It happened on a Friday—the night my life ditched its GPS (General Personal Sensibility) signal and swerved rudely off track, with me still in the vehicle. If life came with a soundtrack, I might’ve clued in to what was about to go down, but just like that unsuspecting person in a horror movie—the one who has no idea she’s about to get slashed or electrocuted or possessed when she walks into the kitchen for some late-night munchies, I was happily peeling ‘Made in China’ stickers off the place card holders at my cousin’s engagement party. Rewind a few moments and you would’ve found me holding up Isabelle’s billowing organza skirt while she peed. So yeah, I was relatively happy on sticker duty.
Each place card holder was a small wooden frame with a heart-shaped cutout. One side displayed the table number and the other had a photo of Isabelle and Thomas holding up a “She said yes!” sign. Their ecstatic faces were framed by blurry autumn foliage, giving them an added romantic glow. It was a beautiful shot. I was probably the only one creeped out by it. It looked like it had been taken by a bug on a branch, balancing on tiny tripod legs that—
“Moti.”
I jumped as Rachel Auntie approached. Growing up in an Indian family, anyone who was mildly close to my parents’ age had to be addressed as auntie or uncle. You stuck an ‘auntie’ or ‘uncle’ after their name, whether they were family or not. If you didn’t know their name, you called them Auntie-ji or Uncle-ji.
Children of immigrants realize early on that their parents’ rules have exceptions. For example, when you acknowledge the cashier’s name tag withThank you, Mildred Auntie,you can expect horrified looks from both your mother and the cashier. If you’re astute, you’ll understand certain rules apply only to people who share your cultural heritage. If not, a few sharp twists of your ear will drive the point home. This inherited dualism—like your skin color, and the sound of mustard seeds popping in hot oil—follows you through life. Your parents are fromthere, but they livehere. You are bornherebut will forever straddle the boundaries between here and there.
Rachel Auntie reallywasmy aunt—my mom’s younger sister and my cousin Isabelle’s mother. As such, sheknewthings.
“Moti, don’t you think you should be with Dolly?”
“I’ll be over as soon as I’m done with these.” I smiled, clutching one of the place card holders behind my back. Hopefully she hadn’t seen me sticking confetti on it. Getting the stickers off was impossible. They were glued on with industrial-level shit. So now all the frames were sporting half-ripped ‘Made in China’ labels which was worse, because now everyone would know not only were we using cheap frames, but that we’d tried to hide they were cheap frames. Obviously, the sensible thing to do was cover up the cover-up by sticking table confetti on the labels.
“Moti, it’s a big day for Isabelle. You know we can’t have Dolly creating a scene. Stop fiddling around with that and come watch your mother.”
“Yes, Rachel Auntie.” I plopped the place card holder on the table and followed her.
I was twenty-four years old, but when your elders asked you to do something, you dropped everything and saw it through. A sense of duty was drilled into my DNA. It was my job to look after my mother. If you looked at a family closely enough, you’d see that everyone had a job. There were Bosser-Arounders and Bossed-Arounders. War Makers and Bread Bakers. Promise Keepers and Promise Breakers. When you did something enough times, you got a label so everyone else knew what to expect.
“God, Moti. Don’t go to him for a car loan. He’s a Penny Pincher,”or“God, Moti. Don’t ask her for a loan. She’s a Helper-Hitter. She’ll help you out and then hit you over the head with it for the rest of your life.”
Labels made life easier for everyone. I was all about labels and mine read ‘Mother Minder’, meaning I had to mind my mother, Dolly, at family get-togethers. You see, Dolly liked to play dead. Usually at the most inopportune times.
It started off innocently enough, when our neighbor, Shoo Lin, called me at work one afternoon. Her name was really Shu Lin, or maybe Sue Lin, but in my head, she was Shoo Lin because Dolly was always trying to shoo her out of our apartment. On that particular day, my mother pretended to fall asleep to get Shoo Lin to leave. It was almost time for her favorite Indian soap opera, and she couldn’t be bothered to make tea or small talk. Shoo Lin panicked at Dolly’s unresponsiveness and called me.
“Moti, you need to come home quick. Your mother… She passed away.”
She meant my mother had passedout, but things get lost in translation and who could blame her? I dropped everything and arrived in record time, along with the paramedics and all the stay-at-home neighbors on our floor.
I won’t lie. My initial reaction to the news of my mother’s demise was a jolt of relief. It was like telling the canary the cat was dead.
Hallelujah.
Followed promptly by a tidal wave of guilt.
But then Dolly started coughing, just as the paramedics were getting ready to resuscitate her.
Suddenly she was holding court, enthralling everyone with tales of her ‘near-death experience.’ Over the next few weeks, she was invited to relate her personal account of heaven, which she did with great detail and animation. The episode fanned her flame for theatrics and crystallized into frequent ‘crossing-over’ scenarios. Dolly loved the buzz, the attention, the stir it created. No one knew just how many air miles she’d racked up with all her trips to the afterlife, except for Rachel Auntie and me—although I had a feeling Rachel Auntie must have shared with her husband.
Joseph Uncle looked relieved as we approached. “Ah, Moti. You’ll keep Dolly and Naani company? The guests have started arriving. Your aunt and I need to go greet them.”
“Of course.” I took the seat he vacated, between my mother and grandmother.
“Did you see the cake?” Dolly tilted her head toward the multi-tiered construction of purple and white frosting. “It’s like they’re getting married. Who in their right mind—”
“Ma.” I shot her a warning look.
“Offo!” Dolly waved my concern away. “Yournaaniisn’t even listening. Ever since you created a Facebook account for her, she just tunes out. Look at her. On her phone again. She’s as bored as I am. I don’t know why they’re going to all this troubl—”
“Youknowwhy.”
“So what if the groom’s family is paying for the wedding? They’re millionaires. Billionaires. Joseph and Rachel didn’t have to turn the engagement into a huge affair.”
“It’s a matter of pride. They can’t afford the kind of wedding Isabelle and Thomas want, but they want to contributesomething.”
My cousin and her fiancé were getting married in Greece, where Thomas’s family lived. The whole wedding party was going on a two-week cruise of the Greek Isles, courtesy of Thomas and his family.
