a daughter's lapse
fiction by sudha balagopal
Mohan ate his cereal in front of the television while he watched the news on CNN. Always Raisin Bran. Always the same stilted, awkward conversation like actors rehearsing lines for a play.
“Good morning Neela,” he said, as he continued eating his cereal.
“Good morning.” She sipped her tepid coffee and made a face; the coffee was tasteless.
“Did you sleep well?” His eyes were glued to the television.
“I watched Jay Leno for a while.” Leno, his favorite, not hers. She waited. But he did not say anything about Leno. She continued, “I think I fell asleep sometime before his monologue ended.”
Her eyes darted to a writing pad next to the phone. Her scribbled note read ‘Kanya, 3ᛆ p.m.’.
Mohan turned the television off and placed his cereal bowl and spoon in the sink; there was no clatter, in fact, no sound at all. He was gentle, every action of his imbued with a deliberate placidity.
Neela held her breath when he paused next to the note by the phone, but he made no mention of their daughter's call yesterday.
Mohan threw a blanket of silence over the house as he picked up his laptop. Then he left without saying goodbye. Again.
Neela and Patsy spoke at the same time, their sentences frantic.“Where is the baby?”
As soon as he left she noticed his flask of coffee, which sat forlorn on the kitchen counter. She grabbed it, ran behind him to the car, opened the passenger door and placed it on the seat.
“Your coffee,” Neela's tone was soft. “Drive safely.”
He shifted the car into gear and pulled away. She went back into the house.
A tear escaped, others followed in its path. She let them fall for a while as if she did not want the first one be lonely. Finally, she rubbed them off her face with the kitchen towel. It abraded her skin, but she did not notice.
As she replaced the kitchen towel, Neela noticed the open dishwasher full of haphazard rows of sticky, greasy dishes. She rearranged them, clattering cups, plates and dishes before starting the dishwasher. It was still too quiet in the house.
Neela jabbed the power button on the television remote. The house now filled with high-pitched voices from the television, happy voices and cheerful banter about nothing at all. She sprayed Fantastik on the countertop and wiped the remnants of breakfast off with a sponge.
“Another hundred-degree plus day in Phoenix. The third in a row,” Sean Combs, the weatherman on channel 22 announced with a wide smile on his face. “Yesterday, we topped out at 102 degrees. We have more of the same today.” His tone became serious, the smile departed. “Please, please watch your children around the swimming pool.”
The air would sizzle in Phoenix today.
The ding-dong of the doorbell interrupted the weatherman's broadcast. Neela bent to replace the cleaner under the kitchen sink and rose, straightening her shirt. She frowned. That could only be Patsy, her neighbor.
Neela spoke softly to herself, “I am busy today, Patsy, I can't watch Sara. I watched her yesterday and Monday, remember? Twice this week and today is only Thursday.”
The bell rang again and then again. It sounded urgent; Neela quickened her footsteps.
She opened the door. A tentative greeting froze on her lips.
Patsy stood at the doorstep. Mascara ran down her cheeks in thick black streaks, while her uncombed hair sprang out in ten different directions.
“My baby, my baby Sara!” she screamed. A hiccup escaped loudly.
“What happened?” Neela shouted back, matching Patsy's volume. Her heart pounded in premonition.
“CPR, CPR, do you know CPR?” Patsy was hysterical. Her white knuckles clutched a cordless phone in a vice-like grip.
“Oh my God! No, I don't. Is the baby hurt?” Neela grabbed Patsy's arm and ran toward her house across the street. “Where is Sara?”
“Oh,ooh,” Patsy wailed. “Pool…pool…” Great shuddering, heaving cries from her neighbor.
“Oh my God, did the baby fall in the swimming pool? Call 911…call 911. Give me the phone. Neela grabbed the neighbor's phone.
Neela and Patsy spoke at the same time, their sentences frantic. “Where is the baby?”
“–I called 911.”
They charged into Patsy's backyard where Mark, Patsy's husband, held the baby in his arms wrapped in an oversized beach towel. Before Neela could ask him any questions, they heard sirens; a fire-truck, a police car and an ambulance screamed to a halt outside. One of the paramedics began CPR while another brought a stretcher to take the baby to the hospital. Someone cleared the road of all traffic outside.
Men poured into the backyard. Patsy continued to cry while her stunned husband held her close. He ran his hand over her hair, a comfort to her in his own sorrow.
Neela rubbed Mark's arm to get his attention. “How did the baby fall into the pool, Mark? Was the back door not locked? Is the baby breathing?” Mark's stared back, eyes glazed. “I am sorry, so sorry,” Neela whispered. Then she shut her her mouth, holding her palm over it.
