Page 82 of Butterfly Effect

The shared gravel driveway leads to the house I grew up in, now a faded purple. The paint on the white shutters is cracked and peeling from the weather.

Porch creaky, yard lawn overgrown, I frown at the state of the small farmhouse. Maybe it’s because I’m not alone this time, but I’m embarrassed.

Kurt had only visited once during university and only dropped in for a short while before heading to his parents for Christmas. He didn’t seem to care, but I doubt he even noticed.

A tall planter sits beside the door, a lone bamboo cane sticking out from its soil. Left behind, months after Gudi Padwa. At least he remembered to take in the gudi and kalash this time.

“What’s that?” Wade asks.

I shush him, then knock and twist the door open.

“Dad?”

Sandalwood incense pours out, sweet and woody, the background recording of “Sukh Karta Dukh Harta” and the ringing ganthi signals his evening routine is well underway.

A tinge of anger sparks within me. Dad loved my mother—loves her so much—that years after she’s gone, he’s still upholding her faith, her traditions, her culture.

And she couldn’t bear to stay.

When I was young, he did it for me so that I would know who I was. Who she was. But the grief was too great, and I rebelled. Accepting the part of my identity that was hers had been a lifelong battle. It was easier to ignore it and fit in.

Only after rooming with Indi at university did I even admit to anyone that my mom was Maharashtrian.

Poor Dad hasn’t given up. He shares a soft smile and brings the thali to us, welcoming us by drawing three circles around us. “Go on. Take the Aarti.”

My hands hover over the lit diya and pull its warmth to my eyes and over the crown of my head.

Dad offers it to Wade as well, who imitates me to near perfection. He returns it to the platform in front of Bappa’s murti and bows with joined hands.

“Bala.” His eyes brighten as long, open arms extend for an embrace. I step into it, absorbing his loving kisses on my forehead and cheek. “I’ve missed you. It’s already been two months since Ganeshotsav.”

“I missed you, too.”

Wade clears his throat.

“Sorry,” Dad says through a nervous laugh, letting me go. “Come on, bala. Introduce us.”

“Oh, right.” I usher Boehner forward. “This is Wade Boehner, my?—”

Fake boyfriend. Who ate me out for thirty minutes roadside.

“Boyfriend,” Wade fills in the blank for me, holding his hand out to shake.

“And this is my dad, Terry.”

“Terry Fink,” Dad adds.

“Nice meeting you, sir.”

Wade’s reply is curt, sparkle suddenly muted, all charisma, dimpled smiles, and social butterfly tendencies nowhere to be found. His free hand quickly clasps my hand and squeezes.

What is up with him?

“Please. Everyone calls me Tez. Good to finally meet you,” he says with a toothy grin. “Wow. You athletes are always bigger in person than on TV.” He waves us in, pointing where to take off our shoes and detouring through the kitchen to turn off the oven. “Sorry, didn’t want to burn the butternut squash.”

Dad leads the way to the back of the house, passing a wall of framed family pictures from over the years.

Baby pictures, various basketball rosters, graduation pictures. Every important milestone. The absence of Aai glares back.

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