Born Confused (29 page)

—Is he on his feet again? I asked.

—I think he’s still on the rock bottom part, said Karsh.—He writes to me for money and I was sending him some for a while. Not a hell of a lot—I didn’t have much to speak of—but, you know, I sold some of my stereo equipment and my twelve-speed and skateboard. But when it came to my records, it got tough.

DJing really meant the world to him.

—Because a lot of them had been his that I’d taken with me, he continued.—To keep him with me. The day I sold the first ones, my heart broke a little. I couldn’t go on with it, and in any case, I realized it was just keeping him where he was. So I stopped.

No wonder he guarded those boxes, that bag so preciously; they were not only his own pride and joy, but were mellifluously marked with the fingerprints and scratches, the worn grooves and sweet center of his father.

—Do you think they’ll get back together again? Gwyn asked.

—My head says no way in this lifetime, said Karsh.—But since we Hindus get a few lifetimes, my heart can’t help but hope for a happy ending.

—I know what you mean, said Gwyn. Out of the corner of my eye I could see she was leaning on Karsh’s shoulder now, seeking shelter, it seemed.—Believe me, I know. We’re two of a kind, Karsh. Like you said—opposite but the same.

I thought of my dad on the sofa enjoying his outdated Beaujolais Nouveau and nodding his head side to side to Lata Mangeshkar and I had an overwhelming desire to run home and wake him up and touch him, just to make sure he was there.

I couldn’t believe their stories. I mean, I knew all was not 101
percent well, but this was a whole other level of heartbreak, and I just wanted to take them both in my arms and say something comforting. But I also felt like I was watching all of it through a window, and a one-way window at that. I wondered if my parents knew Karsh’s story.

And Gwyn’s tale. Well, that hurt for two reasons. One, and foremost, because it was desperately sad and there was nothing I could do to undo it. And two, because Gwyn had never told me any of it. It had taken a million and one times in this house to make this story emerge. It had taken a one in a million person to make her feel like she could let it, I supposed. Watching Karsh now gently stroking her hair, his arm around her, I felt like a failure as a friend and I vowed to try to be better, to be kinder, to be the kind of person you could talk to. I had never realized until now that I wasn’t.

I looked up at the girl with the liquid eyes and seashell curls and my heart ached for her.

—That’s an irresponsible photographer, I said.

—Or a really good one, said Gwyn.

—Documenting the way you hurt someone? Finding that beautiful? I could never do that, not for anything. There are limits.

—You wouldn’t understand, said Gwyn, a tiny edge to her voice.—Your family is perfect. It’s easy to set limits when you have none.

—Perfect? I said, for some reason defensive.

—They are pretty damn cool, said Karsh.—It’s nothing to be ashamed of.

—I’m not ashamed, but we’re not perfect. Well at least
I’m
not perfect.

—Oh spare me, said Gwyn.—Honors classes, straight A’s even post-breakup with Bobby, supercool cousins, ace at photography.

—Who’s Bobby? asked Karsh.

—No one anymore, Gwyn replied for me while I cringed inwardly.—But at the time, you just couldn’t get over him, could you, Dimple. He was the love of her
life,
Karsh. I never understood it. I mean, why don’t you look for a guy like your father? You’ve got the world’s greatest role models right in your living room and you still go slumming. Do you realize how lucky you are that your parents are together? They are so
solid,
so in love.

—What do you mean? They don’t hold hands, I’ve never seen them kiss. In fact I’m not even sure how I got here, to tell the truth.

—What’s kissing and holding hands? said Gwyn almost snobbishly.—That’s a dime a dozen. They wake up together every morning, they sleep together every night; they managed to cross an ocean together and not fall apart. And they adore you. That’s pretty perfect and you’re complaining? What’s wrong with you? You could use all that love to go out and conquer the world!

I wasn’t complaining. I was just trying to find my place in this conversation, but it was looking more and more like a sold-out show. And I didn’t even want to begin to try to explain to either of them how sometimes I felt my parents loved me so much that it was too much—they wanted everything perfect, they didn’t want me to have a moment of discomfort in my life, and they cared so heavily that sometimes I worried that in comparison, no one else would ever seem like they did. But it was true: They were pretty perfect. I mean, of course they drove me a little crazy sometimes, especially recently. But they were supposed to—that was part of their job. And at least they were there to drive me crazy. Even I had to admit there was no way I’d trade them in for anything. But perversely, the whole time Gwyn and Karsh had been talking, I’d been feeling that maybe I hadn’t been traumatized enough by them to make me a regular teenager.

