"Are you all right?"
He looked up at her; he'd been leaning close to Akash, making faces to distract him as he finished the cereal. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, are you feeling all right?"
"I am feeling fine. I was just hoping for a vacation from my vacations," he said. "The tours are work, in their own way."
She nodded. "I understand." She did understand, for deep down she knew that there was nothing wrong with her father. Though it upset her to admit it, if anything, he seemed happier now; her mother's death had lightened him, the opposite of what it had done to her.
He took a worn white handkerchief from his pocket, wiped remnants of milk and cereal off Akash's face. The gesture reminded her of being small, and the little ways her father had come to her rescue, pulling out a handkerchief if she'd spilt food on her clothes, or needed to blow her nose, or had scraped her knee. "Let a few days go by. Maybe then we can take a boat ride."
After breakfast Akash had his weekly swimming lesson. She expected her father to stay at home, but he said he wanted to go, bringing his video camera along. He offered to drive them to the pool in the rental car, but because the car seat was in the SUV, Ruma drove. She had learned to drive in high school, but then for years she had lived in cities and not owned a car, so that until now it was an activity she associated only with visiting her parents: taking the car to drop off videos, or going with her mother to the mall. It was something she had to get used to in Seattle-having to fill the car with gas, making sure there was air in the tires. Though she was growing familiar with the roads, with the exits and the mountains and the quality of the light, she felt no connection to any of it, or to anyone. She had exchanged only pleasantries with her neighbors-a retired husband and wife on one side, two gay professors at the University of Washington on the other. There were some women she would talk to as she sat watching Akash in the swimming pool, but at the end of each class they never suggested getting together. It felt unnatural to have to reach out to strangers at this point in her life.
She was used to the friends she'd left behind in Brooklyn, women she met in prenatal yoga and through a mommy group she'd joined after Akash was born, who had known the everyday details of her life. They'd kept her company when she went into labor, handed down the clothes and blankets their children had outgrown. Those friends had been a five- or ten-minute walk from her apartment, some of them in the building itself, and back when she worked part time they could meet her at a moment's notice, pushing their strollers through Prospect Park. They had gotten to know Ruma's mother when she came to visit on weekends, and some of them had driven down to Pennsylvania for the funeral. At first, after the move, these friends sent Ruma e-mails, or called from their cell phones as they sat in the playground without her. But given the time change and the children always at their sides, it was impossible to carry on a meaningful conversation. For all the time she'd spent with these women the roots did not go deep, and these days, after reading their e-mails, Ruma was seldom inspired to write back.
The car was silent apart from the sound the tires made on the road, and the slicing sound of cars passing in the opposite direction. Akash was playing with one of his toy trains, running its wheels along the surface of the door and the back of Ruma's seat. She was aware of her father quietly monitoring her driving, glancing now and then at the speedometer, looking along with her when she was about to switch lanes. She pointed out the grocery store where she now shopped, the direction of Mount Rainier, not visible today.
"There's the exit Adam takes to go to work," she said.
"How far it is?"
When she was younger she would have corrected him; "How far is it?" she would immediately have said, irritated, as if his error were a reflection of her own shortcomings. "I don't know. I think it takes him about forty minutes each way."
"That's a lot of driving. Why didn't you choose a house closer by?"
"We don't mind. And we fell in love with the house." She wondered whether her father would consider this last remark frivolous.
"And you? Have you found work in this new place?"
"Part-time litigation work is hard to find," she said. "Preschool is only until noon, and Adam and I don't want Akash in a daycare."
"In order to practice here you will have to take another bar exam?" her father asked.
"No. There's reciprocity with New York." "Then why not look for a new job?"
"I'm not ready yet, Baba." She had not bothered to contact any firms in Seattle, not called up the trusts and estates attorney one of the partners at her old firm had given her the name of, suggesting maybe Ruma could write briefs on a case-by-case basis. She realized she'd never explicitly told her father that she intended, for the next few years, to be at home. "We're still getting settled."
"That I understand. I am only asking if you have a time frame in mind."
"Maybe when the new baby starts kindergarten."
"But that is over five years from now. Now is the time for you to be working, building your career."
"I am working, Baba. Soon I'll be taking care of two children, just like Ma did."
"Will this make you happy?"
She didn't answer him. Her mother would have understood her decision, would have been supportive and proud. Ruma had worked fifty-hour weeks for years, had earned six figures while Romi was still living hand to mouth. She'd always felt unfairly cast, by both her parents, into roles that weren't accurate: as her father's oldest son, her mother's secondary spouse.
"They won't be young forever, Ruma," her father continued. "Then what will you do?"
"Then I'll go back."
"You'll be over forty. It may not be so simple."
She kept her eyes on the road, pushing a button that turned on the radio, filling the car with the determined drone of a reporter's voice. She had never been able to confront her father freely, the way she used to fight with her mother. Somehow, she feared that any difference of opinion would chip away at the already frail bond that existed between them. She knew that she had disappointed him, getting rejected by all the Ivy Leagues she'd applied to. In spite of Romi's itinerant, uncertain life, she knew her father respected him more for having graduated from Princeton and getting a Fulbright to go abroad. Ruma could count the arguments she'd had with her father on one hand. In high school, after she'd gotten her license, he'd refused to insure her on the family car so that she could drive it on her own. In college, when it was time to declare her major, he'd tried to convince her to choose biology instead of history. He had balked at the cost of law school, but when she'd gotten into Northeastern he had paid for it all the same. And he had argued, when she and Adam were planning their wedding, that an outdoor ceremony was unwise, recommending an institutional banquet hall instead of the bluff on Martha's Vineyard she and Adam desired as a location. As it turned out the weather was perfect, the sun beating brilliantly on the ocean as they exchanged their vows. And yet, even to this day, Ruma suffered from nightmares of the white tent and folding chairs and hundreds of guests soaked by rain.
She pulled into the parking lot where the swimming pool was. Inside the building, she told her father to wait on the benches where they could watch the class through a window, while she went into the locker room to change Akash into his bathing suit. When she joined her father he was busy with his camera, putting in a new tape and adjusting the settings. "There's Akash," she said, pointing to where he sat, wrapped in a towel, waiting for the class to begin. She had thought Akash was too young to go into the pool without her, that they would have to take the earlier class, in which parents went into the water as well. But there were no spots in that class, and from the very beginning Akash had separated from her willingly, leaping into the arms of the instructor, an auburn-haired teenage girl.