Chapter 14
THE NEXT DAY, Simran wakes to multiple texts and a voicemail from Jassa.
He’s extremely apologetic about leaving her hanging.
A family emergency came up—his grandfather died—and he’d hopped in his car, heading for Quesnel immediately, not remembering to charge his phone.
He’ll be taking the remainder of his exams remotely. Both a disappointment and a relief.
But after the night she just had, it’s the least of Simran’s concerns.
She spends the next few days going through the motions.
Halfheartedly studying for and then writing her finals.
Attending her mother’s appointments and scans.
Researching everything she can, trying to boost her parents’ morale. Mostly, trying to forget that night.
Kiran must notice something’s off, because a week later when they’re in the kitchen together, she says, “Listen, I know you’re bummed about Jassa, but cheer up, okay? You can go out with him another time. When you actually want to.”
“I’m not bummed. He had a good reason.”
“Even so, you got stood up on your first date. Not exactly a confidence booster.”
Simran says nothing. It’s true that she gave up dating after only one day, but in her defense, it’s mostly because her experience was soured by a kidnapping. Also, Jassa never asked to reschedule.
She refocuses on the cake she’s icing. She and Kiran just baked it: a lemon-vanilla concoction for the special occasion that happens to be their mom’s birthday.
Simran’s determined to make it good. For once, Kiran seems to be on the same page.
She’s spreading sliced strawberries over it when Simran’s phone rings.
Kiran, being nosy, glances at it first. “‘Charlie Rosencrantz.’ Isn’t that TJ’s infamous white boyfriend?”
“He’s my friend, too.” From years of high school student council together. And he only ever calls if it’s important, so Simran hurriedly rinses her hands to pick up. “Hello?”
The voice on the other end is decidedly not Charlie.
“Ha!” TJ sounds triumphant. “I knew you were avoiding me. Charlie, didn’t I say?”
There’s the sound of a distant voice Simran can’t make out. Then a door closing. While she’s debating hanging up, TJ comes back to the phone, her voice clearer now.
“Charlie wants you to know I stole his phone, it wasn’t given willingly.” Simran can practically hear the eye roll. “But I was desperate. Kiran said you were fine, but I needed to hear it myself. You’ve been ignoring me for two weeks.”
“I’m sorry.” Simran leaves the kitchen, lowering her voice. “I’ve been busy with exams.”
“Is that all? Jeez, Simran. I was scared I pissed you off or something.”
“There’s still time.”
“Ha.” Pause. “Well, if there’s anything else...You can tell me, you know that, right?”
Simran bites her tongue. Hard. “Was that all you called about? I’ve still got studying to do.”
“Oh, okay.” TJ pauses. “One more thing. I have a favour to ask.”
Simran turns her eyes heavenward. “What is it?”
“Nothing big.” TJ sounds casual. Too casual. “The thing is, I’m taking spring semester classes, so I’m not coming back home till the middle of June.”
That’s good to know. Two extra months for Simran to figure out how to act normal around her. “And?”
“Charlie’s coming back, too. And my parents...”
She trails off, but Simran sees where this is going. “Your parents want to meet him.”
“Yep.” TJ sounds glum. “It’s stupid. They’ve met him so many times in high school. But they’re not budging. It doesn’t help that Charlie actually wants to meet them. He doesn’t know what he’s asking for.”
No, he probably doesn’t. The extremely charged nature of TJ keeping him a secret probably eludes him. “Where do I come into this?”
“I need you to come run interference.”
Simran rubs her forehead. “Run what?”
“Look,” TJ says hurriedly, as if she’d expected pushback.
“Mom and Dad are still kind of pissed. I’ve been avoiding talking about it, and I don’t want to get lectured on my first night home, okay?
Here’s what I’m proposing. The dinner’s the night I come home.
You coincidentally swing by the same time Charlie’s there, you end up sleeping over like you used to.
Mom and Dad can’t say anything to me. I’ll owe you. ”
“But...won’t they lecture you as soon as I leave?”
“You’re the buffer. It won’t be as bad after they’ve had a day to simmer down.” She sighs. “You know what I mean, right? They’ll make it so serious for no reason.”
Simran tries to picture herself keeping a secret boyfriend from her own mother. “They’ll act like you’ve decided to marry him.”
