“Why did Papa let me marry an American?” I ask, my mind whirling. I know she is behind me, watching. “It went against our culture, his dictates.”
Papa never uttered a word of anger when I told them with trepidation that I had fallen in love with a white man. “Never marry a BMW” was the mantra of the Indian community. Black, Muslim, White—the three unacceptable marriage partners in our culture. I was sure my announcement would be met with fury and disappointment, that it would be the first time I would feel his wrath. I had prepared myself for the worst, but when he simply dropped his head and nodded his acceptance, I was left speechless. He walked out of the room and the discussion was over.
I stare at my room now, changed completely from that night, when I was still fifteen. Redecorated, a gift for my sixteenth birthday. I was allowed to choose whatever theme I wanted, whatever bed I desired. Everything in the room was trashed, replaced by new. Sonya stood by, watching in envy, as I chose the color to paint the walls and picked a princess theme décor to match my mentality. I kept the room that way for a year, until my friends began to tease me. I asked Papa if I could change it one more time, and he readily agreed. I went with a more mature theme, neutral spring colors that have remained to this day.
“He let me change the décor,” I murmur. “Buy everything new.”
“Yes.” She nods.
Her answers are quick, to the point. As if she fears saying too much. I step out of my bedroom and back into the hall. She follows me silently, a guide to a labyrinth with no way out. In the hallway, I slide my hands along the wall, remembering doing the same thing years ago. The red paint on my colored nails starts to drip over my fingertips and down the back of my hand. The paint turns to blood. I yank my hand off the wall, sure I have left a stain, but only pristine white stares back at me. I stare at my fingers but there is no longer any blood.
“I was crying,” I say, lost in another time. “I screamed.”
“I didn’t hear you,” Mama says, anguished. I pivot toward her, watching with odd detachment as she wrings her hands together. She refuses to look at me, her tears falling off her face and onto the floor. Like an old woman, her body has shriveled into itself. In front of my eyes she seems to have aged by twenty years while I am stuck in a time warp. “I never heard you, Beti.”
“The bathroom,” I exclaim. There was blood in the bathroom, in the sink. I can see it now, swirling with the water. Throwing open the door, I stare into the sink, but only sparkling porcelain stares back. “There was a rag. I cleaned the blood with it.” Opening the drawers I search for it. But they are bare. I grab the trash can, sure I threw it in there, but it stands empty. The laundry basket is the same. “Where did it go?” I demand.
“It’s gone,” she says, reaching for me, but I push her away. I don’t want her hands on me. I start to rub my arms, feeling the heavy weight of something else or someone else on me. “I never saw it.”
“Where did it go?” I demand, sure she is playing a game with me. The memories flood my mind, erasing the line between yesterday and today. Lost in a vortex, my mind throws me from place to place, refusing me reality to hold on to. “It was right here.”
“I don’t know,” she whispers.
“Sonya may know,” I exclaim. I rush toward her room and open the door. “Where is she?” I demand when my search comes up empty.
“She’s still at work, remember?”
“You’re lying!” I scream. “She’s just a kid.”
“She’s a grown woman,” Mama says quietly. “So are you.”
She must be joking. I am only fifteen. Still a child. I have pretended to be a woman, like all teenagers do. But deep down I am still a young girl, waiting for when I am fully grown and dreading it at the same time. “Why are you saying this?” I cry. “After what happened, how can you do this to me?”