The Museum of Failures E-Book

Thrity Umrigar

• Herausgeber: Swift Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 499

Beschreibung

A riveting story about uncovering family secrets and the power of forgiveness, set in India and the United States, from the bestselling author of Reese's Book Club pick Honor Remy Wadia left India for the United States long ago, carrying his resentment of his mother with him. He has now returned to Bombay to adopt a baby from a young pregnant girl—and to see his elderly mother for the first time in several years. Discovering that his mother is in the hospital, has stopped talking, and seems to have given up on life, he is struck with guilt for not realizing just how sick she has become. His unexpected appearance and assiduous attention revives her and enables her to return to her home. But when Remy stumbles on an old photograph, shocking long-held family secrets surface. As the secrets unravel and Remy's mother begins communicating again, he finds himself reevaluating his entire childhood, his relationship to his parents, and his harsh judgment of the decisions and events long hidden from him, just as he is on the cusp of becoming a parent himself. But most of all, he must learn to forgive others for their failures and human frailties. The Museum of Failures is a deeply moving story of secrets and family, and a reminder that forgiveness comes from realizing that the people we love are usually trying to do their best in the most difficult situations.

Leseprobe

Also by Thrity Umrigar

HonorThe Secrets Between UsEverybody’s SonThe Story HourThe World We FoundThe Weight of HeavenIf Today Be SweetThe Space Between UsFirst Darling of the Morning: Selected Memories of an Indian ChildhoodBombay Time

picture books

Sugar in MilkBinny’s DiwaliWhen I Carried You in My Belly

For Judy Griffin, who loves this world

After the first death, there is no other.

—Dylan Thomas

The Museum of Failure in Helsingborg, Sweden, was a collection of failed products and services. It now operates as a traveling exhibition throughout the world.

Book One

Chapter One

All night long, the crows fought as a jet-lagged Remy Wadia struggled to sleep in an unfamiliar bed. Occasionally, a dog howled, the sound hair-raisingly melancholy, and Remy had to cover his ears with a pillow. He heard the roar of a motorcycle and glanced at the alarm clock: 2 a.m. A few minutes later, he was on the threshold of a dream when loud voices from the street below jolted him awake. He swore under his breath, flinging the sheet off. Finally, at 6 a.m., even though he was afraid of awakening Jango and Shenaz in the next room, he got up to use the attached bathroom. Then he made his way to the small balcony off his bedroom.

A light breeze from the nearby sea made his thin muslin sadra flutter against his skin as he leaned against the railing. He looked down at the treetops. What had made the damn crows squawk all night long? There had been something spooky and unnerving about their nocturnal shrieking, but then this, too, was Bombay—the birds as defiant and absurd as the rest of the city. He looked toward the main road and wondered if his mother was awake, too. Her apartment building was only a few streets away from Jango’s, where he had spent the night after his friend had picked him up from the airport.

Remy yawned; it had been a long flight from Columbus, Ohio, and he was exhausted. Then he reminded himself of the reason for his visit to India and felt a throb of excitement. Shenaz’s niece, Monaz, was to arrive at 10 a.m. He thought about taking a quick shower but worried that the sound of running water would disturb his hosts. Still, he wanted to look his best when Monaz came, wanted no trace of his fatigue to show. “First impressions are often the last impression,” Dad used to say.

Dad. The thought of his boisterous, warmhearted father made Remy smile. It was his first time back since Cyrus had died three years ago. He had not visited his mother since then, and he felt the usual pang of guilt at the thought. Well, he would see her in a few hours, would surprise her by showing up at her door. Maybe things would be softer between them now that Daddy was gone and Remy no longer had to protect him from his mother’s grievances and sharp barbs.

A solitary crow rose from the tree and fluttered past the balcony. He’d hated them since his childhood, when one of them had swooped down and stolen the sandwich right out of his hand, its sharp beak slicing his finger. Remy rubbed his thumb against his index finger, tracing the path of the injury, which had faded to a faint scar. How old had he been on that Sunday at the zoo with his father? It had been a happy day but bookended by disaster.

His parents had planned a different excursion, but something had gone wrong. They had fought—Remy closed his eyes against the memory of the rumble of voices, as steady and incessant as rain, coming from his parents’ bedroom. When at last his mother had emerged, her eyes were red. A wave of outrage had risen in the young Remy and he’d run up to hug and console her. Which was why he had been stunned when she’d gruffly pushed him away.

Cyrus had come out of their bedroom in time to see Remy stumble, had noticed the tears that sprang into the boy’s eyes. His face flamed.

“Shame on you, Shirin,” he said to Remy’s mother. “You’re taking out your khunnas against me on an innocent boy?”

It was too late to stop the tumble of memories: His mother’s grief turning into anger. Her accusing Remy of putting on a show for his father’s benefit. Cyrus roaring with indignation. The look his mother threw at Remy before she locked herself in her room.

Remy had crept away into his own bedroom, but a few minutes later, a grim-faced Cyrus stood in the doorway.

“I’ll be damned if I waste this beautiful day waiting for Shirin to come to her senses,” he’d said. “Where would you like to go?”

Remy didn’t have to think. “The zoo,” he said. A baby elephant had been born there a few weeks earlier. Jango had gone last week and was still gushing about it.

“Done,” Cyrus said. “Go put on your shoes and socks.”

They had stopped at the market and bought three coconuts and a rock-hard orb of jaggery to feed to the elephants. Remy squealed with excitement when the adult animals stomped on the coconuts with one foot, splitting them into two halves and expertly scooping out the meat; he shrieked with delight at the baby elephant’s hapless attempts to imitate his parents.

As they left the enclosure, Cyrus put his arm around Remy’s shoulder. “Happy?” he asked, and Remy nodded. “Good,” Cyrus said. “Because, son, you have only two jobs in life—to be happy and to make others happy. You understand?”

Remy wondered what kind of jobs he’d have to get to keep that promise, but for now, he was content to nod. “Yes, Daddy.”

They were walking toward the tiger enclosure when Remy’s stomach growled. He looked up at his father, embarrassed, but Daddy didn’t seem to mind. Cyrus reached into his bag and handed his son the chicken sandwich he’d packed. Remy took a bite. It was delicious. He’d opened his mouth to take a second bite when there was a flutter of wings, a blur, and bright blood on his finger. It took him a minute to realize the sandwich was no longer in his hands. Then he began to scream at the sight of blood.

