“I’m not sure,” she said.
“This isn’t right,” he said, huffing. “Irene sent me the wrong file.”
“It’s the right one, Raj.”
“It can’t be, Lydia. It can’t be. Unless—”
“Yeah.”
“Does this mean—?”
“I think so,” she said.
Lydia felt snowflakes melting on her face. The file in Raj’s hand fell to his side and draped against his thigh.
“Maybe Mr. O’Toole was just a witness or something,” he said, “and they put his name in the wrong box.” He looked at the sky. “They wouldn’t do that, would they?”
“They wouldn’t,” Lydia said. “It says, ‘Birth Father,’ Raj. That means—”
“That means Joey wasn’t my dad’s baby,” he said. “That means my mom—my mom and Mr. O’Toole?”
“That’s exactly what that means.”
“My mom?”
“I know.”
“So she didn’t go to India?” he said, incredulous, as he squinted at the letterhead on another sheet in the file. “She went to Colorado Springs instead, some place called the Sacred Heart Maternity Home. I’m surprised it doesn’t say ‘For Girls in Trouble.’ My mom and Mr. O’Toole, for real?”
Lydia’s blood felt thick as it squeezed through her heart. She sensed a thought forming that wouldn’t quite emerge, as if it were trapped in a net just below her consciousness, trying to break the surface. How sad—maybe that was it—that Joey’s dad was dead, probably before the kid was even born. Had he even known about Joey, and had Joey even known about him? How sad, either way.
Raj took a deep sniff and studied the paper, aiming for control. As his neurons scrambled to redefine everything he’d ever known about his parents, Lydia couldn’t help but see him as the childhood friend who’d always shared the candy crammed in his jumpsuit pockets, who’d read endless books at her side, who’d always looked so worried when he walked up the porch steps to his own home. She ached all over.
“It’ll be okay, Raj.”
“Just give me a second,” he said faintly.
Lydia was going to turn and wander away to give him some space, but when she took a step she felt a tug and realized that they were holding hands. She had no idea how long they’d been doing so, and he himself didn’t seem to notice, but his grip fit within hers so naturally that she had to shake his wrist a little before he let up. As soon as his hand was free she regretted letting go. Her fingers felt colder now, unpleasantly damp and pruned, and the rest of her felt colder as well.
“I’ll take you to breakfast tomorrow,” she said.
Raj looked up from the file and seemed surprised to see Lydia still standing there, her hair soaked and flat. A small pop escaped his jaw. “Breakfast? Okay.”
“Maybe hold off for a day or two before you talk to them.”
“To my parents?” he said, brow raised. “My brother is dead, Lydia. And my mom was screwing Mr. O’Toole. I don’t know that I’ll ever talk to them again.”
He returned to the cone of dripping light and didn’t look up, even as Lydia walked out of the alley, past the cluttered dumpster, and off in the direction of Colfax.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Lydia sat in the Plexiglas bus shelter across the street from Gas ’n Donuts and watched the Patels closing up inside: Mr. Patel counting out register receipts, Mrs. Patel zigzagging a mop over the floor. The soggy snow had been falling for hours now, so the entire city seemed covered in a coat of sopping cotton balls, and each time a car drove past, slush sprayed Lydia’s shins and knees and sometimes face. Something about actually tasting Colfax in her mouth felt appropriate for this reunion.
It was a welcome sight when Mr. Patel finally carried a blue padlocked bank bag to the store’s side door. He pulled on his coat, looked cautiously toward the sidewalk and again toward the alley, then quickly walked to the white Monte Carlo parked next to the shop. He started it and let it idle, then pulled out a snow scraper and dragged the brush back and forth over his slush-covered windshield. When he walked around the front of the car to wipe off the rest, crossing the headlights and tapping the scraper against his thigh, Lydia felt sick to her stomach.
A moment later he drove away. Mrs. Patel was finally alone.
Lydia jogged straight across the street and rapped on the Gas ’n Donuts window. Still pushing her mop, Mrs. Patel shook her head almost violently and offered a muffled shout of “Closed! Closed!” She was wearing a creamy knit sweater over a brown sari, and her left hand was wrapped in a dirty mitten of gauze. Seeing it, Lydia recalled Raj mentioning how she’d burned herself recently but had refused to miss even a day of work.
She stood below a painted sign that read Free Glazed with Fill-Up! and rapped the glass again. Mrs. Patel approached the window, shaking her head and then softening as she began to recognize Lydia.
“Lydia?”
Mrs. Patel fiddled with a ring of keys, struggling to grasp the right one through the gauze.
“Lydia?”
She barely had the door open before embracing Lydia and pulling her into the shop. She was still beautiful, though her beauty now had more character to it, as her hair had grayed straight through and she’d gained weight across the middle, and the thin wrinkles on her face gave it more texture and depth. She had ashy circles beneath her eyes and an ashy blemish on her cheek. “Raj said you were back in town! I’m so glad, Lydia. But what brings you here so late?”
It was difficult not to smile, not to return Mrs. Patel’s embrace, but Lydia stood stiff.
“You might not be so glad,” she said, “when you find out why I’m here.”
Mrs. Patel leaned back and her smile straightened out. She looked like a woman who lived in a world where unwanted babies had to be buried in the dark.
“Raj knows about Joey,” Lydia continued. “We both know about Joey.”
Mrs. Patel went pale, then began shoving her mop over the checkered floor, kicking a wheeled yellow bucket before her. A gumball machine rattled when she mopped its base. “Please close the door behind you when you leave, Lydia.”
“Joey just wanted a family.”
Mrs. Patel nodded grimly. Then she plunged her mop into the bucket, stirring gray waves. Lydia stepped forward and gripped the handle.
“Please sit,” Lydia said, and gestured toward the old booth where she and Raj had spent so many childhood hours. The speckled Formica, the creamer bottles, the sugar spouts were all the same.
“Rohan will be back soon,” Mrs. Patel said. “You cannot be here when he arrives.”
“Then please start talking. Or we can wait for him and talk then. I could even call Raj over. He’s really upset.”
“You have no idea.”
“Mrs. Patel. Please.”
Mrs. Patel had recently washed the tables, and they were still slightly damp and smelled of bleach. She expertly ripped a few napkins from the cubed dispenser and dried the surface beneath their arms. Once she settled in across from Lydia she didn’t say anything for a minute, just stared out at the traffic on Colfax and nodded, as if finally giving herself permission.