Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
Occasionally, I wake up feeling like I’m stuck in place and that there is no way I’m going to achieve my real dream of becoming a proper chef, and I keep thinking about my childhood and… also about my dad.
Those days I face difficulty, I want to express negative emotions, but I have to lie to myself and say everything is good, partly because if you aren’t cheery you are a sad bigger person and people assume it’s because of your body.
Trolls whisper from the woodwork: Lose weight and the sun will come out again! Or you’ve got underlying trauma that causes you to turn to eating, I assure you. That’s why you are sad, not for any valid external reason!
Sometimes, everything in combination is too much. It makes it hard to be honest with myself.
Instead, I repeat a familiar, ragged little mantra.
I’m fine.
I’m fine.
I’m fine.
Lying in bed, I do this until—finally—my despair is reasonably stowed away.
Then I wonder what to do.
Dropping off the soup for Luke yesterday was an implosive mistake. Things were said. I…walked out on him. He told me to leave…
Am I fired? Or have I quit?
The way to find out is to go into work—but I don’t.
He said: I shut the door first, Rita. Or did you not understand that part?
Anger grows inside me like a pot reaching boil. There’s no way I’m still working for him after all that. It’s not like he’s called to apologize. Maybe he’s glad to be rid of me. Maybe I shouldn’t be working for someone who treats their employees like disposable laborers?—
Again I think, I can’t go back.
But what options do I have?
By mid-afternoon, I muster enough energy to leave my apartment, but don’t bother going outside the building. My feet take me to Janice’s office.
“Good afternoon, dear,” she says when she finally sees me standing by the door. “To what do I owe the pleasure? I would’ve expected you to be out for work today.”
“Actually, I’ve gotten…some holidays from work. You know, the ones they—um—have to give you. Unpaid. And I know the rent is due soon?—”
“Asking for a handout?” questions Janice.
“No, that’s not it,” I cut in. “It—aren’t you always teaching us about taking initiative? So that’s why I thought I could come here and ask—if you’ve got any work on the side for me. I would love to earn money on these holidays .”
“How wonderful,” says Janice sweetly. “That you listen to me.” She taps her chin thoughtfully. “Now that you mention it, I do have personal projects I could use your help with.”
She names an hourly price well below minimum wage, and I can’t help but flinch.
Janice allows me a moment to collect myself.
To tell myself anything coming in counts, at least until I decide to go back to Luke—and check whether I’m still employed by him or not.
He’s got options to get anyone to cook for him.
Did our fight ruin everything? Can I bear the thought of crawling back for money?
She piles papers together, hitting the edges against her desk so they tidy into a pile. “You can start tomorrow if you wish?”
Humiliated rage pours through me. “Actually,” I say. “Could I start today?”
Janice smiles widely enough to show her snaggletooth. “What commitment. Your mother would be proud.”
Another flinch comes on.
“What is it, Rita? What did I say now?”
“My mother passed away when I was born.”
“How terrible,” she sympathizes in the same tone one would use to comment on the weather.
Pushed on by the fact that I’ve got no other choice, I go through a list of chores assigned to me by Janice.
The work is varied, but grueling. After being sent out to get groceries that are too heavy to comfortably carry back, I’m taken inside Janice’s apartment to use a toothbrush to clean the grout between the kitchen tiles.
It’s the first time I’ve ever been inside her unit.
It’s triple the size of my own, but the differences don’t end there.
If my place is a dilapidated shack, Janice occupies a mansion fit for an empress.
It feels as if it fills the whole floor of the building.
Gleaming appliances, flat screen television, leather couches, a fully equipped home gym, sleek clocks…
and there’s that smell. Lemony pine. Everything is neat, clinically so, like a collector’s showcase.
Janice supervises me, as I thoroughly clean an already very clean apartment.
The next day, laundry is assigned.
I meet Mrs. Milla by the washing machines downstairs.
“Her apartment is so big and has all these expensive things in it,” I say. “How much must the owners pay her for building management to afford all that?”
Mrs. Milla pulls out her clothes from the dryer and starts folding them. Seeing how her fingers tremble, I take over the task, not allowing for any argument.
“All those nice things,” says Mrs. Milla in a whisper, “are bought from the money she’s supposed to use for upgrades to maintain the whole building. It’s not hers to use.”
My mouth drops open. “But—what? How does she get away with that ?”
Mrs. Milla shrugs, sitting down on a crooked chair whose seat can’t be very comfortable.
“Blind trust, but also Ms. Baghdadi heard she sends pictures of so-called upgrades to the owners here and there of where the money goes. Most of it is a lie, cosmetic upgrades hiding the bad plumbing, and the cracks in the walls, and the mold. Like putting paint on a pig. Plus, she’s collected us as renters. People who can’t complain to anyone.”
