Indie Girl (7 page)

Rinky was right. What she and her sisters planned to do over the summer sounded selfless and charitable and would probably help no end of people and catapult the three of them to the front of the line when the time came for them to get into heaven. And I had to confess to feeling a little envious of their planning and foresight; that in a few months, they’d be off trying to change the world, while I would still be smarting at the knowledge that I’d failed miserably at looking after a toddler.

Rinky looked up at me, a pair of plastic tongs in one hand, waiting for some kind of response.

“Thanks for asking, Rinks,” I said, using the pet name that her parents always called her by. “But I don’t think I’ll be able to make it.” I wished I had that internship at
Celebrity Style
to tell them about, something to wipe off that supercilious look they all seemed to share.

“Really?” Rinky said. “What will you be doing?”

“Well, I really can’t say,” I said, my face suddenly turning warm. “I’m waiting for everything to be confirmed.”

“Must be your fashion thing, right?” Rinky asked. “You’re always going on about it. We find it all very superficial ourselves, but if
that’s
how you want to waste away your life, feel free.”

I clenched my fists tight at my side.

“Actually, it’s a wonderful internship, interviewing movie stars and famous fashion designers,” I blurted out. “It’s a top magazine, but if you’ve only ever read your mummy’s Indian magazines, then you’ve probably never even heard of it. But some people think it’s even better than
Vogue,
you know. The editor liked me so much that I’ve already started. I had my first day today.” I told myself that I wasn’t so much lying as embellishing the truth a little. The editor did like me—or at least had until the fiasco earlier today. And I supposed that if everything had gone according to plan, and I was living in some parallel universe, I
would
be interviewing movie stars and famous fashion designers, right?

My father, in the meantime, had suddenly appeared behind me. I detected a whiff of whisky on his breath. My father rarely drank alcohol, waiting only until loud social events like this one to indulge in a glass or two of Johnnie Walker. It always made him merry and chatty.

“Ah, Indie, having a good time?” he asked, slapping me on the back with one hand and reaching out for a plate with another. “I see you’re talking to the lovely Rinky here. Such smart smart girls, all of them,” he said as Rinky smiled politely.

“So, what do we have here?” he asked, glancing at the table. “Such a feast! Rice, vegetables, lamb, chicken, shrimp—my my, you girls have really gone all out,” he
said, his speech now sounding a little slurred. Was my father actually tipsy?

My father was usually the soul of discretion, a firm believer in thinking before speaking and generally speaking as little as possible. But now, it was as if someone had given him the gift of the gab—and it was nonreturnable.

“I’m just
ravenous!
” he said. “This daughter of mine kept me out of the house for hours today, driving her back and forth to her new job.” I prayed that my father would stop right there. He had said just enough to give me a little respect in the eyes of the “inkys.”

But Johnnie Walker obviously had a mind of his own.

“Yes, babysitting,” he said, using a large wooden fork to pull out vegetables from a salad bowl. “In our day, no girl would ever consider babysitting as a job. But our Indie here, that seems to be how she wants to spend her time. She came home today with dried paint and pee-pee stains all over her clothes!” And with that, my father let out a big, inebriated guffaw and moved on.

I wanted the roof to cave in. I wanted there to be an earthquake that was at least a six on the Richter scale, something that would cause these three sisters to forget everything they had just heard.

But the earth stayed intact, the party carried on, and Rinky broke out into giggles, gathering her sisters close and telling them what she had just heard.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” Pinky said, her expression turning even more patronizing than it usually was. “But couldn’t you have found anything else? Gosh, we had
no
trouble getting ourselves organized, did we?” she said, turning back to her sisters.

“I was just helping out my boss today,” I said, refusing to let the irritating “inkys” get the last word in.

I grabbed a plate, piled on some food, and stomped out to the patio where I found a quiet seat. I glanced over at the “inkys,” who were being the most perfect and gracious hostesses, chatting amiably with all their guests.

After my dismal babysitting debut this morning, part of me had just given up. No matter what I had said to the “inkys” just now, my confidence had actually sunk to a new low. Was it only a few weeks ago that I had typed out what was nothing less than an ode to fashion, that I came up with exactly 200 perfectly crafted words for the internship application essay?

