Born Confused (5 page)

—Only if it’s on your neck, she replied matter-of-factly.

One Indian outfit was in the mix too, a gaudy chaniya choli in cartoon colors that she would have had to have reached into the deepest recesses of my closet to find.

She narrowed it down to four outfits and glided around them pointing out their merits as if selling me my own wardrobe. But
truth was, I’d never seen these combos before. One was the muffler/skirt mix for that Chaste Yet Naked look, she explained. One was a crisp oxford on a pair of striped red tights—long underwear for skiing, I realized—for that Accessible Schoolgirl (formerly known as Britney) look. Then the alibi Indian outfit. And finally, the dupatta from it, which she’d set up as a sort of wraparound top on black capris that I never wore because they made me look even shorter.

Gwyn had her hand plunked on her hip and stood slinkily surveying her work, slouching in that way that only works on thin sure girls. She seemed quite pleased.

—Gwyn, I said, truthfully.—These would all no doubt go great on you—not great; supercalifragilistic, in fact. But all I’m going to achieve with any of them is that something quite atrocious.

—Dimps, come on—didn’t you know Marilyn Monroe was, like, a size fourteen? And you’re not about to tell me
she
wasn’t pretty perfect.

—Gwynnie, I just don’t think it’ll work.

—Oh, dear, I was afraid this would happen, she mock-sighed.—Unhappy with your own duds? Well, then, good thing I brought you…

She bent down now to drag a snazzy neon familiar-looking bag out from under the bed.

—…your birthday present! Straight from the East Village.

—Oh Gwyn, you shouldn’t have!

—But I did. Go on, open it.

It was the Style Child outfit. You know, the one in the window I could never pull off? I stared at the white mini, fingered the zippers. Turned out you could actually unzip the thing and split it off into two scant pieces of stiff white vinyl. I couldn’t imagine getting it around one leg, let alone my entire pelvic continent.

—Oh Gwyn, I said again.—You
really
shouldn’t have.

—Isn’t it fabbadabbadoo? said Gwyn.—I liked it so much I got me one, too. I figured it would be perfect for you to make a first impression.

I didn’t know what to say.

—I took the train back especially to get it to you on time, she added.

She looked sincerely disappointed at my lack of excitement. And I felt like such an ingrate. She’d actually un-superglued herself from Dylan to get me all dressed up
and
a place to go to boot. And here I was whining. I never used to do that.

—I’m sorry, Gwynner, I said.—I love it. Thank you.

—Then you’ll wear it?

—I’ll wear it, I sighed.

She threw her arms around me.

—That’s my girl! she said, satisfied.

After we’d figured out shoes (she opted for the pumps I’d worn to school yesterday) her attention flitted elsewhere, to the top undergarment for the chaniya choli, a deep pomegranate deal that was poking out on the pillow of the spare bed.

—This tiny top is totally excellent, Dimps! she cried.

—It’s not a tiny top; it’s like a bra, I said.—It goes under the sari.

Well, if you’re not using it, mind if I do?

—Well, if you’re not using it, do you mind if I—?

—Go ahead, I said.

Once she’d finished replenishing her Indian underwear supply, she glanced at her watch.

—I’ve got just enough time to do accessories with you, she concluded.—Before I’ve got to make like a tree and leave. Whaddaya got for me?

—They’re all in the top drawer. Still.

I sat down on the edge of my bed, worn out for some reason,
and Gwyn went over and opened the drawer. In the huge dresser top mirror, the sandalwood frame carved with a myriad of deities and elephant trunks, I watched her face, saw how it lit up like she’d just opened a suitcase stacked with gold coins or gift certificates to Claire’s Accessories.

—Wow! Dimple! You didn’t show me all this new loot—what, did your mom bring it back from India this last time?

—Yeah, I said.—She picked up a bunch of stuff for me when they were shopping for my cousin’s wedding. Wishful thinking, I guess.

I went over to look in the drawer. To be honest, I had forgotten what I’d dumped in there.