“How is that fair? If we got together to report her?—”
Mrs. Milla shakes her head so hard her white curls bounce.
“No, we can’t, Rita. If it somehow comes back onto us, we’ll have nowhere else to go.
But you—you need to find a way out, dear.
” Her expression softens, eyes crinkling at the corners.
“You are too young and far too kind for this kind of hardship.”
“I’m not always nice,” I joke with a quiet smile. Mrs. Milla’s clothes are all folded, so now all I have to do is wait for Janice’s laundry to be finished. Technically, I should use this time to go back upstairs and prep some dinner for Janice, but I find herself lingering. My muscles ache so much.
“How is working for that man going?” asks Mrs. Milla. “The nice one who gifted you those fancy dinners?”
“He’s not nice.”
“What happened?”
“I—” My tongue catches. Even though it’s Mrs. Milla, I can’t admit how he kicked me out of his office. Depression presses against my sternum. The thought of it all being over, how I have no idea what I’ll do to survive next?—
My throat clogs up. “Nothing.”
Mrs. Milla stands up and comes over. “You are pushing yourself too hard.” She touches my forehead. “And gosh, you’re heating up too! You need to get some rest right away!”
“I will. I’ll finish this for Janice, and then a few more things, but promise I’ll sleep early after that.”
“You better . I’m going to make you some dinner and drop it off later.”
I grip the edge of the washing machine, my head feeling heavy. “No, I couldn’t?—”
“Don’t fight with me, I’m older!”
“Okay.” I eke out a smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Milla.”
The next morning, I can’t get out of bed.
Despite desperately needing the money, it’s bad enough that I’ve got no choice but to cancel my chores for Janice.
I have to apologize many times, lie that my holidays from work have ended early, and tell her that very soon I can pick up more chores.
Janice rewards me by shutting off my apartment’s electricity for a few hours.
It’s because of him , I think bitterly. His germs got into me, and I breathed them in, and now my immune system is too weak to carry on.
I’ve got Luke sickness and going in and out of feverish consciousness, I dream of paperwork and yelling a-ha to him in court, calling him out for all his rudeness in front of the jury, some of them dressed in chicken costumes for some reason.
Then the scene changes and I’m young. Uncle is cajoling Dad to give up drinking. Dad mutely agrees, and the detox starts. A clock chimes loudly in the background, and as if the frame rate of a reel is sped up, scenes blur together.
Uncle is bathing my dad. I’m going inside his room to get rid of the bottles. Me washing his bedsheets. Doing schoolwork. The warm meals and first sounds of laughter when you think it’s working, and let yourself kindle a small flame of hope.
When the mirage cracks, Dad cries at night. More bottles.
“He’s happier when he’s drinking,” I say, trying to make Uncle feel better. “And it’s not a lot he’s taking. I’ll make sure of it.”
“No, I’ll make sure of it,” Uncle argues. “You shouldn’t have to deal with this. Just be happy. Please.”
A tall order, but one I try to fulfill all the time.
Because what else is there to do? Where do we go for help outside of our small family?
Private suffering due to shame is something the Punjabi community excels at.
We invite everyone to our celebrations, and then hide when anything is wrong because people gossip when they find out.
But would they still do that if everyone was open about their struggles?
If the picture of perfection wasn’t strangling us all?
My dream shifts again.
We are all in the same room. Dad, Uncle, Luke.
In the middle is Manjinder, my ex-boyfriend, yelling at me to stop being such a drag.
Telling me I used to be fun when we first met.
When I danced on top of that table in college or later when I made all his friends laugh because of my silly stories.
Luke agrees with him. Tells him I’m overreacting.
That I just bake cakes. How it’s all I ever need to do.
They shake hands. Become buddy-buddy. Turn into one big shadow laughing over me.
I cover my ears with my hands and my eyes snap open.
I’m awake, the bedsheets underneath have soaked with sweat, and I need to get up to see a doctor.
If something actually happens to me, it will hurt my family and friends.
Plus, this amount of shivering is jarring and will get in the way of applying for jobs online if indeed everything is over between me and Luke.
There is so much to do.
How am I going to pay next month’s rehab payment, my rent, and afford food? There’s no point factoring in the meal kits competition as anything, because they haven’t even announced the second round yet. And I can’t rely on a pipe dream, no matter how tempting.
I get up and mentally thank Mrs. Milla again. Time is measured by how much dinner is left in that pot of food she’s given me. I eat, stumble out to get medicine, then come back and fall asleep. Just a bit more rest and everything will get better. I’ll wake up and know exactly what to do.