DANGEROUS ARRANGEMENTS

"IS THIS THE DAUGHTER OF BHASKARA KARNAVAR?"

It was Friday, November 7th, 2009. 

At the time, I was 30 years old, temporarily residing at my brother Matt's home in Franklin Square, NY. I remember sitting upstairs on a plush, black leather sofa with my oldest daughter. Just after 9:30 p.m., we were trying to find something interesting to watch on the television.

Through our banter, we heard the landline start ringing. I assumed that my sister-in-law who lived downstairs would grab it, as usual. As the ringing ceased, I went back to playfully negotiating with my then 14-year-old regarding our night-time entertainment. 

We were torn between a Law and Order: SVU marathon or the temptation of what the local Redbox on Franklin Ave had to offer. 

But just before my daughter could decide, the phone began ringing intrusively again. This time, I decided to take matters into my own hands and made my way to the kitchen to grab it. My heart sank as I read the caller ID. The call was coming from my father's home in Kerala, India; Karnavar's Villa.

As I picked up the phone, I knew that something must be wrong since my Father and I had been estranged since August when I saw him last. 

I was only barely able to say hello before the voice on the other end, hysterical and panicked, began speaking. It was Sherin, my brother Peter's wife. 

They both lived in India with my father. 

As I could not get a word in edgewise, I had to speak over her in order to get her to calm down long enough for me to understand what she was trying to say. 

But she ignored me, continuing hysterically, "Betsy! Listen to me right now! Daddy is dead."

"What? What did you just say?", I asked in utter disbelief.

"Our Daddy is dead", Sherin reiterated through what sounded like muffled sobs.

As a surge of pain began rising within my chest and my mind was unable to catch up. I was in complete denial about what I had just heard, and I refused to acknowledge it.

"Where is my brother? I need to talk to him now. Give him the phone now!" I yelled.

I was ignored again.

"Listen to me, Betsy! I am telling you, he's dead! There was a robbery here last night, and they killed him."

I then hung up the phone and rashly threw it down onto the kitchen counter before me. As I rushed back into the living room, my daughter accosted me, asking what was wrong but I couldn't respond.

Instead, I bypassed her. 

And after retrieving my cell phone which was charging in the bedroom, I violently pulled the plug out from the wall and took as many deep breaths as I could as my heart continued pounding through my chest.