Stacks of plastic bangles in jellybean colors, silver ones with tiny diamonds and hearts embedded in glistening green and red, thick tarnished chunky numbers, jingle-bell anklets, moderately noisy anklets, silent anklets, pairs of toe rings and thumb rings and armlets, and dangly earrings like ornate jade and gold chandeliers that slipped back to clip into the hair. Sheets of bindis, from simple red velvet circles to glitzy studded curlicues, like penny candy for royalty. Chokers spilling out of soft cloth pouches. My drawers were overflowing with goods, from costume to valuable. All this atop stacks of hand-beaded and gold-threaded sari fabric. My mother always got carried away when she shopped in India, or even Queens and Edison; it seemed she was trying to bring back the whole country with her in her suitcase. I liked one of the simplest jingly anklets a lot and always kept it on; I didn’t even know it was meant to be worn in a pair until the last time I was in India, when a troop of village girls with shafts of red desert light in their dry wild pony manes approached me and, pointing down, solemnly declared in voices buttery and fragile as puri rising,

—Excusing us please, lady, but you are having lost your other.

I’d meant to pair up the two halves after that trip, but I could never find the matching anklet. And as far as the rest of the goods went, they felt like a little too much to wear—too over-the-top, too princessy. Or maybe I just didn’t feel enough of a rani to carry it off.

Gwyn was digging into the drawer, gleefully pulling out items like a kid in a candy store. Her fist closed around something and she yanked it out with a squeal of excitement.

—Oh my
Claude!

She was already working whatever it was onto her wrists. In the mirror light flashed and refracted, serrating her face, as if she were turning a knife slowly in her hands. She was mesmerized. I came closer and looked down to her wrist on which two rakhis were now tied in fiery flowery metallic glory.

Rakhis are these bracelets that usually consist of colored thread adorned with red and pink and orange woven flowers set in metallic foil leaves. They’re used for Rakshabandhan, the holiday where sisters celebrate their brothers; the sister ties a rakhi on her brother’s wrist and in return the brother offers to protect her forever, which nowadays often amounts to his handing her anywhere from one to one hundred and one dollars.

My mother always got really sad around Rakshabandhan because she had that brother who died when I was young, my Sharad Mama. But she still collected the rakhis and saved one to take to temple—she didn’t go so often (my father and I didn’t really go at all; he had his temple at home, and I wasn’t so interested) but she did for this, every year on the holiday, which was around mid-August. When I was little I loved the rakhis, loved to tie them on my fingers and in my braids and, most of all, onto an imaginary brother (usually my stuffed monkey, Coconut, or Ketan Kaka when he was
staying with us). Which maybe made my mom sad, too. The last couple years when she’d given them to me I’d just left them in my drawer.

I told Gwyn all this, except the last part about my imaginary brother and my mom being sad.

—Wow, said Gwyn stretching out her arm and staring at the starry double bouquet on her wrist.—That’s so cool, sisters celebrating brothers—I always wanted a brother. Funny, but it feels like one’s holding my hand when I wear this—do you think that’s how your mom feels, too? You know, about your uncle.

—Maybe, I said. I’d never really thought of it that way; it was strange that Gwyn, who barely even talked about her own family, had.

—You know, I can’t believe all this stuff just sits around in your room, Dimple. If I were you I’d just go on and wrap myself in the Indian flag and go to school—I’m serious! Put a little magic in lame old Springfield.

She touched one of the flowers gently, as if it might break.

—And plus, they’re so beautiful. Oh, pretty please can I borrow them to go with my top—you know, the Indian thing? They go so perfectly.

Her
top? It had been mine just a few moments before!

—I don’t know if my mom…

But just then my mom was in the doorway. She looked at Gwyn standing there, luminous in all the bangles and chokers and fabrics.

—I was just wondering if you two would like to have some lunch, she said.—I made tuna and mint chutney sandwiches. With Cape Cod chips.

Her eyes fell on Gwyn’s wrist.

—Um, I, I hope you don’t mind, Mrs. Lala, said Gwyn, almost
shyly.—It’s just. They were so beautiful it seemed a shame to leave them in the drawer. And, I don’t know, they make me feel like I’ve got a brother.

—Yes, they make me feel that way, too, I suppose, said my mother, and she smiled a little sadly. So Gwyn had been right. I felt ashamed.

—I’ll put them back, said Gwyn, hurriedly unknotting the red threads. But then very gently my mother touched her wrist.

—No, leave them on, she said.—You’re right. They shouldn’t be in a drawer. Take them; they look lovely on you. I’m glad someone appreciates them.

