Nina, once again wrecking Ishaan’s perfect life.

The first time I’d woken that night, it’d been because of his voice. Tired from a day of running in preparation for the half-marathon I planned to complete in a month, I’d groaned and put my head under a pillow.

“You’re a whore!” My father’s voice, thunder smashing into my brain.

“Oh, that’s rich coming from you! Have you forgotten I found your secretary tits-up on your desk? You can only get it up for simpering girls young enough to be your daughter, huh?” Even after nineteen years in New Zealand, my mother’s voice had retained echoes of her village-girl accent, and the ugly words sounded incongruous coming out of her mouth.

At times, I’d thought she clung to her accent deliberately. Maybe to embarrass my father—though I could never understand how. He’d gone bride-shopping in rural India for a reason. He hadn’t wanted or expected a sophisticate.

No, Ishaan Rai had wanted a meek and obedient and beautiful doll.

Other times, I’d been certain my mother was ashamed of her lingering accent. She’d become polished and urbane in every other way—designer dresses, flawless makeup that aimed for sexual attractiveness rather than “appropriate” wifely elegance, rapid-fire words full of razored wit.

“Your mum’s hot,” one of my teenage friends had said once, his eyes devouring her as she lay sunbathing on the edge of our pool in a red bikini made up of small triangular pieces of fabric, a bit of string, and not much else.

I’d punched him.

Her lush and scalding heat had alternately confused and angered me. Why, I’d thought, couldn’t she be like other mothers? Soft and warm and comfortable. Yet at the same time, I’d been proud of having a mother others craved.

Fucked up wasn’t the half of it.

“You watch your mouth, Nina! I’m still your husband!”

“So articulate, piya-ji.” My mother’s smoky tones as she used the affectionate term for husband with venomous intent. “To think I was so impressed with you when you came to my village. So smart, so handsome, so filthy rich.” Another laugh, the sound pure acid. “At least I got one out of three right.”

“Screw you, you bitch. You’ve gone too far this time. I’m going to divorce you and see you on the street.”

“I’ll take you to the cleaners.” A taunt. “I’ve already talked to a lawyer and guess what? That old prenup is invalid now. Too one-sided. Too mean. Especially since I gave you a son. Courts will throw out that rubbish piece of paper and give me half of everything. Hell, they’ll give me more because I’m going to take our son, too.”

“I’ll kill you first!” my father had screamed that night, to the accompaniment of shattering glass.

Glints of the shattered crystal tumbler had lingered on the edge of the fireplace the next time I saw it. Only tiny shards. The rest had vanished. Also gone had been the expensive silk rug from Rajasthan that had sat in front of the fireplace for years.

My mother’s voice had been slurred when she replied. “Bastard! You think I won’t drag you through the courts and air all your dirty laundry? Watch me.”

I’d fallen back asleep with their vicious words ringing in my head. They weren’t anything I hadn’t heard before. 11:51 p.m. was the last time I recalled seeing on my digital alarm clock before I blanked out the world and slipped under.

The clock had been blinking 12:01 a.m. when I woke the second time—to the echo of a reverberating scream, my heart racing.

Transcript

Session #2

“Is it because you left things unfinished between you? Is that why she haunts you?”

“We fought that night. I’ve never told anyone else that.”

“Remember, this is a safe place.”

“Yes.” [Loud exhale] “I never meant to say what I said, do what I did. I’ll never be able to go back and fix that.”

“You were close?”

“Yes.”

“Then you know she wouldn’t have held it against you—we all say stupid things in the heat of the moment. She would’ve known.”

“Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“Use the past tense about her.”

“Oh, I apologize. I just assumed . . . I shouldn’t have. I apologize.”

7

That night, I’d just lain there at first, not quite sure what I’d heard—or if I’d heard anything at all. Then the front door had shut, and I’d heard another glass smash before the door shut a second time.

Just my parents fighting. Mum had walked out and Dad had followed. She’d probably take off for a drive to cool down as she’d done plenty of times previously.

Too late, I’d remembered that she’d been drinking and I had pushed off my blankets to run out to the balcony that overlooked the drive. She’d always looked up before she drove away.

Sometimes, I could stop her by waving for her to wait while I ran downstairs.

But she’d parked her car on the main Cul-de-Sac drive that day because my father was being an asshole and had blocked access to our double internal garage by parking his Mercedes smack-bang in the middle of our drive. So spiteful that he’d rather have his car out in the elements than make things easy for my mother.

The rain had been punishing shards of ice, but I’d stood there for a long time after her taillights vanished into the black. Waiting. Now and then, she came back after just a few minutes, determined not to let my father win by default.

But not that night.

Jaw clenched against the memories, I began walking. A light misty rain had coated my hair and clothes with tiny water bubbles by the time I turned into the Cul-de-Sac. It was a real—if short—street until you hit the private property line, at which point, it turned into a long private drive that split off into individual properties.