—That’s not fair, Gwyn, said Karsh.—You can use a lack of at
tention to go out and conquer the world, too. You can use anything. And I daresay you just might get it.

—You think? she said. She was contemplating her photograph again and Karsh gently turned her face towards him.

—Should we go play some music? he said.—Maybe we all just need to chill a minute.

So we went into Gwyn’s mother’s room, which is where the stereo was. There were two things that set this room apart from the rest of the house. One, it was the only room with no photographs of Gwyn—or anyone—in it. And two: It was white.
All
white—from the blizzardy carpeting stretching from one white wall to another to the king-size bed draped with snowy linens, the tasseled throw pillows and lampshades. A faux-fur-trimmed dressing gown hung silkily off the bedpost in the same Alaskan camouflage. Porcelain figurines of swans and sprites floated on the mirror-still surfaces of the glossy white vanity table and night table and dresser. And atop the entertainment cabinet: an all-white turntable, one speaker (the other was propped upon a wicker basket in the corner), and a cassette deck, like a sound system for Barbie’s wedding.

The spooked sight of all this pristine perfection made me finally remove my shoes.

—Oh my god, said Karsh, shaking his head.—No offense, or maybe a little, but it’s like a supremacist’s dream pad.

—It’s great, isn’t it? Gwyn nodded, oddly.—It’s like she’s still trying to be a bride or something, have her white wedding.

—Oh, I didn’t even think of that, said Karsh.—White is the color of mourning in India.

—My mother wore only white for fourteen days after my grandfather died, I said.

—My mother wore it for four after she kicked my father out,
said Karsh, turning to me. Gwyn glanced from him to me then pushed her way between us, linking her arms through one each of ours.

—Whatever, she said.—Come in.

We were all nearly tiptoeing for some reason.

—It seems so unlived in, Karsh said.

—Yeah, at the moment, said Gwyn, bending to slide open the glass door of the entertainment cabinet.—But not after she gets a couple gins in her system and throws on one of
these
mothers. Dimple knows. She’s been here.

Karsh dropped to a squat. For some reason I thought of Meera Maasi crouching on the concrete floor with the ayah, sifting stones from rice. It was an ancient memory, but it pieced now crystalline in my mind’s eye.

—Holy shit, look at all this Grateful Dead. Was your mom a Deadhead?

—Even hitched across the country to see them play, with me in a backpack.

—Joni, Janis, and
Dark Side of the Moon,
more Doors albums than the Doors ever made!

—And retapes of all of them, said Gwyn, now creating a stacked city of cassettes on the carpet.

—Unbelievable. There has got to be a stoner in the house.

He turned when he said it, nodding at Gwyn. Gwyn gave him a funny look, one I’d never seen on her face before, which surprised me, because I’d seen a lot of her faces, in all of their jars by the door and on.

—Is there one in the house now? she asked slowly.

This was turning into a bizarro conversation.

—There may be one, said Karsh smiling.

—Or more than one, said Gwyn.—Shall I light your fire?

—What the hell, said Karsh.—I’m so far past sleep at this point. Come on, baby.

What were they talking about? Gwyn opened a dresser drawer and took out a small box. When she opened it I saw it was a sewing kit; inside was a set of needles, thimbles, thread spools in a brilliant array of hues. I was lost—it didn’t seem like the moment to start hemming.

But then, very carefully, she lifted the spool tray and held out the box for all to see. Packed in a Ziploc bag under a thin stack of papers at the bottom was something that looked like a burnt hunk of backyard.

—Do you know what this is, Dimple?

—Looks like grass to me, I said.

—Exactly! Gwyn hooted, looking like a pleasantly surprised mama duck.—Sometimes you really shock me with how with it you are.

I opted to perpetuate this myth by not asking her why there was a chunk of mowed lawn in her sewing kit.

—In a sewing kit? asked Karsh.

My thoughts exactly! So he was with me on this.

—Yeah, my mom says it rules ‘cause, first of all, no one would ever think to look there, and second, if she’s falling apart she can always sew herself together again.

