by Nishta Jaya Mehra
  

Thursday, June 22, 2006—718 Charles Place, Memphis, Tenn.

Stephen walks in from the dining room, stoneware dishes stacked in his hands. Pulling the dishwasher door open, he begins to load. Katherine appears in the kitchen doorway with the rest of the dirty dishes, which clatter against one another as she places them in the sink. She makes a second trip to the dining room, this time returning with a half-empty bottle of red wine. From the high counter, where I sit with my laptop, I watch as she re-corks the bottle and scrapes leftovers from platters to Tupperware. Curried chicken kabobs with bellpepper and onion. Couscous. Hummus. I made the dinner, so I’m excused from the dishes—house rules.

Aside from the crackle of the baby monitor, the kitchen is quiet, a quiet of shared exhaustion. Without saying a word, I turn the sound up on my computer’s speakers, select a song, and press play. The simple, folksy twang of the Barenaked Ladies’ “If I Had $1000000” fills the room. Katherine and Stephen both look over with smiles. We all start singing along.

People always want to know: Who, in her right mind, would volunteer to live under the same roof as newborn twins for six weeks? Well, I would. In fact, I did. My dear friends had been struggling for several years to conceive and carry a healthy child of their own. Then, in the early months of 2006, they discovered that they had outdone themselves. They had made two. After the doctors gave them the all-clear, Katherine and Stephen realized that they had a whole new problem on their hands: What on earth do we do with two?

That’s where I came into the picture. I have known Katherine for seven years, the same number of years she is my elder. We met because she was my world religion teacher in high school. At first, we weren’t so much “friends” as friendly email correspondents, sharing the titles of good books and the content of interesting class discussions—I was an undergraduate religious studies major in Texas, she was an Episcopal seminarian in Virginia. Quickly, we moved out of the teacher/student, advisor/advisee, older/younger dynamic, and into more personal territory. Whenever we were both in Memphis at the same time, we met for long talks over chai.

Then Katherine and Stephen moved back to Memphis, and things shifted again. Same long talks at Starbucks, now followed by long talks over dinner with Stephen, too. Piece by piece, a closeness grew, along with fondness and uncanny trust. Trust enough, to be sure, that they invited me into their life and I said “Yes.” “There’s no one else we would even think about asking,” Katherine said over the phone. We had never even lived in the same city before, let alone in the same house. I hadn’t spent a summer in Memphis since I was a freshman in college. But there is just something about those two, I don’t know why.

So here I am. We are just over a week into this experiment, and so far, so good. I have a room upstairs and plenty of privacy. The three of us have mapped out schedules for work, sleep, feeding ourselves, feeding the boys, and any extras we can manage to get in. Everyone’s learning to be a bit more considerate and communicative. On the weekends, I pack up and head over to my parents’ house in Germantown, a Memphis suburb, giving Katherine and Stephen time alone, and giving me a night off. Living in the same town but not the same house as my parents is proving to be an ideal arrangement. I’m even finding that sleep deprivation lends a certain quality to my writing. Not to mention the grace and wonder business that comes with new life. “Boys, meet your fairy godmother,” Stephen said when I stood over their crib for the first time.

Katherine, Stephen, Nishta, John, Henry, and Ellie the dog. We could be a reality show, albeit a relatively boring one. I look up from my computer and Stephen is twirling Katherine around the hardwood floor to this goofy, hardly romantic song.
 

Wednesday, November 23, 2005—River Road, Tucson, Ariz.

“What is this crazy music?” my mom asks from the backseat. The Barenaked Ladies have just asked “Haven’t you always wanted a mon-key?” of the person whose love they are trying to buy.

“They’re called the Barenaked Ladies,” I say, continuing the Today’s Music: 101 curriculum of tonight’s car ride. Earlier, a Coldplay song came on the radio and I informed my parents that the lead singer of the band was also Gwyneth Paltrow’s husband. While they weren’t terribly impressed with Chris Martin (“His voice isn’t really all that good,” my dad declared), they loved Norah Jones (“She’s half-Indian, you know,” from Mom, and “Will you copy her CD for me?” from Dad). As for our current selection, they seem to be amused.

“That’s really their name?” my dad asks. He chuckles a bit. “Well, why not. It’s a cute song; turn it up.”