Neela watched as Patsy and Mark drove behind the ambulance to the hospital, enveloped in their miserable world.
In a few minutes everyone disappeared, leaving the house abandoned. Neela shut the back door and latched it from the inside. Patsy's purse lay on its side upon the hall table, the contents spilling out. Neela picked up the keys and locked their front door.
At home, Neela collapsed onto the couch in front of the television. Images permeated into her brain. “Breaking News.” Her benumbed mind absorbed the words slowly. The television anchor for Channel 22 broke in. He did not smile.
“In the east valley this morning, a baby was found floating in a back yard swimming pool. The baby, fortunately, is expected to survive and is now at Phoenix Children's hospital.”
Neela sat up.
“The mother only left the baby for a few minutes to go to the bathroom. The toddler apparently walked through an open back door and fell into the pool. It only takes minutes. So please, please watch your children.”
Neela turned off the television, continued to sit there for a minute, then stood up as if every bone in her body hurt.
She looked for tomatoes in the refrigerator. When Neela shut the refrigerator door, she saw the picture on the refrigerator door. Patsy, Mark and baby Sara in a Christmas photograph from last year. Neela touched baby Sara's face in a loving gesture.
Next, she picked up a cup of dal. She washed the dried lentils and put them in the pressure cooker. She would make rasam today. Rasam, comfort food they all loved, especially Kanya, her daughter.
“I need comforting,” Kanya told her mother. Neela hugged herself, rubbing the backs of her shoulders. It felt comforting.
She opened the refrigerator again to find cilantro for the rasam. The picture on the refrigerator caught her attention once more. Mark, strong yet sensitive, Patsy, pretty but careless.
Neela hurried to the living room and picked up her phone book. She looked up Patsy's cell number and dialed. There was no answer. Neela left a message. “Patsy, how are you and Mark? How is Sara? Perhaps I can come see the baby? I want to be there for you all.” Of course, Patsy had not thought to take her phone with her.
Neela could still see Mark as he held Patsy through the ordeal. Patsy's rock of support. His actions said, “I feel your pain. I know how hurt you are. I am here for you.”
So unlike Mohan. Neela tried to discuss Kanya's blunder—Kanya called it a lapse—but Mohan wouldn't. Politeness, an eternal guest in their house, had long begun to wear out its welcome. A ragged sigh escaped.
Life could continue the way it had.
Or?
Neela loved her daughter.
“Daughters, such special beings,” Neela explained to Patsy once as she played with Sara. “Part of you and yet they are their own persons. Same, yet different. Kanya was born after such praying, such longing, and so much trying. Mohan had adored her, too.” Had. She was not going to tell Patsy how it was now.
God knows she had tried to talk to Mohan. Many, many times.
“Mohan,” Neela began last night, knowing the answer even before she asked the question. But she wanted to start a conversation, about something, anything. “The Sharmas are celebrating their silver wedding anniversary on the 16th, that is next Saturday.”
There was silence as Mohan concentrated on his lemon rice.
“What have you told them?” He asked after helping himself to orange juice.
“That I would check with you and get back to them.” Would he accept the invitation?
“I think I might have to travel next week, I don't know when I return.” He picked up his plate as he left the table.
Neela nodded. She understood.
“Fine, I'll decline politely.”
“That would be better.” His tone was even.
Then Mohan talked to her about other issues, the water bill and the dead tree in the yard. About the garage door opener that was so erratic and the air-conditioning unit that had had not been serviced in a long time.
Inconsequential, trivial, and banal things.
The conversation so exhausted her, she went to her room for an hour. But Mohan never talked about Kanya. As if she had never been in their house.
When Neela first saw Kanya at her school dance, oh so long ago, when she was in the eighth grade, dancing with a young boy, her Indian psyche had leaped, screamed and protested in alarm. Steve—whatever his name was—danced close, his hand wrapped around Kanya's nubile young waist.
The phone rang yesterday afternoon as she watched television. Neela ignored the phone's insistent ring. Mohan never called her anyway. Oprah was on. The television had a soporific influence, it dulled thoughts and the pain they brought; stopped her from getting lost in mazes with no way out.
After the sixth ring, she picked it up, halting the phone's noisy intrusion.
Kanya.
They had not heard from her for three long weeks. Twenty one days. Neela's heart thudded.
“Mom, please, I need help,” Kanya began. No niceties, no how are you? Just that statement. “I need you.”
