Chapter Thirty-Four Vanya
The crunch of tires on the driveway pulls me away from my second cup of coffee this morning. It’s a freezing February morning outside, but nothing is colder than my back as I brace for this visit. The last time I had an in-person conversation with my mother was over a year ago. Messages and texts between us never cease, but I’m usually the one who visits her when summoned.
I glance out the window and immediately regret not pretending to be at work. Part of me hoped that Zara Gupta would cancel again, like she did the last two times she sent her travel itinerary. No luck today.
The glossy black SUV is more suited for a celebrity entrance than an airport ride. Mom always travels in style. The door is opened by the driver.
She steps out, every inch the beauty icon of her ZaraGlow brand. Her ivory coat is cinched at the waist, her heels are high enough to make my ankles ache just looking at them, and her hair falls in waves so precise they might have been carved from stone. Behind her, a sharply dressed woman in a blazer with massive shoulder pads slides out. She has a clipboard and Bluetooth headset and is followed by… is that a cameraman? A scruffy guy in ripped jeans and a flannel shirt lugs a camera so big, this has to be a joke. Except my mother has never been one to joke around.
What. The. Hell.
I stand, frozen for a moment, hoping they’ll take one look at my frumpy outfit and decide I’m not Zara’s daughter after all. But the icon of ZaraGlow is already gliding up the path, heels clicking against the concrete at the pace of a funeral march. The camera guy lifts his lens and my heart sinks.
I yank open the door and lean against the frame. “Um, what is this?”
“Don’t be rude, Vanya,” my mother says, not even breaking stride. “Invite us in.”
I glance at the camera, then back at her. “Turn that off, please.”
They hesitate, exchanging a quick look and silently debating whether they’re required to listen to me. The cameraman reluctantly lowers the lens, but I catch the annoyance in his expression. Clipboard Woman offers a tight, practiced smile. Mom, of course, doesn’t miss the opportunity to roll her eyes at me.
“Put it down for now, Byron,” she says to the guy. “We’ll resume after she signs the consent forms.”
Those Botox injections have severely damaged my mother’s brain if she thinks I’m consenting to this. When the camera is lowered and Clipboard Woman shivers, I stand back to give them room.
“Come in.”
They file in, the scent of expensive perfume wafting past me, along with something metallic. Probably from the steel casing of my mother’s cold heart. Mom stops in the middle of the living room, scanning the space with the same clinical precision I’d use to examine an MRI.
“Cozy,” she says, which is her code for lame and disappointing.
I force a smile. “Coffee?”
“Yes. Black as always. Dairy is such a curse,” Mom replies, sitting at the edge of the couch, her back straight as a beauty queen’s. The other two people shake their heads at my offer. Clipboard Woman perches delicately on the armrest, and the camera guy leans against the wall, fiddling with his equipment.
I set a filled mug on the coffee table. Mom picks it up but crinkles her nose. She doesn’t drink it, instead inspecting the rim like she’s evaluating its worth.
“Still not much of a decorator, I see,” she says with a faint, condescending smile.
“I’m renting it furnished.”
It would have been better to ignore her comment. Unfortunately, her special talent is baiting me into sounding defensive. For all my achievements as an adult, I am reduced to a surly, frumpy teenager again, cringing at her lectures about “elevating my potential.” My sweater feels too plain, my hair too messy. Her presence shines a spotlight on the flaws I thought I’d outgrown.
“Excuse me for a second,” I say, retreating to the kitchen. My hand trembles. Somewhere in the pantry there’s a half bottle of vodka from Ashley’s visit. I dump my shitty coffee and pour some of the liquor in the mug. Chugging it back delivers the worst of all worlds—the bitterness of coffee and the bite of alcohol. Splendid start to this visit.
When I return, mom’s chin is high with pride. “I’ve kept you waiting long enough. Are you ready for my news?” she announces, clasping her hands together.
I lean against the wall, arms crossed. “Will it explain the camera crew?”
“Yes, Van-yaaa.” Her beaming smile barely hides her irritation. God, I hate the way she says my name, the last syllable like a whining dismissal. “You’re looking at the newest star in a reality series. It’s going to be glamorous. Inspiring! Everything my followers want to see.”