But sitting here now, looking at their collective charm and self-assurance, something in me shifted. I closed my eyes and thought for a moment about what my mother would do if she were in that situation, how she would come out of it.

The other girls in my class had mothers who were their friends. They shared clothes, went shopping together, lunched afterward, and talked about boys.

My mother was not one of those mothers. She had
arrived in America from India as a shy bride, and had worn simple cotton saris until I was three years old, when her
pallav
had gotten caught beneath the base of a merry-go-round at a local street carnival, and she had then decided that she couldn’t possibly be an effective mother if she was constantly worrying about six yards of fabric on her body. So she had packed up all the saris gifted to her by her parents as part of her trousseau, stashed them in the attic, and had gone to Kmart to stock up on classic-cut jeans and oversized T-shirts, which had remained her signature look ever since. Her hair was almost always tied in a ponytail, she wore nothing on her face except for a tiny slather of Pond’s skin cream, and she virtually lived in simple, comfortable leather slippers. She took me to Little League matches and Girl Scout bake sales dressed in the same nondescript way, always nodding courteously to the other moms as they sashayed past in slim sweatpants, tight hoodies, and big tortoiseshell sunglasses. My mother would always comment that the other mothers and daughters could be big sister and little, and my friends’ moms would smile, unable to truthfully return the compliment.

It wasn’t that my mother was that much older than me. She was only twenty-three when I was born, her face still pretty and unlined and dewy now at thirty-eight. But unlike the other moms who attended thrice-weekly Pilates classes and had meals from The Zone delivered to their doors, my mother enjoyed being fleshy and full,
seeing no need to eliminate white rice, ghee, and thick buttermilk curries from her diet. She was the quintessential homemaker, the plain and sturdy and kindhearted sort you might otherwise see as the subject of a makeover on
The Tyra Banks Show,
if she had ever been so inclined. I sometimes wished that she would take more of an interest in how she dressed and in the clothes that hung in her closet. But every time I suggested to her that maybe we could go shopping, that maybe there could be more to her style than elastic-waist pants and three-quarter-sleeved cotton T-shirts, she would stare at me blankly and then put her glasses back on, the plain pair that would hang around her neck on a plastic cord.

Even though I had told neither one of my parents exactly what had happened, that didn’t mean I couldn’t be inspired by them nonetheless.

I looked over at my mother now, who was helping herself to dinner and chatting with her friends. With her poise and quiet dignity, she would always find a way to get back into the good graces of someone she had admired for so long. If she were me, she would call to apologize, perhaps send a token of her regret, would approach a difficult situation with humility and strength. She would not give up and she had not brought me up to give up either.

There was still time before the intern would be chosen. Somehow, I
had
to make amends.

My cell rang at the ungodly-for-a-Sunday-morning hour of 8:30
A.M.
I never understood what compelled Kim to get up that early when it wasn’t a school day.

She had called to ask me how I was feeling. Truth be told, despite my newfound resolve from last night, in the cold, clear light of day I was now feeling depressed and defeated again. Keeping your spirits up is hard work. Maybe I’d feel better after some Ovaltine and toast, and could start plotting my next course of action.

“Don’t you think you’re being a little dramatic?” Kim asked when I told her I couldn’t stop thinking about yesterday. “It’s not the end of the world. It’s just a job. There’ll be others.”

“Just a job? Just a job?”
I repeated. “I really blew it, Kim. I know I need to figure out how to get back in the game, but that doesn’t hide the fact that I still blew it.”

My mother knocked on the door.

“What, Mom?” I said through the door.

“Phone call for you,” she answered. “That Aaralyn lady.”

I hung up on Kim once again and raced to the door. Just as I took the cordless out of my mother’s hand, my mind went to the worst-case scenarios: Aaralyn might have discovered something else I’d done wrong and was going to tell me about it; maybe Kyle had to be hospitalized with dysentery this morning because of something I fed him yesterday. Maybe I’d cracked an expensive crystal vase without knowing it. Maybe Aaralyn just wanted to yell at me some more. So I don’t know why I was so anxious to get to the phone: It couldn’t have been good, whatever it was.

