After the Phone Rang
Nightmares about such a call had orbited Anita’s subconscious for sixteen years now. She believed the ring would come in the darkness of night.
Reality did not work that way.
The morning started ordinarily enough at her home in Arizona. Sunshine cascaded through windows, promised a cheerful day. The toaster popped bagels, the washer in the laundry room churned a load of whites, partially made sandwiches nestled beside lunch bags on the dining table. She checked her email, ate breakfast, exchanged angry comments with her daughters, 14-year old Asha and 12-year old Richa, about their attire; short, belly-button revealing tops hovering over tight jeans. The argument cost precious morning minutes. She hustled them into her car, drove them to school, an embarrassment her children could do without. The usual chaos of a weekday morning.
Her husband, Vishal, was away, traveling on business. Already, after only four weeks at his job.
The phone rang as she put the kettle on for a cup of tea.
A five-minute call from India, half a world away, brought the news. She willed herself to remain calm, placed a hand over her heart, as if to slow it down. The cousin’s disembodied tones droned. A question repeated: Mother did you have to be the first to go?
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, aware the cousin should have said the words. She was sorry for the burden, for the responsibility that was not his.
“Will you come?” he asked. “There’s much to be done.”
“Yes, of course. I’ll sort things out and call you back.”
She placed tea leaves in the boiling water, strained the tea, poured milk. There were no tea bags in her kitchen; her mother considered them an abomination. She slurped the hot tea; a habit Vishal cured her of came back now. The tea scalded her tongue; she didn’t notice.
She found a pad and pencil. Paused. Call Vishal. Would he be able to come home immediately? Probably not. She must make arrangements with her neighbor, explain to her daughters what had happened. Their grandmother doted on them. Anita’s memories of her own grandmother, vivid and warm as an heirloom quilt.
Partha. She should call her brother. The cousin probably contacted him. She gulped down the tea, dialed his cell phone.
“Partha,’ he barked.
“Hi, it’s me. I am so sorry about Amma …”
“Yes, I know. I got the call. I told him I would take care of expenses.”
“What?” Anita gasped in disbelief.
“I’m in the middle of a takeover, I cannot go now. They won’t keep the body until I can wrap this up.”
“But …” She wanted to tell him things didn’t always happen at convenient times.
“Anita, Amma is no more. Really, what is the point now? You told me to go see them last year and I went.”
She asked him to check on the parents. He had not seen them for five years. Hoped he’d realize Amma yearned to see her children.
“I took care of things,” he continued. “Appa won’t even know me if I go. What’s important? I pay for his care, don’t I?”
Her body sagged. Her brother was always this way. He’d lived the last two decades making deals, starting companies, taking over companies, getting bought out by larger companies – she no longer cared to keep track. They inhabited different planets although he lived a two hour flight away.
“Partha,” she knew his answer even as she began. His name hovered in the gulf between them, plopped into it.
He cut in, “I can’t talk right now, someone’s waiting for me. I’ll call you later and we’ll talk, okay?”
His call would come too late.
A bad taste in her mouth. The tea must have been too strong, she decided, rinsed her mouth. The bitterness persisted. She cleared the breakfast dishes.
She dialed Vishal’s number. He was two time zones away, at a conference in New York. After being on severance for eight months, he’d just found a job. The position paid less than his old one. Still, it was a paycheck.
“Hi, my chini!”
“Vishal, really, please don’t call me …”
“What? I can’t call my sweet wife sugar?” His life revolved around food. She’d married a gastronome with the proclivity to indulge. It affected his weight, he’d gained 60 pounds in the last decade, and his health. When she made oblique references to his poundage, he chose to remain dense. His unemployed state in the recent past further encouraged him food-ward.
“Vishal,” she swallowed. “My mother died.”
Silence for half a minute. “I’m sorry, my sweet laddoo. So sorry. Her death is unexpected, no? Your father is the one who is ill. She seemed to be in good health…?”
She didn’t want to go into details. “I have to go.”
“Is Partha going? He’s the only son, it’s his responsibility.”
“He should, but he says he cannot. Not immediately.”
“Really?”
Sarcasm did not suit Vishal. Somehow, Partha brought out the worst in Vishal. Her husband thought Partha cold, calculating, unable to connect with anybody, family included. Perhaps Vishal’s opinion was the result of his own life experiences. He’d changed jobs six times since they married. His employers went bankrupt or got bought out by a larger company, his job always trimmed. He was convinced Partha’s success was less the result of hard work than happenstance coupled with a good dose of underhand dealings. Nothing else could explain Partha’s millions.