Today is the day before Thanksgiving and my parents have come to visit me in Tucson, where I’m in my first year of graduate school. This is the first Thanksgiving I have ever spent outside of Memphis, where my family usually plays host to half-a-dozen others for the holiday. Such is the tight network in which I grew up; “uncles” and “aunties” who, like my parents, emigrated from India in the sixties and seventies. Their children, myself included, are first-generation, born in the seventies and early eighties. Our blood relatives have always been an ocean, an expensive plane ride, or a static-filled phone call away. So the extended family we made for ourselves in Memphis is the only one I’ve ever really known. And the long-standing holiday tradition in that community has been the Mehras’ house for Thanksgiving, the Karkeras’ house for Christmas.

Now our community has expanded outward, with the oldest of the first-generation marrying, and starting to have children. It isn’t as easy to get everyone to the table as it used to be. Frankly, I think my parents are glad to have this year off. With close to thirty people in attendance, hosting Thanksgiving was no minor production. My father was the gregarious one, making drinks and conversation. My mother was the chef, and aside from the turkey, which she always outsourced to another auntie, she made everything for that meal from scratch. I was her souz chef for years, and I still don’t know how she did it all. Three-bean salad, asparagus with sun dried tomatoes, potato casserole, baked yams, cornbread dressing, cranberry fluff, plus seven-layer dip, homemade Chex mix, and stuffed mushrooms for appetizers. Usually I was so catatonic after the feast that I was no help at all with picking up trash and washing dishes. Dad would stay up and do his best to assist Mom until she kicked him out of the kitchen—“If I let him clean, I’ll just have to clean up after him.” But even then, he would never go to bed until she did. In all of my memories, I am trudging up the stairs and Dad is settling into his reclining chair in the den to watch TV and serve as Mom’s “moral support.”

This year, instead, my parents have come to Tucson to relax and be Thanksgiving tourists. I have chauffeured them around, cooked dinner, introduced them to my graduate school friends. The three of us drink gin-and-tonics and plan our May trip to India. I practice my Hindi, which Mom and Dad say I speak with a Southern accent. We watch The Daily Show; Mom and I both have a crush on Jon Stewart. Something about the new context keeps me from totally reverting into adolescent behavior, and I find myself able to catch glimpses of my parents as individuals, Veena and Subhash. For their part, they are extremely respectful of my privacy and space. I think they are both amazed to see that I am capable of doing so much on my own.

My twenty-third birthday and Thanksgiving coincide. My parents and I have decided to make the actual day, November 24th, a no-fuss affair, and instead go out the night before to celebrate. I made reservations at Café Poca Cosa, a swanky little place downtown where the menu changes daily and the food is delicious. Mexican food is generally a sure bet with my family, and tonight was no exception. We toasted “L’chaim” with our bright, citrusy margaritas and Mom and Dad waxed nostalgic about the day I was born—“You had so much hair!” “You looked just like your father!”

Now we are driving home, up the winding roads with the shadowy Santa Rita mountains in the distance. The Barenaked Ladies cap off their song with the coda, “If I had a million dollars, I’d be rich!” to which my father adds, “Not after taxes, you wouldn’t.”
 

Wednesday, June 28, 2006—718 Charles Place, Memphis, Tenn.

John and I are in the backyard. It is 12:30 a.m., and we are both supposed to be asleep. But, for the time being this little creature’s sleep patterns dictate mine, and he is very much awake. Not just awake, but fussy since his 10:00 p.m. feeding, with none of the indoor remedies (rocking chair, baby swing, pacing through the house, ocean sounds) meeting with any success. The great outdoors are pretty much my last resort. Maybe it is the change in air temperature, the rusty, old-fashioned metal glider, or the sound of cicadas and grasshoppers, but the backyard tactic has worked before, so I try it again.

The summer Memphis air is damp, thick, and still. As I settle into the glider, I feel the night air readjust to admit my shape, curving around my neck and shoulders like a cloak. John’s head rests in the crook of my left arm, his pale face peeking out at the edge of the blue blanket in which I’ve swaddled him. A baby burrito. I push the balls of my bare feet against the brick courtyard and we begin to glide, backwards and forwards, a springy screech accompanying our movements. John’s rosebud mouth has ceased its squalling, and his eyes flutter between sleep and wakefulness. Excellent.

