Aerogrammes (18 page)

“That is not what he meant,” my dad said. “Don’t twist people’s words.” This was something my mother used to accuse us of, contorting her English words as though they were animal balloons.

“Uncle means that the glass is half full,” Ruby Auntie offered.

“Some glasses are cracked,” Amit said. “Some glasses are fucked.”

Dr. Pillai scratched his furry ear and smiled desperately at me. My dad put a hand to the back of Amit’s head, but Amit flinched away.

I’d only been home a month, but I missed the sultry air of a Boston summer, the ceiling fan creaking in its fixture, Caryn’s limbs tangled in mine despite the heat and the threat that the fan could fall at any minute. At night, she would stand up in bed and reach for the fan’s chain, her torso one moonlit length pulled taut.

But how to reconcile that Caryn with the Caryn who had gored my work the week before? I didn’t have the energy to sort through her comments, most of which I’d recorded in my series of cryptic sketches. Whenever I sat down to write, I saw only detours and dead ends. I went for a jog around the neighborhood to clear my head, but ten minutes in, I popped a cramp and wound up clutching my stomach in a posture of
failure made worse when a Lincoln slowed down to make sure I was okay.

The next morning, I was unloading the dishwasher when the director of the Prague program called me. “Neel, hello, this is Stefan Baziak.” Mr. Baziak’s voice was scratchy and womanish, eccentric and intimidating. “I hope this is not a bad time?”

I glanced into the living room. My dad was helping Amit scoot across the board and into the armchair. “No, not bad at all.”

“I hate to bother you, but I am calling about the visa and the medical clearance. Were you able to file? Are you coming to Praha?”

Praha
—the word sent through me a small ripple of delight. “I’m not sure yet, to be honest. Things are still sort of hectic here.”

“Yes, yes, I understand. Of course, we would love for you to come. We very much enjoyed the first portion of your novel, particularly the braiding of each boy’s point of view …”

As Mr. Baziak continued, my dad returned and opened the fridge. He removed a small crate of strawberries. He ran the faucet and rinsed them in the sink, staring at the tube of gushing water with a deadened expression.

“Dad—” Amit called.

“Yep!” Snapped awake, my dad shut the faucet and hurried over with the strawberries, dripping water as he went.

“Neel?” Mr. Baziak paused. “You’re still there?”

“Yes! Thank you, thanks.”

“Thank you for what?”

“For everything. For the opportunity. Excuse me—” I faked a cough. “I should have things sorted out in the next few days or so …”

“Because we need to know fairly soon if we must pull someone from the wait list. You can always apply again next year.”

“No,” I said quickly. “I mean, I’m coming. I’ll look up the visa requirements tonight.”

After hanging up the phone, I found my dad and Amit arguing in the living room. “Strawberries are good for you,” my dad insisted. “Since when did you start hating strawberries?”

“Since forever,” Amit snapped. “Don’t we have any kettle chips? Jalapeño flavor?”

My dad turned to me. “Was that Ivy who called?”

“Uh, yeah. I told her Amit was sleeping.”

“Why?” my dad said. “Call her back, invite her over!”

“Don’t.” Amit pointed the remote at the TV, increasing the volume on
Planes, Trains & Automobiles
. Steve Martin was throwing a fit in the airport parking lot, clutching at the air and cursing hysterically, hurling his suitcase at the ground. My dad looked sorry for Steve, then waved a hand at the TV and left the room.

I was leaping up the first few stairs when Amit paused the movie and called after me. “Where’re you going?”

I stopped, turned. “Upstairs.”

“Stay here.”

“Why?”

“I don’t laugh when you’re not here.” Amit looked at the TV. A sudden awkwardness sprang up between us. “Nothing’s funny when you watch alone. It’s a fact.” He casually scratched his crotch with the remote.

“That’s nice, Amit. Get your crotch fungus all over the channel changer.”

“Are you coming down or what?”

I glanced at the clock over the TV. The ticking sounded loud and strange, almost impatient. I came down the stairs, and Amit pressed Play.

•

On Sunday afternoon, Amit and I went outside. His therapist had suggested that he increase his arm and abdominal strength by wheeling himself for a few miles. I jogged beside him to his chosen destination, the refurbished playground by our old middle school. The wind churned around us, jostling the swings, the clouds a dingy gray.

