Heal the Heart

3.

I waded through the bustling streets of Vancouver, dodging puddles and people alike. There was a reason I hated the wetness. No, it wasn't just limited to me finding every single thing damp. It was the rush it brought about. Perhaps, people actually had a destination to get to that all care for basic human decency went out the window, but my gut told me they were also trying to find a roof over their head lest the rains drop announced, drenching them and their thousand dollar laptops.

At least that was my excuse for using my elbows to make way for myself down the sidewalk. I shoved past a suited man with a briefcase whose focus was more on running and on his phone than on where he was going, yet he gave me the time of day to send a well-executed glare. I ignored him. If he was expecting an apology, he wasn't about to get it. I stopped apologising the moment I got shoved and didn't get an apology back.

"Are you taking your medicines on time?" my mother said through the receiver.

"I have an alarm," I said while manoeuvring between two chattering ladies with baby strollers. One of them ran it over my foot. She didn't apologise.

"So?"

"Yes. I'm taking them."

"Morning, noon, night?"

"After I eat. I remember, Amma."

"Nothing wrong with reminding you again," she said, and I had the sudden urge to apologise for snapping at her. Then, some woman shoved my elbow. I almost dropped my phone, and the urge vanished. "Why do you sound like you're out of breath?"

"I'm not out of breath, I'm—" I stopped, heaved in a huge breath, and continued my shuffling. "I'm walking to Krishna's place."

"Oh. Okay."

"How's Daddy? Where is he?" I sidestepped as an old couple passed by. That gave me enough time to control my breathing. Jesus, I really was out of breath.

"You know. At the park. Where else?"

"This early?" I checked the time. It was almost 5:30 pm here. That meant close to seven am there.

"He said something about catching the colours of the sun's first rays. You know these things better than I do."

I bit my upper lip and ground the flesh till I could feel the dry skin tearing. Not anymore. Not for a long time. "Clarissa? She left?"

"Taking a shower. Her bus comes only at 7:30."

I heard her sigh. I knew these things. It was routine for them. There wasn't much to talk about these days. Our calls were just a method of letting each other know we were alive. I'm not dead! I'm not dead, either! Nothing of substance remained. We skirted around topics, trying not to ruin the other person's mood, and if we failed, the red button was put to use faster.

"And you?" I asked.

"Enjoying the quiet." Then a slurp. "And my coffee."

I knew what came after. I was present for this day after day. I just had to close my eyes, and there it was. The bitter smell of fresh, ground coffee upending the entire living room, sounds of sizzling, followed by the aroma of batter being cooked on an open stove, sunlight streaming through the sliding doors of our balcony, the fragrance of my mother's lavender body lotion as she strode into my room, whispering Time to wake up in my ear, Clarissa's whines across the hallway, my father entering through the door with his sketchbook in hand.

God, I missed them.

"Bacha," my mother's voice cut through my daydreams. "Are you all settled there?"