She refused to fly to her brother’s defense. “Well, I’m going.”
“How about the kids?”
Anita detected disapproval in his question. “They’ll sleep at Debbie’s next door……..’
“I’m not comfortable. Can you wait two days, I’m home Friday?”
“I’m leaving today,” she repeated.
She heard his exasperated breath.
“Call me later then.”
“I’ll keep you posted…” she whispered.
“Cook well for your husband,” Amma had told her once. Amma protected Appa as if he were her child, not letting anyone know when he lost his way in their own apartment complex, ending up in the wrong flat, not telling anyone what the doctor had said. She washed his urine-soaked bed sheets early each morning before anyone saw them. She spoon-fed him ice-cream each day, for the briefest flicker light his faded eyes. She did not believe Indians got Alzheimer’s. “Our country has the least incidence of the disease because of the turmeric we use,” she told Anita. “This is normal aging.”
Anita had not been able to go home for the past two years. She didn’t want to tell her mother about the mortgaged house, the cars they had bought, the losses in the stock market.
Last year, Amma said, “I wish you came more often, I want to see you.”
Anita wished now she had not dismissed the urgency in her voice. Instead, she told her mother. “The business of living is very complicated.”
“What is so complicated? My friend’s daughter comes to India every summer with her children for two or three months.”
Anita parsed that to mean, “You don’t come every year and when you do come, it’s only for two weeks.”
“Amma, if you wanted us close by why did you let us go far away? You did not protest when Partha left the country for further studies. Why did you introduce me to Vishal? You could have kept one of us near.”
Anita shot out responses to the earlier emails. Her boss would balk at letting her leave the country for ten days. This would be an excuse for a poor review. She called him.
“Anita, where are you? Our client meeting is this afternoon. Can I see your report on the proposal ? I want us to be prepared this time, can’t have them turn down every idea….” Young, aggressive, a perfect fit for their firm, his focus wore her down sometimes.
She interrupted him. “My mother died. I have to take time off.”
“I am so sorry.” A pause, as he weighed the consequences. Then, “Yes, by all means, take a couple of days off.”
“I have to go to India. Two days will not be enough.”
“India!” She pictured him jumping out of his chair. “How long does the funeral take? We can’t do without you for more than a couple of days. What about your proposal for the new public relations program for Calyxes? This is a crisis.”
“I have a personal crisis on my hands.”
“Could you drop your report off at least? Who else has been working with you? Can someone jump into your shoes for a few days? Can you work remotely? Take your laptop and come back ASAP.”
Anita squeezed her eyes against the barrage of questions. His sympathy disappeared after the initial, perfunctory noises he made. Everything was about the company, the work, the bottom-line. “I’ll drop by sometime this afternoon.” She halted conversation, added one more thing to do on her list.
“My daughter got an MBA,” Amma told everyone, so proud when Anita received her graduate degree. “She works as a marketing consultant,” she explained to friends. Her mother, whose education ended with high school, could not have dreamed of a career.
Anita had not explained the financial necessity that drove her back to work even when the children were little.
The white load came out of the dryer. Anita put a load of darks into the washer, dialed the discount travel agent. After clicking his tongue to indicate deep compassion, he made reservations for her on a flight leaving that evening. His concern did not extend to giving her a good deal. “I’m sorry, it’s last minute, cannot do better than this.”
She threw a haphazard collection of clothes into a suitcase, remembered she had to call her neighbor. Debbie was divorced, in her thirties and loved the girls.
She answered after six rings, sounded breathless.
“Debbie, can the kids sleep over at your house tonight and tomorrow? I have to leave for India this evening. My mother died. Vishal will be back the day after.”
“Oh God! I’m so sorry…Of course the girls can come over. Anytime. But just so you know, my boyfriend and I have plans for tomorrow evening. Okay if we’re late getting home?”
It would have to be okay.
She made a quick trip to the office to drop off the paper work her boss expected, sliding in and out before anyone could accost her, ask questions, make conversation.
If the girls were surprised to see her outside the school, they gave no indication. The morning’s animosity gave way to a relentless recounting of their day. Who wore what, who said what, who did what. “Girls,” she interrupted, “I have to tell you something.”
The timbre of her voice alerted them, eyes grew round.
“So sorry to tell you this. My mom . . . grammy, died. I leave for India in a few hours.”
“Oh no!” Tears coursed their way down Richa’s round cheeks. Asha put an arm around her. They huddled together in the back seat. Death as a word brought shock, fear, uncertainty, helplessness.
