Meena rolled her empty suitcase into the coat closet. She’d unpacked and put things away in drawers.
She brushed her hand through the clothes that hung in Neha’s closet. The woman’s style was one of comfort over trend, with bold colors, patterns, and prints. Even her coats were bright. The rain jacket in royal blue, the winter coat in lemon yellow, the spring jackets in red. The shoes were the only plain things Neha owned. Serviceable, in black, brown, and sneaker form.
So far Meena had cleared out a few drawers in Neha’s bedroom. Neha didn’t need them anymore. She’d packed their contents in large bags for donation and stuffed what couldn’t be donated in trash bags to take to the bins in the basement. The aunties’ husbands took turns putting the garbage out on Wednesday nights for pickup early Thursday morning. She’d never spent time anywhere long enough to know the day-to-day way of things.
Meena made herself a cup of instant coffee and strolled around the apartment. So much stuff. Furniture with things crammed in each drawer and cabinet. A quilting basket on the floor next to the big chairs that faced the fireplace. Candles. Lamps that were more decorative than useful.
She noticed a drawer at the bottom of the bookcase next to the fireplace. It was slim, and if you looked quickly, it could appear as if it were the base slat instead of storage. She crouched down to see if the little knob on it would let her pull it open. It took a few tugs before the drawer slid out. Inside was an old photo album. Meena carried it to the couch. She put her mug down on the coffee table and held the album in her lap.
The pages made a scrunching sound as she forced them open. The plastic film over the photos was permanently stuck to each picture. The photos on the first page were all black and white. Men in suits and ties stood in front of the building. There were twelve men, likely previous residents. Meena looked to see if there was a resemblance, a face she could recognize. Maybe one of them was her grandfather.
The next page held an assortment of baby pictures. They were slightly brownish, like many photos taken in the 1980s. The snapshots showed children and adults on various group outings. New York City. Niagara Falls. Disney World. A group of teenage girls in front of the Engineer’s House: the aunties. There was an older girl, possibly college age. Meena looked closer. Could it be Neha? She pulled out the photo with some effort to see if there was anything written on the back. Nothing.
Meena flipped through the rest of the photos, studied them, and started to recognize the aunties and the person Meena assumed to be Neha. There were wedding photos of couples Meena didn’t know. Aunties’ baby showers. Early Halloween costumes. She looked at them again: when Neha was even there, she was off to the side. By choice? Or was that how Neha felt—a part of the group but not quite? Maybe Meena was reading too much into it and it was simply that Neha had been the photographer.
She got to the end of the album, and there was a little pocket. Meena stuck her fingers in and pulled out a single picture.
Two people in front of the living room fireplace in this apartment. The woman, Neha, resembled the college student in the earlier photo. The man next to her might have been her husband. They stood side by side. Not even their shoulders touched. Neither smiled. The man was in a white shirt and black pants. He had a beard. Thick eyebrows. Neha was in a long skirt and a patchwork sweater. Her hair was short, cut just below her ears, and in waves. Her lipstick was bright red, her eyebrows shaped into thin arches. Meena looked closer. Her eyes were as flat as her expression.
Meena couldn’t see familiarity. Neha’s nose was a little wider than hers, the forehead smaller, the chin narrower. They could have been the same height. Meena was barely five eight. She’d hoped for recognition, to see herself in someone else, to know that even though Neha was dead, Meena was a part of the legacy of the Engineer’s House, that she had a familial history. She ran her finger over the face. Neha had had everything many strived for—wealth, marriage, a passion for her vocation. Yet something seemed to be missing. Then she saw it in Neha’s eyes, staring back at Meena. A wave of recognition washed over her.
Loneliness.
This was what she had in common with her birth mother. Meena flipped the photo over, no longer able to look at it. Stuck to the other side was a folded-up piece of paper. It was from a notepad with a Merriam-Webster letterhead.
I do not know the meaning of love. Even its definition is abstract. “Strong affection based on kinship.” My parents are my kin. If providing for me is considered strong affection, I suppose I have that. But I do not feel anything for them except that I came from them. If it is sexual desire, I have that for my husband. But have no other use for him. What does it mean to hold someone dear? I’ve concluded that I do not care for it. Let it exist for others. I’m enough without it.
Meena’s heart broke for Neha. To think that this woman had gone through the whole of her life not knowing love. A second wave crashed over her. That last line. It was what Meena had said to herself for the last eighteen years. She’d known what it was to hold someone dear. Didn’t need to anymore. Except that wasn’t true. Meena knew love. Had been cradled within it, until she’d lost it. The truth was, Meena was only enough without it because she hadn’t wanted to replace what she’d had. Or lose it all again.