Dirty Laundry, page 6
Mishti daydreamed about driving away, a thought that came to her in moments like this. If she gave him up, if she could give him up, she would lose everything. No matter how lonely she was in their marriage, she couldn’t leave. She couldn’t return to India, disgraced. Her parents would never understand; they couldn’t accept it. There were no divorces in her family, and she didn’t intend on being the first. It wasn’t like she could simply return to her old teaching job, after all this lost time.
He had yet to finish his coffee when she placed the plate of food in front of him. For herself, she had brought over a banana. She wasn’t a morning eater, not since she’d arrived in Ireland anyway. Any form of breakfast made her feel too full and sluggish. The pangs of hunger kept her zippy through the day, and then late in the evening she gorged on anything she could lay her hands on. There were rolls of fat on her back, where her bra dug into her flesh. She was afraid her family wouldn’t recognize her if they saw her. As teenagers, her cousins made fun of her because she practically had no hips to speak of. Now they defined her silhouette.
Parth looked surprised when she slipped into the chair across from him. He usually ate alone, while she started the housework around him. Today he sensed she had something to say, and he didn’t appear too happy about it.
Mishti peeled the banana but left it on the table while her stomach rumbled dully. She didn’t want to distract from the speech she’d prepared in the car.
“What?” He didn’t snap at her, but she heard the impatience in his voice. She was expecting it and decided to soldier through it.
“I was thinking we could plan a trip to India.”
“What’s brought this on?”
“Nothing in particular. We haven’t been in a long time. It would be nice for Maya to experience it before she grows up. It might be too much of a culture shock for her later.”
“It will be a culture shock for her even now. Her upbringing is entirely different to what she’ll see there.”
“Does it matter?” she asked. Mishti pictured driving with Maya, driving anywhere that wasn’t paid for by Parth. That place did not exist.
“You’re the one who brought up culture shock.”
“I brought it up because you wanted me to explain why we should go to India.”
She could feel her heart beating faster than it normally did. It was very seldom she spoke this way, especially to Parth. His brows furrowed, as he watched the expression change on her face.
“I just don’t see a reason for us to go,” he said. “Ma and Baba will be visiting next summer, so Maya will get to see them then.”
“And what about her other set of grandparents? When will she see my ma and baba?”
“She sees them on video calls, doesn’t she?”
Mishti felt a momentary surge of bitterness toward her parents. They were the ones who had put her here. Trapped in a foreign country, in the possession of a man who had given her Maya. Maya. This country wasn’t foreign to her daughter. This was her home. Mishti could never leave and uproot Maya from the only place she had ever known.
Mishti picked up the banana and shoved most of it into her mouth. It made her cheeks swell up like a chipmunk’s. It was the only way she could stop herself from saying the things she wanted to hurl at him. It would make matters worse. Her cut thumb throbbed and she pressed it into the table, allowing the dull ache to travel down her arm, and hip, and leg.
Forcing herself to finally swallow, she said, “I think it would be a good idea to introduce her to her roots. Show her where we come from.”
“It’s a waste of time and money. You are aware of how high our mortgage is, what our expenses are like. I’m not made of money. You should have married a lawyer or a businessman, if that is the lifestyle you wanted.”
Mishti hung her head. He had shamed her into feeling greedy and selfish, reminding her once again that the money they had wasn’t hers. That she was going to spend the rest of her life seeking her husband’s permission. Just like she’d spent all her childhood seeking her father’s.
“I don’t like having to explain this to you over and over again,” he added.
She’d never brought it up before. They rarely ever spoke about money, because this was exactly the conversation she wanted to avoid.
“There are some sacrifices we have to make, so we can live in this house. So we can have this life, in this country.”
She wished she could allow herself to cry in his presence, but she knew it would only spur him on further.
“Was there anything else?” he demanded in a calmer voice.
Mishti shook her head and stood up. There were dishes that needed washing, laundry that needed folding, sheets that needed changing.
“Make me another cup of coffee before you go, will you? This one’s gone cold.” He stopped her in her tracks, before she could slip away. She didn’t yank the cup off the table, she didn’t even stomp her feet as she went to turn the kettle on. He was watching her closely for signs of aggression, for any hint of rebellion.
But he needn’t have worried. Mishti didn’t know how.
* * *
—
Later that afternoon, Mishti tested the waters with Ciara. They were on their way to the playground to meet the mothers group. In the handful of years they’d been friends, Mishti had rarely spoken about her marriage; she didn’t feel that she had to. It was one of the things she appreciated most about Ciara: She didn’t ask any uncomfortable questions. Especially the questions she already knew the answers to.
“Do you make your husband another cup of coffee if the first one goes cold?” Mishti asked, before Ciara had finished her previous sentence. Ciara did a double take.
She glanced at Finn asleep in the buggy. Maya and Bella were walking ahead of them, dancing around trees, eyeing up puddles, holding hands. They looked so starkly different as they hopped together, it made Mishti’s stomach ache with joy and uncertainty. Dark hair against blond, curls like springs beside Bella’s straight hair like dry spaghetti, Maya’s smaller rounded hands clasped by pale bony fingers, Maya’s slightly knocked knees and Bella’s sharp edges. They carried identical backpacks covered in sequins and were wearing the same light-up shoes.