“Good morning, Indie, Aaralyn Taylor here,” she said, her voice clipped and brisk, which must be quite an accomplishment for a Sunday morning.

“Listen, after you left yesterday, Kyle was inconsolable. He cried for a good thirty minutes, which was a complete chore for me to deal with. And he’s been asking for you ever since he got up at six this morning. I swear, the child is an insomniac. He’s been calling you ‘dindy,’ which is at once endearing and irritating.” She spoke, barely taking a pause, but the words coming out of her mouth were like music to my ears. Kyle liked me! Sweet, messy, ketchup-addicted, little two-year-old Kyle liked me!

“I gather yesterday was your first time doing something like this,” she said, finally inhaling. “So I’m
prepared to overlook that rather shaky start and see if you’d like to try it again.”

My heart did a little leap.

“Um, yes, I think I’d like that,” I said, my voice trembling. “Again, I’m
so so
sorry about yesterday.”

“It’s okay. Let’s move on,” Aaralyn said abruptly. I could imagine her talking to Kyle like that every time he had a meltdown.

“I could probably use some help today. Can you come by?”

My father again complained all the way as he drove me over, accusing me of taking him away from some guy called Bob Schieffer who was on some really boring political show.

“TiVo it, Dad,” I said as we buckled ourselves into the car.

“TiVo is not a verb, Indira,” he replied.

“Indie,” I corrected him.

Juno let me in when I got there, telling me that Aaralyn was on the phone in her office. Kyle was playing on an alphabet mat on the floor in the kitchen, building a tall tower out of soft blocks, and then knocking it over.

“Italy,” Juno said, sitting me down and motioning to Aaralyn’s office. “She’s been on the phone for thirty minutes. Although what
they’re
doing working on a Sunday evening I’ll never understand. I thought Italians relished their weekends.” He picked Kyle up and put him
on my lap and began coaching me in the baby’s various grunts and moans.

“Now, when it’s a high-pitched wail and it comes from nowhere, it means he’s tired and could use a little nap,” said Juno. “But if it’s a succession of whimpers, you could try giving him his pacifier or handing him a snack. If his mother is around, she could nurse him. But I can usually get him to do anything with a handful of animal crackers,” he said, smiling. “Otherwise, just keep him entertained and he’ll be fine.”

I didn’t dare hope that Juno was investing in me in some way, that he wouldn’t take the time to explain these things to me if I was just a one- or two-time babysitter. I looked down at Kyle and suddenly felt a little guilty; his eyes were wide open and innocent, his little fists clutched, a smear of raspberry jam clung to his bottom lip. I realized then that he was really just a means to an end for me, that I wouldn’t be here if I was hoping to achieve something else.

Aaralyn finally emerged from her office, said a quick hello to me, kissed her son on his forehead, and then gazed out the window. “You know, the weather is nice enough for us to go to the park,” she said. “Indie, come along.” It was more of a directive than it was an invitation. “I’m going to need your help. I have some calls to make while we’re out and will need someone to keep an eye on Kyle.”

It took me fifteen minutes to load the car—snacks, stroller (two types, in case he didn’t like one), buckets and shovels for the sandbox, a big parasol to shield his fine features from the sun. I wanted to make sure everything was covered. This was my second chance, and I was determined not to blow it.

Juno had decided to stay home, saying he had some paperwork to take care of. That would leave Aaralyn and me alone, not counting the kid, with plenty of time to talk and get to know each other. It would be my first opportunity to wow her with my fashion insight in addition to my capable babysitting skills.

“In the back,” she said to me as I first attempted to get into the passenger side next to her. “Keep Kyle entertained while I’m driving.”

My heart sank, but I followed her instructions. Back there, I felt like another child. She got on the freeway and said she was headed to her favorite park, known for its shady trees and safe playground equipment. She was dressed in Sunday casual chic; white cotton shirt, trim beige jeans, matching Tod’s loafers, a roomy leather bag to carry all the things that wouldn’t fit in Kyle’s knapsack. Her large Jackie O-style sunglasses were perched atop her head, simple pearls in her ears. She was, even dressed down, the most perfectly put-together person I had ever seen.