A Group of One Read online

  So Nina decides that, if it’s an elegant meal, the plain glasses won’t do for us, and she insists on taking out crystal tumblers. There’s a long argument. Nina pouts and Mom says, “Oh, we are celebrating after all,” and I say, “Mom, she’s so spoiled,” and Mom says, “Please, let’s not fight, it is my big day,” then Dad says, “Will someone kindly tell me what’s going on?” and I say, “I know, I know,” and Nina says, “You always tell her everything, you treat me like a baby, I never get to know anything.” Then Maya climbs onto her chair and foghorns, “I want my cushion,” and that stops us, and we finally sit down to eat.

  “Okay, Ro,” says Dad. “What’s the surprise?”

  Mom tells about the job in her usual dramatic fashion—she’s big on italics—and there is the expected chorus of exclamations and questions.

  There’s something strange about Dad. At first, I can’t quite put my finger on it. He’s quiet, but he always is, so it’s not that. More like preoccupied. And a bit restless. I wonder when Mom will notice.

  We’ve almost finished eating when Mom says, “Raj, I thought you’d be pleased.”

  “I am.”

  “Could have fooled me. I expect a bit of cheer and enthusiasm. It’s not every day I land a job.”

  “Sorry, Ro. I am pleased. Really.” Dad wipes his mouth with his napkin. “It’s just, it was a busy day and I’m a bit tired. And … I have some news, too.”

  “Not your job!” Mom’s voice is sharp. Ever since she lost hers, she’s been paranoid about Dad’s, even though he’s an engineer and one of the top people in his company.

  Dad smiles widely. It’s a bit fake. “No, no, nothing like that. Actually it’s good news. The celebration fits perfectly.” He looks around the table. “Mummyji phoned me at the office today.”

  “Ah. Your Mother. How is she?”

  Mom always refers to Dad’s mom as Your Mother—with capitals.

  “Oh, she’s fine, fine. Sends her regards to everyone.” Dad shifts awkwardly.

  Mom looks suddenly wary. Even Nina is quiet.

  Dad clears his throat. “You know, she’s lonely. One of her close friends died recently and…” It’s like his eyes are saying please. “Anyway, she thought it’s been so long, and maybe she, that is, she wondered if we’d go to India for a visit; after all, we haven’t been there since before the kids were born, and then I went when Papaji died, but that was years ago, and of course, it’s easier for one person—there are so many of us, and she’s never been here.” Dad runs his fingers through his thinning hair. “So we got talking about her coming, and of course I thought it was a wonderful idea, and, well, girls, your grandmother is coming for a visit.”

  There is a blank silence.

  Maya looks up from the potato she is cutting into tiny pieces and asks, “Gabby’s coming?”

  We all call her Gabby—apparently, I came up with that when I started to talk, and it stuck.

  “No, not Gabby. My mother.” He smiles again, a little too hard. “Well, aren’t you lucky, girls. You’ll get to meet your other grandmother.”

  Maya says, “Daddy’s mommy?”

  “Yes, my mother. She’s the one who sends you birthday cards from India, sweetie,” says Dad.

  Nina blurts, “Hey, why’s she coming? I thought she didn’t like Mom or something.”

  Oh, great! Leave it to Nina to say something so totally tactful.

  “Nina, it’s not like that at all,” Dad snaps. He turns to Mom. “Rohini.…”

  Mom looks like she’s swallowed a bug. She notices us staring and manages a smile.

  “Of course she must come, Raj. She is Your Mother.” There’s a trace of her real British accent, not the exaggerated put-on one—she lived in England for a few years, and it slips out when she’s being gracious or controlled.

  She tilts her head. “And when might we expect the pleasure?”

  Dad turns red and mumbles, “Er, well, a little over three weeks? We, er, thought October would be best, before it gets too cold. And it would be nice if she got to see the fall colors. Of course, it’s too bad I used up all my vacation, but I told her, and so, of course, Rohini, if it’s all right?”

  Mom smiles even more graciously—something I wouldn’t have thought humanly possible. “Of course it is. Three weeks. Mmm. How nice. How very nice.”

  CHAPTER 3

  After dinner, Nina and I get suckered into watching Maya as we do the dishes. Mom and Dad disappear into the living room with their coffee, shutting the door firmly behind them. I’d love to be a fly on the wall in there.