“Hush, sonny, hush,” Cyrus muttered. “Here, let me see.” He removed his handkerchief and tied it around the boy’s index finger. “Damn. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

By the time they reached Dr. Surati’s apartment, Remy’s screams had subsided into occasional hiccups of pain and outrage over the stolen sandwich. He resolved to pack small stones in his pocket to fling at the sinister, bold birds who were seemingly everywhere in Bombay. “I hate them,” he said, and Cyrus made a consoling sound. The doctor, an old family friend, chuckled.

Remy had gotten three stitches, and his reward for being a brave boy was a promise from his father to take him to the movies the following week. When they’d reached home, Shirin took one look at the bandaged finger and covered Remy in kisses.

How mercurial she was, his mother! Still, his complicated relationship with her, the haste with which he’d fled back to Kathy in America after his father’s death, feeling as if he were escaping from under the waves of some twilight ocean—all of this was, hopefully, behind him. For the first time, what had brought him to the city of his birth was not the undertow of the past but the tug of the future.

By the time Remy emerged from his shower, the rest of the household had awakened. As he dressed, he heard the clanging of pots in the kitchen and smelled tea being prepared the Parsi way, with fresh mint and lemongrass. There was a knock at his door. Jango stood at the entrance, still in his sadra and pajama bottoms.

“Saala, you’ve already showered?” he said. He sniffed in Remy’s direction and grinned. “I can smell that aftershave from across the room. What’re you trying to do, seduce my wife with your fancy American airs and all?”

Remy grinned back. Any awkwardness that he had felt at inconveniencing his friends the night before fell away at Jango’s trademark irreverence. Superimposed over the well-built man with the thickening waistline was the wisecracking boy who had befriended moody Remy on the first day of second grade.

“Come,” Jango said. “Tea is ready. What would you like for breakfast?”

“Anything is fine. Maybe some toast?”

Jango looked at Remy balefully. “Maybe some toast?” he mimicked, thumping Remy on the back as they walked down the short hallway into the dining room. “Has Kathy turned you into an anemic rabbit or something? Arre, saala, you’re in a Parsi home, not at some fucking monastery. If I feed you breakfast without the requisite eggs and cream and butter, I will have to renounce my religion.”

Remy laughed, shaking his head. “Okay, okay,” he said.

Shenaz came to the dining table, carrying a tray with three cups of tea. As Remy took the tray from her, she gave him a peck on the cheek. “You slept okay, darling?” she said. “Bed was comfy?”

“Like a baby,” he lied. “Everything was great.”

“Are you sure you have to leave for your mother’s today? Can’t you just stay with us the rest of your trip?”

“I wish.” He wondered how much the couple knew about his distant relationship with his mom. Despite their closeness, he had never discussed his family life with Jango. But Jango had spent many a day at Remy’s home during their childhood and adolescence. Surely, he had noticed how much closer Remy had been to his dad. Did children notice these things? In some ways, they had led such innocent and oblivious lives, all their talk revolving around sports and music and girls.

“Well, you’re always welcome here,” Shenaz said. “You know that.”

He smiled vaguely.

After a beat, she said briskly, “Okay, chalo. I want to be done with breakfast before Monaz comes. How do akuri and French toast sound?”

Remy moaned. “Oh my God. Akuri alone sounds divine.” His mother used to make the dish, spiced scrambled eggs tossed in fried onion and cilantro and garnished with nuts and raisins. It had been their usual Sunday breakfast, but sometimes Remy used to ask for it for dinner and his mother unfailingly obliged.

“So what’s she like?” Remy asked with his mouth full. “Your niece.”

Jango and Shenaz exchanged a bemused look. “Slow down, yaar,” Jango drawled. “A half hour ago you wanted to eat dry toast, remember?”

Shenaz smacked her husband’s hand. “Okay, enough with the teasing,” she said. She turned to Remy. “Monaz is… What to say? I mean, she’s a typical college student, you know? Good in her studies and all, but the girl has no street smarts. She grew up in a very sheltered home. That’s what makes this whole thing so tragic.” She exhaled. “I mean, Remy, can you imagine? She didn’t know she was pregnant for five months? How clueless can a person be?”

Remy felt a pang of sympathy for a young woman he’d never met. “Actually, Kathy said it’s more common than you’d think. It’s called a ‘cryptic pregnancy,’ where the woman doesn’t know until much later.”

“That sounds crazy to me.” Shenaz shrugged. “But I guess we weren’t so bright at nineteen either. And Monaz said she plays so many sports she was used to not getting her period for months at a time.” She paused. “Thank God her best friend at college finally dragged her to see a doctor. That’s when she found out she was pregnant with a boy. When she broke the news to us, I couldn’t believe it.”

Remy reddened and stared at his plate. TMI, he thought. They had emailed him Monaz’s picture, and he had immediately seen the family resemblance between Shenaz and her niece—the straight dark hair, the sharp, clear eyes, the full lips. Unless Monaz’s boyfriend looked like Shrek, her baby would be beautiful.

Jango cleared his throat. “To think I spent a whole year trying to help you guys adopt from here. Believe me, I was no further ahead than the day I started the process. You can’t believe the red tape, Remy. Everything in this country moves at a snail’s pace, man. I finally told the social worker, ‘Arre, madam, at this rate, my friend will be an old man with a gray beard and dentures before he becomes a father.’ So when Monaz confided in us, I immediately thought of you and Kathy.” He gave his wife a sideways look. “This one though. She was in such a shock she couldn’t function for a few days.”

“You don’t know my brother Phiroz,” Shenaz said, addressing Remy. “He and his wife—well, they’re not like us. They’re small-town folks, very conservative. They live in Navsari. I don’t know what Phiroz would do if he found out.” She lowered her voice. “Jango is right. The timing of this was a godsend. If you were not willing to take the baby, I don’t know what we would’ve done.”

