Chapter 6 #2
Simran can practically see Jassa weighing the pros and cons of berating her. Chandani is infamously a drama queen. Simran kind of feels bad for him, so she clears her throat. “I have the list too, Chandani. I can send the emails.”
“Okay,” Chandani says, but Jassa cuts her off.
“No, Simran.” His voice is sharp. “Chandani can handle it.”
Chandani merely yawns, unimpressed, as Jassa abruptly switches topic to the next agenda item. Simran flattens her expression to hide her annoyance.
Maybe Jassa can tell anyway, because once the meeting is over and everyone’s filing out, he drops into the chair next to her. It’s too low for him, but he’s somehow graceful about it. “I didn’t mean to undermine you back there. I just didn’t want you to take on yet another thing.”
“I can handle it.”
Jassa arches one brow. “Can you? Because sometimes I think you seriously don’t know when to stop. You’re constantly behind. Like that assignment that—”
“That was an off day,” she interrupts, somewhat shaken that he’s noticed. “That’s not how I...normally am.”
He blinks at her. She stares back resolutely. She rarely does this, because the truth is, he’s uncomfortably handsome. But what unsettles her more than his sharp, scruffy jawline or long-lashed eyes is that she cannot figure out his intentions with this conversation.
He misinterprets her silence. “I’m not trying to boss you around. I just think we both need a reminder sometimes to take a breather. Feel free to do the same for me.”
“I’d rather watch you crash and burn,” Simran replies straight-faced, and he chuckles a little.
“Yeah,” he says. “I bet you would.”
And she has the feeling they’re both only half joking.
When Simran arrives home, she finds her dad and an uncle she knows well sitting on rocking chairs on the porch.
Toor Uncle lights up when she hops out of her truck. “There’s our little birdie!”
Birdie is his affectionate nickname for her after years of her singing at the gurdwara. “Sat Sri Akaal, Uncle ji,” she greets him automatically, accepting his hug.
“How’s your truck running?” he asks when he releases her. “Those new brakes working okay?”
Toor Uncle is a mechanic, and therefore the family’s go-to for anything that needs a handyman. “Perfectly, Uncle ji. How’re you?”
“Good, good. Now, I have another question for you. A while ago your mother asked me to fix her bike. The shop’s getting busy, so I thought I’d come pick it up. But your useless father”—he winks—“doesn’t know where it is. Where’s your mom?”
Simran glances at her father, but he doesn’t give any direction on how to respond. He just remains in his seat, eyes unfocused, stroking his beard. He’s been like this more and more lately. For days, both of Simran’s parents have.
Toor Uncle frowns in the silence. He glances up at the house—specifically, the upstairs window of her parents’ bedroom, currently with the shades drawn.
He must be wondering why he hasn’t been invited inside.
Simran can practically see his confusion morphing into true curiosity, and she can’t have that.
“I’m sorry, Uncle ji, we’ll get the bike to you later. I have to go to class soon. Dad, can you help me find my bag?”
There’s no bag to find, nor any more class. But her dad nods jerkily, finally coming to life. “One minute,” he says to Toor Uncle, and follows Simran into the house.
Usually, on an afternoon like this, the smell of fresh food would greet them. Her mother would be cooking away, humming along with kirtan on the speaker. But today, like the last five days, Simran hears nothing.
She faces her father once he’s closed the door. “He doesn’t know?”
“Of course not.” He looks exhausted. “Your mother doesn’t want anyone to know. She thinks people would see her differently.”
Simran nods slowly. She’d suspected as much. “She’s still in bed, isn’t she?”
He says nothing. Simran feels a headache building. Her mother is always in bed. The last few times Simran tried to get her up, she simply moved to the couch and continued staring into space. It’s baffling. She’s never been one to sit still.
“Nikka putt,” her father says quietly. “Let her grieve.”
Simran’s breakfast pushes up her throat. “What’s there to grieve? We don’t even know how bad it is yet.”
He’s silent a moment. “I misspoke. Come, have food.”
He did not misspeak. Simran is certain of that as she follows him to the kitchen and accepts a plate of his karele?.
As she tries to eat it—it’s too bitter for her taste, not as well-cooked as her mom’s—she can’t stop her thoughts from turning to the conversation she overheard a few days ago between her parents.
Simran has always known their lives didn’t go as planned.
When her father immigrated, neither his engineering experience nor his various academic degrees meant anything.
And her mom...Her parents died unexpectedly, leaving her to drop out of school to look after her younger sister.
Her dreams of being a doctor went unfulfilled, but her sister did it instead.
Simran always wondered if her mother felt bitter about that.
But of course, all that sacrifice was supposed to be worth it for their children.
Kiran clearly didn’t get the memo that she was supposed to be a balm to their parents, not a new source of heartache. And when she moved out after high school, it was just Simran, ten years younger and acutely aware that she was their parents’ last chance at that happy immigrant ending.
She thought she was doing okay at that. She thought, when she chose math instead of premed last year, that their agreement meant approval. But no. They were simply digesting another hope of theirs flying away.
She cannot do that to them ever again.
Simran pushes the plate away. “I’m not that hungry.”
“Why didn’t you say? More for me.” He takes a bite with gusto. “Perhaps I’ll offer some to Toor Uncle.”
She smiles, appreciating his attempt at normalcy. “If the plan is to make him avoid our house in the future, that could work.”
He chuckles, then strokes her cheek. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to us, you know that, right?”
Her smile drops. She knows that a little too well. “I’ll help with dinner, okay? I’m just going to my room for a bit.”
She kisses him on the cheek and leaves. She feels calmer, now that she’s made her decision.
In her bedroom, she opens her laptop and Dr. Maxfield’s email again. Downstairs, the front door opens and closes. Her father must be sending Toor Uncle on his way.
Simran barely pays attention, though. She just reads the email until it’s burned onto her retinas—so that when she closes her eyes, it’s still there.
And her mind drifts. She imagines typing back, I am planning to come to Vancouver, and I would love to work in your lab! She imagines moving schools and taking all the niche classes she can and rejoining debate and meeting high school friends at tournaments and and and...
Leaving her parents all alone to deal with this.
Simran opens her eyes. This time, when she opens the email she’d drafted to decline the offer, she doesn’t hesitate. She hits send.
And it goes. Without fanfare. When she sees it in her sent folder, she feels very little.
Relief, maybe. That she doesn’t have to make this decision anymore.
Now she can focus on the real task—showing her parents all their sacrifices were worth it.
She can still fulfill some of their hopes.
She doesn’t know how yet, but she’ll do it.
After the struggles of her mom and dad’s lives, the least Simran can do is make them happy.
There’s a knock on her door. Simran swivels around immediately.
If it’s her mother, Simran will be ready to offer to make chah, to do the laundry, or just sit and listen to her cry.
If it’s her father, she’ll be ready to sound upbeat, to share her mother’s upcoming appointments and the research she’s done, to act as strong as he thinks she is.
But when the door creaks open, it’s not either of her parents.
Instead, a tall young woman leans against the doorframe, running her fingers through pixie-cut black hair. Her eyes land on Simran. A lopsided smile curves her mouth, achingly familiar. And yet not familiar at all—because Simran hasn’t seen it in over a year.
“Kiran?” Simran manages.
“Nice to see you, too, Simmi,” her sister replies.