“Don’t interrogate her,” Tanvi said. “I told you, Meena isn’t going to cut and run. She’s part of this building now.”
Meena appreciated Tanvi’s defense. “I know you don’t know me well. And it’s true I’ve been going back and forth about keeping the apartment. But yes, I’m going to stay. You’ll see.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The kitchen was clear. There wasn’t much to clean out except the expired pantry items. The dinnerware and flatware were in good condition, as were the mugs and glasses. Meena wasn’t much of a cook, but it would be wasteful to get rid of the pots, pans, pressure cooker, utensils, and the like, so they stayed in the cabinets and drawers.
She did peek into the cooker to check for a note and found Neha had written on the back of the warranty card.
I do not agree with Julia Child. There is no joy in cooking. It is an unnecessary chore when we are surrounded by dozens of restaurants. This is a present from Sabina. She knows I hate to cook, yet she still buys pots and pans for me. She likes to goad me. In return, I gift jeans. She hates them and does not ever wear them. One useless gift in exchange for another.
Meena added it to her ever-growing stack and shoved the envelope back in the desk. She would finish the kitchen later. The biggest project was the living room and foyer. The sofa, coffee table, and desk were in good condition even with clutter on every surface and in every corner. Having read through design blogs and taken quizzes, Meena had learned that she preferred minimal and modern. Clean surfaces, structured furniture. The small stuffed parakeets tucked in between books wouldn’t work with her new style, nor would the random wild animal figurines spread out on the fireplace mantel and along the end tables.
Between the fireplace and the opposite wall, there was little space. Every inch was taken up by furniture: small tables, a desk, a chair, a standing lamp, big pillows on the floor, and a huge wooden chest that looked as if Neha had bought it at a flea market. And of course, the top of the scarred chest was the perfect place for a lamp in the form of a butterfly made of stained glass.
“Snickerdoodle.” Meena accidentally bumped into the lamp, and it crashed on the floor. The shattered glass flew every which way and caught the top of her foot. She yelled in frustration.
Her front door crashed open. Sam rushed in, his hair mussed, as Wally barked behind him.
“You OK?”
“Sorry,” Meena said. “Keep Wally back, there’s glass everywhere.”
She was cornered against the bookshelf with no place to step over the shards.
“What happened?”
“I went to grab this parakeet.” Meena waved the small velvet figurine. “And I knocked over the lamp.”
Sam picked up Wally and plopped him on the couch. “Stay.”
“I can’t go anywhere,” Meena said.
“I was talking to the dog.”
Meena grinned. “I knew that.”
He gave her a harried look before getting a broom from the coat closet. As Sam swept a path for her, Meena picked up the lamp base. Something glinted as the sun hit it. She looked closer.
“Your foot is bleeding,” Sam said.
“Flying glass.” Meena picked at something wedged in the black rock base. Slowly, carefully, she slid a piece of paper out.
“What’s that?”
Meena knew. “Right now, it’s pretty stationery paper folded up, but watch . . .” She opened it up, and it was the size of printer paper. “Ta-da! Neha and her notes.” She handed it to Sam.
“You should read it,” he said.
She shook her head. “Your turn. I’ve opened all the ones I found so far. Some turned my life inside out; others are either nonsensical or I’m completely missing the message. Honestly, go ahead. You should enjoy her shenanigans too. I’ve officially stopped caring.”
Sam frowned. “I’m sorry about not telling you everything. I didn’t . . .”
“I know, you didn’t know what I knew . . .” She waved him off and stepped away from the corner as he swept up the broken glass. “Don’t mind me. I’m irritated. There is so much clutter in this place.”
“She liked to collect anything and everything,” Sam said. “She would ask me to take her to flea markets or go antiquing in Vermont.”
“Then she shoved it in every inch of empty space.”
He nodded.
They were getting back to their easiness. “Thanks for coming to my rescue.”
He gave her a half smile. “I heard a crash and a scream.”
“And like double-oh seven, you ran in here.”
He grinned. “You need to watch a Bond movie before you make a comparison.”
Maybe we could watch one together, she wanted to say. Instead she nodded to the note. “Seriously, you read it. You knew her; it might make more sense.”
He took the page and read it out loud.
“‘Friend as a noun has five definitions, as a transitive verb, two. If I were to apply one to designate my relationship with the women in this building, I would use “one who is not hostile.” The one I would apply to Sabina, Uma, and Tanvi, “one attached to another by affection or esteem.” They have the bond from being born within months of each other. Despite their differences, they care for each other. Tighter than sisters, they often say.
“‘Of course, I know that one of them has a secret. Shared only with me. Not by choice but by circumstance. Such a secret can destroy the bond they believe is impenetrable.
“‘I do wish to be there for the fallout when all is revealed. I wonder if you resemble her. I hope for your sake you do not take after my cousin. He was quite unattractive in his personality.’”
Meena moved over to the couch, her mouth agape—with saying and not saying things. She closed her eyes and asked Sam to read the note again, then read it herself.
“I don’t understand,” Sam said.