The Candid Life of Meena Dave(10)

“Is that what you think happened?” Meena asked. “On a whim she came across one of my stories, found my name, and left me this place?”

It was unlikely, but Meena wanted to know how much the aunties knew.

“No,” Sabina said. “I do not think you are random. And you don’t think that either.”

“I’ve never heard her name or knew of her until yesterday.” Meena finished her chai.

Sabina gave her a look, searched for something. “While you’re here, if you need anything, ask. We help each other in this building.”

Meena smiled and stood. “Thank you for the chai and paratha.” She tripped over the pronunciation. She was conversationally versed in only a few languages; Gujarati wasn’t one of them. “I can clean up after I get back and return your containers.”

“Don’t be silly.” Tanvi shooed her off. “The kitchen will be spotless by the time you get back. And knock on Sam’s door. He can drive you to pick up your bags.”

“It’s OK,” Meena said. “I’m good.”

She paused at the door. They didn’t seem to be in a rush. Uma added more tea to her cup as they chatted away. That this wasn’t their apartment didn’t seem to faze them. Meena didn’t know what to do, so she grabbed the keys and her laptop and camera bag. She didn’t want to be loaded up, but her backpack contained thousands of dollars’ worth of equipment. Her life was in this bag. And, she realized, she had no idea who these women were.





CHAPTER FIVE


Two days later, Meena wandered out to the veranda off Neha’s bedroom. It was a crisp day, and she wrapped her long gray sweater around her and took a deep breath. The air had a hint of burning wood and pine. When she was a child, fall had been her favorite season, even if it meant the end of summer and back to school. She used to mark the day the cord of wood would be delivered for winter and excitedly watch as it was stacked in the backyard. It had been her job to get as many logs as she could carry and bring them in so her father could light the fireplace. Jameson Dave had been methodical in the building and maintaining of fire. Meena would sit and watch the flames for hours, loving how the blue, yellow, and orange colors morphed.

At the sound of voices, she peered down into the garden. Sabina, Uma, and Tanvi were in discussion as if they were plotting out a football play. They were armed with rakes, gardening gloves, and large paper bags and dressed in leggings and oversize sweatshirts. Meena watched as they worked in different areas of the garden. Uma was by the rose vines that wrapped around a trellis along the back wooden fence. She pinched off the dried petals that had once been red and snipped off twigs with small shears. Tanvi cleared the area around the small iron table with four chairs. A matching bench in the same teal tone was off to one side under an arbor of small trees. The lush branches were starting to change their color as they hung down toward the ground. Sabina raked the leaves scattered around the stone pathway.

It was a pretty garden, well tended. Meena went back into the living room and grabbed her camera. She wanted a look around, and her camera helped her see better. The three seemed to have a rhythm about them, and Meena snapped to see if she could unearth the beats of their friendship.

Their voices carried as they offered one another commentary and instructions. While they mainly spoke in another language, there was enough English that Meena could make out the context. As she snapped away, she could see their fondness for each other.

“Meena,” Uma shouted at her. “Why are you taking our picture?”

“Oh, sorry, it’s something I do.” She released the camera, placed it on a little table on the patio.

“We haven’t seen you in a couple of days. How are you?” Tanvi asked.

“I’m good,” Meena said.

“Are you managing to eat?” Sabina asked.

“Takeout.”

“I am making a big lasagna today,” Sabina stated. “I will drop some off.”

“Thank you.”

Meena looked through her shots as she went back in. It was nice to simply shoot, not on assignment, but for herself—to feed her creativity and curiosity. She’d been going from gig to gig for so long, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d picked up her camera just because. She rolled her neck and shoulders. This week was helping her shake off some of the wear she’d put on her bones this past decade.

She shuffled through the notebooks on Neha’s desk. Maybe there would be another note. She pulled open the drawer and riffled around. In the back she felt something stiff and tugged it out. A card in an envelope. It was sealed with red wax, with NP imprinted in the center. She opened it and pulled out the card.

history (noun)

1: a branch of knowledge that records and explains past events 2 a.: events that form the subject matter of history b.: events of the past

c.: one that is finished or done heritage (noun)

1: something transmitted by or acquired from a predecessor Meena scanned the words. Neha had been a dictionary editor, so the definition could be for her work. Except Meena’s gut told her it could also be a message. These words didn’t seem to be random choices or the product of a stream of consciousness. She put the note back in the envelope and placed it with the others. Each added something, as with a series of clues. Meena wondered if they were for her.