“I can’t remember the last time I made Gerry a cup of coffee,” Ciara replied, staring straight ahead. “Is that what you do? Is that what Parth expects from you?”
When they turned to look at each other, Mishti felt a jolt in her bones, like Ciara could see right through her. She was embarrassed. There were already a million things that made them unequal.
“Does he expect you to wait on him, Mishti? I hoped he’d have left those expectations behind in India.”
Already this felt like a bad idea. Mishti didn’t know where to begin, to explain to Ciara the intricacies of the social construct and norms that came with a marriage like theirs.
Ciara reached for her arm, stopping Mishti in her path. “Are you listening to me? It isn’t right if he treats you like the hired help.”
Mishti’s stomach growled with hunger, and she looked in her handbag for a protein bar as an excuse to look away from Ciara.
“No, he doesn’t expect it of me. I do it myself sometimes. They go cold so quickly here. It’s not something we worry about in India.” Mishti forced a giggle, which sounded tinny even to her own ears, and hot tears prickled the backs of her eyelids. Ciara refused to let it go.
“Just microwave it—better still, tell him to microwave it himself.”
Mishti giggled again, like this suggestion was ridiculous. She couldn’t stop her body from shaking, with cold and hunger. Ciara grabbed her elbow tightly, like she knew how to make it better.
“Don’t make him another cup of coffee, Mishti.” She sounded determined. It wasn’t a suggestion; it sounded like a command.
“It’s okay, I don’t mind. It’s not like that. I was curious, that’s all.”
Ciara kept staring at her, even though they were nearly at the gate now. The girls had already run in. From the corner of her eye, Mishti could see a group of women walking enthusiastically toward them.
“I’m sure. Parth doesn’t seem like the kind of man who would demand such a thing.” Ciara sighed and finally gave in.
Mishti was saved by the other women approaching, just in time. They all but pounced on Ciara, as Mishti stepped away to make room. For a moment there, she was afraid she was going to tell Ciara everything. How she hated sleeping in the same room as Parth. How she had never seen their bank account. How she spent all her nights making trips to the kitchen to wolf down leftovers from the fridge.
She knew Ciara would have understood, because Ciara’s father had never loved his wife either.
* * *
—
After some time at the playground, the children began behaving badly, as they usually did when they got together like this. The non-parents, the ones speed-walking or jogging on the looping path around the park, shook their heads and threw looks at the rowdy kids. Even if they were parents, they clearly didn’t have small children anymore and seemed to have forgotten what it could be like.
The mothers took turns supervising, peeling off in pairs to keep an eye on the children, while the others chatted and drank their coffees. The number of benches for parents was disproportionate to the number of children the playground could accommodate. The mothers huddled together near the gated entrance where the bikes and scooters were piled, along with discarded coats and hats.
“I like your scarf,” Lauren said, joining Mishti on the bench where she sat alone on the periphery of the group, listening but silent. “Is it from India?”
Mishti blushed, because she never knew how to take a compliment. It made her nervous and sheepish.
“Yes, I bought it in India. No, I didn’t buy it, someone gave it to me. My sister—she’s actually my cousin but like a sister to me. She gave it to me before I left.” She knew she was over-explaining and hoped Lauren wouldn’t care. Unfortunately, Lauren seemed interested and nodded along.
Over Lauren’s shoulder, Mishti could see Ciara looking at them. She stood in a group with some of the other mothers. That steady gaze made her uncomfortable.
“It looks handmade, it’s beautiful,” Lauren continued.
“Yes.”
“And the colors, they’re so vibrant.”
“Yes.”
Lauren was smiling at her now, twisting the loops of her own woolen check scarf. Mishti had nothing to add. In the distance, Ciara had finally turned her attention to someone else, laughing loudly at something.
“There used to be a shop in the city when I was growing up, and the lady who ran it sold beautiful scarves and bags she sourced from India, among other things. But I’ve never seen anything like this one before.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Mishti didn’t know what to say, so she stared at the chipped green polish on Lauren’s bitten nails. This was the first time she was noticing that Lauren had quite the masculine pair of hands, with broad knuckles and square shapeless wrists. A spongy-looking green vein ran all the way up the inside of her right arm, disappearing under the half sleeve of her faded tie-dye top.
“I would love to go to India. It’s on my top-five places to visit. Maybe someday.”
Mishti’s eyes remained on Ciara, who had broken away from the group of women—all dressed almost identically in calf-length puffer coats or vests and Lycra leggings—and was walking toward Mishti with intent. The others gazed after her longingly.
“Think it’s our turn to watch the kids, Mishti,” Ciara said. Her voice was sweet but held an edge. “We should give Aisling and Nora a break. They’re about ready to tear their hair out.” Ciara gave only a cursory smile to Lauren, then turned her attention back to Mishti.
“Yes, we should,” Mishti said, rising to stand.
