Page 30 of The Love Match

I come crashing back downto earth when we get home to a stack of bills in the mailbox,FINAL NOTICEstamped in big red letters across the one at the very top.

“Oh my God, is this the electricity bill?” I hiss.

It takes every ounce of my self-control not to wake Resna, who is being carried to bed by Arif and Nanu, exhausted from her Oscar-winning performance as a tantrum-throwing toddler.

Amma frowns at the envelope I’m waving. “Is it?”

I tear it open and discover that PSE&G warned usthreeprevious times. The late fee alone makes my knees weak. “How did you let it get this high?”

A note of fluster creeps into Amma’s voice as she takes the bill from me. She casts a nervous glance over her shoulder at the landlady’s door. The hallway we stand in is so narrow, we have to talk in furtive whispers. “I—I’ve been so busy getting you ready for your dates with Harun that I—”

“And that’s the problem,” I say, cutting her off. “These last couple of weeks have felt like… well, the movie Harun and his cousin took me to. But this is real life, Amma. And in real life, you can’t fix all your problems with a heartfelt musical number or a sudden inheritance. How are we supposed to afford this?”

It was well and good to wish for a handsome prince to swoop in and rescue us, but life doesn’t play out like books or movies. We have to save ourselves. The fact that Amma still can’t see that makes me hot with rage.

Amma must notice my anguish because she says, “Wait, please. Don’t fret. I’ll take care of this.” She starts rooting through her purse until she brandishes a scrap of paper with a name and number. “Ah, here it is! Your Pushpita Khala gave me this earlier.”

“What is it?”

“You know, the Emons are at the heart of our local wedding business,” Amma says. “No matter what else you think of these dates, they’ve given your khala a firsthand look at my abilities as a seamstress. When she found out I made your dress tonight from scratch, she was so impressed, she gave me the contact information of a girl getting married at their banquet hall at the end of the summer. Apparently, she’s something of a bride-zolad—”

“Bridezilla,” I correct absently, though the sentiment remains the same.

“Right, yes, bridezilla,” continues my mother, “and yourPushpita Khala thought she might be more inclined to ‘say yes to a dress’ if it’s one designed with her in mind.”

I mull over her words, frowning at the threadbare entranceway carpet. “You’ve never made anything so elaborate.”

“I haven’t. But to keep our lights on, I’m willing to try.”

Her eyes shine with grim determination, and despite my frustration at her reckless disregard of our finances—my frustration atmyself, becauseI’vebeen the one reminding her about bills since my father died—the knot in my gut loosens.

A touch of admiration replaces it.

When we lost Baba, Amma lost a part of herself, untethered now that she was no longer a housewife, now that she had to become the breadwinner. I saw the same determination in her then when she applied to work in the factory district, making paper and packaging and perfumes until she could take her seamstressing off the ground and come back to us.

She wasn’t able to do it alone, but shediddo it. I suck in a shuddering breath and Amma closes the distance between us, wrapping me in her arms so I can breathe in her soothing scent of sandalwood soap and spices. “Oh, amar shuna, amar jaan, everything will be fine.”

I nod into her shoulder, willing it to be true.

The following day, the entire family waits with bated breath, surrounding Amma as she calls the number from the couch. A strained, mostly one-sided conversation follows.

Amma mentions Pushpita Khala, who gave her a glowingrecommendation. The bride-zolad retorts with something that drains the color from her face. A tense, “I’m not sure if I can do that, but I can try,” follows before the call ends. My mother’s eyes swivel toward us.

“Your Pushpita Khala was kind enough to send along photographs of my work….”

The rest of us lean closer.

It’s Resna who exclaims, “And?” from where she clings impatiently to the skirts of Nanu’s white shari, though she understands the direness of the situation least of all.

“She loved every piece,” Amma replies quietly. “She’d like to hire me not only to make her bridal, mehndi, and gaye holud sharis, but to outfit her entire bridal party.”

“Yay!” Resna exclaims.

She takes Arif’s and Nanu’s hands in each of her own and starts skipping around the living room. Even as my grandmother reaches for mine, my eyes are drawn to my mother’s crestfallen face and the listless way her fingertips trace over the keypad of the phone.

“What is it?”

The festivities fade at my query, the rest of the family taking notice of exactly what I had when Amma lifts her glistening gaze to mine. “It’s a big order and would help us immensely, but she’s only willing to pay a quarter in deposit until she sees the final pieces. It would cover the bills, if I didn’t need it to purchase more materials. Bridal wear is so expensive.”

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