Remy bit down on the most obvious question: Why hadn’t Jango and Shenaz offered to adopt Monaz’s baby themselves? Sure, Jango had always claimed that they enjoyed being childless, bragged about how much they valued their freedom, their ability to be footloose and fancy-free. But faced with an unwanted child in the family, surely they would’ve changed their minds. He and Kathy had gone through their twenties certain that they didn’t want kids. But when Kathy had turned thirty-one, she had abruptly changed her mind and he had agreed. It hadn’t occurred to them then that they’d be unable to get pregnant. Remy recalled the small fortune they’d spent on fertility treatments that didn’t take. After Kathy proposed that they adopt a child from India, he had called Jango and requested his help.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Shenaz said, misreading his expression. “You’re wondering why Monaz didn’t have an abortion, right?” Her eyes searched his face. “How could she? She was so far along when she came to us. Stupid girl.”

“It’s all going to work out,” Remy said, putting an arm around Shenaz. “This—this is so much better than us adopting an unknown child. This way, it all remains in the family, you know? You and Jango can visit us anytime and get to know the boy.”

“And also, yaar, we know that the child is half-Parsi and comes from a good family,” Jango said. “If you’d pursued the other route, who knows what we would’ve gotten? Most likely an orphan from the slums, right? With God knows what family history and all. And almost certainly a Hindu or a Muslim child. Not too many Parsis give up their children for adoption, correct?”

Even though Remy had had the same thought when Jango had called him in Columbus, he winced at hearing it said out loud. He thought of himself as a progressive, secular man. Neither he nor Kathy was religious. But it was undeniable: adopting a Parsi child was hitting the jackpot. Their small, insular community had a higher death rate than birth rate, and so they were a dying breed, less than a hundred thousand of them left worldwide. To find a child from within this affluent and educated community was miraculous. He didn’t know his mother’s views on adoption, but at some point, he’d have to tell her about the reason for this trip, and getting a child whose provenance would be known to them would surely make the whole business more palatable to Shirin.

Embarrassed by his thoughts, Remy changed the topic. “Kathy and I… You know. We’ll make sure that Monaz’s baby—our baby—lacks for nothing. We’ll be good parents, I promise.”

“As if we have any concerns about that!” Jango said. “This will be the luckiest baby in the world. Arre, if I were a few years younger, I’d have begged you and Kathy to adopt me.”

Shenaz struck her forehead in faux exasperation. “Thirty-six years old, and he still cracks his ridiculous jokes,” she said. “God help me.”

She looked at Remy. “Will you return to Bombay for the baby’s birth? It might be best if Monaz doesn’t get a chance to bond with her son.”

There was a sudden silence at the table as if the enormity of Monaz’s loss had hit each of them.

Remy sighed. “I’d like to,” he said. “But let’s talk to her about what she’d prefer when she gets here.” He rose from the table. “I think I’ll rest for a few minutes.”

“Yes, go take a nap,” Shenaz said. “You must be so jet-lagged.”

He woke up with a jolt a few minutes before ten, brushed his hair, and went into the living room to await the mother of his future child. A pulse beat at the side of his neck and he put his index finger on it to quiet it. He could hear Shenaz in the kitchen, giving instructions to the cook.

Monaz was late but hadn’t called to say so, and for some reason this disappointed Remy. Relax, he said to himself. You’re not adopting her, just her baby. He imagined a small boy tottering around their yard in Columbus, an alert, curious child in cargo shorts and red sneakers, and his heart did a strange little flip at the thought. He fidgeted in his chair, unable to control his nervousness.

Remy rose when the doorbell rang, and remained standing while Shenaz opened the door and let in a slender young woman. Monaz was wearing a white T-shirt, blue jeans, and tennis shoes. A leather bag was slung across her right shoulder. She looked as if she’d be at home on an American campus, and Remy was pleased at the realization.

He smiled as he watched the teenager give her aunt a hug and then cross the long, rectangular room to where he stood.

“Hi, Monaz,” he said, sticking his hand out to shake hers. “I’m Remy. I’m so happy to meet you.”

It was only now that he looked her fully in the face and took in the red eyes, the strawberry nose, the trembling lower lip. “Hi, Remy Uncle,” the girl replied. “I’m so very, very sorry.”

“Oh, that’s fine,” Remy said, waving a hand to dismiss her apology. “You’re not that late.”

The girl stared at him and then scrunched up her face. “I’m sorry I made you come all the way from America. But I’m keeping my baby.”

Chapter Two

Remy felt numb as he listened to Jango and Shenaz berating the girl, who had folded upon herself. Of all the scenarios he had imagined, he had not entertained the possibility of the girl changing her mind. I’ve never seen Jango lose his temper like this, he thought with an odd detachment. Shenaz was crying, accusing her niece of embarrassing her in front of her husband’s oldest friend.

“Do you think Remy just strolled in here from Juhu Beach or something?” Shenaz said. “This poor man left his wife and his business in America to fly here to meet you.”

“I had said all along that I would have to meet him first before I agreed,” Monaz replied sullenly.

“What?” For a second, Shenaz faltered. “Yes, that’s true. But we—we thought it was as good as done.” She looked angry again. “Do you think you can ever find a better home for your son than what Remy and Kathy can provide? You remember what I told you about them? They are model people. A model couple.”

“Shenaz, please,” Remy said, emerging from his fog. “Let’s all take a deep breath.” They all turned to him, looking to him for guidance, but he fell silent. His head felt woolly, as if fatigue and disappointment had formed cobwebs in his brain.

“Shame on you for cutting my nose like this,” Shenaz resumed. “Who are we going to find that’s better than Remy?”

“There’s no need to find anyone else.” Monaz’s voice had grown louder, more strident. “I’m trying to tell you that, only. I am going to keep my baby. Gaurav and I are getting married.”

There was a stunned silence. Three pairs of eyes stared at the girl, who sat there shaking but defiant.

“Chokri,” Shenaz said at last, “have you gone mad? Do you think your father will allow you to marry a non-Parsi?”

“I’m nineteen. I don’t need his permission.”

“Last week, you told us this Gaurav person didn’t want anything to do with you,” Jango said. “And now you’re going to marry him?”

Monaz opened her mouth to explain, but Remy had heard enough. He didn’t need to know any more of her personal business. His best chance to adopt a child from India had evaporated, and he felt foolish for having rushed here, for having put all his eggs in one basket. A private adoption had seemed like such an elegant solution.

“Excuse me,” he said, standing up. “I—I need to call Kathy.” His stomach heaved at the thought of his wife’s disappointment. Adopting an Indian child had been her idea. “The child should look like at least one of us, honey,” Kathy had said. “And getting a… a white kid is going to be hard.” He had tensed at the thought of yet another link tying him to a country he had been determined to leave behind. But Kathy had seemed so convinced that he’d acquiesced.