“It’ll be fine, baby. You two can sleep over at Debbie’s for two nights. Daddy’ll be back Friday afternoon. You can walk to school and back, you’ve always wanted that, huh?”
After reassurances they settled down. Anita cooked their favorite pasta dish, made garlic bread, went to the grocery store, stocked the refrigerator with food.
Even as she called the shuttle to take her to the airport, her eyes traced the list of tasks on the writing pad. Too late, they would remain undone. She ripped out the sheet, threw it into the trash can.
In the airplane, she pushed her overnighter into the luggage bin, settled into her aisle seat. Every nerve-ending in her body hurt. She tried not to think of her children’s solemn faces as they stood on Debbie’s stoop, waving goodbye. The plane buzzed with passenger chatter. Soon, the lights would dim.
She’d have to power off her cell phone soon. She called the kids once to make sure they were okay. The phone chirped. It was Partha. Anger, sorrow, frustration blended into an unpleasant concoction in the pit of her stomach.
“So, where were we?” he asked, as if their morning conversation took place minutes ago.
“I am in the plane, Partha, on my way to India.”
She hung up the phone.
Thud! She heard the sound in the instant before she felt the intense pain from luggage falling on her head. Her hands flew to the crown of her head, tears threatened. She felt a goose egg forming where a heavy bag from the overhead bin landed.
“Ohhh!” Anita rubbed her head, pressing fingers into the lump.
“Sorry, so sorry, dear. I should be more careful. You okay?” The guilty owner of the luggage became solicitous, kind. “It must hurt. Let me …”
“No,” Anita shouted, shrank away from the sympathy. Fat tears dripped.
She wept for the loss of her mother. She wept for her father, who would not know his wife was gone, her brother who believed all things could be resolved with money and herself for abdicating responsibility. Her brother visited the parents last year at her insistence.
Anita clenched her fists. Partha went to India. Once there, he took their father away from their mother, put him in a facility that cared for people like him.
Amma, whose family was her life, died without her family around her.
Sudha Balagopal’s recent fiction has appeared in Superstition Review (winner of the Fall 2009 fiction prize), Blue Fog Journal, Pax Americana, Literary Mama, and Muse India, among other literary journals. Her collection of short stories titled There are Seven Notes is forthcoming from Roman Books later this year.
Nightmares about such a call had orbited Anita’s subconscious for sixteen years now. She believed the ring would come in the darkness of night.
Reality did not work that way.
The morning started ordinarily enough at her home in Arizona. Sunshine cascaded through windows, promised a cheerful day. The toaster popped bagels, the washer in the laundry room churned a load of whites, partially made sandwiches nestled beside lunch bags on the dining table. She checked her email, ate breakfast, exchanged angry comments with her daughters, 14-year old Asha and 12-year old Richa, about their attire; short, belly-button revealing tops hovering over tight jeans. The argument cost precious morning minutes. She hustled them into her car, drove them to school, an embarrassment her children could do without. The usual chaos of a weekday morning.
Her husband, Vishal, was away, traveling on business. Already, after only four weeks at his job.
The phone rang as she put the kettle on for a cup of tea.
A five-minute call from India, half a world away, brought the news. She willed herself to remain calm, placed a hand over her heart, as if to slow it down. The cousin’s disembodied tones droned. A question repeated: Mother did you have to be the first to go?
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, aware the cousin should have said the words. She was sorry for the burden, for the responsibility that was not his.
“Will you come?” he asked. “There’s much to be done.”
“Yes, of course. I’ll sort things out and call you back.”
She placed tea leaves in the boiling water, strained the tea, poured milk. There were no tea bags in her kitchen; her mother considered them an abomination. She slurped the hot tea; a habit Vishal cured her of came back now. The tea scalded her tongue; she didn’t notice.
She found a pad and pencil. Paused. Call Vishal. Would he be able to come home immediately? Probably not. She must make arrangements with her neighbor, explain to her daughters what had happened. Their grandmother doted on them. Anita’s memories of her own grandmother, vivid and warm as an heirloom quilt.
Partha. She should call her brother. The cousin probably contacted him. She gulped down the tea, dialed his cell phone.
“Partha,’ he barked.
“Hi, it’s me. I am so sorry about Amma …”
“Yes, I know. I got the call. I told him I would take care of expenses.”
“What?” Anita gasped in disbelief.
“I’m in the middle of a takeover, I cannot go now. They won’t keep the body until I can wrap this up.”
“But …” She wanted to tell him things didn’t always happen at convenient times.
