47. KAVI

47

KAVI

Dmitri tells me everything is okay right until my flight to Seattle. I don't have enough time to pry out of him what's wrong. He has to fly to his dad, and I've got an interview to attend. Everything is happening too fast.

And now I'm meeting my mom, squeezing her in before the interview. We're in her greenhouse, surrounded by luxurious plants, nestled in a three-walled structure of criss-crossed wooden panels and plastic. Behind us is not the house I grew up in, but the mansion my dad bought after he got hired as the Blades' head coach.

From a distance, Kirandeep Basra seems put-together. Cardigan, linen pants, and tidily manicured hands.

But there are smudges under her eyes, and an underlying restlessness in her limbs. She's been hedging every word, as if afraid I'll get up and never come back.

Mom brings out a jug of lemonade. "Are you back in Seattle? Not that I'm saying you should or shouldn't be. Only that I'm–" She pours out two glasses. "Hoping you are?"

"I'm interviewing. For an admin job here."

"Oh. Good. Good."

"It's not guaranteed?—"

"Of course, not. But you could—" She takes a deep breath, giving me the lemonade. "Move in with us? If you needed to?"

I drink deeply, ignoring the new rock in my throat. "I, um, don't think that's the best idea."

"Right. I get it." She turns away, bending down to prune stems.

"Mom?"

She rubs her nose with the back of her garden glove. "I'm sorry."

There's a wallop in my chest. "Sorry?"

"I know why you don't trust me. When we were together in Vancouver, I pushed you to see Tyler when you weren't ready. And I've not been supportive, telling my daughter things like men make mistakes instead of giving her real advice."

I put my drink down and crouch to join her.

Her hands aren't steady enough for the clippers. I gently take them away.

She sucks in a breath. "You were vulnerable. You felt unsupported by us, and like you had nowhere to go."

My apartment was taken away. I did have nowhere to go.

"I was telling you to give Tyler a shot. On the other hand, your dad was saying Tyler's performance on the team was suffering because you weren't talking to him. And then—you moved in with this Dmitri Lokhov. It's clear what happened. You felt like you had no choice. And I don't know what he's like, only that you stopped taking my calls?—"

Because her calls were always the same. About me and Tyler reconnecting, or about this lucky life we lived where we could focus on our hobbies because we were going to be cared for…

And now she's apologizing.

Mom turns to face me, palms out. "Kavleen, I want to stand by you. I should have done it from the beginning. You don't have to live with him anymore?—"

She thinks I'm trapped, living with Dmitri. That I was pushed to it, and he took advantage.

No.

"Mom." I grab her arm. "What you've described? Being trapped? Living with Dmitri is nothing like that. Maybe at first I had no choice but to move in with him, but now—" I feel myself genuinely smile. "He's important to me."

"Like Tyler was?"

"No." Denial is a gong inside me. "He's not Tyler."

Dmitri is kind and good and generous, and I want him. Not only in a regular physical sense, but in that I want to tease him across that kitchen island. I want to listen to him grunt and workout, and I want him to be snobby about healthy food, even as he lights up whenever my cookies are baking. I want to tap my feet against his muscled thighs when we watch trash tv on the couch. I want to go to his games, all of them, cheering him on in the stands so loudly my voice cracks. His little smirks, the ones that feel saved just for me, that tell me I've snuck through his grumpiness to amuse him, I want all of them.

He's not Tyler.

My mom's eyes are filling. She thinks I need saving.

I dig my phone out of my pocket. "You'll never guess what happened. I was the social media manager for the Vancouver Wings for one of their games. They asked me to photograph them. Look at all the comments my work got. People are following my personal photography account because of it. I've gotten messages from people asking to see more of my work."

I show her.

Does she get it? This is who I've become these last few weeks.

She takes her gloves off and scrubs her cheek.

"I'm changing and believing in myself," I say. "Or I was, until these last few days when Tyler started harassing me harder and I got that email from dad, assuming so many things."

She hands me back the phone. "Your dad loves you."

Did she see the photos properly?

I remember Dmitri absorbing each one, asking for more.

