An Infidel in Paradise (8 page)

“Have a good sleep, Mandy,” I say, and leave the room.

I
’m lying on the living room couch doing homework, with the TV on in the background, when Mom finally comes home close to midnight. She walks past me and turns off the TV.

“What the heck?” I object.

“You shouldn’t have the TV on when you’re doing homework, and you should sit up properly at a table.” She leans over my notebook. “How can your teachers even read your writing? It’s atrocious.”

“It’s doesn’t matter, Mom. We take it up in class.”

“It does matter,” Mom snaps. “It’s about developing good habits. And why are you up so late? You should have finished your homework hours ago.”

I slam my books shut, toss them on the coffee table, and stand up.

“I’m going to my room.”

Mom steps in front of me, blocking my way. “You have a chance to start over here, Emma. I was hoping you might take school more seriously this year.”

“A chance to start over?” I scoff. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

“Your eleventh grade marks are what universities will look at. You can’t afford to mess up this year.”

“Maybe you should have thought of that before you cut our posting short in Manila. I was doing well there.”

“I wouldn’t call a B average doing well,” says Mom.

I cross my arms tightly over my chest, struggling not to say something we’ll both regret. “There’re other things besides grades, Mom.”

“Not in your junior year,” Mom retorts, but like me, her voice strains under the weight of all the things she’s not saying.

“What about junior prom, Mom?” I know I should stop there, but I barrel on. “Or spending time with kids who have known me for more than a minute? Or having a father?”

She exhales heavily and steps around me, leaving a free passage if I want to escape. I think she’s hoping I’ll go, but I stand my ground, watching as she shrugs off her tailored jacket, folds it carefully, and places it over the back of an armchair. For the first time, I notice how thin she’s become. She’s always been petite, but it’s as if every ounce of flesh has melted off her body, leaving nothing but bones. I try to remember the last time I saw anything more than coffee pass her lips.

She turns back to me and seems almost startled to find me still in the doorway. “It’s late, Emma.”

She’s dismissing me, but I don’t move. “Why did we have to leave Manila early?” I persist. “Why did you do this to us?”

“I’m sorry.” She stops, waiting for me to leave, as if her apology should be enough, as if it even comes close. “I know this move has been hard on you,” she continues, finally. “But surely you understand why we couldn’t keep living there the way things were – not with him, not with them.…”

She massages her forehead and gives me a beseeching look. It occurs to me she might have a headache, and I almost relent, tell her it’s okay, but it’s so not okay I don’t know where to begin.

“You should blame your father, not me,” she says bitterly. But she catches herself and takes a deep breath. “This has been hard on all of us. We’re all making adjustments. I just need you to be a team player.”

“What do you know about being a team player?” I demand. “You’re never here! I’m the one at the dinner table, listening to Mandy’s problems. I could count on one hand the number of times you’ve put her to bed since the move.”

“I know and I’m sorry about that too,” she says, sounding genuinely regretful. “But if you can just be patient. I was lucky to get this job at such late notice. They didn’t have to offer me another posting, and it’s even a promotion. It’s my first time being a program manager. I need a few weeks to establish myself with my staff, then things will settle down. I promise it will get better.”

“Mandy needs you now, Mom.” I don’t add that I need her too. I’m not admitting that, even to myself.

Mom looks past me and doesn’t answer for several minutes. I don’t know if she’s thinking about what I said or just trying to wait me out. I am pretty exhausted, actually, and it’s unlikely this conversation’s going to make her change her ways. Despite her current excuse, she’s always been a workaholic. The truth is, when I first found out about Dad’s affair, there was a part of me that wasn’t surprised. I think he was lonely. I know there was more to it than that, but I really believe that was part of it.

“I’m under a lot of pressure.” Mom breaks into my thoughts. “You live in these big houses with servants, go to expensive private schools. You have a lifestyle most kids only dream about, but you never think about who makes it all possible. It was certainly never your father. Now he’s gone. Is it too much to expect you to help a little?”

I tune out halfway through her diatribe. I’ve heard this one or versions of it too many times. I wonder how Dad felt when she went on about how hard she worked to support us. She never said it directly, but even Mandy could read the subtext. It’s true, Dad never made much money off of his writing, but she never said anything appreciative about all the things he
did
do. She was too busy playing the martyr.

“Yes,” I snap, my temper out of control now. “It
is
asking too much to expect me to pick up your slack. I
didn’t ask to come here. None of us did. You never checked with us about moving. You just dragged us along like you always do.”

“You know why we had to leave, Emma. It was the only way I could separate your father from that woman.”

“But you didn’t separate them!” I shout. I can feel tears starting, but I blink them back. “You just forced him to choose, and he didn’t choose us!”

“Do you think I could have predicted that?” Mom demands, exasperated. “I supported him for years, and he left me for a woman with a sixth-grade education. I asked him to come with us. We could have made a fresh start. It would have been the best thing for all of us, and he’d have a new country to write about. Why wouldn’t he come?”

“Gee, I don’t know, Mom,” I say. “Maybe he felt like being in charge of his own life for a change.”

“You don’t understand anything,” Mom says sadly, sinking down into the couch I vacated.

