The Rearranged Life (35 page)

“Try the beginning,” Max suggests.

James lets out a whoop in the distance, and our heads snap to attention. When we’ve established that neither of the boys has killed each other, we turn back. I spill everything. Something inside compels me to.

“My parents really want me to marry an Indian. It’s a cultural thing. Usually, a family looks at things that make you similar and set you up with someone who fits certain criteria. It’s up to you if you take it further, but the initial setup involves the families.”

“What kinds of things do they look at?”

When I mention how even caste is considered, Max’s eyebrows fly up.

He asks, “Wait, caste–they still do that?” Then he lets me explain at my own pace. He even hears it isn’t obligation that binds me to my parents–sure, they’ve made sacrifices and I owe them–but it’s pure, unadulterated love because of who they are.

“Do you guys have a plan?” he asks, interested.

“We’re kind of flying by the seat of our pants here. We had to take a lot of space in the fall to figure it out. We didn’t exactly see things the same way,” I admit.

“That’s why James went silent about you!” he says, a realization dawning upon him.

“What?”

“He wouldn’t stop talking about you for a good two months. Then around Thanksgiving, he started getting really moody. He barely hung out with us in New York, just watched movies. He said he was stressed out from school, but we knew better. Then after spring semester started, he started talking about you again, and he was back to his normal self. That month or two apart made him really miserable,” Max says, inadvertently giving me some insight into James’ state of mind during our time apart.

“I didn’t know that.” On cue, James looks at me and smiles, and I’ve never felt so happy to know someone.

“Do you think your parents would be okay with it if they met him?” Max asks. I shrug wordlessly. “That must be frustrating. He’s a good guy though, I’m sure they’ll see that when they get the chance. They’re getting over a shock.”

“I guess so.” I tread carefully.

“Sometimes, parents have a hard time handling their children’s choices. My mom was so scared when I left for college because she wouldn’t be able to monitor what I was up to. That protective bubble they can keep us in when we live with them wears off. It takes away a lot of their security. You just made a major decision, outside of that bubble, and they have to wrap their heads around it.”

“I didn’t think about it that way!” I admit, and I really, really hope he’s right.

“If you ask me–even if you don’t, I am flexible that way–when a child doesn’t do what the parents expected, it challenges a lot of their beliefs about themselves, and parenting, and how they see their kids. They’re probably sorting it out in their own way.”

He sounds so reasonable. I shake my head. “I know, but… I just don’t like hurting people!”

“Are you sure you want to be a doctor?” Max gives me a friendly jab on the arm.

“Stabbing people with needles, I wouldn’t have a problem with.”

“I guess in the grand scheme of things, it seems easier, huh?” Max chuckles.

And so, the conversation transitions back to Max’s residency. We talk about his long days, his chief of medicine who looks a little bit like KFC’s Colonel Sanders, and a girl he’s been seeing casually. We gossip about Tristan and James, with Max regaling me with stories of the three of them when they were kids. Before we know it, the afternoon turns colder, and I shiver. James and Tristan must decide it’s freezing too, because before long, they walk up to us, broad smiles on their faces and their cheeks red.

When Tristan, James, and Max surround me, I am at ease. The light spreads from my heart to my limbs. I am getting attached to this family. It’s both dangerous and satisfying. If James and I ever end, the weight on my shoulders is no longer the expectations of my family and James, but James’ family as well. On the other hand, if James’ family is so wonderful, perhaps my parents will see the light and realize how lucky I am.

We settle for dinner in the beautiful green and blue dining room. Mrs. St. Clair whips up lasagna you could write songs about, and breadsticks that melt in your mouth. It is all I can do to keep from groaning as I sink my teeth into her food. Mr. St. Clair catches me admiring the crown molding swirled atop the room, and I ask how long they’ve lived in this house.

“We moved here when Max was about thirteen,” Mr. St. Clair says.

“We had to wait for William to establish himself at his law firm first,” Mrs. St. Clair adds.

“James and I used to share a room,” Max chimes in, to which James sarcastically responds that it was a great arrangement.

“He’s such a neat freak,” I say with a laugh. His room is pristine.

“And Max is a slob,” James groans.

“There were plenty of wars in that part of the house.” Mr. St. Clair rolls his eyes.

“I got my own room,” Tristan throws in, mostly to goad his brothers.

“Because Mom and Dad knew we’d kill you.” James takes a swig of his wine.

“All jokes aside,” Mrs. St. Clair says, ignoring her sons’ banter. “It was toughest when William just finished law school and I was pregnant with James. With a five year old, a baby on the way, and the strain of trying to land the right job, it was fun.”

“We lived in a tiny apartment and ate a lot of takeout,” Mr. St. Clair says cheerfully, and I see James’ easy grin.

“You also didn’t have Mom’s money then,” Tristan says, prompting what has to be a look of
Huh?
across my face.

“My father gambled away the family wealth when I was in high school, so I had to get by on the fact that I was a legacy at Yale,” Mr. St. Clair explains. “Ava’s parents weren’t keen on me marrying her. When I asked for their permission to propose, they told me I should probably consider finding someone else because I’d never measure up.”

“He did it anyway,” Mrs. St. Clair says with a smug smile.

“I promised them I would prove to them I could support their daughter and give her the same lifestyle they did.”

“It took a lot of TV dinners to get there, but we did it together,” Mrs. St. Clair finishes, a trace of pride seeping into her voice.