I know this is going to sound crazy, but I wanted them now.
I
wanted to appreciate them. Gwyn was already hugging my mom.

—And have fun tonight, said my mother.—How sweet, a slumber party. Just like when you were little girls.

She looked deeply moved for some reason and I had a mea culpa moment considering the outright mendacity of our alibi: This was hardly a girls-only get-together, and slumber was perhaps last on the list of priorities.

My mother seemed to have come to, and was now contemplating the fashion spread on my bed.

—And Dimple, please clean up that mess—what is the point of having closets if you’re unloading everything into plain view?

Gwyn giggled.

—Yeah, Dimple, she said.

After my mom turned back down the hall, Gwyn collected her things and I walked her to the door. On the porch, she stepped into her beaded clogs (whenever she remembered, she tried to participate in our habit of leaving our shoes outside, though when she forgot—like if she was particularly excited about a new pair—or when
any non-Indian forgot, in fact, my mother didn’t seem to mind so much). And finally I asked her the question whose answer I dreaded most:

—Gwyn, how do you know he’s even going to like me?

—He’ll like you, she said firmly.—Be yourself and you’ll be fine.

She hopped off the porch and turned round again.

—But wear a bindi, she advised.—He’s into the Indian thing.

—But that’s so not me!

—Of course that’s you. You’re Indian, are you not? And above all do not forget your new little laminated self—you’ll be needing it tonight, I guarantee you.

And then she was gone. Her exits were always quick and tidy like this, like an expert criminal’s; her entries, as sudden and inexplicable as an angel’s. Like the first time I met her, all those Christmases ago.

When we were real little and Mr. Sexton was still “participating” in the household, Gwyn’s family was pretty famous in town. And this was due in no small part to the spectacle they put on at Christmas every year.

I mean, we got into the holiday spirit, too, particularly the lighttwining, trying out all sorts of annual sound and light experiments (for some reason Indians really like Christmas decor, and not just at Christmas, the more garish the better. Take a look at any Indian restaurant on Sixth Street in Manhattan.). But while the rest of us were pegging multicolored bulbs from Woolworth’s around the house and hanging wreaths—ours fake, “so we wouldn’t have to be killing a real live wreath,” according to my mother—and maybe posing giddy little Mr. and Mrs. Kriss Kringle couples on the porch, the Sextons set up and spotlit massive statues of Joseph, Mary, Jesus, and
the whole holy crew, creating a real-life-sized Nativity scene across their front yard, the three wise men positioned as if they’d just hopped up off the curb and under the weeping cherry. People would drive up and down from all over the county to check out the sight.

My first memory of Gwyn was during a winter like this. It had been soon after we’d moved here, and I’d gone over with my parents to see what all the fuss was about. My folks were fascinated by the sheer immensity and extravagance of the scene. We’d stayed, staring like the converted, long after the last car had pulled out and night fell heavy and dark as a winter coat upon us. The lights were all off inside the big house, showing off even more the spotlit production on the lawn, the Special Dolls in their yuletiddian Disneyland.

When we’d turned to go, my father lifted me into his arms; I gazed over his shoulder back at the lawn, mesmerized by all these beautiful dolls, bigger than even me at the time. And just then something stirred, a small but mighty shadow by Mary Dolly’s genuflecting self. A tiny figure crawled noiselessly out of the manger and stood, shaking off shards of snow like a cold-bathed puppy. It was unmistakably a little girl, pastel pajamas rolled up to the knees, her icy white mass of curls springing out in every direction. A little girl, probably my age.

She had no shoes on and stood perfectly still, staring at me with that extraterrestrial-recognizing-extraterrestrial fascination of children discovering each other. Then, she lifted her hand to blow me a kiss. Nobody saw this. It all happened in a heartbeat. Her feet were bare and I wanted to give her my shoes—they were so warm and fluffy inside with fake pink fur, little igloos in non-igloo colors.

But she was already on her porch and did something that puzzled me. She took something from around her neck—I thought it was a necklace, maybe, like my mother’s glittering maharani chokers. Then she unlocked the door with it and let herself in.

I don’t know why I didn’t say anything to my parents. But that kiss had been just for me and I savored it, like a secret on the tip of my tongue. We walked slowly, zigzaggily, over the ice patches back home, my father gripping me safe in one arm, his other wrapped around my mother’s waist so she wouldn’t slip.