Free Born Confused by Tanuja Desai Hidier Page B

make it. It’s all going to be all right. Let’s walk a little, you’ll feel better.
    I said it for myself as much as her; I was terrified. We were by Central Park, and the icicles were just beginning to melt, the delicate drops making little plink-plink sounds if you listened close, and my mother’s breathing slowly grew even.
    And she was right. She didn’t make it to India on time. And this idea that you could feel when a person was slipping away to the other side, the way she felt it so viscerally despite the 10,000-mile difference, this terrified me, too. Because I hadn’t felt a thing. Even when it was my own Dadaji, who was quite easily my favorite person on the face of this planet or any other. And if people were leaving and I had no clue, how was I going to keep track of them? I’d had a deep and sudden apprehension: That could be me years from now, getting a chill on a park bench and just knowing. But I couldn’t finish the thought. I had the chill already.
    We were gliding down the slope of Lancaster Road and branching right towards Gwyn’s dead end, which forked off from my own not taken.
    Julian was hanging almost entirely out the window now, singing the song on the radio really loudly, guitar riffs included, as if sheer volume could block out my presence. Well before we zigzagged up Gwyn’s double drive, he was over me. I guess he’d been hoping for action of another genre than nonstop ralphing; I was definitely not smooch material this evening.
    All the lights were off as was often the case in Gwyn’s home. This was not an indication of anything in particular. It could mean Mrs. Sexton was out on the town with her latest flame (this one a theater director from the community college); it could just as easily mean she was passed out in the den in the back, semiconsciously watching reruns of Family Ties. In any case, Gwyn—much to my envy—could operate as if she weren’t home. And tonight, as it turned out, Mrs. Sexton actually was in absentia.
    Before Dylan had even pulled the emergency brake, Julian was out the door.
    —Hey, man, he said.—I’m gonna book. Mind if I use the wheels to get back?
    —Leaving already? said Gwyn.—But I’ve got wine, and beer, and those big Pepperidge Farm cookies, the soft ones with the white chocolate chunks…
    —Thanks, doll, but I’ve got to go home and watch my plants grow. Dillweed?
    —Sure, dude, take ‘em, said Dylan, tossing the keys over. He slung an arm low on Gwyn’s hips and drew her against him.—Just swing by tomorrow—not too early—so we can get all the shit moved on time. I won’t be needing to get home tonight anyways, right, babe?
    —Uh, right, said Gwyn.—Jules, are you sober enough to go?
    —Believe me, I’m sober now.
    We were all out of the car and Julian was in, revving the motor. Gwyn had one arm around me and the other around Dylan.
    —Later, said Dylan, throwing out a rock ‘n’ roll devil’s horn with his free hand.
    —Later, said Gwyn.—But I hope sooner.
    Personally, I had a feeling Julian was thinking more along the lines of never. I still managed a halfhearted Later. But by the time I said it he was already out the drive, headlights streaking red like a gash in the night, and then vanishing around the bend.
    In another place and time and body this sort of exchange might have bummed me out big-time. And I did feel a dull stab, like when the nitrous oxide started to wear off that time I got my wisdom teeth pulled. But Julian’s swift departure was more than anything a relief after all the humiliation of the evening.
    —Don’t worry, honey, said Gwyn, squeezing my shoulders.—He’ll be back.
    Those skidmarks didn’t look like the sign of someone in a hurry to do a U-turn, but I nodded dumbly anyways.
    —I think I’ll be heading, too, Gwyn, I said.—Thanks for everything.
    —Oh noooo, Dimple! Stay just a little longer! Please!
    —Come on, Gwyn, who needs a third wheel?
    Dylan gave her a pointed look that