  I wrap Maya in a huge apron and let her play with the soap bubbles in the sink, while Nina and I clear the table. It’s Nina’s turn to load the dishwasher. She’s subdued and a bit sulky.

  I elbow her and say out of the corner of my mouth, “Jeez, was that weird or what?”

  Nina grunts. “How come I get blamed for everything? What’d I do, anyway?”

  I roll my eyes. “What d’you expect? You were hardly tactful.”

  “Well, what am I supposed to do? Pretend it isn’t totally strange? She’s never even been here, but we see Gabby and Gampy all the time.”

  “Well, duhhh! Toronto’s just a bit closer than India—”

  “But it’s not like she’s poor or anything. Anyway, Rittie and Bish visit, and they live in B.C., and they’re artists, they’re hardly rolling in it. But we’ve never—”

  “Hey, relax! Who’s disagreeing? And watch it. You’re dripping water on the floor.”

  “Sorry.” Nina wipes it up. She looks really down now.

  I can’t help feeling sorry for her.

  “It’s okay, Nina. It wasn’t just you. I guess Dad’s kind of touchy about it.”

  “No kidding. And Mom! Did you see the way she looked?”

  I grin. “Yeah. Like a constipated cow.”

  Nina giggles and her face slides into a dead ringer for Mom’s. I burst out laughing.

  Maya turns around, lifting bubbly hands from the sink. “What? What’s funny?”

  “Nothing,” I say hastily. “Look, Maya.” I blow the bubbles from her hands. “See if you can make pretty shapes, okay?” I transfer some bubbly water into a bowl and move Maya to the table.

  Maya sighs and returns to the bubbles.

  I wink at Nina and start washing the crystal glasses.

  Nina says in a low tone, “Did Mom ever tell you anything about it—why they don’t get along?”

  I shake my head slowly as I rinse the glass.

  It’s funny. The only person we’ve met in Dad’s family is his older brother, Uncle Prakash; but that was when Maya was a baby, and he was only here because of some medical conference. I sort of remember how polite he and Dad were—so different from the way Mom kids around with her sister, Rittie.

  We don’t know a whole lot about Dad’s family, but it’s something we’ve always taken for granted because it’s familiar. It’s only when I look closely that I see it’s like a kaleidoscope—very few pieces, and the rest is just mirrors faking a full pattern.

  Pretty much all we know is that Mom and Dad met when they were students at McGill University. Dad had just come from India, but Mom had lived here for years—she was born in India, but Gabby and Gampy moved to England when Mom was thirteen and Rittie was ten, then came here when Mom turned sixteen. Apparently, Dad fell for her big time; only she wasn’t interested at first, because she thought he was a typical Indian male—a sexist pig. But eventually she succumbed, and they got married. Afterwards, they went to visit Dad’s parents in India, and that’s when it gets patchy.…

  I put the glass on the draining board. “Didn’t Mom say something about how Dad’s family weren’t happy about them getting married in Toronto?” I frown and tuck my hair behind my ear. “But—”

  “That’s a load of bull!” says Nina, shoving cutlery into the dishwasher. “How big a deal is that?”

  “Yeah, it’s gotta be more than that. I mean…” I shake my head. “Dad�
�s so awkward when he talks about his family. It’s like he’s proud but also—shifty.”

  “Especially if Mom’s around. And she’s always…” Nina’s face melts into Mom’s gracious one, and we chortle together, “Marmee.”

  It’s what we call those fits of discretion Mom slips into. After Marmee in Little Women—the mother who never loses her cool, just presses her lips tightly together when she’s pissed off.

  I turn to Nina suddenly. “Oh my God, what d’you think they’re like if Mom doesn’t say anything?”

  Nina’s eyes are round.

  “Imagine how awful they must be. I mean, the only thing I’ve ever heard her say about them is, There were some differences.”

  Nina gasps. “Oh! The dowry thing!”

  “Don’t be silly. Gabby and Gampy don’t believe in it, and Mom’s never…”

  “I bet they did, Dad’s parents. Bet they expected an arranged marriage, a big dowry—”

  “No way, it’s not that.” I start washing the wooden spoons.

  “How do you know?”

  “I asked Mom. Ages ago. And she went all indignant and huffy. Of course not!”