Five minutes and a short nap of my own later, John has certifiably fallen to sleep. I stand up, just as a test, and he remains quiet, his breathing even. Silently triumphant, I make my way to the back door and turn the knob. Nothing. It must be stuck, I think to myself calmly, so I turn it the other way, with a bit more force this time. Still nothing.

The back door is never locked. It stays open even during the day, which is why I did not think to bring keys outside with me. I must have accidentally flicked the silver button on the door handle on my way out. Oh dear. Time to access my options: I can wait until Stephen wakes up for the 2:00 a.m. feeding and catches sight of me from the kitchen window, or I can try to wake Stephen and Katherine now.

The fact that John is still asleep and that I remembered to put on mosquito repellant before coming outside are both points in favor of waiting. On the other hand, it’s late, and I am very tired. I decide it’s too martyr-ly to wait out here for over an hour. I start knocking on the back door. No response. I knock again, pounding with my whole fist instead of my knuckles, hoping that the baby I hold will not be awakened by this sound, but that his parents will. Knocking now as hard as I possibly can, I am afraid the neighbors are going to call the cops. My hand hurts, and I can’t believe Ellie hasn’t come running towards the racket. “Some guard dog you turned out to be,” I will tell her once I’m back inside.

Knocking on the front door is not an option either, since I can’t walk around the house—one side lies flush against a wooden fence, and the other is blocked by a ten-foot metal gate which can only be opened by remote. I check the car doors to see if any are open—Stephen’s is, but the clicker is missing, of course. And it’s much too hot in the car to stay there. That leaves me with the option of trying to wake Katherine and Stephen by knocking on their bedroom window. It is opposite the kitchen door, up along the side of the house which faces the wooden fence. Figuring that it’s worth a shot, I pad through the damp grass, still holding John with my left arm, which I can’t feel anymore. This part of the backyard is quite dark, but there is enough light for me to see that there is a ginkgo tree with low branches up ahead, very much in my way. If I tried to forge through that mess I would wind up waking up John or hurting myself, or both. So I turn around and walk back to the kitchen door. I attempt one more batch of knocking just for something to do. By now, it must be at least close to 1:00 a.m. I’ve got an hour longer out here, with no signs of rescue, so I decide to head for the hammock.

Managing somehow to get myself into the thing, I lie back and feel the rope give under my weight. Repositioning John, I lay him sideways, parallel to me, his fat cheek up against my shoulder. My left arm has been released and now begins to tingle. John’s eyes are open now, but he hasn’t made a sound. I know he is too young and it is too dark for him to be staring up at me, but he seems to be looking in my general direction. “You’re pretty cute,” I tell him. It is almost eerie, the way there is a being in there, behind those eyes. The weight of his body feels good on top of me, as if he were the one keeping me safe, instead of the other way around.

Lying in this position makes me think about my dad. He used to hold me this way when I was a baby, he once told me, after he came home from work and my mother passed me off to him—“Take your child for a little while.” While she finished making dinner in the kitchen, he would carry me into the den and onto the tan-checkered couch. He watched the news, and I lay on his chest. By the time Mom pushed through the double-doors to announce that it was time to eat, we would both be asleep, two sets of snores filling the room.

Neither John nor I are asleep just yet. All of that activity trying to summon for help has awakened my brain, if not my body. So, because it feels like the right thing to do when you are out in a hammock in the backyard with a six-week-old in the middle of the night, I start singing. No one else can hear me (that fact has been established) and John doesn’t seem to mind. Most of the lyrics I have filed away in my brain are from songs that don’t quite fit the occasion, but I manage to pull out a few: “Blackbird,” “Sweet Baby James,” favorite hymns. While I haven’t set off any howling, John isn’t looking so impressed, either. Nor is he asleep. Then I remember the new song I downloaded earlier that day, a track from the Dixie Chicks, recommended to me as perfect for new parents. I’m planning to put it on a mix CD for Katherine and Stephen. Having heard it only once, I can’t recall all of the lyrics, so I sing the chorus over and over to little John. “How long do you want to be loved? / Is forever enough, is forever enough? / How long do you want to be loved? /‘Cause I’m never, ever giving you up.” The next thing I know, Stephen is shaking me awake for the 2:00 a.m. feeding, and his son is sound asleep on my chest.
 

