“No, no. Nothing like that.” I smile at both of them. “It’ll be casual,” I say, but my father rocks back on his heels, a touch apprehensive. “I was thinking I’d ask some questions separately, and then some together, and that’ll be it. Really, just talking about your story. Have you ever seen those videos of people on the street? Where they ask people if they’re a couple, and if they are, they tell the story of how they met?”
My father’s brows furrow. “No,” he says.
Jacob steps out of the kitchen, an oven mitt still on one hand. “It’s like all those couples inWhen Harry Met Sally,” he tells Maggie, and she smiles.
“Oh, yes. I know what you mean,” she says.
My dad still looks confused, so she explains. “It’s just like Neelu said. All these couples just sit in front of the camera and tell their story.” She glances at me. “Will we be on TV?” she asks.
“Not if you don’t want to be,” I say. “We don’t have a show yet, so there’s no guarantee any of this would ever air. We’re just trying to put something together to show the networks what the show could be like.”
“I’m sure it’ll happen,” she says.
“Oh, I hope so, but—”
“It will,” a deep voice says. I think it’s Jacob—my eyes fly to him first—but the voice came from my right. From my father.
“Jacob just put in the biryani,” my father continues. “So we have a little bit of time before—”
“You made biryani?”
I didn’t know that my father cooked. That week I lived with him, we did takeout, and every time he visited me in California, we went out to eat. He was never in town for long.
“It’s Jacob’s recipe,” my father says, ducking his head a bit.
“But you made it, Uncle.” Jacob sends me a soft smile. “I’ve had it before and it was pretty good, if that’s what you’re worried about. Not as good as mine, but…”
My father lets out a laugh, though it’s a touch uneasy.
“It’s always a treat when you make it,” Maggie says, stepping closer to him. “But you’re right,” she tells my father. “It’ll take some more time.” She turns to me. “I’m ready, if you’d like to start the interview with me? Or should we do the group one first?”
“No, that’s perfect.” I grab the tripod from where it’s been leaning against the wall. “Is there a quiet place where we can do it?”
“Yes. Just in here.”
We go back through the main hallway, crossing into a room with a small couch and a side table.
“He’s a little nervous about all of this,” Maggie says, her voice low. “Your dad.” She smiles gently. “He rarely makes dinner, but he really wanted to tonight. And I think he’s a bit worried about the interview too.”
“Oh.” I stop in the middle of assembling the tripod. “We don’t—neither of you have to do this. I’m planning on doing more interviews when I get back. I don’thaveto send anything to my boss this week, but I thought…I don’t know. You and my dad have a nice story, and it’s been…Really, it’s what made me start thinking about the show, but you don’t have to if you don’t—”
“No,” Maggie says. She takes a seat on the couch, shaking her head. “It’s not that.I’mnot worried about it at all. I’m excited to do it.” She cracks a smile, creases forming near her eyes. “I’mhopingwe’ll get to be on TV. I know we wouldn’t be contestants or anything, but if you used any of the footage for the show…I’d love it. It’s only your dad…I think he’s worried about letting you down.” She raises a hand. “And I don’t want to get in between the two of you, but if he’s acting a little off, that’s why, and I just…I wanted you to know.”
“Okay.” My chest tightens, and I turn away, taking out my phone and placing it on the stand. “Thank you.”
I continue setting up, but Maggie’s words stay in my mind.
Before, when I’ve thought my father was distant, or off, or just not…present, was he actually worried about that? About letting me down? Because if so, well, it became an ironic sort of self-fulfilling prophecy. The way he acted around me, itdidend with me feeling let down. And hurt. And alone.
I open the camera app, switching it to video and lining up the shot.
I don’t know if what Maggie’s said has made me feel any better. It’s more insight into my father, I guess, but everything I’ve heard from him and about him this trip hasn’t mended the way I feel.
My hand shakes as I zoom in, setting the frame.
At the end of the day, he wasn’t there when I needed him, and it pricks at me, a burr under my skin.
And I don’t know how to fix that.