“Remy, wait,” Shenaz cried. “I’m sure I can knock some sense into this girl.”

He shook his head. “It’s okay,” he said. He forced himself to meet Monaz’s eye and smile. “Good luck with everything.”

“I’m so sorry, uncle,” she said, wiping tears away. “I didn’t do this on purpose, I swear.”

“I know,” he said, feeling a trickle of sympathy. “It’s okay. Congratulations to you.”

“She what?” Kathy said.

“She changed her mind. She’s keeping the baby,” Remy repeated.

“What?”

He fell silent, knowing that Kathy needed a few minutes to absorb the news. “I’m sorry, honey,” he said at last.

“I don’t believe it. I mean, how could she? What gives her the right?”

He didn’t state the obvious: that they had no signed agreement with Monaz, and even if they had, they were not the kind of people who would force a mother to give up a child against her wishes.

“I knew I should’ve come with you. Maybe if she’d met me also.”

His heart twisted at how crushed Kathy sounded. “How could you have? You have that big conference coming up.”

“I know,” she said miserably. “But this was more important.”

“Listen,” he said, forcing a lightness into his voice. “We’re in our midthirties. We’ll… As soon as I come home, we’ll start the process in the US, okay? I’d much rather adopt in America anyway.”

Kathy sighed. “This was my stupid idea. I just… I thought it would mean something to you. To have a child who came from the same part of the world as you.”

He felt a gust of love for Kathy. But he couldn’t explain to her that the last thing he wanted was to continue an attachment with the country of his birth. Once Mummy was gone, even his periodic visits to India would end. His wife knew about his fraught history with his mother, but she had grown up in a close-knit Irish Catholic family less than ten miles from where they now lived, and couldn’t understand the complexity of his feelings—the fact that he had come to America precisely to get away from home, his childhood memories colored by the strange dynamic between him and his mother and tarnished by the gloom of his parents’ marriage.

“Remy?” Kathy said. “You still there?”

“I’m here,” he said. Although at that moment, he’d have given anything to be lying next to her in their bed.

“What’re you gonna do now?”

“I guess I’ll stick to the rest of the plan. I’ll go over to my mom’s flat this afternoon. Surprise her.” He felt his body tense at the prospect.

“Will you still stay the full ten days then?”

“I’m not sure. I’ll play it by ear. Would you mind if I did?”

“You do what you need to.” Kathy paused. “You don’t think she—Monaz—will change her mind?”

He hated the tenuous hope in her voice, blamed himself for it. “I don’t think so, honey,” he said. “Apparently, she and the baby’s father are thinking of getting married.”

There was a sudden silence, Monaz’s reversal a brick wall they couldn’t scale.

“Well,” Kathy said at long last, “I’d better go. It’s late.”

He knew she’d lie awake in bed, flooded with disappointment, and the fact that he was more than eight thousand miles away, unable to hold her in his arms, made him furious at the thoughtless girl in the next room, who had dashed their hopes so cavalierly. He shouldn’t have called Kathy at this hour, should’ve allowed her a peaceful sleep.

“I’m sorry, baby,” Remy said.

“It’s not your fault.”

“Yes, it is. I don’t know… I should have known better.”

“Remy,” Kathy said. “Don’t be silly. There’s no way you could’ve predicted this.”

Except there was, he thought after they’d hung up. This is why he had flinched inwardly when Kathy had first proposed adopting from India. Why hadn’t he spoken up then? Why hadn’t he told her the truth? India always disappointed. He had often thought of Bombay as the museum of failures, an exhibit hall filled with thwarted dreams and broken promises. The reels of red tape themselves were worthy of their own display room. What on earth had made him imagine that adopting a child here would go smoothly?

Remy remembered a summer’s afternoon lying on the hammock in their backyard in Columbus. He and Kathy had been married five years by then. “What was the happiest day of your life?” Kathy had asked.

He knew that she expected him to pick their wedding day. Or perhaps the day he’d met her at the party at Ralph Addington’s house during Remy’s second month in America. But he’d told her the truth: it was the day he’d received the letter admitting him to the MFA program at Ohio State. That letter had been his ticket out of the museum of failures and into a new world of possibility. And it had all paid off beyond his wildest dreams.

I’ll cut short my trip, Remy now thought. I’ll spend a few days with Mummy and then return home. After his father’s death, he’d entrusted his mother’s care to his cousin Pervez and his wife, Roshan, who now lived two floors below his mother’s apartment. He would meet with them and with the family lawyer, tweak the arrangements for Shirin’s care, and then he’d leave. There was really nothing else in Bombay to hold him.

He paced around the bedroom, debating whether to join the other three in the living room. As if in answer to his question, Monaz herself appeared at his door.

“Hi?” he said.

Without asking for permission, she walked into the room. “I wanted to see you for a minute,” the girl said. “Privately.” Her face crumpled. “To tell you I’m not a bad person. To explain what—”

“It’s okay,” Remy said. “It’s none of my business.”

“But I want to. Remy Uncle, when I found out I was pregnant, Gaurav was the first person I told. I was petrified. I mean, you know what the attitudes are like in India towards unwed mothers. And of course, Gaurav knows all this, but he—he was really mean to me. He said there was no way he could be a father, that he was planning to go to law school after he graduated from college. In any case, he had another girlfriend, he said. He wouldn’t even talk to me after that. That’s when I came to Shenazfui for help.”

And that’s the guy you’re going to marry? Remy thought.

His incredulity must’ve shown on his face, because Monaz said, “I know what you’re thinking. But Remy Uncle, Gaurav has changed. He came to me yesterday and apologized. He is going to tell his parents about us next week, only. He’s promised me that we’ll marry before our son is born.”

The girl was looking at him with her large, liquid eyes, and despite himself, Remy felt a stir of avuncular concern. “And your parents will be okay with this? Gaurav is Hindu, yes?”

A look of uncertainty crossed Monaz’s face before it hardened into determination. “I don’t care. If they want to see their grandson, they’ll have to accept our mixed marriage.”

She is the oddest combo of trepidation and courage, Remy thought. He liked her. “Well,” he said, “I wish you all the luck in the world.”