“It’s an exclusive deal,” Clipboard Woman jumps in. “Zara is the star, balancing her career, family, and personal life with immaculate grace. That’s why we’re calling it Glow Up With Zara. It’s about growing up as an Indian woman who navigated multiple cultures as a beauty queen and later as a mother. Get it? Grow up and glow up!”
I stare at them, my stomach twisting. “What does this have to do with me?”
Mom’s smile stiffens, her eyes remain laser sharp and unamused. I know this expression. It’s you better behave or face the consequences later. I’m the only one who notices, of course, because people don’t see past her flawless features. The vehemence underneath has been directed at me for as long as I can remember.
“Well, it’s about my life, Van-yaaa. That includes being a mother, being part of your growth, balancing family and career. That’s central to my brand.”
Her brand. I clench my jaw, trying to keep my voice even. “Congratulations on the show, Mom. I’m sure your followers will eat it up. But you cannot seriously want me to be part of your show.”
“We do. In fact, her fan demographics include women your age, Vanya,” says Clipboard Woman like it would make a difference in my decision. “And the fact that you’re a doctor is awesome. I mean, is there a better endorsement of her parenting skills than your success?”
I nearly choke on my saliva. “I’m sorry, we weren’t introduced.”
“A,” she says, hand outstretched.
“Did you say…A?”
“Yes, the letter A,” my mother interrupts impatiently and with the wave of a hand. “She’s one of the producers.”
“Well, A, nice to meet you. However, if you’re here to ask me to be part of the show, the answer is a definitive no . A hundred percent no . I’d rather die no .”
“Don’t be so dramatic,” Mom says, brushing a hand through her perfect hair. “It’s just a bit of footage here and there. You’re part of the story.”
“Which story?” I snap. “The one where I’m a constant reminder that you can make a million people beautiful but not your daughter? No thanks. I’m rather tired of that narrative.”
Defensive much, Van-ya?
A clears her throat, attempting damage control. “It’s more about how Zara has built this incredible empire while staying connected to her family.”
“Connected? Is that what we’re calling it now?” I laugh bitterly. “I’m not standing in front of a camera for you, Mom.”
Zara’s eyes narrow. “You’ve always been so ridiculous. I refuse to have you ruin this for me. God, Vanya, for once can you try to understand what this means for my career?”
Mom stands in front of me and grabs my upper arm. Her fingernails dig into my skin as she pulls me to the kitchen for privacy.
“If you think you’re going to ruin this for me, you are sorely mistaken,” she says through bared teeth.
I wiggle out of her grasp and feel the scrape of nail on skin.
“Leave me out of it.”
“You’re just as ridiculous and unambitious as your father,” she hisses, getting right in my face so her spit hits my eye. As always, I’m the only one who fully sees the ugliness of her hostility.
“Don’t,” I state as calmly as I can, wiping my eyes which are definitely not prickling with pressure. This woman will never see me cry again.
I walk out of the kitchen. Experience has proven that being alone with her only makes her nastier.
“Don’t mention my father in any of this, Zara,” I state in front of the other two people.
Her nostrils flare slightly. The room is deathly silent. The weight of everyone staring at me makes me squirm. I won’t give in. She can do what she wants with her glamorous life, but she can’t force my consent.
I’m about to throw them all out of my house when the front door creaks open. A voice cuts through the tension.
“Vanya?”
Jeremy. Relief floods me at the sound of his voice. It’s immediately followed by dread. He’s walking into this . I approach him, managing a neutral expression.
“Are you OK?” he asks worriedly, stepping inside. His expression turns somber when he takes in the scene. “Am I interrupting something?”
“I was just wrapping up a meeting,” I say at the same time my mother croons, “Not at all.” She tilts her head and assesses Jeremy. How does she do that? Bare her teeth one second and smile sweetly the next.
Jeremy looks between me and my mother. I know it’s only a matter of time before the questions start. I want another shot of vodka.
“Don’t be rude, Vanya. Introduce us to your friend.”
“Jeremy, this is my mother Zara Gupta and her, um, production crew. A and…” I look at the cameraman.
“B for Byron,” he answers good-naturedly.
“Everyone, this is Jeremy. He’s my, um, neighbor from across the street.”
“Jeremy Lopez?” B for Byron pipes up. “I’m a huge fan! Loved you at the All-Star game last year.” He drops his camera and walks over to shake Jeremy’s hand.