Saturday, July 1, 2006—2945 Oakleigh Lane, Germantown, Tenn.

Mom and I are cooking up a storm and listening to The Temptations with the kitchen doors closed, because Dad is busy taking his afternoon nap. On the stove is a large pot of homemade vegetable soup (Mom’s), and several batches of granola are browning in the oven (mine). Though she is an immensely talented cook herself, my mom tends to make fun of my enthusiastic baking efforts. “You’re going to make your own granola?” she asked, incredulous, when I arrived this morning from Katherine and Stephen’s and began unloading my grocery bag of ingredients. “Why don’t we clear a patch in the backyard so you can grow your own oats, while you’re at it?”

My father, on the other hand, never jokes about baked goods. He is a total believer in all things homemade and high-maintenance. Ever since I began apprenticing Mom during Christmas-cookie season, he has been sneaking into the kitchen to sample things when they are nice and hot, just out of the oven. As my skills developed, I learned how to make things that I knew he would love: bread, apple tart, almond-orange cake. “You have to try Nishta’s dessert,” he bragged to Christmas guests last year, referring to my triple-layer chocolate cheesecake. “She made it all from scratch.” But today’s granola experiment is for Mom and Stephen, since they both eat the store-bought variety every morning. Still, I’m surprised that Dad’s sixth sense hasn’t kicked in yet, notifying him that something warm, crunchy, and sweet is happening downstairs.

As if on cue, Mom and I hear footsteps above us. My parents’ bathroom is situated directly above the kitchen, so we can hear the sound of faucets opened full-blast. Mom nods toward the ceiling and smiles, “Time for His Highness’ bath.” While she teases him incessantly (“Why bother taking a bath at five o’clock in the afternoon? You’ve been dirty all day and now the day is almost over!”), she has been the one who has indulged and sustained his little luxuries for the past 37 years. Her nickname for him is “Raje,” which means “prince” or “king,” but which she says so affectionately that, when I was young, I thought it meant “honey” or “sweetheart.”

Time for my granola to come out of the oven. Mom places a full kettle on the stovetop in anticipation of Dad’s entrance, which he makes shortly after the granola gets settled on its cooling racks. Family tea-time will soon commence. In the meantime, Dad is in a goofy mood, energized from his nap and glad, I realize, to have me at home for the weekend. Tomorrow is Mom’s 59th birthday, so we will go to Waffle House in the morning, then to the movie theatre in the afternoon, and then to Thai food for dinner before I drive back to Katherine and Stephen’s. We’re an eating family, it’s true.

Dad walks over to examine my work. “She’s made her own granola,” Mom explains, no longer making fun of me now that she’s tasted it herself. He pops a handful in his mouth, chews, and raises his eyebrows appreciatively. “Hey, Nito, this is pretty good!”

“Thanks, Papa.” I am pleased with myself. Dad’s a pretty discerning critic, and he won’t pretend to like something, even if I’m the one who made it. He moves over to the stove, where the kettle is boiling, and starts to make tea. Then I hear the music switch tracks and my mom says “Oooh, turn it up!”

“Papa Was A Rolling Stone,” track seventeen, our favorite Temptations’ song. There is a long intro, a simple riff from the bass guitar that repeats while the drum keeps time. Momma and I start shaking our hips and dancing around the kitchen, a familiar rhythm from many weekends spent cooking together. Dad is wiggling his butt, too, although he cannot dance to save his life. He makes this funny face while he moves, pursing his lips theatrically, and I giggle at him. From the CD player, the horns start in, forcing little crescendos over the backbeat for several measures. Once they stop, a few bars’ worth of waiting, anticipation—I always want to sing along to the start of this song, but inevitably mess up the timing. Then, just when you least expect it, nice and low, that full, deep vocal kicks in:

It was the third of September
That day I’ll always remember, yes I will
‘Cause that was the day
that my daddy died.

Two days later, my father visits his general practitioner, complaining of severe shortness of breath. His doctor sends him to the emergency room, where I visit as soon as my mother calls me, the morning of the Fourth of July. My parents were scheduled to come over to Katherine and Stephen’s for dinner tonight; Dad hasn’t met John and Henry yet. “I’m sorry about tonight,” he says.

