The Candid Life of Meena Dave(28)

She reached up to trace the stars that looked much like the ones she’d glued to the ceiling of her childhood bedroom. Space was infinite and empty, but her father would say that it was full of matter. Meena had interpreted that as meaning it was full of what mattered. Tears froze on her face as they slid down her cheeks and continued to flow as she walked into her hotel and up the steps to her room. For the first time in a long time, she allowed herself to miss them.

Half an hour later, stripped of her outer layers, Meena lay on her bed and stared into the darkness. It had been a rash thing to do, escape when she was faced with the truth. It felt childish. She wasn’t sixteen anymore. She’d traveled the world. She’d gotten to know people, the ones she worked with and the subjects of her stories. She’d formed bonds in tough situations, but she hadn’t let people in. Not in any substantive way. She’d listened to stories of hopes, dreams, fears, and loss, but rarely had Meena shared hers with anyone.

She felt raw and needy. Maybe she’d felt exhausted on arriving in Boston not because she was tired of traveling, but because she was weary from keeping her memories contained. She had dealt with the loss of her parents with two years of therapy right after they’d died. But she’d left it all behind when she went off to college. Never looked back. Never gone back. She’d made a promise to herself that she wouldn’t let anyone matter that much to her ever again.

As she drifted to sleep, she heard Odkell’s words again and again: You will survive it.





CHAPTER FIFTEEN


Meena jolted awake from a nightmare that had her pinned against a wall by a giant ceramic fish while squat trees advanced on her like an arboreal army. She rubbed her face and rolled onto her side to give her sore back relief. The couch was losing its comfort, her body discovering the lumps in the cushions. She should use the bed, wash the sheets, maybe splurge on a new comforter and pillows. The sofa had become a way to keep things impermanent.

In the end, she knew she needed to see this through. It was less than two months until Christmas. She would take the time, stay off the road, and stay in Boston to clear out the apartment. She’d get it ready and find ways to feel out the aunties so that in April, one of them might want it. After that, she’d get back to work. It was a solid plan.

Meena padded to the bathroom and then the kitchen for a cup of tea. Had it been only a month since she’d done the same her first morning here?

She hadn’t known about her roots then. Her brown skin came with expectations. People wanted to know her ethnicity, her origin. When she’d say she didn’t know, some were offended, as if she purposefully did not want to answer. Others, thinking they were being helpful, made assumptions. She’d learned, in her travels, how ingrained some beliefs were.

At least now, when she looked in the mirror, she could see the markers of similarity between her and the aunties, between her and Sam. They had different shades to their skin, but the shapes of their brows, the bone structure. It was hard to describe that while they did not look alike, there was a familiarity in their looks. She was part of a race, a culture. There was a specificity she could acknowledge. It was a blood-and-bone connection.

She knew nothing about the rest of her heritage except the westernized versions of foods, the little pockets of Indian culture in movies and books. She knew what a sari was but had never worn one. And likely never would. She wasn’t here to learn how to be Indian. She was here because . . .

What would it be like to belong?

The thought broke in, unbidden, while Meena made a cup of tea. She squeezed the tea bag and tossed it in the bin.

Ignoring the thought, she ran through her mental checklist: supermarket for fresh staples to offset takeout. She didn’t cook, but she could make a decent salad with a few fresh ingredients and a lemon-mustard dressing. She opened the cabinets to take inventory. If it wasn’t expired, she would use it. Hannah Dave had not raised a wasteful daughter. There wasn’t much. A few dishes and bowls. Not a lot of cookware.

On her way back to the living room, Meena jostled the notepad attached to the fridge, and it fell to the floor. As she picked it up to put it back, she saw a little pocket on the cardboard where the magnet was attached. A slit, a sleeve. She picked at it until she freed what was inside. Two business cards, for an electrician and a contractor, respectively. On the back of one, though, the small, crisp handwriting.

The English language is complex and simple at the same time. It’s the meaning of the word that matters. Language lives and evolves with every utterance. Does it matter where the apostrophe goes if you understand the meaning from the sentence? And the labels. Noun: a person, place, or thing, but not always. Hope is a noun. So is murder.





CHAPTER SIXTEEN


A day after she’d come back, she’d run into Sam and Wally. He’d taken her departure and return in stride, had asked a few questions with genuine interest, and had asked her to dinner.

A few days later, Meena met him in the foyer. The slim side table held a fresh bouquet of purple and white dahlias. There was a hint of cinnamon in the air from the potpourri bowl next to the vase. Meena gave Sam a slight wave as he stepped out of his apartment. In a simple pale-blue sweater, dark-brown jacket, and jeans, he was casual. This time his hair wasn’t slicked down, just brushed back, the curls falling as they wished.

“Sounds like Wally doesn’t want you to leave,” Meena said.