“Thanks for your blessings, uncle,” she said politely. “But I also need your forgiveness. Otherwise, I will not have a good marriage. I don’t want to build my happiness out of your sadness.”

Remy looked closely at the girl. No American teen would act like this,he thought, bemused by her earnest superstition. “There’s nothing to forgive, Monaz,” he said. “You have to do what’s best for you.”

She rushed to him and put her arms around him. “Thank you, uncle. You’re so nice. Just as Shenazfui said you were. Good luck to you and your wife. I will pray for you.”

Chapter Three

Remy stood at the entrance of his childhood apartment, took a deep breath, and rang the doorbell. He plastered a smile on his face and rehearsed the “Surprise!” with which he would greet his mother, hoping it would appease her anger at not being informed that he was coming.

But a young dark-skinned woman answered the door, and his smile faltered. “Yes?” the woman said. “Aap kon?”

“I’m Remy. Shirinbai’s son.” He picked up his suitcase and made to enter, but the woman blocked his way.

“Can I come in?” he said, more sharply than he’d intended, and the woman moved out of his way. “Ah, Remy sahib,” she said. “I recognize you now from your photos. Please, welcome. Sorry, no one told me you were coming. My name is Hema. I come every morning to do the sweeping-cleaning.”

He nodded in reply and looked around the living room, taken aback at its deterioration since he’d last been home. The room badly needed a coat of paint, and there was a long crack in the ceiling. The crystal vases had a layer of dust on them, and the sliding glass windows were dirty and had not been professionally cleaned in a long time. “Is my mother in her room?” he asked.

The woman frowned. “No, sir,” she said. “She’s in the hospital, sir. I thought that’s why you came, only.”

His stomach dipped. “In the hospital? Why? Did she fall?”

“No, no, sir. No fall. She was having a bad cough and fever. Doctor sahib say to shift her to the hospital. And even before that, getting her to eat—oof. Big problem.”

“She didn’t eat?”

“How could she, sir, when all day long she cough, cough, cough?”

Why the hell had Pervez not informed him? “I don’t understand. Didn’t Pervez and Roshan help?” They were living rent-free in the third-floor apartment in exchange for looking after his mother, and Remy had promised to transfer ownership of the place to them after Shirin’s death. When was the last time he’d spoken to them? Hell, when was the last time he’d talked to Mummy? Was it on Christmas Day? Had he really not called her since then?

“They never come up to check on her, sir,” the woman said, looking around the room furtively, as if she half expected the couple to materialize. “The poor woman was so sick. I wanted to bring a God man here to do an exorcism, but Roshanbai say no.”

“A God man?”

“Yes, sir. People in my basti go to him, only, instead of the doctor-foctor. But Roshanbai say she doesn’t believe in such jadoo. Witchery, she call it.”

Remy felt grateful to Roshan for at least having spared his mother such claptrap. But he kept his face impassive. “And now she’s in the hospital?”

“Yes,” Hema said. “Now she’s in Parsee General.”

“I see.” Remy rubbed his face with his hand, trying to erase the sudden weariness he felt. He dropped onto the couch, trying to recalibrate.

“How long has my mom been in the hospital, Hema?”

“Since a few days, sir.”

“And how long have you been working here?”

“Just for a few months, sir. Roshanbai had given me the warning about her temper. But with me, no problem. She say four or five words.” She lowered her voice. “She hardly speaks, sir.”

Remy felt a rush of panic. Shirin was notoriously voluble and critical when it came to the help. Even when Daddy had been alive, she had run through a veritable army of servants with her constant criticism. “She hardly speaks?” he repeated.

Hema nodded, twisting her hands in front of her. “You will take a cup of tea, sir?” she asked.

He looked at her blankly before deciding. “No, it’s okay. I—I’ll just drop off my suitcase in my bedroom, and then I’ll leave you to your cleaning. I want to go see Pervez.”

“As you wish, sir. But you please return your mummy’s key to them, sir, if you’re going downstairs. I’ll just pull the door shut when I leave. Roshanbai hands me the house key every morning, and I let myself in. I come daily at about ten o’clock. Will that be suitable for you?”

“Sure. I don’t wish to change your routine.”

Hema made to lift his suitcase, but he waved her away. I can damn well pick up my own baggage, he thought. He smiled grimly to himself at the inadvertent metaphor as he headed into his boyhood room.

Remy took the two flights of stairs down and rang Pervez’s doorbell.

Pervez looked stunned when he opened the door. “Arre, Remy,” he said. “What are you doing in Bombay? Welcome, yaar. Come in.”

The move to the apartment in the affluent Nepean Sea Road building had obviously been good for Pervez. He appeared to have gained about twenty pounds, and the old, sad-sack nervousness was gone, replaced by a new assurance. Pervez had quit his old job at the bank and was now a partner in a successful toy company. His cousin was only a few years older than Remy, but they had never been particularly close. Daddy’s brother, Faroukh, had died young, and Pervez had been sent away to boarding school. Apart from the monthly check that Daddy had sent to Pervez’s mother, the two families had seldom been in touch while Remy was growing up.

Remy looked around the apartment, which he still owned. He noticed the new coat of paint, the expensive furniture, the chandelier in the living room. What a contrast this airy, spacious flat was to the one-room apartment Pervez and Roshan had been living in three years ago. Remy could still recall the small double bed in a corner, the armoire that took up a third of the room, the metal filing cabinet, the tiny table with two folding chairs on the small balcony. Above all, he remembered the clothes folded and stacked on the floor.

“So how did you find out about Shirin?” Pervez was saying. “News really spreads through our small Parsi community, doesn’t it? And when did you get in? You should have let me know, yaar. I would’ve picked you up at the airport.”

No way was he going to reveal the real reason for his visit. Remy was thinking of an evasive answer when Roshan came into the room and greeted him with a warm hug and kiss. “This is an unexpected surprise,” she said. “Come, have a seat. What will you take? Some juice? Pineapple? Mango? Guava?”

There was a friendly, proprietary ease in the way Roshan spoke to him, which belied the fact that he hardly knew her, that he’d met her for the first time when he’d visited their old apartment. Maybe the familiarity was born out of phone calls over the last three years—calls about his mother or the apartment. Roshan’s manner telegraphed that she considered their debt to Remy already repaid.

Except it didn’t sound like they’d provided much care in recent months.

