Page 47 of Next Time Will Be Our Turn
Mama paced the room. “We can fix this. We—we’ll tell everyone that Iris was already engaged for a while, and she—she had an intimate ceremony in—in Bali. Yes. Bali!” She nodded to herself. “We were there, of course. And she conceived right after the wedding. A blessing.”
“There we go,” Iris said easily.
Mama swung round and caught Iris’s arm. Even from where I stood, a few paces away, I could feel the heat of Mama’s rage radiating from her. “Don’t be a smart-ass,” Mama hissed. “Just. Don’t. You have done enough.” She released Iris and started to walk out of the room but then stopped. “And when will we meet this—this husband of yours?”
Iris was rubbing her arm where Mama had grabbed her. “Anytime you want. I’ll start packing today.”
If Mama was surprised to hear that Iris was moving out, she didn’t show it. She left without another word. Then it was just Iris and me and the terrible drowning silence between us. When I look back at this moment now, my heart breaks, Izzy. I wishI’d said something kind to her. In hindsight, I realize that beneath the bravado, she must’ve been quaking with fear. Of course she would be. She was young, so young, and pregnant and newly married to a man none of us knew, and our parents had just rejected her with shocking coldness. I think of myself then, smug and self-righteous, and I want to shake that version of myself. But as much as I wish I could rewrite history, I haven’t figured out a way to do that yet. So here’s what I did do:
I thought of my relationship with Parker and how fraught it already felt, what with all of the wedding planning drama. Every week it seemed like our parents had a new thing to disagree over. For the past two weeks, we’d been in negotiations over the Sangjit—the Chinese engagement ritual where the groom-to-be’s family was supposed to come in a procession to the bride-to-be’s house, bearing gifts and red packets filled with money. The ceremony would end with the groom-to-be putting a necklace round the bride-to-be’s neck in front of both families, symbolizing the betrothal. The gifts they came bearing had to include clothes, food, jewelry, a suckling pig, candles, fruits, and money, each one symbolizing something like fertility or good fortune. It was a complicated ceremony, made more complicated by expectations placed on the gifts from both sides. Mama demanded the clothes had to be of a certain brand and that the jewelry had to be sizable. “I’m not being materialistic, Magnolia,” she’d told me. “These gifts are supposed to symbolize your worth; I’m not going to sit by and let the world think my daughter is worth so little.”
It was an awful affair all around, and by now, all I wanted to do was be done with it. And with Iris’s announcement, I was at the end of my rope. I had nothing left in me to give. And so Ilashed out. I looked my older sister in the eye and said, “I wish you’d never come back.” I left without waiting for a reply.
I don’t want to dwell on the next few months. Suffice to say, Iris moved out to stay at an apartment she was renting with her husband, Erik. Erik seemed nice enough, but we didn’t spend much time with him. They were soon out of sight, and out of mind. Something I have come to regret over and over as well. Time marched along, as it has a habit of doing, and despite all of the bumps in the road, Parker and I made it to our wedding day. I wrote a letter to Ellery the day I got married. Let’s see…here it is.
Dear Bellery,
Guess what? I’m married. When the pastor said, “You may now kiss the bride,” I thought: Bellery would say, “Can’t believe my lil’ Tulip is married! Whaaat?” Which is probably a weird thing to think when your newly married husband is leaning down toward you for your first kiss as a married couple, but there we go. I’d promised you that I would learn to banish all thoughts of you from my mind years ago, and here you are, still very much on it the day I got married. This feels like a failure on my part.
As I walked down the aisle, an utterly ridiculous thought flashed through my mind. You, jumping up when the pastor said, “If anyone knows of any reason—” But the thought ended there. I didn’t even let myself wonder what you might’ve said. I smacked my hand down as hard as I could on that stupid thought and hissed to myself to stop being so dumb, because. You. Left. Me. You left me andnever looked back, and that was why my smile never wavered as I walked down the aisle, not even when I saw Parker’s parents at the front pew looking at me and smiling in their very prim way. You left me and I’ve also left you behind—mostly—and I will only look forward from now on.
I won’t spare a thought for you. I won’t think of how you’re doing in London, whether you’ve fallen in love with English tea and scones with clotted cream and gooseberry jam and whether you get tipsy off Pimm’s cocktails. I won’t wonder about whether you now have a bit of an English accent or whether you sound just as American as I remember. I won’t think about your hair and wonder how long it is now, or maybe you’ve cut it short because you were always threatening to do that? Do you have a little balcony in your apartment (maybe you now call your apartment a flat?) where you grow a small but surprisingly abundant garden? Do you call zucchinis courgettes and eggplants aubergines?
Ugh, okay. I’m stopping. I won’t wonder. Because I’m somebody’s wife now. Can you believe that? Somebody’s WIFE. Jesus. I feel like I’m a kid still, but I’m not, I’m a quarter of a century old and I’m somebody’s wife. You’d like Parker, I think. Well, you’d like making fun of him, at least. You’d tell all sorts of dumb jokes to try and get him to crack up, then when he finally did, you’d go, “Phew, that took a while.”
You know who else is married? Iris! Isn’t that wild? You know what’s even wilder? She’s pregnant! She actually got pregnant even before she got married, which is so Iris.You always did say that she marched to the beat of her own drum. I don’t see Iris much, even though her place is less than five miles away from mine. Sometimes, I even forget that my sister is back in Jakarta. Sometimes, I feel sad about that, but most of the time, I don’t really think about it much.