“I can take this round with Mishti, if you want to finish your coffee, Ciara,” Lauren said, and Mishti winced at that. She wasn’t certain if Lauren was goading Ciara or if she was just plain stupid.
Ciara stared into Mishti’s eyes; her long lashes fluttered on her pale cheeks twice, as though she were beating a drum. She took painfully long to turn and look down at Lauren, almost like she hadn’t even heard her.
“I’m not the one who needs a break from my kids,” Ciara replied. Mishti was glad she couldn’t see Ciara’s face, but she could hear the smile in her voice. The color had drained from Lauren’s face. The skin on her forehead seemed to have stretched, making her eyes appear watery and wide. For a moment, she thought Lauren was going to burst into tears.
Ciara looked over in the direction of the children. Lauren’s kids were the loudest, wildly chasing one another around, screeching, throwing themselves on the springy playground floor. Harry seemed to have lost his shorts somewhere.
“Maybe you should take a walk or something, take a breather. It won’t be a bother, we’ll keep an eye on them,” Ciara continued. Lauren kept her face turned to her children. She had appeared teary a few moments ago, but now her face was as good as stone.
Mishti took a step back, like she was expecting an explosion.
“Thanks, Ciara, you’re almost too kind. I make it a point to not hover around my kids all the time and direct their every move, so I do get time to myself.” Lauren surprised them with a smile.
She threw a look at the group of women, who were staring at them from a distance, clearly desperate to know what was being said, then she got up and walked away, resettling herself on one of the abandoned swings.
Ciara breathed out deeply, her chest rising and falling like she was struggling to contain herself. “I hate her.”
It was the beginning of autumn and there were gaps between the leaves of the trees now, and light filtered through. Ciara’s blue eyes dazzled in the sunshine.
Mishti was just glad she wasn’t in Lauren’s shoes. By some miracle, Ciara had picked her, when she could have very easily cast her aside too. Then where would she have been? Without Ciara, Mishti would have nothing. She felt no true affinity toward the other women in the village, and besides Maya, she would have nobody to talk to. Nobody to share a cup of tea with. Nobody to text or go to the city with for lunch. Even if Mishti wanted to come to Lauren’s defense, she knew she couldn’t. She had picked sides the day she let Ciara into her house.
“I could see it was getting awkward for you, so I came to your rescue,” Ciara said. “What was she saying?”
“She likes my scarf. She said she wants to go to India.”
Ciara rolled her eyes as they started walking toward Aisling and Nora.
“I mean, seriously, there are things to talk to you about other than India. You’re practically Irish at this point.”
They spoke to Aisling and Nora for a few minutes before they were alone again. Mishti focused on the children, who were still pumped full of energy. There were no queues for the slides and a few of them were hanging off the gym bars. All playground rules were abandoned by now, and it made her anxious.
She eyed Maya, who was sitting with two other girls. They were clapping hands together and singing a rhyme she didn’t recognize. She hadn’t grown up with these songs.
“Look at her kids, they don’t even know how to play with the others. What is she teaching them?” Ciara drew Mishti out of her thoughts again. “And she brags about not keeping an eye on them.”
Just like their mother, Freya, Harry, and Willow usually kept to themselves and steered clear of the other children. Fortunately, they didn’t seem to notice how they were already cast out.
* * *
—
They were walking home together later. It was a short walk to their own cluster of houses, but the road was narrow and winding, and they had to keep an eye on the girls. A stream of cars inched along beside them, held up behind a red-faced cyclist. On the side of the footpath, there were a few houses, spaced wide. On the other edge was the sea, clear and gushing, marred only by orange bobbing buoys and circling gulls.
“And it’s not necessarily about the sugar. That’s the common misconception. It’s the caffeine in chocolate that makes them hyper.” Ciara was speaking as they walked.
Maya and Bella bobbed ahead of them, while Finn sat quietly in the buggy that Ciara was pushing. He was a calm toddler, rarely ever fussing or demanding his mother’s attention. Maya at this age would have refused to sit strapped in any contraption.
“Oh, I never thought of that,” Mishti replied.
“Yes, exactly. Most people don’t. Not that excessive sugar is any better.”
Ciara’s shiny ponytail swung as she walked along. Her runners didn’t have a speck of mud on them.
“I don’t let Bella indulge after three. That’s her deadline and she knows it. She doesn’t even ask for sweets or snacks after three. You have to stand your ground with these kids, you know?”
Mishti didn’t want to imagine what Ciara would say about her midnight yogurt-and-jaggery episodes. “You’re right. It’s a constant power struggle.”
“Exactly, and you need to make sure they know who is boss. Anyway,” Ciara sighed, “today went well, didn’t it?”
“The kids had fun.”
“Yes, and all the mammies got a break. How did mothers do it before us? With three, four, five kids stuck to their boobs and hanging off their hips.”
“I don’t know. It’s depressing to think about,” Mishti said. She pictured her mother cooking in the kitchen, sweat beading her forehead as she stirred several pots at the same time. The other women in the house watched the kids, saw to the laundry. Not a moment’s peace, but never alone. Mishti couldn’t decide who had it better, her mother or her.