“Why is Mummy in the hospital? And why didn’t you inform me?”

“She has typhoid and pneumonia,” Pervez said. “Apparently, she had been getting these high fevers every evening that she didn’t tell us about. The doctor advised we transfer her, as she was too weak to be at home by herself.”

Typhoid? Was that still a thing? Remy had thought the disease had been eradicated. “You know, pneumonia can be dangerous at her age…” he began.

Pervez sucked his teeth. “Listen, boss, taking care of Shirin isn’t my full-time job. I’m also a businessman, you know? Same as you. Shirin knew she could call on us if she needed something. It’s not my fault that she didn’t.”

“But Pervez—” Remy stopped, waited until he could control his temper. “Didn’t you visit her regularly enough to know she wasn’t well? I mean… that was the whole point of having you in the same building.”

He said it as gently as he could, but Remy saw Roshan flinch. “I think you’ve forgotten how difficult your mother can be,” she said. “This past year, she actually stopped answering the door when we knocked. And if we let ourselves in, she would refuse to speak. I tell you, that woman is impossible to manage.”

“The thing is, boss,” Pervez said, “even when she was healthy, Shirin was quite rude to my wife—to the extent that a year ago, I forbade Roshan from visiting her. ‘Bas. Send her lunch and dinner and let her manage,’ I said. And if she fires another servant, let her fend for herself.”

Remy swallowed. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he said, while thinking, But this was part of our bargain—that you would deal with her moods. I was honest with you about the fact that Mummy could be difficult.

Roshan threw her husband a quick glance. “Arre, how much to trouble you from eight thousand miles away? Besides, you didn’t come to see your mother once after your daddy died.” Her tone had changed. “What, you were going to rush here because she was being nasty to your cousin’s wife?”

Touché, Remy thought, although he hated Roshan for saying this. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “What with the ad agency and everything…”

“No, no, no, we understand,” Pervez said hastily. “You have your business to worry about, Remy. Anyway, we handled the problem.”

“How?”

“After a few days, Shirin came to her senses, yaar. Chup-chap, she came to our apartment and acted as if nothing were wrong. Was nice and all to Roshan.”

Pervez smiled triumphantly, and Remy had no choice but to smile back. But he felt a cold anger at his cousin for putting his mother in such a humiliating situation. Mummy was what, seventy? She was dependent on them. Surely, they didn’t need to go around teaching her a lesson. Then again, he had outsourced his filial obligations, so he couldn’t really blame them, could he?

A wave of fatigue and sleepiness washed over Remy, and he fought to hold it at bay. “Which is why you can understand our shock when she suddenly stopped talking,” Roshan said. “I mean, this was a woman who used to fight with the servants so loudly that we could hear it from out in the hallway. And then one fine day, bas, nothing, full stop.”

Remy was on high alert. “Meaning?”

Roshan frowned. “I thought you’d told him,” she said to her husband. She faced Remy. “She doesn’t speak. She has fallen totally silent.”

“Since when?”

“Since… I don’t know. For at least three or four months. I should’ve taken her to the doctor then, only. But we didn’t know anything was wrong until the coughing started. And even then, she flatly refused to leave the apartment.” She patted her cheek. “Baap re! I had never heard someone cough like that. She sounded like a TB patient.”

Remy fought again to control his temper. “But, Roshan,” he said quietly, “didn’t you think it odd that she stopped talking? Why didn’t you try and find out what was wrong? Insist that she see someone.”

“Arre, which general’s army can make your mother do something she doesn’t wish to do?” Roshan said, her voice rising. “As it is, the only reason we managed to take her to the hospital is because she fainted at home and Dr. Lokhanwala was good enough to make a house call.”

Remy turned to his cousin, but Pervez stared back at him impassively. A disconcerting thought wormed its way into Remy’s head: By promising the couple the third-floor flat after Mummy’s death, had he unwittingly given them less of an incentive to take good care of her? He remembered how anxious he’d been to get away the last time he’d been here. Had his impatience made him reckless?

Pervez stirred, as if he’d read Remy’s mind. “Listen, cuz,” Pervez said. “I didn’t call because I didn’t want to worry you all the way in America. I’m hoping she’ll be home soon.”

Remy bit down on his lower lip to keep from crying. He had tried to foist his family obligations onto the couple, and this was his punishment. In any case, after he returned to Columbus, he would have to continue relying on Roshan and Pervez. At least you are here now, he said to himself. He would soon be able to assess his mother’s situation in person.

How had Mummy sounded when he’d called her on Christmas Day? He tried to remember. Subdued, come to think of it. But he had called from the car while he and Kathy were driving to Kathy’s mom’s house, and he’d been distracted. Still, he didn’t remember Shirin coughing. Even if she had, she would’ve brushed aside his concerns, blamed it on the pollution in the city. And he would’ve happily bought that excuse.

He finished his drink and pushed back his chair. “Thanks for the juice. But I’ll take my leave now. I want to go see her at the hospital.”

“I have the day off, so if you give me time to get dressed, I can take you,” Pervez said.

“No, no,” Remy said. “That’s okay. I’ll get a cab.”

Pervez gave him a penetrating look, then shrugged. “Whatever you wish.”

Remy took the two flights of stairs back up to his mother’s apartment. The hostility in Roshan’s voice as she’d spoken about Shirin had shaken him. But you are her own flesh and blood, and you struggle with her,he reminded himself. Why did you expect a couple of distant relatives to succeed where you’d failed?

Still, he felt a deep misgiving about having promised them the apartment after Mummy’s death, realizing now that they had no motivation to keep her alive. You idiot, he thought as he let himself into his mother’s flat.

It was something Dina Mehta, the family lawyer, had said that had planted the seed that had made Remy approach Pervez. Cyrus had bought the third-floor apartment as an investment and had leased it to executives from HSBC Bank. But after his father’s death, Dina had informed Remy that the lease was up, and Dina had suggested a rent reduction to someone who would provide care for Shirin instead of looking for another corporate tenant. Offering the apartment to Pervez and Roshan had seemed like an elegant solution to all their problems. Roshan could send meals for Mummy, accompany her to doctors’ appointments, and run errands for her. In exchange, the couple could move into one of the most prestigious neighborhoods in the city.

