Chapter 32 #3
Her parents are in the kitchen, setting plastic food containers on the table. They look up when she enters. Before they can react, she says, “I fell today. My glasses broke.”
Her father tuts and comes closer, as does her mother. They force her into a chair. Her mother scolds her for being clumsy, tilting Simran’s head toward the light, her fingers gentler than her words. Her father takes a bag of ice from the freezer.
“It looks worse than it is,” Simran tries to say, but they won’t have it.
They debate whether she should go to the ER.
They tell her to be more careful. Eventually, her protests ebb.
It feels...good, to have her mother prod her face looking for soreness.
It feels good to have her father wiping at the cut on her nose with a wet cloth.
It feels good to be cared for. She missed her mom.
She missed her dad. And god, she missed being a child.
Without meaning to, a tear slips out of her eye. Her father instantly wipes it away. Her mother notices, too. “Did it hurt when I pressed here?” She pokes Simran’s chin.
“Or are you upset over your glasses breaking?” her father asks.
“Yes,” Simran whispers, letting another tear slip out. And another. “It’s my glasses.” A shuddering breath ripples through her.
Her mother sighs. “Don’t make a fuss, Simmi. We’ll get you new ones. Why are you crying over glasses?”
“Eat, nikka putt,” her dad encourages. “You’ll feel better. You’ve been working too hard lately.”
They think she’s working on a Hillway proposal. They came back because they wanted to make sure she ate something tonight. That’s why she was almost caught kissing a boy in her room. Because they love her, and believe her, and all she does is lie to them.
Silent tears stream down Simran’s face while she eats the food. Soft, chewy bhaturé, thick cholé, crispy pakoré. Her dad strokes her hair, probably thinking she’s still upset over her glasses. She lets him. As long as they think she’s crying over something silly, it won’t hurt them to watch.
Her mother announces she’s going to find Simran’s old glasses.
“I looked for them already,” Simran says. Her mother mutters, “Yeah, right,” and marches upstairs. Simran trails after her. To her surprise, her mom wrenches open Simran’s dresser drawer and instantly produces a glasses case. “Did you look with your eyes closed?”
“Mom, I literally can’t see.”
Her mother ignores this and pops open the case. “How many times do I have to tell you, your life would be so much easier if you kept your room clean?”
As usual, she’s right. Not that that’s going to change her ways. Simran puts the glasses on. They’re an old style, too small, and the prescription isn’t accurate anymore, but she can now read the framed certificates on her wall.
“Simran.”
“Mm-hmm.” She squints at a line of text on the city volunteerism award.
“Where’d you get this?”
Simran turns, her world now in focus somewhat, only for it to fall apart when she sees her mother holding Rajan’s hoodie.
It’s half-turned inside out from when he took it off. Black, oversize, too big for her. Picked up off the floor.
Her mother stares at her glacially.
Terror, sheer terror, grips her. “It’s a friend’s.” There’s no point pretending it’s hers.
“A friend,” her mother repeats. “Or, a boyfriend?”
This horrifying question is framed casually. Almost like this would be okay. Like the consequences wouldn’t blow up Simran’s entire life. TJ’s situation would look cute in comparison.
“No,” Simran says around her dry mouth. “A classmate loaned it to me for a presentation, because I spilled tea on my shirt.”
“Where was your jacket?”
“I didn’t bring one.”
“You always bring one. You say it’s always cold at the university.”
Simran had said that. “I forgot that day.”
“I see. Why didn’t you give this back after?”
“He left before I could.”
“Who?”
“Jassa.”
A pause. “Jassa Singh?”
“Yes.” In front of her eyes, her mother relaxes slightly. Relieved, Simran extends her hand. “I’ll give it back to him tomorrow.”
Her mother glances down at it. “I’ll wash it first.”
Simran suddenly remembers the bullet hole. “Oh, I’ll do it. I have lots of other things in this colour to wash.”
Her mother’s voice is pleasant. “No, no. I’ll wash it special.”
Simran hangs in limbo for a second, wanting to insist but knowing she can’t. A beat passes. Then another. Finally, she drops her arm.
Her mother disappears with Rajan’s hoodie. Simran closes her door softly behind her, then sinks to the carpet, lightheaded. A minute passes. Then ten. Did she get away with it?
The washer turns on downstairs. Simran awaits footsteps returning to her door. Jassa doesn’t wear hoodies, really. And he’s even less likely to wear a hoodie with a hole in it. Or...if there was blood on it...Simran squeezes her eyes shut. Time is limited. Think.
She spins every possible lie, every explanation she can think of for every scenario, poking holes into each one as she does, trying to make them bulletproof.
But, her mother doesn’t return all night.