All Eyes on Her (20 page)

Y
OU KNOW HOW THE RULE IS
NEVER ANSWER A CELL PHONE
call from a private number?
Well, my new rule is
never answer the door if I haven’t invited anyone over that day.
I felt badly enough about myself a week later, without the added pressure of having to deal with the opinions of unwelcome visitors. I was decked out in bunny slippers, a housecoat and a week’s worth of leg stubble, eating stale cereal out of the box in front of
The Montel Williams Show
on a Friday afternoon, when there was a knock at the door.

Hey, you do what you want with your personal days, and I’ll do what I want with mine.

I hunched my shoulders, snapped one eye shut and tried my best to act as if I hadn’t heard it. I even froze in place, as if remaining
vewy vewy still
might make whoever it was go away.

“Hey!” Sheila shouted and kept banging on the door. “Monica? It’s your favorite cousin. Lemme in!”

Resentfully, I headed in the direction of her voice. She should have known that I was I no mood for company. I had my hands full just dealing with all of the self-recriminations. Stefanie had left Steel voluntarily the morning after our very public cat-and-mouse game, via an e-mail claiming she was taking a position at a rival firm. I had removed myself from Alex’s case, without so much as an explanation. In fact, I had been so horrified at having accidentally outed Stefanie’s relationship with a married partner that I would rather have eaten my own foot than set it in the office for the next few days. Thankfully, Jonathan had been willing to deliver the news to Alex personally, in return for my help in getting Cassie to give him another chance. And I had been planning on existing solely within the confines of my apartment for the next few “personal days.” I would live off delivery and frozen dinners, gorge my mind on dating TV shows and refuse to tolerate direct sunlight until either I managed to get over this or the Steel Image Consultant Team threw me into a van and dragged me forcibly to the nearest full-service-spa for an intervention.

Don’t laugh. It really happens.

Oh well,
I told myself as I reached for the lock,
at least Sheila usually brought bagels when she knew I was upset.

The problem was that she also brought along something else…

“
Dar
ling,” my mother began, with a smile and a hug, but then pulled a face meant to convey that my disarray was somehow a personal attack on her. “How are you?”

It was a good five minutes before I could get Sheila alone in the kitchen, while my mother took her suitcase to my spare room.

I punched my own palm for extra effect. “You have ten seconds to explain yourself.”

“She swore me to secrecy!” Sheila explained, raising her hands and backing up against the counter.

For an instant I was offended that she actually thought me capable of physical violence. Then again, if I was capable of ruining someone’s career, then maybe I was also capable of throwing a
beat-down
fit for reality TV. I wasn’t really sure what I was capable of, and I didn’t want any help figuring it out. I just wanted to put one foot in front of the other one until this whole Stefanie thing seemed like a distant memory. I hadn’t even told Raj any of the details besides that she had left the firm, that our client had been reassigned and that I was taking a few days to relax. For some strange reason, Raj had been particularly happy-go-lucky the past while, and I didn’t want to bring him down. Regardless, none of this was my mother’s business; she was still on my hit list.

I was loading our teacups into the dishwasher after an hour of conversation about Sheila’s in-laws when my mother snuck up behind me. I must have been in my own world because I squeezed the dishwashing detergent so hard that it slipped right out of my hand.

“Oh!” She stepped back as we both gasped, acknowledging how unfortunately awkward we were around each other. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” I bent down to grab the bottle. “I didn’t see you coming.”

“Can I help?” she asked hopefully.

“No, Mom. I’ve got it.”

“All right.” She searched for another way in. “And how is work? Is it going well?”

“Of course it is, Mom.” Suddenly I was captivated by the need to hand scrub every last bit of tea leaf off of my Williams-Sonoma copper pot. “I’ve got everything under control.”

“Of course you do, Monica. But you do seem to be under some pressure. Is it because of my visit?”

“No, Mom.” I propped my hands on the sink and craned my neck toward her. “You should do whatever suits you. It’s fine.”

“This is about that television show. I am ready to sell the house myself…But I…I feel that we should talk about it.”

“Mom, that’s the last thing I want to talk about right now.” I wiped the hair from my eyes with the back of my hand.

“But Monica,
beti,
I’m…”

“I’ve got to go out for a run.” I snapped off my gloves and made my way out of the kitchen. “I haven’t had any exercise all week. I’m sure you can entertain yourself.”

At that point, even the prospect of exercise was better than the possibility of having a heart-to-heart over her apologizing for getting me mixed up in that TV show in the first place. What she did was insensitive, but what I did was my own fault. Too much was going on, and the situation with my mother was only one small part of it. Besides, whatever she had to say, I really didn’t want to hear.

If Beverly Hills is plagued with ridiculous housing prices, cultural vulgarity and too much focus on the bigger-better-deal, then Marina Del Rey also has its fair share of problems. Like the confusing layout, the plethora of family-style chain restaurants, and way too many liver-spotted retirees looking for the best early-bird dinner and a place to dock their boats, for example. But it also boasts one of the loveliest brunches in Los Angeles, namely, at the Ritz-Carlton overlooking the water. You toss your keys at the giddy valets, stroll past the grand lobby and through the sumptuous, wood-paneled lounge, and into the breakfast piazza, where a maitre’d is always really convincingly happy to see you. There are white tablecloths, French-pressed coffees, and various types of caviar and champagne just to amuse you while you work up the energy required to tour the buffets. My usual tactic is not to eat for a good twenty-four hours beforehand, in order to prepare for the smoothie, sushi and omelette bars, the tables full of meats and cheeses, and the massive central display of at least fifteen different types of dessert arranged like a protective moat around their three-tiered chocolate fountain. Leave it to my mother to ruin even my most reliable pick-me-up.

