“Isabelle, you’re staying right here with me. Moti, you’re sleeping with the chef.”
I opened my mouth, then let it go.That’s not what she means.
“Bu—”
“No buts. From either of you. Joseph is upset enough with you and Rachel, Isabelle. If he finds out about this, Lord help us all. You girls know you can come to me with anything, but I won’t have any part of this.”
“But—”
“Out. Both of you.” And just like that, Naani shut us down and went back to her laptop.
“Always typing away on that thing. Or her phone.” Isabelle sighed, her mouth set in a semi-pout. “I shouldn’t have asked for your help, Moti. I should’ve snuck out and slipped back into my bed in the morning.” She shook her head and retreated, as if this had been a failure on my part.
“Moti.” The door to Naani’s stateroom opened. Her hand snaked around my wrist. “I’m glad you’re still here. Can you help me with this?” She handed me a jar of Vicks VapoRub and pointed to her ankle.
For as long as I can remember, Naani smelled of Vicks VapoRub and honeysuckle. Honeysuckle was the first scent she bought upon moving to America, courtesy of a neighbor who was an Avon sales rep. I imagined it reminded her of new beginnings, or perhaps, the garden she had left behind in India. The Vicks VapoRub, on the other hand, was a sacred tradition passed on by her mother. Cough? Cold? Headache? Broken leg? Broken heart? Got run over by a truck? Slap on the Vicks. On your chest, your temples, around the rim of your nostrils. Hell, put a gob on a cotton ball and stick it in your ear. Maybe it was a placebo effect but having Naani rub the camphorated ointment on me really did make me feel better. My entire childhood revolved around trips to the doctor postponed by Vicks, except for the one time when it failed to suck pneumonia out of my feet (Naani maintained it must have been a bad batch).
I rubbed the salve over Naani’s translucent skin, the veins running beneath it like a network of blue-green tunnels. The reversal of roles was a comforting ritual, tied to the smell of childhood nostalgia. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, with Naani’s foot on my lap, I felt a sense of peace—the kind that comes and sits on your shoulder when you least expect it.
“How was your date with Nikos?” she asked.
“Not so great.” I switched to her other ankle. “I don’t know, Naani. Maybe I’m not meant to find love. No, not love. Reciprocal love. Both hearts have to catch fire at the same time, you know? Otherwise, it just hurts.”
“Is that what you’re feeling with Nikos? Hurt?”
“I don’t know if I’m invested enough at this point to feel hurt, but I feelsomething. And what I really want to feel is sparks, electricity, kisses that make everything disappear. Am I ever going to find that, Naani?”
“Ha. The luxury you kids have.”
“What do you mean?”
“When I was young, it was never about finding love. Love was something you cultivated. Your parents picked your life partner. Romance never entered the equation until then. People didn’t marry people. Families married families. Your father liked his father, or his grandmother played cards with your grandmother. That was how it started. Marriage was a garden that grew slowly. You only got one patch, so you worked hard at it. You planted the seeds, you watered them, you waited for things to bloom—love, respect, intimacy, connection. But things are different now. Everyone expects fruits and flowers right off the bat. When those are done, it gets plain and boring. Then it’s time to move on to the next patch. Relationships are more disposable now. So many people, so many choices. I look at you, I look at Isabelle, and I see both the blessing and curse that freedom brings you—so much potential for happiness, so much pressure to realize it. And then, with you, there’s the thumb…” Naani stuck her gnarly digit in my face and wiggled it.
We laughed because her thumb was impossibly knobby, but also at the absurdity of the situation. I lifted her feet off my lap and placed them on the floor. Retrieving her slippers, I held them out for her.
“Your grandfather wasn’t an easy man to live with.” She slipped her foot into the slipper and paused, reflecting on distant memories. “He was controlling, hot-tempered, critical. At times, downright cruel. I wish I could tell you I grew to love him, but no matter how hard I tried, I could never find the door to his heart. I felt like a failure. My friends’ arranged marriages were working out just fine. Thriving. It wasn’t until much later that I realized some people are never satisfied, no matter what you do. When I think back, I feel sorry for him. He could never figure out how to be happy…” She put on the other slipper and trailed off.
I’d never known my maternal grandfather. He passed away before I was born. We had a picture of him on the mantle, but Dolly never talked about him. Nobody did. I waited for Naani to finish her story.
“And?” I prompted.
“And what?” She reached for her laptop and reclined against the headboard.
“The moral of the story? You were making a point?”
Naani scoffed. “What? Just because I’m old? Sometimes, I just go off on a tangent.” She screwed the lid back on the Vicks VapoRub and shooed me out. “Get the curtains before you go,beta. The sun is glaring off my screen.”
I suppressed a giggle. Naani was addicted to the internet, and oblivious to the expressions she made as she sampled the world through her screen. As I slid the blackout panels across the window, my eyes fell on the tray in the sitting area. Two slim champagne glasses sat on top. They reminded me of bubbles… Rising, always rising to the top. Happy bubbles, fizzy bubbles, sparkly, golden bubbles. I slipped one of the glasses into my handbag and shut the door behind me.
My phone pinged with a new notification. Nikos Manolas had sent me a friend request on Facebook.
Nikos, inviting me into his inner circle after realizing it’s me, not Olympia Aravani who belongs there? Yes!
Nikos, going through security footage and realizing I’m the one responsible for sparking chaos at his nightclub? No!
My finger hovered over the button for a few seconds before I accepted.
His message came through almost immediately:Sorry about last night. Promise to make it up to you. Just checking in to make sure you made it back okay.