“Anita, Amma is no more. Really, what is the point now? You told me to go see them last year and I went.”
She asked him to check on the parents. He had not seen them for five years. Hoped he’d realize Amma yearned to see her children.
“I took care of things,” he continued. “Appa won’t even know me if I go. What’s important? I pay for his care, don’t I?”
Her body sagged. Her brother was always this way. He’d lived the last two decades making deals, starting companies, taking over companies, getting bought out by larger companies – she no longer cared to keep track. They inhabited different planets although he lived a two hour flight away.
“Partha,” she knew his answer even as she began. His name hovered in the gulf between them, plopped into it.
He cut in, “I can’t talk right now, someone’s waiting for me. I’ll call you later and we’ll talk, okay?”
His call would come too late.
A bad taste in her mouth. The tea must have been too strong, she decided, rinsed her mouth. The bitterness persisted. She cleared the breakfast dishes.
She dialed Vishal’s number. He was two time zones away, at a conference in New York. After being on severance for eight months, he’d just found a job. The position paid less than his old one. Still, it was a paycheck.
“Hi, my chini!”
“Vishal, really, please don’t call me …”
“What? I can’t call my sweet wife sugar?” His life revolved around food. She’d married a gastronome with the proclivity to indulge. It affected his weight, he’d gained 60 pounds in the last decade, and his health. When she made oblique references to his poundage, he chose to remain dense. His unemployed state in the recent past further encouraged him food-ward.
“Vishal,” she swallowed. “My mother died.”
Silence for half a minute. “I’m sorry, my sweet laddoo. So sorry. Her death is unexpected, no? Your father is the one who is ill. She seemed to be in good health…?”
She didn’t want to go into details. “I have to go.”
“Is Partha going? He’s the only son, it’s his responsibility.”
“He should, but he says he cannot. Not immediately.”
“Really?”
Sarcasm did not suit Vishal. Somehow, Partha brought out the worst in Vishal. Her husband thought Partha cold, calculating, unable to connect with anybody, family included. Perhaps Vishal’s opinion was the result of his own life experiences. He’d changed jobs six times since they married. His employers went bankrupt or got bought out by a larger company, his job always trimmed. He was convinced Partha’s success was less the result of hard work than happenstance coupled with a good dose of underhand dealings. Nothing else could explain Partha’s millions.
She refused to fly to her brother’s defense. “Well, I’m going.”
“How about the kids?”
Anita detected disapproval in his question. “They’ll sleep at Debbie’s next door……..’
“I’m not comfortable. Can you wait two days, I’m home Friday?”
“I’m leaving today,” she repeated.
She heard his exasperated breath.
“Call me later then.”
“I’ll keep you posted…” she whispered.
“Cook well for your husband,” Amma had told her once. Amma protected Appa as if he were her child, not letting anyone know when he lost his way in their own apartment complex, ending up in the wrong flat, not telling anyone what the doctor had said. She washed his urine-soaked bed sheets early each morning before anyone saw them. She spoon-fed him ice-cream each day, for the briefest flicker light his faded eyes. She did not believe Indians got Alzheimer’s. “Our country has the least incidence of the disease because of the turmeric we use,” she told Anita. “This is normal aging.”
Anita had not been able to go home for the past two years. She didn’t want to tell her mother about the mortgaged house, the cars they had bought, the losses in the stock market.
Last year, Amma said, “I wish you came more often, I want to see you.”
Anita wished now she had not dismissed the urgency in her voice. Instead, she told her mother. “The business of living is very complicated.”
“What is so complicated? My friend’s daughter comes to India every summer with her children for two or three months.”
Anita parsed that to mean, “You don’t come every year and when you do come, it’s only for two weeks.”
“Amma, if you wanted us close by why did you let us go far away? You did not protest when Partha left the country for further studies. Why did you introduce me to Vishal? You could have kept one of us near.”
Anita shot out responses to the earlier emails. Her boss would balk at letting her leave the country for ten days. This would be an excuse for a poor review. She called him.
“Anita, where are you? Our client meeting is this afternoon. Can I see your report on the proposal ? I want us to be prepared this time, can’t have them turn down every idea….” Young, aggressive, a perfect fit for their firm, his focus wore her down sometimes.
She interrupted him. “My mother died. I have to take time off.”
“I am so sorry.” A pause, as he weighed the consequences. Then, “Yes, by all means, take a couple of days off.”
“I have to go to India. Two days will not be enough.”
“India!” She pictured him jumping out of his chair. “How long does the funeral take? We can’t do without you for more than a couple of days. What about your proposal for the new public relations program for Calyxes? This is a crisis.”