“Thanks.” Jeremy politely shakes everyone’s hand before standing beside me. Although we’re not exactly touching, it feels like he’s holding me up.
“We’re discussing her role in my new reality television show,” my mother announces.
“My absence in it, to be more accurate,” I state flatly.
“So, are you two, um, close?” The producer’s brows wiggle with innuendo as she points between me and Jeremy.
“I live across the street and saw the black Suburbans,” Jeremy says with a casual shrug. “I needed to make sure my doctor isn’t getting kidnapped.”
“He’s your patient, Van-yaaa?” my mother says, eyes sparkling with added interest. I’m sure this tidbit of information would be fodder for reality television.
Jeremy glances at me apologetically. He has no reason to feel bad. It isn’t his fault that Zara Gupta handles information like weaponry.
“Tell her she works too hard, Jeremy,” Mom says with a nasty edge to her tone. “All those hours can’t be good for her hormones. Stress collects all her weight gain in the middle.”
My body heats up with shame. Pointing out my weight is a customary way my mother puts me in my place. I’m surprised it took her this long to bring it up. Jeremy shifts his body so he’s facing me slightly, not even bothering to hide his protective stance. He opens his mouth but closes it again because what can he say, after all? His silence encourages my mother.
“If she doesn’t ease off, she’ll die early like her father.”
“I’m not married to someone who’s cheating on me, so my chances of survival are much higher than Dad’s.”
The words are out before I’ve taken my next breath. Bile rises up my throat. I’m as shocked as everyone that those words came out of me. It’s also unbearably embarrassing to have this bit of family melodrama aired out for strangers to hear.
Most of all, I’m disgusted with myself. I sound like her . Hurtful and bitter when she doesn’t get her way. My father deserves better than getting dragged into this shit between me and the Zara fucking Glow brand.
“How dare you.” Mom’s hiss is louder than a scream.
“OK, well, how about we leave the consent and release forms here, Vanya,” A says conciliatorily. “Here’s my card. In case you need anything clarified.”
“Don’t bother. I won’t sign them.”
The producer frowns. She takes a pen from her clipboard and draws lines across a section of the paperwork, initialing beside the redacted section.
“I’ve crossed out the line items about video footage. Just give consent for pictures of your childhood, or videos of you and your mother, that sort of thing.”
“She said no.” Jeremy’s voice is curt, inviting no argument from the producer or the cameraman or the mother.
They gather themselves to leave. I might have sounded defiant a few minutes ago but at the moment, all I am is drained. My legs are barely able to keep me standing. My mother’s glare when she passes me makes me want to crumple to the floor. It’s Jeremy who closes the door behind them when they exit.
Like they’re magnets that clamp around me, Jeremy’s arms hold me up. “Fuck, Vanya, that was brutal.”
I shake my head. “She’s gone. That’s all that matters.”
“What do you need from me?”
“Forget what happened?”
“I’ll try. But fuck, it explains a lot.”
I groan. “The last thing I need is a therapy session analyzing all the ways I have a dysfunctional relationship with my mother.”
“I’m no therapist, but I am your friend. When you said she was hard to be around, part of me thought it was an exaggeration. It’s not. She’s toxic.”
This isn’t news to me. Ashley encouraged me to leave Toronto when I applied for medical school because it created distance between me and my mother’s toxic influence.
Leaning my head on Jeremy’s strong shoulders, I let my heart break a little. Every interaction with my mother only confirms that I can’t be around her. The older I get, the less excuses I can make for her behavior. This ridiculous conversation about her reality show might very well be the last conversation we have. I can’t subject myself to this again. I can’t be around her until she stops using me as another resource to exploit.
I’m overwhelmed with sadness that someone I’m meant to love and admire constantly makes me feel like a disappointment. Her narcissism sucks the oxygen out of a room. There’s no reason to salvage a relationship that only ever brought me pain and self-doubt.
I break down in sobs, grieving my hope for reconciliation and understanding. In my heart, I let go of any expectations that one day she’d see me as a person who deserves respect, if not love. The saddest part of letting go is realizing I never truly had a mother to hold on to.
Jeremy cradles my chin in his hands. With his comforting kisses, he catches my tears.