“Exactly.” TJ groans. “And there’ll be all these hypothetical questions about our future together. I don’t want to deal with that on my first night back.”
Simran wonders whether TJ has thought about those things; if the reason she wants to avoid the questions is because she doesn’t like her own answers.
But before she can ask anything further, her parents shuffle down the stairs.
Her mom’s combed her hair and is wearing a pretty floral T-shirt.
Her dad’s wrapped his nicest black turban.
Time for the cake cutting. “Okay, I’ll do it. ”
“Really?” TJ’s voice lifts. “I owe you one, seriously. Call me when you’re done with exams, okay?”
“Sure,” Simran says, and hangs up. “The cake’s—”
“Ready!” Kiran appears at the doorway with their frosted dessert, now decorated with berries. “Simmi, get the camera.”
Simran obliges, while everyone sits at the dining table. Her mom doesn’t smile when Simran presses the cake-cutting knife into her hand. She stares woodenly while Simran lights the candles.
Simran tries to ignore the dead silence and sings “Happy Birthday.” Kiran joins in, off-key, but their dad just sits there, unusually somber. Today’s supposed to be happy, and it’s like her parents aren’t even trying.
Frustrated, Simran lifts her camera. “Mom, make a wish and blow out the candles.”
Her mother finally speaks. “This is such a nice cake.”
“It’s lemon-vanilla,” Simran says eagerly. “We wanted to make it special.”
“Why?”
The question rings through the room. Her mom is suddenly looking directly at her. Simran begins to sweat. “Because—”
“Because what, you think I’ll be dead next year?”
Complete. Silence.
Simran’s throat is dry. “No, I—You’ll have more birthdays, Mom. I just wanted a nice memory.”
But she can tell that was the wrong thing to say, too. Her mother actually looks like Simran slapped her. A memory.
Her father excuses himself somewhat jerkily, chair scraping back, muttering something about going to the washroom. Her mother pushes the cake away. She looks so frail; the last few weeks have aged her.
“Mom?” Simran asks, voice soft, and to her horror, her mother’s face crumples. Abruptly, she pushes away from the table too and disappears down the hall.
“Where’re you going?” Kiran shouts, but their mother’s already gone. Kiran shakes her head as if irritated. “Come on, let’s eat. I’m starving.” She pulls the cake toward herself.
“Kiran,” Simran snaps. “Are you serious? That’s for Mom.”
“And she’s not eating it,” Kiran hisses back. There’s tension in her jaw, like she’s holding something back, too. “Someone should. We went to all that effort, and she’s being dramatic again.”
“We’ll eat it when they get back.”
Kiran huffs. “You’re all being ridiculous.” And with that, she shoves away from the table too, storming upstairs. A minute later, Simran hears her bedroom door slam shut.
Simran waits. Long enough that the candles begin dripping wax onto the icing. Once they’ve melted by half and nobody’s returned, she snuffs them out and puts the cake in the fridge.
It’s as she’s sliding the camera back into its case that her dad’s familiar footsteps come down the stairs. She wheels around, full of hope, but one look at his face and it’s extinguished again.
“Sher putt.” His eyes are red-rimmed. “Will you play a shabad for me?”
Simran practically leaps to get her rabab and drag it into the living room.
She sits cross-legged on the carpet, and her dad brings out the tabla.
She plays a simple shabad, one her mother loves, and sings it loud enough that she should be able to hear from upstairs. Maybe it will even draw her out.
But when the last note fades, it’s still just her and her dad.
He leans back. “We need to talk.”
Simran’s chest tightens. “Can we do it later?”
“I don’t think so, nikka putt. Your mom and I have been thinking,” he says, and as soon as he started with your mom, Simran’s shaking her head. “No, listen. Listen. You’ve been so strong during all this. Keeping us together. But this whole thing has made us think about...the future.”
“The future,” Simran repeats.
“Well.” He pauses, as if thinking of the best way to put this. “You know me and your mom will die one day, right?”
No. Simran wants to run away rather than hear this. Anything but this. Yet she also feels compelled to stay. To listen, because how can she deny her father what sounds horribly like his dying wishes? “Mom’s going to be okay,” she says weakly. “And, Dad, you’re fine. You’re completely fine.”
“For now. But we both have health problems, and”—he shrugs—“everyone is orphaned eventually. We should have that talk.”