“Don’t be silly,” I say. I read him a restaurant review from the TRAVEL section of Sunday’s The New York Times.
 

Sunday, July 9, 2006—Germantown Methodist Hospital—CVICU, Room 11

My father is recovering in the cardiovascular intensive care unit. He still has not been officially diagnosed. The tissue in his lungs is extremely fibrotic, which explains his difficulty breathing, but there is as yet no explanation for why his lungs toughened in the first place. Surgery was yesterday, performed with two goals in mind: first, to clear away some of the hardest tissue in order to bring Dad a bit of relief, and second, to obtain a biopsy of lung tissue in order to better figure out what the hell is going on. For now, there is only waiting.

Not withstanding the chest tube, oxygen mask, catheter, heart monitor, PCA (patient-controlled analgesic, also known as a pain pump) and various other IVs to which he is hooked up, my father is in remarkably good spirits. His breathing has eased a bit, he says. He’s feeling better.

I’ve arrived to feed Dad lunch and watch the World Cup Final with him this afternoon. Feeding my father is a slow process. It takes just about as long for him to eat half a meal of soft solids as it does for Henry to take a four-ounce bottle. Henry will lift his tongue up and pretend to suck, only to spit out the formula moments later. Dad has to move his mask away to take each bite, pausing to rest for minutes in between. I know it isn’t fair to be frustrated either with a newborn or with a 64-year-old in the ICU, but they are both equally capable of wearing down my patience. All told, it’s a minimum commitment of an hour to get food into either one.

It’s much too exhausting for Dad to both talk and eat, so I chatter away to him while he chews and swallows, telling him all about last night’s episode of Iron Chef America, which Mom and I watched in his honor. This is his favorite Food Network program, a live competition show in which top chefs are pitted against one of the four “iron chefs.” Each is given an hour to create at least four courses centered around a secret ingredient (fennel was last night’s). Poor Dad, the gourmand, has been reduced to hospital mush, eggs, and grits with fake butter spread. I decide it’s probably cruel to talk of lavish meals so I switch and start telling him all about the twins and the way their new sleeping schedule (four hours at a stretch!) has radically increased the quality of life of the adults in the household. Dad is itching to be a grandfather, but I’m hoping John and Henry can appease him for a while. Pulling out new pictures to show off, I tack one up to the corkboard reserved for “family messages.” Then I walk back to his bed and lean over with a sheepish grin, “By the way, I’m sorry about all that sleep you lost because of me.” He smiles.

“I imagine you know all about that now, huh?” Boy, do I ever. Suzanne, Dad’s nurse, comes into the room to complete his hourly chart and he greets her by name, as he does with everyone, whether they’re taking his blood or taking out the trash. It doesn’t hurt, of course, that Suzanne is young and blonde, with a twangy Texas accent. She smiles at him, “You’ve got a good daughter, Mr. Mehra,” then comes over and places a hand on my shoulder. “Do you need anything, sweetheart?” she asks. I shake my head no, but grill her about Dad’s medications, how long he’ll need to be on oxygen, and when we can expect the biopsy results back. Guessing how to spell most of the lingo (who comes up with these catchy prescription drug names?), I note everything down in my journal: “Levophed for BP, corticosteroids for inflammation, insulin for blood sugar, Solumedrol for kidneys. O2 is common 24-48 hours post-op. Biopsy results in Tuesday evening at the earliest.”

Suzanne leaves and Dad indicates that he has had enough to eat, or at least that he is too tired to eat anymore. “It’s okay.” His voice is scratchy; I know his throat hurts from the breathing tube that was in for his surgery. At first I think he’s referring to the meal, but then he says, “That’s what parents do, lose sleep and worry. You were worth it.”

An hour before the World Cup match begins, Dad takes a much-needed nap. I step out into the waiting room, where non-hospital food and electronic equipment are allowed. Meals have been delivered steadily to my parents’ house for the last week, and I heat up one of the offerings in the microwave while listening to music on my iPod. While I’m happy to share sympathetic, haggard looks with the other folks sitting in these green, faux-leather chairs, I do not have the energy to talk to anyone right now. The ICU waiting room is worse than most others in the hospital, mostly because nobody there is anticipating the birth of a child, or the release of a same-day surgery patient. We are in Purgatory; utterly cheerless, just hoping that nothing else will go wrong.

