Page 149 of Cakes for the Grump
More aunties converge around me. My cheeks are pinched.
“Who is that handsome man?” they wonder.
My answer: “A friend.”
That doesn’t appease them much, but despite their hungry curiosity, the party surges on. Raja, the man who owns Raja’s Dhaba, brings out a huge pot filled with oil and starts making fresh pakoras to distribute. It becomes a team effort, hands dunking the vegetable fritters, flipping them in the oil and then seasoning them with chaat masala. Another grill has pieces of meat, and there is a separate lassi-making station. I’ve got no time to think between the food logistics, between the many congratulations, the inquiries about my future plans, the loads and loads of advice on what to do next, and some very promising leads about offices that will want my kind of boutique fusion catering services.
I see Theo and Luke mingle as best as they can, given they don’t speak much Punjabi, often guided by my friends as their translators. I tell myself there is no opportunity to take Luke aside to finish our conversation, something I know he desires as well, considering how often I catch him staring atme, but the truth is that I’m delaying. Deathly nervous. Half-afraid I’ll throw up on his shoes. Half-afraid I’ll beg him to take me back.
I’m also stuck on a certain repetition of:he’s here, he’s here, he’s come here.
Despite any appearances to the contrary, I’m a sum of adrenaline, compounding as the minutes go by. At one point, Uncle gives me his soft wool sweater to wear. It’s gotten a bit cold. I accept the offering, because Uncle is zen and if even a fraction of his peaceful nature can be transferred by clothing, I’ll take it.
I realize he’s not asked me about Luke. Usually that means he’s busy with Dad, but?—
I look around.
Where has my dad gone?
I’m about to ask Uncle, but he’s being coddled into sitting on a chair closer to the fire Raja has started, in case his bad hip starts twinging. Setting myself on a mission, I go around to others and see if they’ve seen where my dad has gone.
A balding uncle has an answer. “He’s gone in the back.”
Alone?
I slip away from the party, bypass the washroom line, duck behind the Jeep parked there and walk out into the sheltered gray alleyway. The mouth of it is protected from the weather by thin patchwork sheets of metal tied together overhead. In the middle of a raised surface of concrete is a manja bed, and sitting on that manja bed is Dad.
He’s holding a bottle. It sways from his fingertips.
I go sit beside him. “Why?”
“Y-you didn’t t-thank me in your speech and I deserve that.”
Ihadn’tthanked him. It’s a small detail, not registering on my mind at all until now. Familiar guilt swells up, but my walls are stronger now. They stamp it back down.
“We’re still trying to rebuild our relationship.” My voice starts soft, but gains volume as I speak. “You can’t blame. I am not to blame for your drinking.”
“Of course not! I n-never want you to think that.”
“I was a kid. How could I not think that?”
His head drops until his chin is against his breastbone. “I’m sow—sorry.”
My chest squeezes in a suffocating ache. “Don’t drink more.”
“Okay.” Dad lets go of the bottle, and it rolls away into some corner.
I stand up and turn and see Luke behind us. My abdomen tenses. I never want anyone to see the state of my father when he is like this, but for Luke to witness it is another thing entirely. It’s like a scab I’ve hidden in the dark has been thrust into the light and peeled back to reveal a weeping center.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“I know it’s a lot to ask. But can you wait here? I’m going to see if Dr. Mangat is still around.”
“It’s not a lot to ask. Go.”
I rush back to the party and try to maintain a neutral face. The fewer people that go back there to see Dad, the better. Dr. Mangat has left, I’m told. The next option is Uncle, who I would normally always go to, but he’s recovering and can’t be on his feet for too long. Not that I’d ask them, but my friends are with Theo. I see them glance around for me, but before I can be spotted, I sneak back to the alleyway.
Dad’s face is droopy, and his eyes are glossy when they meet mine. “I want to go h-home.”