Once he caught his breath, Amit removed a blue glass pipe from one pocket and one of Ivy’s Darjeeling tea bags from the other. He undid the sachet on his knee and pinched apart a fuzzy chunk of weed.

“Clever,” I said.

He paused, as if he were about to say something sarcastic, then changed his mind. “Yeah, she is.”

“Not to ruin the mood, but I thought you’re trying to build stamina—”

“Neel, can you not, for once?”

Some time later, I was sitting on the grass, my lungs pleasantly seared. All of a sudden, life seemed manageable again. I flipped my eyelid inside out, a weird pastime I’d forgotten. “Sick,” Amit said, so I flipped the other.

He sucked down the last drops of Gatorade I’d brought along and tossed me the empty bottle. His eyes went soft and tranquil.

“Did you read that
Life After SCI
pamphlet?” Amit said. “The hospital gave it to me.”

“No.”

“There was a part called Sex on Wheels.”

A little voice in my head whispered:
Sex on wheels!
I gnawed on the rim of the bottle.

“And there was a picture of this vibrator …” Amit sounded half creeped out, half curious. “A vibrator for dudes.”

We fell into a harrowing silence.

Amit leaned his head back, squinted at the clouds. “Dad wants me to get back with Ivy.”

“You are with Ivy.”

“We broke up a few months ago.”

I tried to focus my gaze on Amit. “Broke up why?”

“She wants to spend the summer in San Francisco. Grow out her armpit hair. Go lesbo for a while.”

“She said that?”

“No.” He turned the lighter over, studying it. “Dad thinks if I pass her up, no one else’ll want me.”

I heard the scratch of the flint wheel. Amit watched the flame until a breeze snuffed it out.

“Seems like Ivy wants something,” I said. “She calls all the damn time.”

“She just feels sorry for me. She’d get bored, eventually.”

“How do you know?”

He clasped his hands over his stomach. “Well, for one thing, she’s not a big fan of the rodeo. Sexually speaking. And that’s the only ride I got left.”

I stared at the grass until Amit said, “Stop picturing it, perv.” I lay on my back. The grass felt weird and ticklish to my ears.

When I caught sight of a Saab pulling into the parking lot, I thought I was hallucinating. I heard Amit go, “Shit.” Magically, Ivy emerged from the car and walked across the grass toward us, her hair pulled back from her eyes, looking exactly how she used to look, and I sat up, a familiar ache in my belly.

I realized it was the first time Ivy had seen Amit in the wheelchair. She fixed her gaze on his face, as if determined not to look elsewhere. “So you got my gift,” she said.

“Yeah,” Amit said. “Thanks.”

“Hey, Ivy.”

“Hi, Neel.” She barely glanced at me. “So what’s with you blowing me off all the time, Amit?” He picked something off the tip of his tongue. “I mean, shit, I’m not your groupie.”

“You’re not my girlfriend either.”

Ivy pressed her lips together. She looked like she wanted to punch him.

He gave her a lazy smile. “Peace pipe?”

I cupped my hand around the bowl while Ivy lit up. A sense of perfect bliss billowed through me as I stood there, close to her, watching the embers pulse and fade. Her hair gave off a minty sweetness. She stepped back and coughed, spat expertly.

Amit asked her how she’d known we were at the park. Ivy said that she’d called the house, and our dad had told her. “He’s been really nice to me,” she said, “which is weird.” Amit rolled his eyes at me, as if to say,
See?

After a while, we went wandering into school through the gym doors, which were unlocked. The hallways were dim and smelled of kid sweat and sneakers. I stopped by a wall hung with group portraits from each year’s play production. “Nice,” Amit said, pointing at one of the frames. That was the year I played the title role in
Aladdin
, even though I did more yelling than singing. I stood with a huge white turban on my head, arms akimbo, in a credible portrayal of confidence. It was hard to remember being that compact. But I did remember the note our director, Miss Mott, had written me:
You’re going places, kiddo
.

Someone called down the hall, “School’s closed. How’d you all get in here?” We mumbled apologies and hurried back the way we came.

As I pushed Amit across the parking lot, Ivy asked me what was going on with the Prague thing.

I looked straight ahead, trying to think of another topic, but my thoughts moved like syrup. We came to a stop by Ivy’s car.

“What Prague thing?” Amit said.

Ivy looked at him, then me. “You didn’t tell him?”