I’ve loaded my iPod with a collection of classic children’s songs that were remade by popular artists in the nineties; one of many attempts to convince hipsters that they could maintain their dignity while becoming parents. John and Henry are my excuse for revisiting this music, all of which I remember from watching Sesame Street on PBS. When I was in pre-kindergarten, my mom and I would arrive home right in time to catch the show at 3:00 p.m. It was the only television I was allowed to watch for years, and I remember, very distinctly, sitting in a tall chair with a big spoonful of peanut butter, my favorite snack. I held the spoon vertically and licked it like a lollypop while Big Bird, Elmo, Kermit, and Oscar the Grouch (Mom’s favorite) did their thing.

My dad isn’t in many of these early memories. He was working as a corporate vice-president for a national fast-food chain, and traveled at least three days out of the week. I remember his big desk in the office that looked down onto the Mississippi River. There is a picture of me there with him, sitting on his lap in a big, brown leather chair, my white stocking-clad legs against his gray wool suit pants. I have both of my arms around his neck, which is craned downward in my direction. Whatever I am whispering in his ear is making him smile.

One day, according to family mythology, I asked my mom, “Why isn’t Daddy ever at home?” Not long after, he quit his job and started working for a local Mexican-food restaurant chain. I was five years old, and that’s when my memories of him begin. Sarah McLachlan sings into my ears, “Someday we’ll find it / the Rainbow Connection / the lovers, the dreamers, and me,” and I really don’t want to, but it makes me cry.
 

July 12, 2006—718 Charles Place, Memphis, Tenn.

Apparently my hair is my parents’ playground. Months ago, my dad requested that I grow it long for our India trip, and now my mom has mentioned that she would like to see it in its natural color again. I’ve been dying my hair various shades of auburn and dark brown for the last five years, since I always thought those colors were much more interesting than my natural, boring black. But my mom’s comment sparked a kind of a shift. When I was in India earlier in the summer, nearly all the woman I saw shared my natural color, but their hair looked thick, glossy, and vibrant. Maybe having black hair isn’t so boring after all. At the very least, it’s more authentic than Herbal Essences’ #60, deep bronzed brown. And as silly as it sounds, I wouldn’t mind looking more Indian right now. Spending three weeks with my blood family, my parents’ siblings, cousins, nieces, nephews, and parents has changed me, and I would like somehow to make that show.

So I’ve decided to dye it. During one of my rare chunks of free time between the hospital and babyland, I managed to buy a lovely, silver-colored box of hair dye, aptly named “black leather.” The almond-skinned woman on the cover could be me, brown eyed, thoroughly ethnic. Yes, oh yes. I am going to have long, dark, flowing locks like my dad has always wanted.

He has been in the hospital for nine days, five of them in the CVICU. We still have not been given a proper diagnosis, although we have settled into something of a routine. I have stayed at Katherine and Stephen’s, my mom is still going to work every day. In the mornings, from 7:30 to 9:30, Mom feeds Dad breakfast and meets the day nurse. I help Katherine with the 10:00 a.m. feeding, then drive out to the hospital, which takes me 25 minutes, if there’s no traffic on the expressway. From 11:30 a.m. until about 4:00 p.m., I stay with Dad, feed him lunch and read to him, and write while he naps. Mom leaves work around 5:00, goes home to water the lawn, and is back at the hospital for Dad’s dinner, staying until 9:00 p.m. I don’t know how we would do any of this without cell phones, cars, and family friends who help fill in the gaps.

My father is always insisting that we don’t need to spend so much time with him. “I don’t want you to be stuck here all day,” he said to me. “Go be with the babies, go be with your friends.” He fusses at me over everything but himself. “Make sure you check the mail and bring me anything that looks important.” “Did you pay the credit card bill online like I asked?” “Are you taking care of your mother? Is she eating?” And, my personal favorite, “Have you been working out?”

Last night, I came home to Katherine and Stephen’s and we discussed the evening’s schedule at the dinner table. They offered me the “easy shift”—sleep from 8:00 p.m. to 6:00 a.m., wake up to do the six o’clock feeding. I guess the wear must have been showing in my face. With a stretch of time ahead of me and no obligations, I decided to dye my hair while I had the chance. Maybe I should have slept instead, but it felt good to be doing something normal, something unnecessary. I finally went to sleep with a towel under my head, hair still slightly damp from the process. My cell phone beeped me awake at 5:45 this morning, so I made my way downstairs, still in pajamas, to find Katherine mixing bottles of formula over the kitchen sink. The dimmed recessed lighting must have forced her attention to my head. “It’s dark,” she noted, by way of greeting. We have long since passed the need for niceties in our friendship.

