My parents die, but they keep it a secret from me. My husband leaves the room after his phone buzzes. My aunt and uncle send me evasive emails instead of returning my calls. Three days later, still no word from Mom and Dad. “Just tell me!” I yell at my husband across the dinner table. He rises, dishes in hand, and rinses them in silence.
My high school counsellor calls me into her office. She holds up her index finger at me, yellow cord dangling from the yellow telephone. I flip through a back issue of National Geographic as I wait: HAWAII, THE ULTIMATE TROPICAL PARADISE. Then, in fine print at the bottom, learn why Pearl Harbor survivors forgive but can’t forget. “Sorry about that,” she says. I look up. “There’s been a mistake. You’re free to leave.”
My parents update their status on Facebook. We’re moving, it says, but doesn’t mention where. I watch the comments stack up. “Good luck with the move!” a second cousin says. “Blessings always,” says a family friend. I click the sad reaction, but can muster nothing more.
Later at work, my boss asks if I want to take the rest of the day off. Her eyes glisten; a goop of mascara smudges her under-eye. “What do you know!” I demand. She reaches for a hug. “No, please,” she insists. “Take the whole week off. I’m here if you need to talk. Call me. Anytime.”
White Asiatic lilies greet me at the doorstep when I get home. I rifle through the arrangement. No note, not even a name card. My husband tells me to sit down. “They’ve obviously been delivered to the wrong address,” he says, standing tall. Everyone’s lying to me—my husband, my aunt and uncle, my boss, my high school counsellor—I can see it, sense it, but their words are shape clouds I cannot touch or rip apart.
I drive to the 7-Eleven and spill a raspberry Slurpee over the obituary section of The Times. I smear the pages clean but recognize none of the names.
At night, as I try to sleep, I think about Mom’s voice. I can hear her laughing, somewhere in the distance, on a tropical island, perhaps. I text my parents, and watch the time stamps change color as they deliver. Dad still has his read receipts on.
***
I’m at the mall when I see them two years later. I duck behind the escalator on the first floor, and watch them float up, hands intertwined. I follow them into the Panera, pull up the empty seat at their table. I’m angry. I want to tell them that I’m angry, but I feel the words sink deeper and deeper inside me. “Need anything?” Dad asks. “Can I have a bite of your soup?” I say. Dad walks over to the counter for an extra spoon. Mom pushes her side of sliced apples toward me. “You know,” she says, “it wouldn’t hurt to call more often.”
GAURAA SHEKHAR
Gauraa’s fictions and essays have appeared in Nimrod, CRAFT, Contrary, Sonora Review, Vol. 1 Brooklyn, Literary Hub, The Toast, and elsewhere. A founding editor of No Contact, she lives in Richmond, Virginia with her husband and young dachshund.
WWW: gauraashekhar.com
IG: instagram.com/bloodandgauraa
