“You travel light,” Sam said.
“In a way.” Her luggage was in a storage locker near the airport because she hadn’t wanted to tote it to her meeting with the lawyer.
He rubbed Wally’s fur as he tugged the lace of his sneaker out of the dog’s mouth. Sam had an easygoing way about him, as if he were used to wandering up to strangers and making small talk. His hair was still messy, and he’d swapped the parka for a black sweater. His dark eyes were wide and open, framed by sharp eyebrows. He had all the markers of attractiveness, including high cheekbones. He was soft with sharp edges. Meena found herself wondering what he would be like in bed. She turned away. This wasn’t the time or place for a distraction, even if it had been a while. Eight months? Argentina and a professional polo player.
Her stomach growled, reminding her she had more immediate needs. “I appreciate the visit, but I’m on my way out.”
At the sound of her voice, Wally pepped up and zoomed back and forth between them.
“If you’re looking for breakfast options, head to Boylston Street, a few blocks away from the river,” he said. “There’s also a little café on the corner of Commonwealth and Mass Ave.”
“Thanks.” Meena watched as he tugged Wally and headed for the door. He looked unburdened, his expression so sincere that Meena itched for her camera. She wanted to see him through the lens, capture his eyes, see what was behind them. Intelligence and kindness were obvious, but what else? It was hard to tell without learning more, looking deeper.
“Any tips on where to get a new phone?” She surprised herself with the question. She never asked for help with something she could do herself.
“The Apple Store on Boylston across from the Prudential Center is your best bet,” Sam said. “There’s a little fix-your-phone place on Newbury too.”
“I think it’s done for.” It had served her well for the last four years, and while she wasn’t looking forward to the expense of a new unlocked phone, it was a work necessity.
“It was Wally’s fault.” Sam bent down to give the pup a pat. “We can replace it if you’d like.”
She laughed. “It was mine for juggling phone, papers, and a backpack and not paying attention.”
“Sam, what are you . . . ?” A woman with long black hair stuck her head into the apartment. “What is going on? Who are you?”
Meena straightened from where she’d been leaning against the back of the sofa.
Wally bounced up and ran to the newest person in the room.
“Tanvi auntie,” Sam said. “This is . . . I don’t know your name.”
Meena almost laughed at the surprise on his face. “Meena Dave.”
“Dave?” the woman said. “You’re pronouncing it wrong. Not in the Indian way.”
“Indian?”
Tanvi looked surprised. “Aren’t you? Oh, are you Pakistani or Bangladeshi?”
Meena stayed quiet.
“What’s your ethnicity?”
A question Meena had never been able to answer.
“Tanvi auntie,” Sam said. “You can’t ask that.”
“I didn’t say, What are you? or Where are you from?” Tanvi defended herself. “It is a fair question.”
“I grew up in Northampton,” Meena explained. “And have an American passport.”
“But where are your parents from? What are you doing in Neha’s apartment?”
Meena gave them a friendly smile. “I’m happy to chat later, but I’m on my way out.”
“I was going to teach Wally a few tricks in the backyard. Why don’t you come with us, Tanvi auntie?” Sam picked up the pup. “We can catch up with Meena later.”
As they walked out of her unit, Meena heard Tanvi say, “Sabina is going to lose her shit.”
A few hours later, she was sated thanks to a sausage, egg, and cheese from the café Sam had mentioned. She’d even showered to freshen up, though she didn’t have a change of clothes because she had yet to pick up her suitcase. Luckily, her A-cups required little support. As a teenager she’d been shapeless and skinny. Dresses had hung off her, jeans had needed to be slouchy to fake that there was a slight butt somewhere. She’d filled out a little in the hips, but there were no curves, only sharp angles. At least she didn’t have to worry about not being asked to the freshman dance anymore. Meena got dressed in the same tank, sweater, and jeans she’d been wearing for three days, sniffed her armpits, and hoped the shower had helped.
She went into Neha’s bedroom to look in the large vanity mirror while she fixed her long black hair. The room had another fireplace in the shared wall between it and the living room. This one was decorative, with a giant bouquet of pink and white silk carnations in an orange bronze vase in the center. It matched the cheery bedroom. To her left, wide white french doors opened to a small veranda overlooking a fenced-in garden. The bedding, in pink and purples, popped with color. The white vanity had fairy lights around the mirror. It seemed like a young girl’s bedroom, not that of a woman in her midsixties. A small trinket box sat on the vanity, and Meena flipped it open to find an index card.
I am a lexicographer. A mouthful of a word, one that doesn’t quite roll off the tongue. Not like chef, cop, maid, judge. I write dictionaries. I keep a record of our ever-evolving language. I like knowing that what I document, what I write, can be read long after I’m gone. I have no children. Only words I spend my life defining.
Meena recognized the handwriting, the same as on the tea bag packet and index card. She sat on the edge of the bed and looked around, wondering if there were more notes.