“I know,” I marveled. “I’m not sure what I think about it yet.”

“I like it,” she insisted, handing me a bottle. “You look good.” The boys had a remarkably uneventful feeding and then, miraculously, fell back to sleep. Katherine offered to keep a listen, if I wanted to stock up on an extra hour of sleep. I did. Now I am standing in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at my new self and trying to decide whether or not it’s worth it to put on my workout clothes and take Ellie, the dog, for a run. I hear Katherine’s voice at the top of the stairs. “Nish?” She has one hand over the mouthpiece of the cordless kitchen phone. “It’s your mom.”

My mother called me the night before, when she got home from the hospital, to let me know that there were no major changes and my dad was doing okay. So I know she’s not calling now to chat.

“Hey, Momma.”

“Did I wake you up?”

“No, I was already awake. What’s going on?”

“You’re not holding a baby, are you?”

“No. Why?” I am trying to sound completely nonchalant.

“Your father had Suzanne call me at home last night. I almost didn’t answer the phone, it was so late. He was so upset, he was having trouble breathing, and he didn’t think they were giving him enough oxygen. His levels kept dropping… they decided to put him on a respirator.”

“Oh, Momma.”

“I wanted to tell you so that you wouldn’t be surprised when you saw him. There’s a big tube down his throat, and more wires. He’s totally sedated.”

“Okay.” I exhale a big breath. “I’m glad you called me. What are the doctors saying now?”

“Well, Dr. Doty said they need to get his oxygen levels up, which could take a few days. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

“Okay. Well, I’m going to go out there as soon as the ten o’clock’s done.”

“Okay. Drive safely. I love you.”

“I love you too, Momma.”

“Do you know what he said to me yesterday when I saw him after work?”

“What?”

“‘There you are, Veena, the love of my life!’”

I hang up the phone, and change into shorts, a t-shirt, and tennis shoes. Ellie hears me coming and meets me halfway up the stairs. Seeing how I’m dressed, she knows what’s about to happen and so she begins to wiggle and thwack her tail with abandon. “I’ll be back before the ten o’clock,” I tell Katherine, not ready to share what I’ve just learned. Grabbing the leash and my iPod, I try to decide what song I want to sprint to, but there is so much swirling around in my head. What was the last thing I said to my father? Surely, it was “I love you.”

Ellie is jumping up and down at the front door. “I know, sweetheart,” I apologize. “I’m coming.” Finding my selection, I hit play and we take off. I listen to the same song for three miles, Ellie and I running as hard as we can. “Twenty-twenty-twenty-four hours to go, I wanna be sedated....”
 

July 25, 2006—Germantown, Tenn.—2945 Oakleigh Lane

I am sitting in the living room with my laptop, avoiding writing the eulogy I will deliver tomorrow at my father’s funeral. This room is probably the nicest, or at least the fanciest room in the house—our house, my parents’ house, the house that I grew up in?—I don’t know what to call it anymore. It is a room designed for piano concerts and not much else. But like so many things, it has been transformed over the past three days. Now a project workstation, the mahogany furniture and expensive rugs are covered with photographs, scissors, Kleenex, candy, and gluesticks. I have set up camp here because my father loved this room. He spent more time in here than anyone else.

On weekend mornings, he would sit in the pale blue armchair and read the paper for hours. Whenever I practiced piano, he peeked in through the sliding doors and asked to sit and listen. If members of the Mehra family dressed up for a special occasion, this is where Dad, self-appointed photographer, would insist that their picture be taken. And, for some reason, he was also of the opinion that the living room was the place for “serious” conversations. As a kid, I knew I had it coming if my father ushered me into the living room “to talk.” That meant Dad stuff: checking in, giving advice, scolding, congratulating, etc. All important subject matter was addressed in the living room.