“I have a personal crisis on my hands.”
“Could you drop your report off at least? Who else has been working with you? Can someone jump into your shoes for a few days? Can you work remotely? Take your laptop and come back ASAP.”
Anita squeezed her eyes against the barrage of questions. His sympathy disappeared after the initial, perfunctory noises he made. Everything was about the company, the work, the bottom-line. “I’ll drop by sometime this afternoon.” She halted conversation, added one more thing to do on her list.
“My daughter got an MBA,” Amma told everyone, so proud when Anita received her graduate degree. “She works as a marketing consultant,” she explained to friends. Her mother, whose education ended with high school, could not have dreamed of a career.
Anita had not explained the financial necessity that drove her back to work even when the children were little.
The white load came out of the dryer. Anita put a load of darks into the washer, dialed the discount travel agent. After clicking his tongue to indicate deep compassion, he made reservations for her on a flight leaving that evening. His concern did not extend to giving her a good deal. “I’m sorry, it’s last minute, cannot do better than this.”
She threw a haphazard collection of clothes into a suitcase, remembered she had to call her neighbor. Debbie was divorced, in her thirties and loved the girls.
She answered after six rings, sounded breathless.
“Debbie, can the kids sleep over at your house tonight and tomorrow? I have to leave for India this evening. My mother died. Vishal will be back the day after.”
“Oh God! I’m so sorry…Of course the girls can come over. Anytime. But just so you know, my boyfriend and I have plans for tomorrow evening. Okay if we’re late getting home?”
It would have to be okay.
She made a quick trip to the office to drop off the paper work her boss expected, sliding in and out before anyone could accost her, ask questions, make conversation.
If the girls were surprised to see her outside the school, they gave no indication. The morning’s animosity gave way to a relentless recounting of their day. Who wore what, who said what, who did what. “Girls,” she interrupted, “I have to tell you something.”
The timbre of her voice alerted them, eyes grew round.
“So sorry to tell you this. My mom . . . grammy, died. I leave for India in a few hours.”
“Oh no!” Tears coursed their way down Richa’s round cheeks. Asha put an arm around her. They huddled together in the back seat. Death as a word brought shock, fear, uncertainty, helplessness.
“It’ll be fine, baby. You two can sleep over at Debbie’s for two nights. Daddy’ll be back Friday afternoon. You can walk to school and back, you’ve always wanted that, huh?”
After reassurances they settled down. Anita cooked their favorite pasta dish, made garlic bread, went to the grocery store, stocked the refrigerator with food.
Even as she called the shuttle to take her to the airport, her eyes traced the list of tasks on the writing pad. Too late, they would remain undone. She ripped out the sheet, threw it into the trash can.
In the airplane, she pushed her overnighter into the luggage bin, settled into her aisle seat. Every nerve-ending in her body hurt. She tried not to think of her children’s solemn faces as they stood on Debbie’s stoop, waving goodbye. The plane buzzed with passenger chatter. Soon, the lights would dim.
She’d have to power off her cell phone soon. She called the kids once to make sure they were okay. The phone chirped. It was Partha. Anger, sorrow, frustration blended into an unpleasant concoction in the pit of her stomach.
“So, where were we?” he asked, as if their morning conversation took place minutes ago.
“I am in the plane, Partha, on my way to India.”
She hung up the phone.
Thud! She heard the sound in the instant before she felt the intense pain from luggage falling on her head. Her hands flew to the crown of her head, tears threatened. She felt a goose egg forming where a heavy bag from the overhead bin landed.
“Ohhh!” Anita rubbed her head, pressing fingers into the lump.
“Sorry, so sorry, dear. I should be more careful. You okay?” The guilty owner of the luggage became solicitous, kind. “It must hurt. Let me …”
“No,” Anita shouted, shrank away from the sympathy. Fat tears dripped.
She wept for the loss of her mother. She wept for her father, who would not know his wife was gone, her brother who believed all things could be resolved with money and herself for abdicating responsibility. Her brother visited the parents last year at her insistence.
Anita clenched her fists. Partha went to India. Once there, he took their father away from their mother, put him in a facility that cared for people like him.
Amma, whose family was her life, died without her family around her.
Sudha Balagopal’s recent fiction has appeared in Superstition Review (winner of the Fall 2009 fiction prize), Blue Fog Journal, Pax Americana, Literary Mama, and Muse India, among other literary journals. Her collection of short stories titled There are Seven Notes is forthcoming from Roman Books later this year.
