Chapter 10 Komal
Rishi: Komal, I waited for you after your meeting, but you weren’t there.
Who was there was a group of little old ladies with extremely sharp knitting needles who dragged me inside and made me model vulva-shaped hats for their social media.
I require no fewer than seven therapy sessions to deal with the trauma.
I’ll be sending the bill to your father.
Beth: You won’t believe what was waiting for me when I got back from leading moonlight meditation at Sanctus.
A letter from none other than Councillor Durant himself, denying my application to expedite the pole studio rebuild.
He says that my application wasn’t submitted in the correct font.
THE CORRECT FONT. I’m going to kill him!
THE NEXT NIGHT, WHEN I go to visit Papa, Shera’s buried under a pile of paperwork, so she waves me through onto the ward.
I reach for the last bunch of vibrant red flowers in the Gorilla Good Vibes basket, but someone snatches them from under my nose.
I look up, ready to fight. Red flowers are Dad’s favourite.
Augustin Durant holds the bouquet over his head. “I got here first.”
“You’d better not be giving those to Papa,” I growl, jumping for them, but of course I can barely reach above his shoulders. Curse my short genes. “I’m his daughter. I give the flowers. You’re his political rival. You shouldn’t even be here.”
“Maybe I’m here to visit someone else, who would also appreciate flowers.”
“Are you?”
“No.” Augustin’s eyebrow quirks. “I need your father’s signature on his mayoral withdrawal paperwork so you can officially enter the race.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t forge his signature and add a secret clause declaring his daughter is forbidden to run.”
“I will do many things to win, Ms Ahuja, but I won’t lie on a council form.”
“You’re insufferable.” I notice a bottle trapped under his armpit. “I hope you’re not bringing Papa alcohol. I know he’s persuasive, but the nurses were very clear—”
“This is blood.” He lowers his voice. “I’m afraid the stress of the Conclave visit and your continued presence in my life are making me queasy, and I’ve found myself too busy to get to my usual feeding club.”
“You don’t keep a Thrall?” For all the secrets he spilled in the stationery cupboard, I still know so little about him. We’ve been in the same small village for years, but I don’t even know where he lives.
“A Thrall isn’t suitable for my living situation. This blood makes dealing with you easier.”
“I resent that. I am a bottomless well of sunshine. Look over there!” I shout, pointing at the ward behind him. “Someone is urinating without a permit.”
Augustin lowers his arm as he turns to look. I did not expect that to work. I swipe the flowers from his hand and take off down the hall.
“Ms Ahuja, give those back! This is childish!”
But even as he admonishes me, I feel his breath on my back as he gives chase. Augustin Durant can’t bear to lose. I leap through the door to Papa’s room, whooping with triumph. Augustin grabs my arm and spins me. My back hits the wall, and his long arms cage me in, his face inches from mine.
I freeze as I flashback to being trapped with him in the stationery cupboard. His scent, his soft, deep voice telling me a story, the cool reassurance of his hands drawing circles on my back. The way he’s looking at me now is anything but safe.
His eyes are blown out, the black irises consuming the warm amber.
He’s breathing hard, his chest grazing mine every time it rises.
The sharp point of a fang peeks out of the corner of his lip.
I remember what he said before, that he hasn’t had blood, that he’s sick with hunger.
Is he seeing me, his archrival, or is he seeing dinner?
And why do I want to tilt my head to the side and find out?
“Did you two lovebirds come to see me?”
Augustin leaps back as Papa emerges from behind his curtain, gripping his IV pole for dear life, dragging several tubes and drains behind him. I press my hand to my chest, willing my heart back to normal. If Papa hadn’t interrupted us, what would have happened?
What did I want to happen?
Wait a second—
I narrow my eyes at my father. “What are you doing? Get back into bed!”
“I’m going home, Beta,” he says, pointing to the walker at the door. “It’s Social Night tonight. I haven’t missed a single one, and I’m not going to let cancer stop me.”
Social Night is a monthly meetup for the local desi community.
It used to be organised by the Hindu centre in the nearby village of Grimdale.
But then too many well-meaning white people got into yoga and Eastern philosophy and started coming along, and it hindered our ability to bitch about well-meaning white people getting into Eastern philosophy, plus their potluck contributions are TERRIBLE.
So Papa started running it from our house instead.
Papa’s jaw is set in his “do-not-question-me” face, but he’s breathing heavily and dragging a ton of tubes and drips behind him.