This past New Year’s Day, my family had a handful of friends over for dinner, Katherine and Stephen included. Katherine was nearly four months pregnant then, though her slim frame and pink sweater hid her growing belly well. It was the third time Katherine had been pregnant in two years. She and Stephen were waiting to see if the twin fetuses she was carrying would exhibit the same birth defect that her last two pregnancies had yielded. They had to wait until the fifth month, when doctors were able to chart lung and limb development week-by-week. An “all clear,” if it came, would be sounded towards the end of the sixth month. Katherine and Stephen had driven to Little Rock in the fifth month of the last two pregnancies, to abort fetuses whose lungs were so small that they would never be able to breathe outside of the womb. That night I watched Katherine and Stephen’s faces as they watched the neighbor kids romp and crawl around the house. Though my parents also knew about Katherine and Stephen’s history, their current pregnancy was a secret to everyone but me. I remember thinking that it might have been better not to have invited them at all.

But there they were, motivated at least as much by their love for my mother’s cooking as by anything else. The evening’s feast was laid out according to family tradition. Main course was my mom’s famous shrimp Creole served with wild rice, sautéed spinach, and three-bean salad, containing the requisite black-eyed peas. Below the Mason-Dixon line, it is said that eating black-eyed peas on New Year’s Day (at least twelve peas, one for each month) will bring you good luck for the coming year. Dessert, my arena, was apple tart à la mode. Mom ladled out cups of authentic Indian chai, tea boiled in milk with strong spices, to serve with it.

After food, drink, and kids had been exhausted, our guests starting making their way toward the door. Grabbing coats from the hall closet, I saw my father usher Katherine and Stephen into the living room. “Oh Lord,” I thought to myself, mortified. Rushing into the kitchen to find my mother, I pointed towards the now-closed living room doors and hissed “What is he doing?”

“Honey,” she shrugged her shoulders. “Just let him be.” She sent me into dining room to collect dishes. Five or ten minutes passed, and I mentally prepared my apologies to Katherine and Stephen for whatever non-helpful things I was sure my dad was saying. He had gotten to be quite the monologue deliverer in his older age. Finally, the living room doors slid open. Katherine’s eyes were rimmed with tears. So were my father’s. I walked Katherine and Stephen to the door. “I’m sorry,” I told them. “I didn’t know he was going to do that.”

They both shook their heads. “No, it was very sweet,” Katherine said. “Really.”

Pause.

“What did he say?” I asked, hesitating a bit.

“He just told us his story,” Stephen said. “How difficult it was for him and your mother, but how he always believed that it was important to have hope. It was very kind.”

“He loves you so much, Nishta,” Katherine added, looking me square in the eye.

“I know,” I smiled. “He does.” I unlocked the front door and sent Stephen and Katherine home with hugs. Leaning against the door jamb, I watched them walk down the gravel path to their car. After a few steps, Katherine turned and called out to me.

“Will you tell him for us?” She placed her right hand on her stomach. “I didn’t know how to do it just then, but we want him to know.”

“Okay,” I promised. “He will be so glad.”

My parents had conception trouble as well, albeit a different kind. In the fifth month of her first two pregnancies, my mother miscarried. After that, she and my father tried for a year to conceive again, but with no luck. So they enlisted the help of fertility specialists at Emory University, where my mother would fly once a week from Memphis to receive hormone injections. Another year and some $20,000 passed. No baby. By January of 1982, my parents had all but given up and my mother stopped her weekly flights to Atlanta. In February, my mother became pregnant for the first time in two years. On November 24, 1982, I was born.
 

August 31, 2006—University of Arizona Recreation Center, Tucson, Ariz.

The night has come into the sky now. I’ve just spent 30 minutes on the elliptical machine, running to nowhere alongside 19-year-old girls with no discernible excess fat on their bodies. Back in the warm evening air, I switch the playlist on my iPod to better suit the atmosphere—from “Workout Music” to “Twin Summer—John’s Mix.” This is the mellower of the two compilations I burned for Katherine and Stephen before leaving Memphis, so I enjoy the company of U2, Harry Connick, Jr., Elvis Presley, and Tori Amos while I walk. I am nearly to my car when the acoustic strings of The Dixie Chicks’ “Lullaby” start in, with a soothing, half-whispered vocal on top. By the time the chorus comes, I am leaning against the hood of my car, crying the words, singing out like a fool to my father.