Parker is now getting groomed to take over as CEO of Mama and Papa’s clinic. It sounds nonsensical, especially since he’s not a doctor, but as Papa pointed out, “The owner of the multinational bakery, Epic Bread, has never baked bread in his life.” They said Parker had every potential to run a successful business, and at the end of the day, the clinic was a business. His parents were relieved; their family company was too crowded, what with Parker’s siblings and cousins being involved and all. It’s just way too messy and stressful. This is the perfect solution. This way, Parker inherits a business to run, and the clinic will flourish under his directive. I know it will, because Parker has good instincts and isn’t so traditional that he won’t listen to me.
In fact, thanks to Parker, the clinic is starting to integrate a new software system. We bought new computers and are in the process of migrating our hard copies into virtual ones. The staff was dubious at first, but Parker convinced them this is the only way to remain competitive. I’m happy at the direction the clinic is going into, but…
Bellery, can I tell you something super petty?
It was my idea first. I know, there is no me or him anymore. Just an us. We are one unit. I know. But I’d been arguing for ages to computerize everything, and theymerely laughed at me. I vented about it to Parker, who listened quietly. Then he presented the idea to Mama and Papa, which was so sweet of him to make my idea heard. But the thing is, he didn’t mention that it was my idea. I know that he probably left that part out because he knew that if they thought it came from me, it would be easier for them to reject it. God forbid any idea comes from a lowly feminine mind! I understand the reasoning behind it, but still. A tiny part of me can’t help but feel a teensy bit betrayed. Which I know is silly. He’s doing what’s good for everyone.
This is another stupid thing to think about right after I’m married, isn’t it? Anyway, I can’t write too long. I’m supposed to be packing the last of my stuff up to move into our new place. Oh, that’s one of the (many) good things about being married to Parker—we have our own house! His parents, ever the traditional Chindo parents, have provided us with a house. It’s three doors down from theirs, and it’s newly built and very nice. Four bedrooms, because they expect multiple grandkids, of course. I’m excited about this new chapter in my life. I think it’s going to be a good one.
Your friend,
Tulip
Chapter 16
MAGNOLIA
2007
Of course I knew, going into the marriage, that we both had to make a ton of concessions. Especially me. It was all part of being a good Chindo wife. I knew, for example, to expect all of the typical toilet stuff—the toilet seat being up, the toilet paper facing the wrong way, short fuzz all over the sink after he shaved. But because we had helpers, none of these were ever actual problems. In fact, what was a rude surprise was the dawning realization that at the end of each day, I wouldn’t have a space of my own to return to. No closing the bedroom door behind me and leaning against it with relief, knowing that I’d placed a barrier between myself and the rest of the world, at least for the night.
Because there he would be. My husband. In our bedroom. Not mine, not his, but ours, a shared space. In Indonesia, where women are expected to remain virgins up until their wedding night, moving in before marriage was unheard of. So it was anew experience for Parker as well, and I could sense that I wasn’t the only one craving my own space. We never showed it to each other, of course. At the end of the day, when we both trudged up the stairs to retire in the bedroom, we’d summon a smile and pretend that this was exactly what we wanted.
Oh, I’m making it sound awful, aren’t I? It wasn’t always like that. We were young newlyweds, after all. Of course there were plenty of nights where Parker and I couldn’t wait to run up to the bedroom. Where we pounced on each other and explored each other’s bodies and learned how to pleasure each—what? You don’t want to know that stuff? Really, Izzy, you’re sixteen, not six. Okay, fine. We can gloss over the details. All I’m saying is, on the whole, the first few months of marriage, while tough, were also really good. It was an adjustment, for sure, but there was also a lot I would definitely not complain about. Heh, heh. Okay, okay. Goodness me, how did my grandkid turn out to be such a prude?
For a while, I luxuriated in my role as a good wife. There is a sense of relief that comes from finally occupying a role you’ve prepared for your whole life. I’d been raised for this, had consumed all sorts of media on how to be a good Chindo wife, and because I did love Parker, in my own way, I wanted to make him happy. I enjoyed certain aspects of it. I liked spoiling him, for example, though I think I like spoiling people I love in general. I liked knowing how he took his coffee and making sure I had it ready for him every morning. I prepared his vitamins for him, and when we were out, I held his hand and relished the act of calling him my husband. At the clinic, I watched as he was given access to things I never was privy to, not in all that time I spent working there. He was included in all of the meetings, his inputtaken seriously, heads nodding solemnly whenever he spoke. I was only invited to these meetings after I suggested to Parker that I could help him take notes. Afterward, I would gently, subtly, make little suggestions, all of them wrapped up with meticulous care to sound like offhand comments. So subtle that Parker never realized that all of his ideas for improvement came from me. Was it frustrating? Sure, it could be, but I didn’t dwell on it. That way lies madness.
So for a few months, things chugged along, if not blissfully, then smoothly enough. Then one night, as Parker and I slept, the phone rang. God, it was so shrill in the silence of the night. I can still remember the way the sound sliced through the air. We both leaped up, wrenched so abruptly from sleep. My heart was already racing. Parker picked up the phone and said a hushed hello, like he was scared of who might be on the other end. I was scared too. Part of me wanted to make him slam down the phone so we could pretend all was fine. Nobody calls in the middle of the night with good news. Already I was thinking of our parents having heart attacks or strokes or otherwise dying in horrific ways.
“Wha? Who? Oh. Hang on.” Parker handed the phone to me. “It’s your sister.”