There is absolutely no way he’s been cleared to leave the hospital.
I debate calling Mamma, but that would result in the entire auntie network descending on the oncology ward, and I won’t do that to Shera.
I have to fix this.
“Papa, I don’t think this is a good idea.
Look—” I hold out the red flowers. “This was the last bouquet left by the Gorilla Gardener. They’re your favourite red – the colour of Mamma’s wedding sari.
Why don’t we get you back to bed, and I’ll put these in water and tell you about the crazy customers I had today—”
“Beta, you will drive me to Social Night.”
“That’s not a good idea.” I can be just as stubborn as Papa. After all, I got it from him. “Back to bed.”
“Absolutely not. The doctor said I could go home.”
“He did?”
Papa nods vigorously. “He did. He said that I’m mostly recovered from the surgery now. All he had to do was sign my paperwork and I can leave. But then he got called away to an emergency and hasn’t been back to sign it off yet, and I’ve been waiting forever and I’ve never missed a Social Night.”
I turn to Augustin, knowing that Mr Sensible Vampire will talk him out of this madness. But instead he says, “I have an idea.”
He disappears into the hallway and returns with a wheelchair.
“Chirag, you get into this. Councillor Ahuja, you wheel him out to the car and get him inside.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Create a distraction. Hand me those flowers.”
Reluctantly, I hand them over, still not convinced this isn’t some grand plan of his to steal the last bouquet.
Instead, Augustin waves his hand over the blooms and stalks out into the ward.
I watch from the door as he walks up to the nurses’ station and says, “Excuse me, I have a strange problem. These flowers seem to be exploding.”
Shera’s head snaps up. “What?”
Somehow, the flowers multiply. They cascade from Augustin’s hands across Shera’s desk, springing up nearly to the ceiling, creating a cunning screen between the station and the open door of the ward.
What is happening?
But I don’t have time to question it. Heart hammering, I shove Papa’s wheelchair into the hall and push it towards the elevator.
“I don’t understand!” Shera’s voice is muffled from the centre of the floral explosion. “The Gorilla Gardener’s flowers have never done this before!”
“Faster, Beta!” Papa whispers.
Red petals float around us as I sprint past the nurses’ station.
We get in the elevator just as an alarm goes off.
I make it to the carpark and bundle Papa into the front seat, taking care not to jostle him.
I shove the wheelchair awkwardly into the boot, and am just sliding into the driver’s seat when Augustin appears, jogging across the parking lot with a concerned frown, leaving a trail of red petals and vines in his wake.
“What did you do?” I hiss as he dives for the back seat.
“Magic,” he says simply. “Drive quickly, please.”
I tear out of the parking building as if I’m Reginald and he’s late to a classic car meet. Papa rolls down the window and cackles with glee as he tastes fresh air for the first time in three weeks.
I can’t take the shortest route around the village green as the roads have been shut off for the stormwater repairs.
Instead, I head around behind the church, noticing that the Gorilla Gardener has struck again, filling a large pothole on the corner of Chadwick Street with pretty white and pink flowers.
I roll down my window, breathing in their heady floral scent, and can’t help laughing along with Papa.
This is one of the craziest things we’ve ever done, but I’m so happy that Papa is still here, and he’s exactly the same.
When we pull up to our house on the outskirts of Argleton, every single light is on, and the driveway and most of the street are lined with cars.
Through the lounge window, I see the twins and their cousins engaged in some kind of horseplay on the rug, the TV blaring, and toys and mess piled everywhere.
Mamma and the aunties move around the kitchen, pouring wine, stirring dishes, tossing their heads back with laughter, while loud voices and Bollywood music blare from the conservatory.
All I want to do is go to my place and eat rajma until my legs stop shaking, but I need to help Papa inside. Besides, if I don’t show myself then someone will come out to check on me, and they’ll never leave. Better to get it over with.
Augustin lifts Papa from the car like he weighs nothing. When he’s not being insufferable, having a vampire around is kind of useful. We settle him into the (now slightly crooked) wheelchair and Augustin lifts him up the steps.
I brace myself for impact, and turn my key in the lock.
The wall of noise hits me the moment I open the door, as does the smell of biryani and sāmbār, and the sound of Dolly Auntie’s laughter, making my ears ring and my heart ache at the same time. Augustin makes a strained face.
There’s nothing like home.