  “How come she tells you and never tells me?” It’s Nina’s whiny tone.

  “’Cause I ask her, dummy. Get drying those glasses, will ya.”

  Nina makes a face. “Well, if you know so much, how come you don’t know why they cut Dad off?”

  “They didn’t cut him off, stupid.”

  “Yes, they did—”

  “No, they didn’t—they still phone each other. I mean, d’you have to be so melodramatic? Real people don’t go cutting each other off.”

  “Some do. I bet some people—”

  “In a soap opera maybe, but not in real life, dummy!”

  “You’re such a know-it-all!”

  “Oh, shut up, Nina. Let’s just get this done.”

  “Fine!” Nina wipes the glasses in offended silence.

  “Bubbles, bubbles, bee-you-ti-ful bubbles,” sings Maya, lifting her hands and letting the bubbles drop.

  I start on the big pot. As usual there are burn marks on the bottom. I bang it around a bit.

  Nina glances at me tentatively. “Sorry, Tara.” She’s crushed again; it makes her look about six.

  My anger dissolves. “It’s okay, I’m sorry too.”

  Nina sighs. “It’s kinda strange having a grandmother we’ve never met, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah.” I grin slyly. “But who cares—I mean she isn’t even a jailbird.”

  Nina snorts and claps her hands over her mouth.

  “No, her only claim to fame is she married a jailbird.”

  Nina and I have the worst time not cracking up when Dad talks about it—does he ever get mad! He insists it had to do with the freedom movement, all that stuff with Mahatma Gandhi, fighting the British for Indian Independence and everything, but still. Dad’s father was arrested several times in the 1940s, and Dad’s grandfather, too; and I think Dad even said something about his mother’s relatives being arrested when she was a teenager—I mean, they were in and out of jail like yo-yos.

  Nina wags her head from side to side and says softly, in a fake Indian accent, “Oh my goodness, Tara, what do you think our esteemed grandmother sounds like?”

  We start to laugh again, look at Maya, and choke it down.

  Nina’s eyes dance with manic glee. “Wouldn’t it be funny if she’s really, really Indian?” She starts to sputter. “With big jewelry and nose rings and stuff. You know, like that woman in the latest National Geographic? Carrying pots of water on her head.”

  We’re practically rolling on the floor. We know we’re being really awful, but that just makes it funnier. I dart a quick look at Maya. She stares at us, then turns disdainfully back to her bubbles. It flashes through my head—what would Tolly think?

  I sober up first. “You’re awful, Nina. If anyone else said that, it’d be racist. It’s a horrible stereotype.”

  “Oh, lighten up, I’m just kidding.” Nina puts on her Indian accent again. “Just joking, oh yes indeedy. Curry and rice, ver-rry, very nice.”

  “Monster.” I grab her around the neck and wrestle.

  Maya gapes at us. “Why’re you fighting?”

  “Oh, we’re not fighting, Maya, just … just playing.”

  Nina puts her arm around me and grins.

  Maya scowls. “You’re not telling.” She turns back to her bowl.

  Nina nudges me. “Say, are there any pictures of her?”

  I grab her arm. “Yes. In Dad’s album. I’ve seen one, ages ago.”

  “What does she look like?”

  “I don’t remember. Come on. Maya, we’ll be right back.”

  We race up the stairs to the oak shelf in the hallway where the picture albums are kept. I grab the dusty gray one. Nina crowds me. We giggle as we turn the pages.

  “There.”

  It’s an old black-and-white picture with Mummyji and Papaji written underneath in Dad’s writing. It shows a man and a woman standing in front of a tree. The man is tall and the woman well below his shoulder. She’s wearing a plain sari, and there don’t seem to be nose rings or even any particularly extravagant jewelry. I can’t make out her face clearly, but it has a firmness that reminds me of someone—not Dad.

  “Oh,” says Nina. “Kinda boring, huh?”

  I grin. “Yeah, I guess that’s the long and short of it.” I point at him and whisper, “Jailbird.”

  Nina collapses against me, laughing. We hug each other.

  CHAPTER 4

  I tell Erin about the grandmother on the way to school the next morning. She listens in that intense way she has, her green eyes bright.

  “I mean, my grandmother is coming for a visit, and I don’t even know what to call her.” I switch my violin to my other hand. It’s a drag carrying it, but Hélène, my violin teacher, lives on the way home from school.

