shuts up quick because Kru comes into the reception area just then.
Kru smiles when he sees me, asks about my holiday. I feel like all my dreams have come true for just that moment. I don’t tell him about the roti shop or hanging out with my aunt. I tell him about my morning runs and the shadowboxing I did to keep sharp. He gives me a round of pads and shakes his head sadly at the end. “You need work.”
So I’m back to training every day.