“Why should I come?” she wanted to say. “Such hurt, such anger you have brought upon us. There is going to be a baby? And no husband? This is my punishment, for God knows what, agonizing punishment.”
But she did not. It felt like self-flagellation.
“How is Dad?” Kanya asked, her voice was cracked, as if she had a cold.
“He is fine, dear, busy, but fine.” Short sentences, because Neela had so much to ask, so much to say.
“He does not want to talk to me? I tried calling him.”
Even that time when she had called, with news of the disaster, he had not spoken to her.
“Thanks for not hanging up, mom.” She continued. “Mom, who else could I call?” she asked like a little girl.
“Take care of yourself.” Neela knew she sounded absurd. Kanya took that to mean “Goodbye.” And she hung up.
A collage of girlhood situations flashed through Neela's mind. The hundreds of times she soothed Kanya's fevered brow and gave her Tylenol. When Kanya had the chicken pox, Neela stayed up all night to dot calamine lotion on the pox. She rubbed Kanya's tummy every time menstrual cramps assailed her. Neela massaged her legs when they hurt from dancing. It was always Neela she turned to, to rub away, to assuage her pains.
Neela knew Kanya started keeping things from her parents when she was in high school. Once Neela discovered eye shadow and mascara in Kanya's backpack as she looked for a sweater. Kanya hid the makeup because Mohan hated to see her fresh young face made up. Kanya also wanted to cut her hair and perm it, but he insisted that she keep her long tresses, like all the Indian girls he had known. Next thing Neela knew, Kanya had plucked and shaped her eyebrows without telling or asking her.
A bizarre picture sprang up in her mind again, of an eighth grade school dance, and a young boy's arm curved around Kanya's waist. Neela's hands turned clammy and unexpected perspiration dotted her forehead as a sense of dread and panic overcame her.
Perhaps she should have insisted they shop around the mall together. She should have agreed to dress the way Kanya wanted her to, worn smart pants and jackets in the winter, instead of the shawl she threw over cardigans knitted at home. Perhaps she should have styled her hair, colored it when the gray started showing. Neela was old-fashioned; perhaps that bothered Kanya. Neela was not like other mothers, whose perfectly manicured nails contrasted mightily against Neela's dry, brittle nails and rough palms. Their perfect coiffeurs made her little rat-tail of a ponytail, pulled tightly back, look unkempt and outdated.
She got ready to make rasam and banana bread, comfort foods from two different continents. The bananas that lay forgotten in her fruit bowl had acquired large black spots. They would do well for banana bread. She broke a couple of eggs in a bowl, melted some butter in the microwave and measured two cups of flour. Every time she opened the refrigerator, the photograph caught her attention. Mark and Patsy loved her banana bread.
Neela preheated the oven. In an hour, the loaves were ready, warm and fragrant. She wrapped them in aluminum foil and placed them in a Trader Joe's brown bag. After a minute's thought, she put the rasam in a thermos flask. Kanya always drank it like soup. Neela was sweating in her hot kitchen by the time she was done. But she had no time to shower.
Neela picked up her handbag and slipped her feet into a pair of shoes. Before leaving, she picked up the phone and dialed Mohan's number. Then she hung up shaking her head. He was probably in a meeting, busy.
Why had Patsy not called from the hospital? Was it bad news? Neela drove as fast as she dared. A mother was worried to death for her baby, did nobody understand that feeling? It took a mother to understand another.
“I am a mother!” she shouted out once.
Interstate-10 was backed up; it frustrated her. She could not be delayed. There were cars as far as the eye could see. Neela glanced at the speedometer, 30 miles per hour in a 65 mile per hour zone. As soon as an exit came up, she took it. She drove on the side streets; they were faster even with the traffic lights.
Neela got out of the car, and squinted at the brightness of the sun. Her sunglasses lay forgotten at home. She bent down to pick up the Trader Joe's brown bag with the banana bread and rasam. It sat wedged between the front and back seats.
She hurried up the stairs, negotiating them two at a time, to get to the second floor. Her shirt stuck to her back with sweat. Several doors lined either side of the hallway; metallic numbers were embedded on each one of them. 213. Neela told Kanya it was an unlucky number when she moved in. She hoped Kanya was in. She should be, if as she had told her mother yesterday, she was not feeling well. Neela rapped on Kanya's door.
about the author
Sudha Balagopal was born and raised in India and has lived in the United States for over twenty years. She has a Master's degree in Journalism and Communications from the University of Florida. As a freelance writer, she has been published both in the United States and in India. Recently her fiction has appeared in Catamaran magazine, Driftwood, Muse India, and hercircleezine.com.
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