She picks up the remote and clicks on the TV, flipping around till she gets to an English news channel. I glare at her for a minute, but she ignores me, so I scoop up my books and head out of the room. I stop in the doorway and look back, but she’s engrossed in other battles, giving every appearance of having forgotten our own.

“I understand you’re a selfish bitch,” I say under my breath.

She’s on her feet like a shot, her face crimson with rage. “You’re grounded!”

“Grounded?” I laugh humorlessly. “How can you ground me when I have no life to begin with? It’s not like I have anywhere to go.”

“Well, you can go to your room for starters.” Her hands are balled into fists and she’s breathing heavily, but her voice is controlled, her face a hard cold mask.

“My pleasure,” I say, keeping my own voice steady. I don’t shed a tear until I’m in my room with the door closed.

“Y
ou have to give it to him today,” says Angie for the millionth time.

It’s Wednesday lunch, and I’m sitting in the cafeteria with what I’m beginning to think of as the usual gang. Angie has not only told everyone about the note but has been passing around multiple versions of it for the past two days. She thinks this will pressure me into giving it to Mustapha, just so I won’t have to hear it dissected and revised one more freaking time. I hate that she knows me that well already.

“I really think you should start off with a salutation,” says Leela. Not for the first time. She looks down at the note again. “It’s more polite, isn’t it? You shouldn’t go right into the apology. At least say ‘How are you? Best wishes to your family.’ It’s rude not to ask about his family. Don’t you agree, Tira?”

Tahira takes the note and reads it again, as if it might have changed since she read it three minutes ago. These
girls don’t get enough entertainment. Cineplex would make a killing here.

“You’re right, Leela,” she says. “She can’t apologize for insulting him and then insult him again by not inquiring about his health and family.”

“Forget the family,” says Angie. “She doesn’t even know the family.”

“What difference does that make?” demands Leela.

“No difference at all,” says Tahira. “You wouldn’t buy fabric in the market without asking after the merchant’s family. Are you saying Musa Khan deserves less courtesy than a trader in the market?”

“The only thing I ever ask a merchant is ‘How much?’ ” chimes in Jazzy.

“And you wonder why you’re always overcharged,” says Tahira.

“And she shouldn’t have typed it,” says Leela. “A personal note should be handwritten.”

“Good point,” agrees Tahira.

“She handwrote the first four versions,” says Angie pointedly.

“Five,” I correct.

“Well, she should have handwritten it again,” says Tahira.

“Although she does have terrible handwriting,” Leela muses.

“All Americans do,” says Tahira.

“Probably because they type everything,” says Leela.

“Oh my God,” I say.

Angie snatches the note from Tahira and passes it across the table to me. “Put it away, Emma, and give it to him today.”

I roll my eyes at her as I shove it in my pocket. Rewrapping my untouched sandwich and shoving it in my bag, I jump up, mumbling an excuse as I head for the door. I don’t realize Angie’s behind me until, emerging from the building, I stop for a minute to let my eyes adjust to the blinding brightness of the midday sun. We walk over to the fishpond, which, in spite of its history, I’m inexplicably drawn to, and we sit side by side on the stone wall facing the fish.

“Have you spoken to him since Monday?” she asks.

“No, I’ve seen him around, but I just try to avoid him.”

“I noticed him talking to your brother yesterday.”

“Yeah. Me too, but Vince didn’t say anything about it. I think they have some classes together.”

“Yeah, probably. Are you nervous?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

We sit in silence for a few minutes.

“Can you hang out after school?” she asks.

“No, I have to go straight home. I’m grounded.”

“Why?”

“Long story.”

Another long pause; I can tell she’s waiting. I watch my favorite fish. It’s mottled white, orange, and black,
the only one not a solid color. I wonder what it feels like to be a misfit in fish world.

“I look after my sister every day,” I say. “Vince disappears with Michelle, and my mom just disappears, but she says I’m not a team player.”

“That’s not fair. Is that why you’re grounded?”

“I said some things.”

“Like?”

“I don’t know. I might have called my mom a selfish bitch.”

Silence. I look over at her, and she’s grinning.

“You think it’s funny?”

“Sorry, but you
might
have called her a bitch?”

“Okay, I did call her a bitch, but I really didn’t mean for her to hear me. I was, like, halfway out the door and I just said it quietly. Is it my fault if she’s got superhuman hearing?”

“So, why is your mom a selfish bitch?”

“She’s not. I shouldn’t have said it. It’s just that she’s never around, and I know she thinks she did the right thing bringing us here, and she works hard, but sometimes it feels like …”

I stop, pull my sandwich out of my bag, and unwrap it. I look around the courtyard before I break off a small piece and throw it to the fish. They thrash around, fighting each other to get some, so I throw in more. I’m not trying to provoke another confrontation with anyone, I just like feeding them. I don’t know why. It’s the same feeling I get when I make Mandy’s lunch, or
pour her a bowl of cereal at bedtime, or put out corn for the little green parrots that come into our yard, even though The Ghoul says I shouldn’t encourage them. It’s weird that I find it so satisfying watching food disappear because I’ve pretty much given up eating. For weeks now, I’ve had this boulder in my stomach that doesn’t leave space for food. It may be the only thing Mom and I have in common. “It feels like what, Emma?”