But the longer Remy had sat in Pervez’s crowded, pitiful room, the sorrier he had felt for him. As Pervez described how his nephews had cheated him out of inheriting his late mother’s flat, Remy heard himself say, “And after Mummy’s passing—provided, you know, it all works out—I could put the apartment permanently in your name. Like, I would never leave you stranded, you know?”

Seeing the incredulity on their faces, Remy had wondered why none of the fairy tales he’d read as a child ever described the pleasure felt by the wish-granting genie or the fairy godmother. Even though Daddy was dead, Remy had felt Cyrus’s approval when he’d left that gloomy one-room flat. What, after all, had separated him from Pervez except for the whimsy of fate? Not only had Pervez’s father died when he was young, but Faroukh had possessed none of the drive and vigor of his younger brother. If the roles had been reversed—if Remy had been born to Faroukh instead of to Cyrus—well, he hoped that someone would’ve been as kind to him.

He had called Kathy after he’d offered up the arrangement, fully expecting her to support his grand gesture. But, to his surprise, Kathy had disapproved. With real estate prices in Bombay being as high as they were, he had rashly thrown away a small fortune without consulting her, she said. They had exchanged words; Kathy had reminded him that they could have kept the third-floor flat for them to stay in whenever they visited Bombay. He had heard what Kathy was too polite to say: that without Cyrus’s buffering presence, she had no desire to stay with Shirin. But Remy couldn’t go back on his word. And if Kathy had seen Pervez’s shabby flat, she would’ve agreed with him. They were more than comfortable, between Kathy’s salary as a pediatrician and his flourishing ad agency. Not to mention the fact that he would inherit Mummy’s flat someday. That alone was worth a ton of money.

Now, for the first time, Remy thought perhaps Kathy had been right all along.

Chapter Four

Bombay looked unchanged from three years ago except that there was more of everything—more people, more traffic, more noise, more construction projects. Remy covered his nose with his handkerchief—the air was brown with smog, and even in his wealthy neighborhood, the sidewalks were so crowded or broken that he was forced into the road. The humidity pasted his shirt to his back. How had Mummy made her way around this dusty city? He wished he hadn’t sold Cyrus’s car after his death, as she’d insisted he do. He should’ve hired a driver for her instead. Imagining his mother battling these streets made him feel terrible; also, he sure could’ve used a driver and an air-conditioned car right about now.

He hailed a cab, and within minutes they were caught in a traffic jam. As they crawled along, he spoke to the driver in Hindi, bemoaning the slow pace. The man turned around and gave him an incredulous look. “What are you saying, sahib?” He laughed. “This is nothing. You should see in the evening. It must not be this way in your desh, correct?”

What was it that revealed he was an outsider, a foreigner in this bewildering city? Daddy used to tease him that even his Hindi now had an American accent, and he supposed that was true.

He had the driver drop him off on the main road, outside the imposing stone arch that led to Parsee General Hospital. He walked the lane that led to the hospital grounds, trying to gather his thoughts. Was it really just earlier today that Monaz had dashed his hopes so cruelly? Time was already beginning to blur. It was hard not to blame some of this on Bombay itself, as if this unpredictable, wily city had it in for him and was attacking him personally.

You’re not making any sense, he chided himself.

The gardens around the hospital were beautiful, lush with trees and flowering bushes and birdsong, a welcome change from the grime of the streets. He took in the grandeur of the century-old stone building as he approached its entrance. For a small community, we Parsis sure have left our mark on the architecture of Bombay, Remy thought. The solidity of the structure stood in contrast to the flimsy, cookie-cutter skyscrapers that kept springing up elsewhere all over the city.

Once inside, he bypassed the reception desk and climbed the stairway that led to the second floor, cursing himself for forgetting Shirin’s room number. He strolled down the sunlit verandah, flanked by patient rooms on one side and open windows on the other. He peered into each room, hoping to spot his mother. Most of the patients were frail and old. A dying community, Remy thought. Soon to be extinct.

The Zoroastrian faith forbade conversion; if he and Kathy eventually did adopt, he wasn’t sure whether their child would even be considered a Parsi. He and Kathy, agnostic themselves, had never discussed in what religion, if any, they would raise their child.

Some of the patients waved at him as he walked by, and he waved back. Almost all had family members fussing around them. Young ward boys buzzed past him, carrying water pitchers and bedpans. After he’d walked the entire length of the hallway, he stopped a passing nurse and asked for Shirin Wadia’s room. She led him back the way he’d come, to where a white-haired woman lay in bed, looking up at the ceiling. He turned to the nurse to say there’d been a mistake—that this shrunken, emaciated woman wasn’t his mother—then stopped. It was her. He recognized the gesture she made as she scratched the bridge of her nose.

He nodded his thanks at the nurse and then stood in the doorway, studying his mother, waiting for the thumping of his heart to recede. He had the awful sense that years from now, when he lay awake in the accusatory dark, this memory would be tucked into his heart like those folded notes Shirin used to send with his school lunches: he was the man who had failed to recognize his own mother.

After a few minutes, he entered the room. And now, he realized why he hadn’t known it was her.

She had always dyed her hair black, and that’s who he’d been looking for—a dark-haired woman, with features as sharp and lethal as her intellect. No wonder he hadn’t recognized the gaunt face, the bewildering reality of white hair and dull eyes. How could she have possibly aged so much in three years? He looked at her dirty toenails sticking out from under the thin cotton blanket—why hadn’t someone clipped them, for Christ’s sake? Pity, monstrous pity, flooded Remy’s heart, followed by guilt. As he stood, he looked for some sign of recognition from her, but there was none.

He licked his lips, swallowed. His mouth was dry. “Hi, Mummy,” he said at last. “It’s me, Remy. I’ve come home.”

Chapter Five

On the long flight to India, Remy had braced himself for the inevitability of his mother’s scathing comments, the critical eyes looking him over and ready to find fault. He had been sure she would disapprove of his plans to adopt; she would shame him for his unconscionable three-year absence. What he was unprepared for, couldn’t have imagined, was the deadness in Shirin’s eyes, the weight loss, the gray, papery skin, bruised from where they’d been drawing blood. When had this decline started? Had it been slow—the drip, drip, drip of age—or had it been a swift decline due to her illness?