  “What’s your dad call her?”

  “Mummyji. The ji is a sign of respect, I know that much.”

  “So how about Grandmotherji?”

  “It sounds so weird.” I make a face as we cut across the park near our school. “I bet there’ll be no nickname like Gabby.”

  Erin says, “Well, if she’s like your Gabby she’s going to be all right.”

  “Yeah, but Gabby…” I trail off.

  I can’t just come out and say it. Gabby, she wears dresses or pants for everyday, and saris only when she’s dressing up, and she’s way elegant. Also, she speaks perfect English, just like Gampy.

  And, okay, I know Dad’s mother isn’t like that woman in the National Geographic—but what if she is like those old Indian women I see at the grocery stores? They have thin, tightly pulled-back gray hair, and they always wear white, a widow’s color, whether it’s the baggy pants and tunic or saris. A lot of them walk with an arthritic sway, like crippled crabs wagging sideways. They’re so heavy around the hips—heavy accents, heavy hips.

  “What?” asks Erin, as we go in the side door and weave through the crowd of kids to our lockers.

  I flush. “Nothing.”

  Erin’s eyes gleam. “It’s all so interesting, Tar. Bizaaaarre. I mean, it’s like something out of a book.”

  “A book, Erin?” I squint at her as I heave my violin into my locker and stretch my cramped fingers.

  “Yes. All this mystery.” Erin wags her eyebrows and drops her voice. “A skeleton in the closet.”

  “Well, I’m so glad you find it entertaining. You’ll have to come over every day, to see how the soap opera progresses.” I pull out my history text.

  “Hey, come on, don’t spaz. I didn’t mean it like that.”

  A group of guys come down the hallway. Jeff’s behind them. He’s new, so he doesn’t quite fit in yet. His locker is down a bit from mine. As he nears, he smiles tentatively at me. Erin’s gabbing on about something as she drags a brush through her short red hair. I don’t hear a word she’s saying.

  “Hi, T
ara.” Jeff slows down. “How’re you doing?”

  “Hi. I’m fine.”

  Jeff nods, flushes slightly, and keeps going.

  Great, just great.

  He asks how I’m doing and that’s all I can say. I thump down my history book. I’m not dumb. I talk to Erin easily enough, to all my friends, and I’m not quiet on the inside—so why can’t I find the right words when it counts? Fine. Okay, I’ve never wanted to be part of the in crowd, jabbering away, every other word like like like, but just once … I bang my head against the locker.

  “What’s with you?” Erin looks concerned. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry.” She yanks out her French grammar, spilling books on the floor.

  “It’s not that.”

  Erin looks at me, then down the corridor. “Ooohhh!” She quirks her eyebrow and mouths, “Jeff?”

  I’m turning red. I can feel it.

  Erin grins. “So—how long has this been going on?”

  “Nothing’s going on, nothing.” I don’t mean to sound angry.

  “Whatever you say, kiddo.” Her smile widens. “Nice, extremely nice—I approve.”

  “It’s nothing, okay?”

  “Hey, I saw how he looked at you.”

  “Did he? D’you think he…?” I can’t help it. I break into what I know is a completely idiotic grin.

  Erin puts her arm around me. “Yes. Definitely. Hey, how come you never told me before? I mean…”

  Just then the bell goes.

  As we shut our lockers, Erin whispers, “I want to hear every single detail.”

  I don’t see her alone again until the end of the day, but I tell her about it as we head home from school. It’s such a relief not to keep anything from Erin—I hate being a bubble head, but I do feel a certain elation talking about Jeff.

  Jeff isn’t gorgeous in a stud kind of way, he’s more what you’d call nice-looking. Mostly he’s really bright and not an egotistical jerk, unlike the dumb jocks a lot of girls seem to go for.

  I hadn’t noticed him particularly till that loser Brad and his friends were hanging around the lockers going on about how some girl was stacked. Jeff was nearby and he shook his head. Brad saw him and said, “Hey, come on, Jeff, you a priest or something?” And Jeff gave them a look of real contempt and said, “Get a life.” Then he happened to look at me and I smiled, and he smiled back. Usually his face is a bit somber, but when he smiles—wow!—it’s a flash of light.