A Short Story by Zach Laengert
[I wrote this story with the hope of being published in the HLR Spotlight at Humber College, but budget cuts unfortunately means that publication is indefinitely canceled. Hope you enjoy it!]
I met Nathira when she plucked me bloodily from the still trachea of a young man who believed in love. She had silently observed the bruises that painted his ochre brown skin purple, and swiftly pocketed me while his father/murderer was turned away in conversation with the policeman. Her thoughts echoed my own: disgraceful that this casual banter of rugby matches, nagging aunties and town gossip would be his only eulogy. She didn’t know about the other boy, dumped in a dry well, who would receive even less.
Nathira absently fingered me, still pocketed, on her long way home. That day she was immune to the constant shouts, leers and shoves of transit; instead channeling renewed sorrow and rage against the looming dread which had enveloped her for more than a month. It felt good – fulfilling – to be the focus and conduit of her emotions. There were a lot of them, complex and varied. Desperate and agonized.
And she wasn’t wrong. Unwed and pregnant was perhaps worse than gay and in love, in this time and place.
~
Nathira had already started cooking dinner by the time she got around to examining me properly. I appreciated the change in aroma, from the dried blood and sweat in her pocket to the fresh garlic and shallots which clung to her steady hands even after washing. I heard and felt her surprise at actually seeing me for the first time. If I could blush.
She beheld a slight silver ring, with the raised image of a meandering leafed vine decorating the outer band. Where the ends of the vine met, a small silver prong held a rough-cut sapphire meshed perfectly with a rough-cut topaz.
I made sure to twinkle in the fading sunlight pouring through her bedroom window - if you’ve got it, flaunt it - right? Nathira’s eyes began to sparkle in kind, and made only a half-hearted attempt to clear her eyes before the tears rushed forth.
It was the push she needed to finally let herself feel the emotions of the day, week and month. Better here – warm, fed and solitary – than anywhere else. Better me, than anything or anyone that would harm or be harmed by her state of vulnerability.
Nathira cupped me in her palm as she curled into her favourite – only – chair, a maroon Ottoman she had stalwartly maneuvered up three sets of cramped stairs during her first week in the apartment. She was drifting into sleep’s waiting arms, but spoke once with all her soul.
“I wish for my daughter to grow up safe and free.”
(Closest I could get the AI today)
~~
“Where the hell is your hair net, Thea?” The chef’s voice was thunderous in the crowded kitchen, though no one missed a beat of frenzied preparation.
“It - it was taken from me, chef.” Thulasi had learned to reply promptly or not at all, in spite of her anxiety and accent. Her cringe, however, was unmistakable.
“Ah, this shit again is it?” He didn’t lower his voice, even when standing right next to her. “I thought you immigrants would know how to take better care of your possessions.”
He still handed her a fresh hair net, this being the fourth time in as many shifts at the restaurant when the chef’s son – boisterous, clumsy and frequently hungover – had taken his frustration out on the new girl by attempting to make her look bad. I knew the chef wouldn’t admit reality, however, and so Thulasi was still subject to public humiliation.
“Yes chef,” she replied correctly, though it burned her to do so. She caught a glimpse of me on her hand as she unfolded the new hair net, and she allowed herself a moderately deep, tension-allaying breath before returning to the challenge in front of her.
Thulasi was genuinely great in the frantic kitchen environment, taking pride in the speed, talent and precision with which she chopped, sliced and diced. Her hands moved with the grace and poise of a nurse’s daughter and assistant, and the confidence of one who had never felt the sting of injury.
Yet I knew, and Thulasi was beginning to suspect, that the only recognition she’d get would come if and when she made a fireable mistake. Or, more likely, was framed for one.
~
She lasted eight months in that kitchen, never assigned anything more complex but delegated plenty of the most menial tasks in the place. Still, the steady income had afforded her the stability and confidence to fall for and move in with a beautiful trans gymnast and dancer of Korean descent.
The two women rented an apartment in the east end of Toronto amongst a varied community of recent and earlier immigrants. What comfort there was in being accepted for their skin colour and accents in that space was considerably outweighed by the judging stares and blatant whispering about their relationship.
Thulasi had tried to call her mother the night before her long shift, but hadn’t been able to get through. Her tense joy was radiating from her, desperate to be shared, but dimmed after the second call went unanswered.
She tried again after a restless night – I did my best, but racing thoughts and chaotic nightmares are beyond the best of us at times – putting the phone on speaker while changing into her uniform as the earliest hints of sunrise touched the apartment around us. Still nothing.