Simran turns away from the effect of his words, setting her rabab against the wall. “Dad.” Her voice wavers. No, not now—she’s been so good about keeping her composure until now. “Please stop.”
He doesn’t.
“You need to live your life, too, Simran,” he says gently to her back. “When I’m gone one day, you’ll need support from other people. Do you understand?”
Simran can’t speak. If she does, she’ll break.
“You and Kiran aren’t very close, and it worries me. You are strong, but you still need a family.” Silence. “Please say something.”
She stands up instead.
“Simran—”
And that’s it. She walks away in the middle of his sentence, striding to the staircase with forcibly measured steps. She ignores him calling her name and, halfway up the stairs, breaks into a jog.
On her way to her room, she passes Kiran’s. Her sister stands in the middle of the carpet, throwing clothes into her suitcase. She pauses when she sees Simran. Smiles a little too brightly. “Hey.”
Simran glances at the suitcase. The tears in her throat recede enough that she can speak. “You’re...leaving?”
“Well, yeah.” Kiran shifts from foot to foot. “I’ve been here more than a week. Just booked my flights. I’ll be back for Neetu’s wedding.”
That’s in July. Simran stares. “You can’t even stay for Mom’s surgery?”
Kiran avoids her gaze. “Why would I? The doctors are handling everything.”
“But—”
“I can’t deal with you guys acting like it’s the end of the world. Cancer isn’t a death sentence anymore! And besides, I have a job. I have other responsibilities. I have a life in Toronto. You can’t expect me to be here all the time.”
She busies herself with her suitcase again. And something in Simran snaps.
“Fine. Then go.” Simran grips the door handle hard. “Go back to your job and your friends and whatever else is so important to you. Go live your great life in Toronto. I’ll stay here and live the one you were too good for.”
She slams the door behind her, just in time to see Kiran look up in shock.
But Simran doesn’t stop. She goes to her own room and closes the door, far more gently. Turns the lock. Only then does she let the tears fall.
It’s hard to say when, exactly, Simran began resenting Kiran.
Maybe when Kiran started her personal war with their parents during her teens.
Sneaking out, partying, coming home drunk, arguing about everything.
Didn’t she see the toll that took on their parents?
Could she not have ever compromised—on at least some of those things?
Because by not doing so, she left Simran no margin for error.
Simran climbs onto her bed. It’s a mess as usual, clothes and books strewn everywhere, along with crumpled napkins and pens. She shoves everything off the mattress on her way to the windowsill. Her dad’s words echo in her mind.
Growing up, she always thought her family was a constant.
But of course it’s not. Families are fluid, constantly growing and shrinking.
And hers...she can only foresee a subtraction.
Her parents will be gone, her sister’s running away, and who is Simran kidding—any long-distance friendship she has with her cousin will fade the longer Simran has to lie to her.
Maybe in the end she’ll be completely alone.
Simran forces herself to breathe deeply.
There’s no sense crying about it. Besides, she has exam material to study.
Grades are important, even if school doesn’t interest her anymore.
But as she twists to pick up her textbook, something falls out of it.
A Hillway brochure. The newest version, showcasing the revamped program she helped design.
It takes her back to yesterday—the volunteers were at an art festival, taking apart Legos for the next group of kids to use.
Rajan was there. He greeted her as usual, but then kept his distance.
She wondered if Nick had contacted him again, but she suspected he wouldn’t tell her, so she watched from afar.
He took apart Legos faster than anyone. He also built some during his break, and the spaceship he was idly making looked amazing.
He was creative, she realized, not for the first time, and she went over to say she wanted to put it on display, but Paul got there first to tell him break was over.
And Rajan dismantled it automatically, without even blinking.
Like he was used to having the things he built fall apart.
Suddenly Simran has her phone out, her thumbs hovering over the screen.
The thing is, she can’t solve her problems. Those are inevitable. But despite what Rajan thinks, his don’t have to be.
She dials the number she memorized Saturday night.
Nick answers on the first ring. “What.”
“It’s Simran.”
“Oh, right. Okay. Wow.” Nick yawns. “We were taking bets on whether you’d call. So? What’s the verdict?”
He sounds impatient, bored. But she’s not fooled. This is her chance.
“I’ll do it.” Simran takes a deep breath. “I’ll be your bookkeeper.”