He pulled up a chair and told her how glad he was to see her, described the long international flight from Newark, and made up a story about how sad Kathy had been to miss out on a chance to see her on this trip, but Shirin said nothing. After several minutes of keeping up a one-sided conversation, Remy fell silent, running out of things to say. “I’ll be back, Mummy,” he said, and stepped out of the room.

He stopped the first nurse he saw. “Excuse me,” he said. “I… Is there anyone here I could talk to? About my mother’s condition?”

The young woman stared at him for a moment. “Who’s your patient?” she said.

“My patient?” Remy said. “I’m not a doctor.”

“Yes, yes. But what is the name of your patient?”

“Oh. Shirin Wadia.”

“Dr. Bilimoria is rounding. Usually, he comes in the mornings only, but he’s still here today for another case. I can request him to stop by.”

“And he’s her doctor?”

But the nurse had already started walking away, and Remy returned to Shirin’s room. He took in the oxygen tank in the corner, the rusty metal bedside table, upon which sat a jar of Vicks, a bottle of eau de cologne, and a glass of water. Pervez had mentioned that they’d hired a private-duty night nurse. But who kept Mummy company during the day? There was enough money in her bank account to pay for a day nurse.

He heard a low rumbling sound and realized that it came from his mother’s chest, that she was trying to suppress a cough. But a harsh, wet cough exploded out of her anyway, and it went on and on, causing her thin body to shudder. Shirin’s face turned red with exertion, and Remy wanted to shut his eyes and ears against her obvious suffering. He lifted her head and torso, careful not to tug at the IV in her arm. Their eyes met, and a look passed between them before she turned her head away so as to not cough on him.

“Oh, Mama,” Remy whispered. “This sounds terrible. I’m so sorry.” He reached for the water glass and held it to her lips while propping her up with one arm. “Take a sip, Mummy,” he said. Her back felt as hollow as a wooden bowl under his hand.

After the coughing subsided, he lowered her again. As he pulled his hand out from under her, Shirin reached for it and held it to her chest, all the while gazing at him wordlessly. There was a different light in her eyes, and he felt that she had recognized him. But he wasn’t sure.

“Mummy,” he said, and his voice cracked, and he didn’t dare say another word. He stood beside her as she continued to look at him. Then her eyes closed, and a few minutes later he heard a snort and then a soft snoring.

There was a rustling sound, and a bald older man in a white coat breezed into the room. “Hello,” he said, extending his hand. “Dr. Rumi Bilimoria here. And you are… ?”

“Oh, hi. I’m Remy. Shirin’s son.”

“Ah, yes. The one who lives in America.”

“Yes.” Remy had the wild thought that maybe Shirin had spoken to the doctor. “How did you know?”

“Oh, I forget. That lady—I think it’s her niece?—who admitted her to the hospital had mentioned a son in America. But she had indicated that there was some family problem and that we should not expect a visit.”

Remy stared at the doctor, appalled by his tactlessness. “Well, I’m here,” he said at last. “And I was hoping to find out what exactly is wrong. Is her fever under control?”

Bilimoria held up a finger as he pressed his stethoscope to Shirin’s chest to listen to her breathing. Then he leaned into her ear and said loudly, “So, Mrs. Wadia? How do we feel? Medicines are helping?”

Silence. Bilimoria gestured for Remy to step out of the room with him.

“Your mother was completely dehydrated when they brought her in,” Bilimoria said. “Seems like she was not eating or drinking much. She had pneumonia in both lungs. She’s on IV antibiotics, but we’re not out of the woods yet. She’s still getting a fever at night.”

“I see.” Remy bit his lower lip. “But… she’ll be okay?”

“I hope so. We’re doing our best.” Bilimoria gave him a curious look. “She’s only been in the hospital for three days. You came that quickly?”

Remy flushed. “Well, to see her and for other reasons,” he said evasively.

Bilimoria looked as if he were about to ask something else, but then he pursed his lips. “Okay,” he said. “Well, good to meet you.”

“Um, one more question,” Remy said. “Do you… ? Can you give me a rough idea of, you know, when she might be discharged? Because I’m only in India for another week or so.” Without meaning to, he looked at his watch, as if his plane were departing imminently.

Bilimoria frowned. “Your mother is still getting a fever every evening.”

“I understand. Sorry. I’m just anxious to… Never mind.”

“Your mother’s an elderly woman who lives by herself.”

“She’s not elderly. She’s only seventy—”

“An elderly woman who lives by herself,” Bilimoria continued. “She wasn’t able to take care of herself at home. What she will need is for someone to keep an eye on her.”

“But can’t we… ? Once she’s off the IV, everything else can be done at home, correct?”

Bilimoria raised his bushy eyebrows and stared intently at Remy. “Listen, deekra,” he said at last. “We don’t run on an American schedule here. Your mother is on antibiotics. She requires oxygen off and on. And the niece said”—Bilimoria cleared his throat—“that they couldn’t manage her at home. Said she was, you know, a little hard to control.”

Remy flushed. “In America, they discharge patients as soon as possible,” he muttered. “To avoid the risk of an infection.”

“In America, I’ve heard they also send patients home the same day after a double mastectomy,” Bilimoria replied. “What can I say? I guess we are more humane in this country. I will not discharge her as long as she’s getting these fevers.”

Remy nodded, chastised.

“If you want my medical advice,” Bilimoria said, softening, “I think under the circumstances and looking at the full picture, it’s good that we keep her here until she has fully recovered.” A glint came into his eyes. “And it looks like you can afford the hospital fees, no? Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He gave Remy a quick nod and moved away.

Remy watched the doctor’s retreating back. “And the reason she’s not talking?” he called after him. “That’s normal?”

Bilimoria stopped, walked back to Remy. “I don’t have an explanation for that. It could be general weakness and exhaustion. Or, maybe she’s just given up. People do that when they have nothing to look forward to.”

Remy felt the doctor’s indictment spear through his body. He watched as Bilimoria entered another patient’s room. An elderly Parsi woman using a walker ambled past him, and Remy stepped aside to let her pass. “Sukhi raho, deekra,” the woman said. “God bless.”

After he had regained his composure, Remy went back into Shirin’s room. “So what do you think, Mummy?” he said conversationally. “Do you like Dr. Bilimoria? He seems really happy with your progress.”

Shirin turned her head and looked him dead in the eye. She heard me, Remy thought. There’s nothing wrong with her brain.

Then another thought: She knows. She knows I’m lying.

When the dinner