Meena captured Sabina’s eye roll.
“And Tanvi is tart and sweet.” Sabina tossed a piece of candy at Tanvi.
“More tart than sweet,” added Uma.
Tanvi fluffed her big updo, which was wrapped in a sparkly chain of glittering glass strawberries.
“I did have more fun than these two in high school,” Tanvi said. “Multiple boyfriends until I met my husband in college.”
“Pi, right?” Meena recalled the person she’d met earlier. “I chatted with him earlier.”
“Yes, Piyush, but Pi for short because he’s a math professor and thinks it is funny,” Tanvi said. “I humor him because that’s the secret to a successful marriage.”
“Jiten uncle is married to Sabina auntie.” Sam stroked Wally’s tired head.
Meena jumped in: “The investment banker.”
“And Vin, the lawyer”—Uma popped a cookie in her mouth—“is mine.”
“Yes,” Meena said. “He was telling me that your daughter is in law school.”
“When our children were young,” Sabina explained, “our Halloweens were elaborate. All our holidays were. Each one an event.”
There was a wistfulness in Sabina’s voice. She missed the past.
“I’m fine with it.” Uma wiped crumbs off her chest. “Less work. And I’m tired.”
“We should clean up.” Sam stood. “I’ll grab the urn and wash it out.”
The aunties stood and picked up their discarded costumes. Wally became aware of the fuss and jumped up.
“I can walk him,” Meena said.
“Thank you.” Sam gave her a small smile. “That would be great.”
Meena led Wally to the end of the path away from the building. The pup sniffed along the ground, weaving from side to side as Meena held on to the leash with her uncased hand. She’d had fun tonight. The occupants of the Engineer’s House were interesting and generous with their friendship. She hadn’t spent this kind of time with the same people in a while, getting to know them just because they were neighbors.
Wally tugged on the leash to get her to turn around.
“Too tired for a walk?”
Wally tugged again.
“OK, let’s go.”
As she approached number ten, the building loomed large. The windows were dark, signaling the end of the festivities. The front porch was clear even as the decorations remained. She headed up the front steps. The door had been left ajar. For her. A warmth settled over her. The people inside had thought of her, knew she would be back, and had left the light on for her in the form of a slightly open door. It had been a long time since she’d been expected home.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Meena’s mother used to say there were two people you could never lie to: God and yourself. Yet over time Meena had honed the traits of denial, avoidance, and evasion when it came to thinking about who she was and where she’d come from. But with the four new pastel-pink Post-it Notes in her hand, Neha’s precise handwriting covering almost every millimeter of each one, Meena had no choice. She had to confront the past.
All she’d wanted to do was replace the tissue box under the ceramic fish-head cover. One handed, she’d lifted it off the empty container, and there they were. At first Meena was giddy with excitement. She’d come to love these little missives from Neha.
Boston winter is incomparable. At first, it’s like a painting of snow-covered branches. Quiet hovers over the city. Then the scenery changes from bright white to black and sooty. I’m watching two college students dig out a car on the street, their faces red from exertion.
I hope you’ve found my little hiding spaces. I found it fun to figure out where to keep these notes. Not too obvious because I couldn’t risk Sabina stumbling on them when she cleaned. It’s what she will do when I die. Likely with glee. She doesn’t like me. The feeling is mutual. She doesn’t know this, but she won’t get this apartment when I’m gone.
I am not a nice person. When you were born, I promised you a life away from here, from me. I don’t always keep my promises. Things don’t always go according to plan.
Meena (proper noun) Origin: Sanskrit
fish
wife of Shiva
Meena sat in the tall blue armchair next to the fireplace and shuffled the notes with one hand. She took out the others, reviewed them again. So. There it was. The confirmation of what Meena had suspected all along, that Neha was her birth mother. Her mind raced. Her hands shook as she looked at the notes again. Her chest tightened, and Meena breathed through the constriction. She needed to think, not feel. She needed to use her journalist brain, not her orphan brain.
A knock on her door startled her, and Meena stood quickly. The cast made it difficult, but she quickly stuffed everything into her backpack, ran a hand over her face, and took a calming breath before answering.
“If you would leave the door unlocked”—Uma walked inside—“it wouldn’t take you so long to get to the door.”
“We aren’t thieves,” Tanvi explained. “We are your neighbors. You don’t have to protect anything.”
“Except myself.” Her voice was curt.
Sabina raised an eyebrow.
Meena adjusted her tone. “It’s how I feel safe.”
Tanvi walked over to her and cupped her cheek. “You aren’t in danger here. We look out for one another. Care for each other.”
Meena almost leaned into her gentle affection. It took strength to force herself to step back. She hadn’t experienced tenderness in a long time, and she couldn’t think about the way Hannah Dave used to cup her cheek the same way.
“Come here, Meena,” Sabina said. “Sit at the table. I’m tired of your messy hair. I’m going to braid it so it stays out of your way.”
“It’s also good to sleep with your hair bound,” Tanvi said. “You lose less of it. I put oil in mine at night. That’s why it’s so healthy and strong. Unlike Uma here.”
“I prefer mine short.” Uma rubbed the bare back of her neck. “Less fuss.”
“How you present your hair,” Sabina lectured, “tells the world how well you take care of yourself.”
“Or it tells the world that your priority is your vanity,” Uma argued.