“It’s just six months …”

“
What’s
six months?” Amit said.

“This artists’ colony,” I said. “To hang out in Prague and write. It’s pretty prestigious.”
Pretty prestigious
came out a little slurry.

Amit paused, digesting the news. “You tell Dad?”

“Not yet. I will.”

“Colony,” Amit said, as if he’d just learned a strange word. “I thought those were for nudists. And lepers.”

“I was gonna tell you—”

“Whatever, hey. It’s fine.” Amit shrugged. “It’s good news.”

Ivy said she had to go. She paused, then kissed the top of Amit’s head, a gesture that he didn’t seem to enjoy, and waved at me before getting in her car. On our way home, Amit chose to wheel himself. He said he wasn’t tired, but toward the end, I could hear him faintly wheezing.

During the last week in July, the temperature languished at an unbearable 102 degrees. The AC was busted, blasting the rooms where no one went, like my dad’s study, and ignoring the living room entirely. My dad positioned a standing fan at Amit’s feet; it spent the whole day looking him up and down. Sitting outside the fan’s sweep, I crunched on cups of ice and tried to stay as still as possible.

Since that day in the park, I’d been careful around Amit. I kept him fed, made sure not to cross in front of the TV. He spoke to me only when he needed something and my dad wasn’t around to provide it. He never said my name.

One evening, my dad came into the living room, holding out his wrist so I could fasten the complicated clasp of his
fancy watch. He was attending a wedding reception, his first time leaving us alone at night. Before he left, he asked Amit if he needed to peepee.

“Really, Dad? Peepee?”

“No?” My dad hovered over him, twisting his watch around his wrist. He plucked a pillow feather out of Amit’s hair, and for once, Amit didn’t duck away.

At the door, my dad gave me three different numbers to call in case of emergency. I told him not to worry.

“So, what are you doing tonight?” my dad asked. “Going to work on your novel?”

“Oh, that. That’s on hold for now.”

My dad nodded. “It’s good to take a break sometimes.”

“Good for who?”

My dad gave a sheepish smile. “If you weren’t here, he would eat me alive.” He looked like a little kid, his eyes beginning to fill.

I thumped him on the back and suggested he get going before he missed cocktail hour.

After my dad left, I brought us each a Guinness from the fridge. I’d gone shopping earlier in the day and stocked up on Amit’s favorite, along with more pork rinds. “You don’t have to babysit me,” he said, taking the bottle.

I put my feet on the coffee table. “I’m fine. I like”—I squinted at the screen, sighed inwardly—“
What Not to Wear
.”

Amit shuffled through the next five channels, barely pausing long enough for an image to appear. He settled on a commercial narrated by a talking gecko.

“Why don’t we call Ivy?” I suggested.

“Do you have some kind of memory problem? I told you, we’re not together.”

“So, what’s the big deal? She could rent us a movie.”

Amit took a breath and let it out slowly. “The deal is, she’s gone.”

Apparently, Ivy had flown to San Francisco the day before. I didn’t ask how he’d known, or what happened, or why. Maybe she’d been waiting for him to let her off the hook. Maybe all it took was
You’re not my girlfriend either
. On TV, a woman was in a bathtub, drawing a loofah over her moisture-rich leg. Steam flowered up around her blissed-out smile. That day in the park seemed painfully far away.

“What about you?” Amit took a long swig, winced. “Bought your ticket yet?”

“I reserved a flight, yeah.”

He studied the Guinness label. “You should tell Dad. I don’t give a shit, but he will.”

Amit set the bottle on the floor and lay back against his pillows, closed his eyes.

I finished my beer, and his. The TV was still on, but mostly I was staring at Moses. I’d never paid much attention to the poster taped across the back of his tank, an ethereal landscape of gold-lit trees receding into the distance. Maybe, at one point, he’d leapt into it and had the hope knocked out of him. Maybe that was why he sat there now looking the dazed way he did.

Soon, Amit was snoring. Even in sleep, the little line between his brows remained. I wondered if it would still be there fifty years from now. I wondered if the chair cushions beneath me would mold to my shape. I imagined the two of us watching the same movies over and over, not because they were still funny but because they reminded us of who we used to be. I’d grow bitter, encumbered by the inventory of all I’d failed to do. Or worse, I wouldn’t care.

When the show was over, I trudged upstairs.