had revealed my selfishness, I let myself weep. “You have to give me something. I should get something for all this.” I clenched my hands and wiped my face with my fists. “Each time I come here, I should get something.”
My mother pulled me up and pressed me into her stomach. My father came and stood beside us. “What do you want?” he said.
I didn’t know.
“What do you want?” my mother repeated.
“I want to eat pizza, and I want candy.”
My mother stroked my hair. “Don’t worry, baby.”
I sobbed, and she kept wiping my face with a fold of her sari. At last I stopped crying, and she and my father decided that I should be taken back to my aunt’s.
On the way, we stopped at a strip mall. It was a little after five, and the streetlights were lit. First, my father and I went to a magazine shop and bought a bag of 3 Musketeers bars and a bag of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. Then we went next door to a pizza shop. We sat in a booth and kept our coats on as we ate. Since the accident, I had said a quick prayer whenever I ate. Now I wondered whether to pray. It seemed that I should still do everything possible to help Birju. I brought my hands together over the paper plate.
Later, in the car, I held the bags of candy in my lap while my father drove in silence. Even through the plastic, I could smell the sugar and chocolate. Some of the houses we passed were dark. Others were outlined in Christmas lights.
The car was warm and after a while, I rolled down the window slightly. The car filled with roaring wind. We approached the apartment building with the pool where Birju had had his accident. Because of the lights in the parking lot where the ambulance had stood, I could see the tall fence that guarded the pool. I tried to see past the fence into the dark beyond. I wondered what had happened to the pool’s unlucky water after the accident. Had it been drained? Probably it had not. All summer long, people must have swum in the pool and sat on its sides, splashing their feet in the water, and not known that my brother had lain for three minutes on its concrete bottom one August afternoon.
W e stood in my aunt’s driveway with our luggage in the car. “What has happened?” she sobbed. “What has God done?” As she and my mother hugged, my aunt clutched at her and would not let go. My mother gripped my aunt too and wept. My uncle was there. He put a hand on my shoulder, and I wanted to shrug it off. I was shivering, and my coat was in the car. Why hadn’t people been nicer when it mattered? I wondered.
O N MY FIRST day in the nursing home, I sat by Birju’s bed and read to him from an old issue of Chandamama . It was raining and drops clicked off the windows. The room was about the size of the one in the hospital. Even with the ceiling lights on, it was dim. My mother kept walking in and out of the room. She was busy doing paperwork. When she entered, I continued reading without looking up. I had the sense that I was being watched, that we were providing evidence to the nursing home. I needed to show that my family was admirable and that we cared about Birju. I felt that if I did this, it would shame the people at the home to take good care of my brother.
I began to ache from sitting on the hard chair. My voice got hoarse. At the hospital, I would have said, “Birju, let’s watch some TV.” More hours passed. I was conscious of how quiet the nursing home was. The door behind me was open. When a cart went by, I could hear its wheels hissing along the linoleum. At the hospital, there were always nurses and doctors hurrying about. The PA system regularly came on. The quietness made me feel that the home was not as good as the hospital, that the nursing home was where the world put people who were not important, people who could be put away someplace and forgotten. I began to feel that we had let Birju down, that by letting him be moved here, we had not taken care of him.
The nursing home stood on
My mother pulled me up and pressed me into her stomach. My father came and stood beside us. “What do you want?” he said.
I didn’t know.
“What do you want?” my mother repeated.
“I want to eat pizza, and I want candy.”
My mother stroked my hair. “Don’t worry, baby.”
I sobbed, and she kept wiping my face with a fold of her sari. At last I stopped crying, and she and my father decided that I should be taken back to my aunt’s.
On the way, we stopped at a strip mall. It was a little after five, and the streetlights were lit. First, my father and I went to a magazine shop and bought a bag of 3 Musketeers bars and a bag of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. Then we went next door to a pizza shop. We sat in a booth and kept our coats on as we ate. Since the accident, I had said a quick prayer whenever I ate. Now I wondered whether to pray. It seemed that I should still do everything possible to help Birju. I brought my hands together over the paper plate.
Later, in the car, I held the bags of candy in my lap while my father drove in silence. Even through the plastic, I could smell the sugar and chocolate. Some of the houses we passed were dark. Others were outlined in Christmas lights.
The car was warm and after a while, I rolled down the window slightly. The car filled with roaring wind. We approached the apartment building with the pool where Birju had had his accident. Because of the lights in the parking lot where the ambulance had stood, I could see the tall fence that guarded the pool. I tried to see past the fence into the dark beyond. I wondered what had happened to the pool’s unlucky water after the accident. Had it been drained? Probably it had not. All summer long, people must have swum in the pool and sat on its sides, splashing their feet in the water, and not known that my brother had lain for three minutes on its concrete bottom one August afternoon.
W e stood in my aunt’s driveway with our luggage in the car. “What has happened?” she sobbed. “What has God done?” As she and my mother hugged, my aunt clutched at her and would not let go. My mother gripped my aunt too and wept. My uncle was there. He put a hand on my shoulder, and I wanted to shrug it off. I was shivering, and my coat was in the car. Why hadn’t people been nicer when it mattered? I wondered.
O N MY FIRST day in the nursing home, I sat by Birju’s bed and read to him from an old issue of Chandamama . It was raining and drops clicked off the windows. The room was about the size of the one in the hospital. Even with the ceiling lights on, it was dim. My mother kept walking in and out of the room. She was busy doing paperwork. When she entered, I continued reading without looking up. I had the sense that I was being watched, that we were providing evidence to the nursing home. I needed to show that my family was admirable and that we cared about Birju. I felt that if I did this, it would shame the people at the home to take good care of my brother.
I began to ache from sitting on the hard chair. My voice got hoarse. At the hospital, I would have said, “Birju, let’s watch some TV.” More hours passed. I was conscious of how quiet the nursing home was. The door behind me was open. When a cart went by, I could hear its wheels hissing along the linoleum. At the hospital, there were always nurses and doctors hurrying about. The PA system regularly came on. The quietness made me feel that the home was not as good as the hospital, that the nursing home was where the world put people who were not important, people who could be put away someplace and forgotten. I began to feel that we had let Birju down, that by letting him be moved here, we had not taken care of him.
The nursing home stood on
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