Mom holds onto my shoulders. "Sometimes I find your dad looking at old videos of you as a kid. He's sad you aren't home."

I can't bear this information. It hurts to hear because it's not like I've withdrawn my love from him. He's done that to me. He's made it so particularly conditional, suited to his world, and not mine.

Tearing my eyes from her, I look anywhere else. The clock on the wall reminds me. I have an interview. At the same time, I'm questioning everything.

Why am I really here in Seattle?

When this firm emailed, asking for an interview, I thought it was a sign. A solution to me figuring out my life properly and relying on myself. Only myself.

Except, looking back at my mom, I think I've got it wrong. I don't have to do absolutely everything on my own to believe in myself. I was already getting there… and it wasn't done alone…

The Kavi who was with Tyler is not the same Kavi who is with Dmitri.

"I didn't go to college," I say out loud.

My mom's hands wave. "That's fine, you don't have to–"

"I'm a photographer."

She blinks, confused by the connection.

"I know…" says my mother slowly.

"Do you?" I get up, waiting until she also stands. "Because sometimes I think you think I'm a photographer in the sense of—" I groan. "I don't know, like a person patting their daughter's head, patronizing her, saying something like, ‘You're doing so great, sweetie.'"

"You are doing so great–"

Dmitri, the first time he saw me edit in the dark, pushing and asking if it was my dream. Pushing again, making that bet of ours. Taking me so seriously, bargaining that he'll invite everyone over for barbecue if I believed in myself enough to photograph his team. Always treating my camera with such respect.

"I'm a photographer," I repeat to my mom. "And I have to go."

Her eyebrows slant. "So soon? For your interview?"

"No, I need to do something I've been putting off. Something I've been afraid to try. I need to contact Tim."

"Who is Tim?"

I reach out and hug her. "Hopefully, my new boss. But if not, I'll keep trying."

"Will you come back for dinner?" my mom asks, clutching me.

"Not today. I have to fly back to Vancouver."

She pulls back. "Back to him?"

I'm gathering my stuff. "Yup. He needs me, too."

Something happened to Dmitri's dad. And I know he's not used to opening up and sharing his burdens, but I want to be there for him like he's been there for me.

My mother walks me to the door.

"What are you going to do now?" I ask.

"Um, knit."

"Hey," I wonder randomly. "Did you ever want to make clothes for real? To have your own fashion line. I remember… when I was really little, I might have heard you say that."

"I haven't—I mean—it's too late for that. In another life."

"Are you happy, Mom?"

"I'm good, Kavi."

I don't want to project onto her. She's not a mirror of me and my dreams. It's rude to think I should tell her how to feel, so instead I whisper other words.

"Then I'm happy for you." I smile softly. "Thank you for cooking for us growing up and keeping the house so clean even on days you were exhausted, and thank you for always being so happy whenever you saw me, especially when dad was too busy to be present?—"

"He's sacrificed so much for you—us?—"

"I know . But this isn't about him." My vision blurs a bit until I rub my eyes. "I want you to know that if you ever decide you want to do anything else or try anything else, I support you. And I'm sorry for not taking your calls, but I needed some time away. This isn't goodbye. I just have to go."

We give each other another teary hug before I leave.

On the way to the airport, I send Dmitri an audio message, asking him if everything is alright with his dad. I know their relationship is complicated. I tell him he can talk to me. That he doesn't have to hold back his problems, but can share them with me. That he should. I insist. I'm here. I'm thinking about him and miss him.

I also remember what my mom said about my dad looking at old videos of me as a kid. I try calling him, but his phone goes straight to voicemail. And by the time I land in Vancouver, he hasn't tried to call me back. He might have meant to, but knowing him, something hockey-related came up. To him, it must have felt critically important.

But where does it leave me?

A daughter who feels like her dad doesn't think she's worth fighting for. Well?—

I am worth fighting for. And I don't want to keep trying only for him to give me less than a fraction of that effort back. Instead, I hug this new truth and let it fill my heart. I'm going to turn towards all the things in my life that spark joy and growth, not persistent doubt. That's where my happiness is.