She parked in the street, and before she was fully out the door, her brother had grabbed her in a sweaty bear hug.
“My sister’s home!”
“Ugh, Nilay, you stink!” Annika squirmed to get out of his grasp, but it was really nice to be hugged by him.
“You missed me, Didi. Admit it.”
Annika always melted a little when he called her Didi. He managed to roll up all his affection into that one little endearment, so it meant much more than “big sister.”
“If I admit it, will you let me breathe fresh air?”
He let her go. “It’s not that bad.” He sniffed his armpit. “Well, maybe it is.”
“Gross.” She waved to his buddies. “Your muscles are coming along, I see.”
His eyes widened. “You think?” He looked at them. “I’ve been lifting...”
Annika giggled, causing him to roll his eyes and return to his game.
She turned to the house. The front door currently had a paper jack-o’-lantern taped to it, something she must have made in grade school. She studied it for a moment. Sure, her kindergarten students could make something like this. Maybe her mother would let her take this home so she could use it as an example for her class.
Small pumpkins decorated the three steps leading to the door. Along with the pumpkins, tea lights flickered in decorativediya, and a colorfulrangolidesign done in colored chalk brightened up the small landing. Jack-o’-lanterns and rangoli. Halloween and Diwali settling in on the same stoop—pretty much summed up how she was raised.
“Hello?” She inhaled the scent of her childhood, cinnamon and cloves sautéing with onion and garlic. Pair that aroma with the sound of the exhaust fan attempting to remove the strongest of the scents, and she was twelve years old again, trying and failing to avoid the cooking lesson with her mother. Cooking was a life skill, and one should know the basics, her mother would insist. Sadly, even now, cooking was not something Annika enjoyed. Hence the pity food from Mrs. P.
She took off her shoes just inside the front door and dropped her purse.
“What? Is that Annika?” Her mother’sWs still sounded likeVs, something her brother always teased their mother about.
“Yes, Mom. It’s me.” Annika slipped on indoor clogs and found her way to the kitchen.
Usha Mehta still kept her hair in a single long braid down her back and was only an inch shorter than her daughter. She wore a simple red tunic with gold bordering over jeans. Annika let her mother pull her into a deep hug, enjoying the cinnamon-and-clove scent that always seemed to surround her even when she wasn’t cooking. It didn’t matter how old she got—there was nothing like being hugged by her mom.
“No work today?” Annika glanced at her mother’s attire. Her mother worked part-time as a pharmacist, and she wouldn’t be caught dead wearing jeans to work.
The older woman shook her head. “Tomorrow.” She wrinkled her nose. “You smell like you saw your brother.”
“He gave me a sweaty hug.” Annika shook her head and smiled. “You put the diya out early.”
Her mother shrugged. “Just easier. Diwali is coming soon, anyway. You are in time to help me makerotli.”
Despite Annika’s distaste for cooking, Annika and her mother had built their relationship making the fresh hot flatbread together for the family. They had many a heart-to-heart while her mother rolled out the flatbread and Annika baked it on a flat pan, then topped each one with ghee. They’d also had many an argument while Annika was a teenager and groused about whatever it was that irritated her that day. Nilay always said the rotli didn’t taste as good on the days they argued. Maybe he was right. In any case, rotli making was their thing.
Her mom picked up the thin rolling pin reserved solely for making rotli and dusted the countertop with flour. Annika kneaded the dough and started making small balls, which her mother would roll flat.
Her mother smiled at her, pride in her eyes. “You still make excellentlua.”
Annika got about halfway through the dough, then switched to baking. Her mother’s skills were good enough that she would be able to make the lua and roll the rotli while Annika baked each piece.
“How are you?” Her mother side-eyed her, a tentative pause in her voice.
“I’m good.” Similar caution in Annika’s voice. She thought of the hospital band in her pocket and blinked away the burn behind her eyes.
Silence.
“Beta.”Her mother stopped her work and forced Annika to look at her. “It is okay to be sad.”
Her nose prickled as tears built again. Annika nodded her head, afraid to speak, and swallowed hard. She squeezed her mother’s hand. Long, thin fingers, small calluses, soft skin—all familiar comfort for Annika. She inhaled deeply and found her voice. “Yeah, okay.”
