“We should sit down for dinner soon,” Trisha says, setting out her daily dishware. It’s just the four of us—the three sisters and Mom. It’s Saturday night and the first time we are all having dinner together in a while. We are cautious with one another, as if we are afraid of disturbing the balance we have created.
“Eloise made your favorite, Mama. Of course, it’s not as good as yours, but she used your recipe.” Trisha brings out the baingan bharta dish and sets it in the middle. She ushers us toward the table, insisting we take our seats.
“You’re wearing saris again?” Trisha stops, staring.
I take in Mom’s outfit. Today she chose to wear a green sari. It is not one I recognize, but from the simple design along the edge, I can tell it is old. The newer ones have strips of gold or silver thread, and the colors seeping together are vibrant, alive, as if to keep pace with the Bollywood films that have saturated the market. The green dye of Mom’s sari is worn, faded from too many washes. There is no sparkle in the color, no decorations to enhance its appearance. It is simple, and yet Mom looks beautiful. Her hair is pulled back and held with a gold clasp. Gold hoop earrings and a simple gold chain are the only jewelry she wears. I can’t help but notice her mangalsutra is missing from her neck.
“You stopped?” I ask, surprised.
“Yes,” Mom answers quickly.
“Why?” Everyone stares at her, waiting for an answer.
“After you left and Trisha got married, it didn’t seem important to keep up appearances anymore,” Mom says quietly.
“Appearances of what?” Marin asks.
Mom says nothing. When the silence lingers, Trisha speaks up. “Who wants wine? Marin? Sonya?”
She has an odd, frenetic energy. Her makeup is flawless and her outfit pressed perfectly. The house is clean and welcoming, but something is amiss. She avoided my eyes when opening the front door and has avoided me since. When I tried to help her with the meal, she ushered me out of the kitchen.
“Red, please,” I say.
“Right. Of course.” She hunts through her cabinet for the wine opener. Opening each drawer, she fails to find it. “Where does he keep it?”
Her hands are shaking, and she is flustered. Lost, like a child, she searches obsessively. I have never seen her this way before. The sight of it unnerves me, makes me realize that her stability is my foundation. Even when I was traveling, knowing that Trisha was back home, living a normal life, gave me the hope I needed to keep going. At least one of us was doing more than surviving.
“What’s going on?” My words cause Mom and Marin to look up, to watch Trisha with new eyes. When Trisha fails to respond, I join her, standing side by side. I can feel her nervousness, her fear. “Hey, what’s up?”
“Nothing,” she whispers. Her eyes close, her long lashes veiling the truth. “Everything is fine.” She pushes past me, rejecting my help. She starts to pour water in everyone’s wineglasses. “Let’s eat.”
We do as we are told. When Marin got married, Trisha assumed the role of matriarch. Since Mom never owned the position, it was open and Trisha was the obvious choice. We followed her rule, her decisions, like chicks to a hen. Mom fell in line like the rest of us, relieved that someone other than my father had some semblance of control.
We eat our meal in silence. The fresh garlic naan is warm. We use it to scoop up the baingan bharta—eggplant sakh mixed with fresh tomatoes and onions. I take a sip of my lentil soup, the lemony aftertaste lingering on my tongue. The meal is delicious, as I expected. Trisha rarely does anything wrong. It’s comforting to know that someone in my life knows what they are doing.