“You should consider purchasing a day planner,” he said. “You’re well?”
I wasn’t starting a discussion about the nine million things I managed on a regular basis or whether “disorganized” was code for “I didn’t want to talk to you.”
“Very well. Things are good. How are things there?”
“We had the christening for Melina’s new baby this morning, and it was beautiful. There’s a party tonight,” he added.
I pulled my lip between my teeth and hummed. I didn’t even know my cousin had been pregnant, let alone given birth. That was the price I paid for taking a gigantic, purposeful step away from my family, andshit,every time I heard stories about births and weddings and joyful, together moments, I doubted my decisions. Being the outsider hurt, and it wasn’t like breaking up with a significant other or growing apart from friends. It was cutting that blood-thick kinship and feeling like a traitor every day, and accepting that the pain was good. Healthy. Necessary.
“But I’m calling about Diwali,” he said.
He didn’t have to say anything else; the question was implied.
When I was younger, we’d go to certain Hindu celebrations in the region. Diwali for the new year, Holi to welcome springtime, Navratri in the fall, and others when the dates worked with our other commitments.
Agapi never expressed much interest in my father’s culture, preferring instead to spend her time helping at the restaurant and getting involved with our neighborhood church and its Greek Orthodox Youth Association. These celebrations became the special thing we did together, just me and Dad.
But family was complicated.
My parents were mortified when I got married, and insisted I come home immediately because—obviously—New York City was a bad influence on me. That, and music was an absurd waste of time, and I’d never succeed, and I should be more like my sister and work at the restaurant before I ended up addicted to drugs or pregnant or homeless, or all of the above.
I didn’t return home, and we didn’t speak for nearly three years.
I was dead to them, or that was what I was left to believe. Not a single word from my parents, my sister, or anyone in my extended family. No birthday cards, no calls on Christmas, not even an email when my great aunt Iris died. Nothing.
Then I received a letter from my father with an invitation to a Diwali party. I was divorced, sharing a two-bedroom apartment with five other band geeks outside of Boston, and working no fewer than eight jobs, but I spent the last few dollars in my bank account for the train fare to Newark.
I needed to believe they hadn’t abandoned me entirely.
It was good to see him again but it was strained, loaded down with layers of disapproval. I wasn’t first chair in the Boston Symphony Orchestra—or any orchestra, for that matter—and, from his perspective, this music endeavor was an apparent failure. According to my father, it was time to put this all behind me. He even offered to let me perform in the restaurant on Saturday evenings.
Maybe it was pride or maybe it was my diehard belief that a Greek restaurant in Jersey would never bemyhome, but I hugged him goodbye and knew part of me was actually, really, truly dead to them.
Since then, I’d been home twice: Agapi’s wedding and my grandfather’s funeral.
He made a point of calling me at least once a month, and though the conversations became less tense, none of this got any easier.
“I wish I could, Dad,” I said. I ran my fingers through the brittle grass and sighed. “Really. But I can’t get away that week. I have midterms to grade, and one of my little friends, Lillian, is having a piano recital.”
“That sounds like something that’s important to you,” he said. “There will always be another Diwali.”
When we disconnected, I toggled through my phone to find tonight’s live music listings. Talking to my father stole my energy and the pounding delight of a concert was the only thing to refill my tank. I tagged several intriguing shows and sent a text to Sam.
13:44 Tiel:let’s go out tonight. Too many good shows to miss.
13:49 Sam:I wish I could. Business dinner with the landscape architect on my next big project.
13:49 Tiel:I wouldn’t think you’d be a fan of business dinners
13:50 Sam:eh. I’m not but I am a fan of this architect.
13:50 Tiel:ok. I’ll be at the Roxy if you finish early or whatever.
The only thing that message was missing was a starry-eyed emoticon to go along with my aggressively casual tone. My preference was spending every night with Sam, and I think that inclination went all the way back to our first night together. There wasn’t a point when I wanted it to end.
13:52 Sam:do you . . . miss me?
13:52 Tiel:of course not but you still don’t know the difference between folk and funk, and that’s a crisis