—Plus, I’m sure sewing buttons was never so much fun, Karsh laughed.—So let me get this straight: This is your
mother’s
stash?

—So it is, straight from the Lillian, she said, burrowing now through the record collection.—Make yourselves comfortable. I won’t be a minute.

We dropped down cross-legged on the floor and Gwyn pulled out—surprise!—an all-white album.

—The Beatles are perfect at times like this, she said, tapping a little lawn out onto the sleeve. It radiated against the blank background. A familiar sweetness rose into the air that I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

—Do you want me to? Karsh offered.

—No, no—you’re my guest, she said. She began nimbly to roll the grass into the paper.

—That’s
a joint! I cried, jumping as she held up the finished stick.

—Indeed it is! Karsh joined in enthusiastically.—You’re a pro, Gwyn.

—Are you uncomfortable, Dimple? Gwyn asked, in a tone that fell halfway between concerned and challenging.

—No, of course not, I said.—Why should I be uncomfortable?

—Then sit down. I’m glad—I didn’t know if you’d be wigging or dealing.

—Of course I can deal, I said indignantly. Lied indignantly, to be more precise.—I’m just surprised you can—you can make a joint.

—You certainly can, said Karsh.—That’s some major Mary Jane.

I was wigging. I’d never tried drugs and had no idea Gwyn ever had. What if her mother caught us? Well, okay, in this case that didn’t seem to be an issue—and let’s not even get into how frocked up
that
was. But what if the police happened to come by? What if the stuff was spiked with…drugs? Yeah, I suppose that one was moot as well.

My head was buzzing. And Karsh. I’d always figured potheads were the grungy guys who hung out in the parking lot and wept during the Pledge and started looking confusedly around when the voice came through the intercom at bus call.

And in terms of
Gwyn
and Karsh—things were shaping up greatly in my disfavor. Now it turned out they didn’t have merely growing up in single-mothered families in common, but this, too. I was getting pushed further and further out of the loop, like I’d been on the dance floor tonight. I couldn’t allow it to get any worse or I’d be out of orbit entirely.

I watched Karsh hold the flame to the end. Gwyn inhaled and then didn’t exhale, her face flushing an extraordinary shade of pink. I thought she was choking and was about to slap her on the back when she squeezed her eyes shut and with a content
ahhh
let a strand of smoke slip through her lips. Then she held it out for Karsh, who took a searing swallow, and with his mouth clasped tight and the steadiest of hands he presented the little burning twig to me, raising his eyebrows and nodding slightly as if to say
Go.
I took it in my fingers and my fingers were shaking. To be honest, I’d barely even ever tried cigarettes. Gwyn had nicked them off her father once, and the two of us went out to the playhouse with a big mirror and sat in front of it and stared at ourselves, playing movie stars. We didn’t even light the things for the first few minutes, just wove them glamorously around. And once we did Gwyn was inhaling in no time, blowing rings and exhaling from her nose and doing all sorts of tricks of the cigarette circus—which now made me wonder if she’d been secretly practicing all along. Me, the furthest I got was filling my mouth up with the indelectable stuff then parting my lips and watching it gently dollop out, clouding out my thrilled guilted face in the mirror.

Now I figured I’d just do the same thing but let it out like cirrus instead of cumulus and they’d never know I hadn’t inhaled. I already felt out of it; I didn’t want to create an even bigger rift by not being fun enough, crazy enough. Doors enough.

I tried to put on my best been-there-smoked-it look and if Gwyn
was surprised she didn’t show it. The tip of the twig was moist and my lips stuck to the rolling paper when I breathed in. I filled my mouth just a little, my hair hanging down so the smoke could hide in it and not in me.

—You’re losing it all, Gwyn said softly.—You’ve got to hold it in longer. It’s good stuff—Dylan had his plus points.

—Out of practice, I guess, I said. This was, technically, true. I took another lurch in the lungs and closed my eyes. The stuff didn’t taste bad, actually, but lay a flame down my throat, unwetting the insides of my cheeks. This time I pretended I was underwater, at the bottom of Mirror Lake after a perfectly executed dive and had to make my breath last a long way up—a fear that was fantasy for me as well. I imagined myself swimming through sunken treasure, anemone and broken bottle and by the time I let it out it was a surprisingly small cloud. The rest must have escaped while my eyes were closed.