I noticed three more letters crammed into the apartment's mail slot as she left. At best these would be advertisements – more likely, explanations of the couple’s sin ranging from cogent to deranged.
We were just exiting the subway, three blocks from the restaurant, when Thulasi got the call. Finally, I read the thought as it pulsed through her, and she took a second to mentally prepare the news. Mom… I’m pregnant, you’re going to be a grandmother!
But she had scarcely accepted the call when a bored-sounding male voice began speaking in her mother’s language. “This is Thulasi Kunar? We have you listed as next of kin for Nathira Kunar.”
Thulasi was standing stock still in the middle of the sidewalk, lost to the world and blind to the merciless stares and shoves of the early morning crowd around her. She fumbled for the language she’d barely spoken in the six years since she’d immigrated. “Yes, I’m Thulasi. What - what has happened?” I tend to think of myself as detached from the lives I accompany, but found myself mirroring her stunned anxiety.
“Ms. Kunar was caught in the middle of a violent confrontation between police and protestors two days ago. She sustained a variety of injuries, including quite an unfortunate blow to the head. She is currently in a coma, and on life support.”
If the conversation ended, I didn’t hear it. Neither did Thulasi, really. Whether Nathira had waded into the violence as a nurse, joined the protest or started the damn thing – she had learned to make her voice heard fighting for the lives of herself and Thulasi – this was something that should have been foreseeable. Yet multiple minutes passed as the news washed over us.
I have a feeling for the direction my partner is leaning, in thought and action, long before they speak the words. It is a pattern they adopt, an oft-trod path that becomes easier to follow over time. Thulasi had been close, thoughts constantly split between her child and the apathy and antagonism she met every day.
But everything had changed in the space of a moment; her near-set pattern no longer appropriate for her circumstances.
I had barely registered that she had started walking when she was suddenly pushing her way forcefully into the kitchen. The chef’s son had his mouth half open to deliver some snide remark about her tardiness, but she spoke first.
“I’ve had a family emergency, and won’t be able to come in for at least two weeks. Maybe a month.” I could almost feel Nathira’s passion behind the words which now emerged from her usually soft-spoken daughter’s mouth. “I would like to come back then, if you’ll have me, chef.” The adrenaline helped her to meet the chef’s eyes for what felt like the first time.
I think he finally saw her, and recognized the skill and dedication she had poured into her role for eight months. “Very well.” His eyes focused on the name on her uniform. “Give me a call when you’re back, Thulasi.”
“Thank you, chef,” she said, and retreated as the wave of anxiety began to rush back in. She leaned against the brick street wall, breathing deeply to stave off the emotional breakdown for just a moment. That was the only warning I got before she whispered:
“I wish for my mother to meet and help raise her grandchild.”
~~
A forgotten part of me reawakened as the shop’s door jingled open. Standing outlined against the blizzarding street, wiping their boots and removing their gloves, was a handsome golden brown-skinned youth of about twenty. Had it really been that long?
Kevin looked up from his newspaper, quickly assembling his grizzled front despite being glad for any customer to cross the threshold these days. “Looks awful out there,” he said, nodding to the street.
“Sure is,” the youth replied as they searched their pockets. “I’m really glad to find you open, in spite of it all.”
I knew Kevin’s small talk and banter by heart, so I was surprised by the next words out of his mouth. “Say, do I recognize you from the TV?” Okay, Kevin, we’ve been working on this -
But they smiled and nodded as they unfolded a small slip of paper and placed it on the counter. “Could be. I actually have a ticket here from… well, before I was born. My mom pawned a ring here, one that was really special to her. She always speaks so fondly of it, I thought I’d do my best to find it for her 50th birthday.”
Kevin didn’t need to even glance at the ticket. “I can empathize with your mother on that one,” he said as he enclosed me in his hands affectionately. “It’s certainly seen me through some tough times. I wish you and your mother the very best, for her birthday.”
And suddenly I was off his finger and in the palm of my future partner, whose dark eyes lit up with the completion of a quest that had seemed doomed to fail. In a moment I saw that I would reunite with Thulasi and even Nathira, wheelchair-bound but satisfied in “her daughter’s country.”
That’s how I met Iniyan, named for an innocent boy fifty years dead. I can’t wait to see what change they choose to make in the world. Like their mother and grandmother, they seem to have already started without me.
And why not? I am just a ring, after all.
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