Normally, I cannot help but leave that place feeling better about my life. But normally, I’m not flanked by my spaced-out fiancé and my interfering mother, seated across from my bubbly cousin, her spineless husband and both sets of their supremely annoying parents.
M-more m-mimosas, anyone?

“I have told my Monica that when she and Raj have their first child, that is when I will move back here to Los Angeles to be closer to them.” My mother prattled on, gesturing with her fork while the rest of the table nodded, and I shoved my mouth full of eggs Florentine. “Although I will so miss London in the springtime. But then how will the kids manage a child without some help?
Hai key nah,
Renu?”

My mother was convinced that everyone was dying to hear all about the fascinating new friends she’d made in London, you see. But I knew that Josh’s parents, while they had their faults, were far too polite, and impressed by what they perceived as her globetrotting lifestyle to interrupt.

“Absolutely,” Sheila’s mother assented, while the waiters refilled our coffee cups, lest we sprain something trying to lift the French presses all of three inches. “The kids will always need our input. Even if they don’t see it now.”

And with that, she winked at Sheila in a way that was clearly intended for everyone to witness. I assumed that Sheila suggested the Ritz-Carlton for brunch because it’s neutral territory, rather than someone’s house. Plus, she knew it was the only suggestion that might actually get me out in public. By the time I had inhaled the last bits of my first plateful of food, I was almost convinced that this could go smoothly.
Stupid, stupid girl.

“What was that?” Karen asked Renu, helpfully.

“Karen.” Her husband tried in vain to warn her off.

“What?” She was indignant. “It’s my grandchild, too. And if you’re not going to speak up for Josh’s side of the family, then I have to make sure that
someone
does.”

Call me old-fashioned, but I have always believed that certain ground rules for life are both universal and sacred. Among the most obvious are:

• (1) That future contact or even recognition on the street are neither required nor expected after a one-night stand
  
• (2) That what we do in Vegas does not stay in Vegas; in fact, it usually winds up on the Internet, and
  
• (3) That Saturday morning brunch is not the time for discussions of anything more serious than the latest news of an engagement of a friend of a friend of a friend.
  

Apparently, no one in my family had gotten the memo.

“There is no
grandchild!
” Sheila slammed her palm down onto the table.

Raj dropped his cheese-schmeared cracker, Josh’s mouth fell open, and I had stopped midchew.

“Look—” Sheila held the floor “—the grandchild isn’t even born yet. There are a lot of things that Joshua and I did not discuss before we got married. And we should have. I know that now. But we are still the only two people in this marriage. We’re gonna make these decisions now, and figure out what’s right for us, as a couple. We’re not interested in the input of anyone else…even our parents…from
either
side.”

I swallowed and glanced to Raj, who indicated with a shrug that he didn’t know what we should do. Renu seemed to be seeing her daughter for the very first time. Karen folded her napkin across her plate, folded her hands across her lap, and made it clear with her posture how displeased she was with the entire exchange. Sheila looked to her husband, who simply sank deeper into his chair.

After about ten more seconds of the most painful silence, Sheila stood up and stormed off. I would have run after her, but I had had too many mimosas at that point to get enough speed to catch up. Instead, I smiled sloppily at Raj, who cleared his throat and thrust his neck forward like he expected me to intervene.

And he was right. If I wasn’t going to stand up for Sheila when she couldn’t stand up for herself, who would? But then I realized something….

“What is wrong with you?” I accused Josh, a little too loudly. “Why can’t you ever support your wife?”

“Monica, this is between us.” He blinked, but insisted.

“Umm…no…since it has ruined more than one of my meals at this point I think it’s between all of us. And besides, welcome to an Indian family. It has always been between all of us.”

“Okay,” he countered, seeming almost as surprised as he was embittered, “if my business is your business, then I guess it works both ways,
cousin-in-law
. So tell me—why hasn’t your fiancé even set a date yet for your wedding?”

“That has nothing to do with anything,” I replied, while my mother shook her head helplessly at Renu Auntie, who was hunched over, rubbing her temples.

“Oh, I think it has plenty to do with why you are so focused on
our
marriage.”

What the hell was he talking about? How did this become about me and Raj? And how could Josh be this quick with a comeback at me while he routinely let his wife flail around alone?

“Okay,” I asked, “so suddenly being married for five minutes gives you a Ph.D. in relationships?”

“Actually,” Raj spoke up, taking my hand in his, “I was planning on waiting until the dessert course, but…”

But I couldn’t let it go. “Raj! Not now, please! Don’t you see what you’re doing, Josh? You’re acting like a boyfriend, instead of a husband. Right or wrong, justified or not, she’s not supposed to ever be the only one in her corner anymore now that she’s married. That’s the whole point, isn’t it? The rest is window dressing. And I don’t know much about marriage, but I do know that these resentments don’t disappear, Josh. They fester and explode.”

More resonant than the dead air between us on the way home from brunch was the fact that Raj didn’t even try to fiddle with the radio setting. And what my mother lacked in sympathy toward her daughter, she apparently made up for in sensitivity to the mood of her son-in-law-not-necessarily-to-be. On the pretext of taking a nap, she headed straight for her room the moment we got home. Unfortunately, I was totally sober by that point, which meant I couldn’t deny that something was wrong with Raj. So I waited until I heard my mother’s bedroom door shut, and then went over to Raj, who was thumbing through a copy of
Pucker,
which he knew I hid under the ottoman in my den.

“Since when are you interested in that celebrity stuff?” I asked, kicking off my shoes and hopping up beside him on the sofa.