The boys smile at each other like they’ve heard this story a hundred times, but they haven’t gotten sick of it. Is this where James’ idealism about love comes from? It would explain so much–both his defensiveness when I say we may not work out and his nonchalance when other people put us down–he’s seen and known better in his parents.

“After Max came along, I guess they figured it was permanent, so they didn’t write Mom out of the will, after all.” James chuckles.

“Give your dad some credit. He built us, not the family money,” Mrs. St. Clair protests.

“Although it was nice that we didn’t have to pay a penny of the boys’ college funds.” Mr. St. Clair raises his wine glass to his wife’s.

“It worked out. We built an all right life together,” Mrs. St. Clair says, and a look of love crosses her face. James’ dad returns her look, like they’re the only ones in the room and have forgotten about the four of us youngins’ around the table with them.

My parents aren’t big on PDA. In fact, I hardly see them hug. Or kiss. Their love, nurtured over the years, is different: silent but strong. To see parents who openly display affection is another shock to the system. I blush, unable to look at them.

A flash of hope has crossed my mind. Our families are different in so many ways: the way we greet each other, the jokes we make, the food we eat, even the displays of affection between our parents. But when I watch how Mr. and Mrs. St. Clair make light of their stressful and conflict-ridden past, as if it’s another blip on the radar, I realize perhaps I’ve made a bigger deal of our troubles than necessary. Maybe, just maybe, my parents will see that too. It could be James and I in thirty years sitting around the table with our children, joking about how Amma thought it was going to be such a hassle to deal with her parents, but Nanna believed in love because of his own, and it all ended up like a fairy tale.

After dinner, we all sit lazily around the table nursing our carb comas. Mrs. St. Clair breaks the silence, telling us we should clean up, and Max and James immediately get up to help her. She scolds Tristan for still playing on his phone as his brothers get to work.

A cell phone rings, and James’ dad answers it with, “William St. Clair.” He gestures to the office and on Mrs. St. Clair’s nod, strides out, his purposeful footsteps echoing through the dining room.

I follow James’s mom to the kitchen, where she begins to soap up the dishes the boys bring in. When I offer to do them, she tells me to sit and talk to her instead and that the boys can take care of the work.

“You must be so strong to have three boys running around the house,” I remark as I watch Tristan look around for his mother’s gaze and throw a fork that hits James’ arm. Mrs. St. Clair hasn’t noticed, and James looks for her too, before making a sign with a knife that he’s going to kill Tristan. I turn back to Mrs. St. Clair.

“It’s gotten better as they’ve grown older, but when they were little, I wondered if my sanity would hold up.” She shakes her head.

“I can’t even imagine.”

“You know, when James or Max come home and offer to take out the trash or do the dishes… or when Tristan makes everyone feel cheerful, I’m reminded why having sons is a good thing,” she says, wryly.

“Your tone makes it sound like you still have moments where you wonder if it was a good idea.”

She asks me if I can see the shining scar on Tristan’s forehead before she tells me of the injury that gave it to him.

“A year before Max was diagnosed with cancer, when the boys were ten, six, and four, they used to play on the trampoline in our backyard at our old house. It was fenced-in, and I used to be able to keep an eye on them from the kitchen window.” She scrubs at a plate with a sponge. “Then one day, I hear a yell, and I see Tristan fly through the air. He landed face first on the ground, and his head hit a rock.”

I gasp.

“Max and James shouted to me that he was okay, but I went outside just to check. There they are, guiltier than I have ever seen them look, with a plastic baggie of apple seeds. Tristan has a gash on his head, dirt in his boo-boo, and bloody seeds at his feet. James and Max had tried to plant a seed in Tristan’s head to see if they could grow an apple tree,” she finishes. My mouth drops open.

“I wondered then if I had given birth to the three stooges.”

“Don’t you mean two?” Tristan says from the doorway linking the dining room and the kitchen.

“Three,” Mrs. St. Clair replies. “You let it happen.”

“I was four, Mom!”

“I couldn’t tell if you were in shock or a willing participant,” his mother points out, setting the clean dishes aside.

“Shock–” Tristan begins.

“Willing,” James chimes in from the dining room.

I laugh.

“It didn’t work anyway, Mom.” Max puts a plate into the sink. He still sounds disappointed.

“What did you do to them?”

“They got William’s belt on their rumps. The only time it’s ever happened.”

“I can still feel it.” James winces as he appears from the dining room with the silverware.

“Poor Tristan.” I give him a sympathetic look. Tristan smirks back.

“He was fine,” Max says, nonchalantly, sitting down on a stool at the counter.

“He got an infection!” His mother protests angrily, as if the offense had just occurred yesterday.

“Details.” James waves his hand dismissively.

I can’t help it. I start to grin, then let out a gleeful laugh. Mrs. St. Clair’s indignant look doesn’t last long as James makes eye contact with me and beams, while Max snickers, and Tristan gives all of us dirty looks. She lets out a laugh too.

am awesome at Uno,” James proclaims as he deals out cards in the family room later that night. Mr. St. Clair reads some briefs from a few cases he is working on, looking up every few minutes to contribute. Max, Tristan, James, and I are around a circular coffee table with pullout stools. Everyone is in sweatpants and pajamas. The fireplace is lit and gives off sparks, which crackle and pop. I snuggle into my sweatshirt. Mrs. St. Clair quietly reads her book in the corner. It’s cozy and peaceful.