The Candid Life of Meena Dave(49)

His palm was warm against her hand, and she stilled so he wouldn’t remove it. She wanted to stay like this, feel him on her skin.

“You told me about the notes,” Sam said. “The ones Neha left you.”

“You didn’t read them.”

“I didn’t know if you wanted me to since you handed them to me in a liquored-up state.”

She flipped her palm over and squeezed his hand. Feared he would remove it from hers.

“I want you to read them,” Meena said. “Fill in some of the blanks.”

“What do you know so far?”

It was snowing harder now, and the grass was quickly disappearing from the white coating.

“She mentioned her work, that her husband left her, the relationship she had with the aunties . . . why she left the apartment to me.” Meena braced herself. “I’m not . . . she . . .” The words were stuck in her throat. The word mother didn’t fit Neha.

Sam said nothing. His face was clear of any emotion. He didn’t prod her or urge her. Simply waited for her to continue, for her to decide what she wanted to say and not say. It comforted her.

“I’m . . . she was my birth mother.”

His hand tensed in hers. She let it go, sat back, and crossed her arms. They had been friends, Sam and Neha, and he was likely shocked. He might feel betrayed or angry with Meena for not telling him sooner.

He ran his hand through his hair. “Is that what she wrote?”

“Not in so many words,” Meena said. “She isn’t one to spell things out. She goes on tangents, speaks in circles, implies. I’ve reread them. It’s the most obvious connection, even though I didn’t want to admit it.”

“She didn’t come out and say so, though.”

“I’m a smart person. I put it together. She left me this apartment. She wrote notes to help me get to know her. It all fits,” Meena said. “I was adopted, Sam. My parents were white, I didn’t look like them. I didn’t know what my ethnicity was, but I knew I wasn’t theirs. And a place like this doesn’t just go to a stranger. Didn’t Sabina say each apartment gets passed down to the next generation?”

Sam took her hand again. “Listen.”

She pulled out of his grasp. “I’m sorry I didn’t share all of this with you before. I have a hard time talking about my past and my parents.” She toyed with the rim of her cup. “They used to tell me I was a gift.”

“Meena.”

“Hey, it’s fine,” Meena said. “I was surprised to know all of this, but it’s also good, you know. A solid piece of information about my genetic background. And I can be part of a culture, a country. I’m beginning to develop a taste for chai and paratha, though I will have to work on my tolerance for spice.”

“It’s not that,” Sam objected.

“I know I should have told you sooner,” she interrupted him. “Except, well, I had one foot out the door for a while, and then I didn’t know how.”

“You needed to trust me,” Sam said. “I get that.”

“Wally,” Tanvi’s voice rang out. “Where’s your papa?”

“We need to finish this conversation.” Sam stood.

Meena nodded.

“Oh, here you two are.” Tanvi showed herself into the room. “Sam, I made your favorite. I was craving fried food, and Sam loves batata vada, so I brought you some. Now you can share with Meena.”

“You wanted it because your body is still trying to soak up all the alcohol,” Sam said.

“Our Sam is such a good boy.” Tanvi cupped his face. “His aunties are always doing things he doesn’t approve of. I remember a few drunken stumbles from you in your twenties. If you joined us, you would have remembered when you were fun.”

“I would be too busy trying to keep you out of trouble.” Sam wrapped his arm around her shoulders.

“This one.” Tanvi leaned into him. “Maybe you can loosen him up, Meena.”

The overt matchmaking was embarrassing. “I need to go.” Meena stood. “Check my emails. Finish some things.”

“Meena, wait,” Sam said.

“Later.” She rushed out. She’d shared enough, told him everything. But she didn’t want to get into any of it with Tanvi or the aunties. It had been a long day, and she was still hungover. Meena needed to lie down and sleep for another day. Maybe two. Then she’d think about how much to share with the aunties and what any of this meant.





CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN


There is a tree in the back garden, a red dogwood. It’s at the far corner of the fence. My grandfather planted it. In the spring the twigs are green, the blooms white. In the fall the tree turns bright red from twig to leaf. It is spectacular. My ashes will be in the earth beneath the tree.

She’d found the stationery paper folded up in a freaking cookie jar in the shape of a dinosaur jammed in the back corner of the pantry. All she’d wanted was to make a pie because sometimes baking helped her think. Whenever she was challenged by a story, an angle, a source, she could take a walk. If she had a gnarly problem to figure out, she’d bake. For Meena, baking was an example of something difficult that eventually produced something great. While reaching for the flour, she’d knocked a ceramic container over. The small dinosaur-shaped jar had shattered, and in the middle of the wreckage, a note had appeared.