“Aren’t you gonna ask what that condition is?” Lagan prompts me.
“Okay.” I say my line on cue. “On what condition?”
“No more secrets.”
I look down. I know he’s talking about my arm.
His voice softens to a husky whisper. “Unless you tell me what’s going on with you, I can’t really know you. And I want to know you. I don’t expect you to tell me everything all at once. But will you tell me the truth, little by little?”
I swallow and look away. Then take a deep breath, look down at Lagan, and nod. I know it’s the only way. I turn and walk up the rest of the stairs. Panting as I reach the top, I accept that the actual journey I agreed to travel with Lagan makes this climb look like an anthill in comparison.
I turn to look back, and Lagan still stands at the bottom of the steps. He holds up one finger and then seven using both hands, as a smile releases that heart-stopping dimple. Yup. May 17, 7:00 p.m. About one hour before sunset. Two weeks away. I hope my arm and lips are fully healed by then.
I plan to get all my work done in order to enjoy the last hour before the garden closes with Lagan—under our waterfall willow. Funny how numbers have never been significant to me, like how some folks have a lucky number, but I’m tickled at the fact that we are both seventeen years old right now. If I choose a favorite number today, right now, that number is one-seven. Seventeen.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
May 17 on the calendar takes up so much space inside my head that I actually forget about the letter I stumbled upon on Dad’s desk until I pass his den on my way to Jesse’s room after school. Tempted to see the envelope to make sure I hadn’t dreamt the whole scenario, I turn the knob to find it locked. The glass windows reveal Dad’s desk is clear, bar a few stationary items. The pile of letters no longer covers the corner. Dad came home once already today. Maybe twice.
“Jess?” I call his name, worried Dad might have seen him somewhere besides his bed.
I find Jesse in his bed, lifting his body up and lowering it, his face muscles tense when his elbows lock. He lowers himself and turns to face me, sweat beading off his forehead. “Talia.” He says my name perfectly for the first time since the accident.
“Did Dad see you?” Small talk can wait. “Did he see you? Stronger? Trying to walk?”
“No.” Jess shakes his head at the same time. “But I al-most...got…busted.”
My anxiety level drops and surges like a car’s revving engine. “What do you mean by almost?” I need the whole story. Quickly.
“I inched...to the kitch-en,” Jess says slowly but clearly. “Fal-ling. Pull-ing back up. Hold-ing walls, furn-i-ture. Push-ing my legs. I fell a lot. I wasn’t giv-ing up. I kept going. Know-ing I’d have to crawl back. Well...”
“Can you fast forward to when Dad shows up?” My enemy—the clock—fiddles with its trigger finger, and my arm cannot handle another bullet so soon.
Jesse shakes his head at my impatience. Then he speaks. Broken phrases, but I understand. “I heard Dad. Unlocking the door. On my way back. My legs felt like jelly, but Dad was home. So I lifted back to my feet. Lunged toward my room. Landed on the floor. Face down, near my bed. Dad saw me and assumed I had fallen. He put me back in bed. Cursing how lucky I was that he stopped by. Then he left again. That’s all.”
“Wow.” Sigh. “That was a close call.”
“Yeah.” Jess agrees with a wide grin. Is he proud of his adventure?
“He locked his office,” I say.
“What’d ya expect? After catching you in there yesterday.”
“That’s true.”
I don’t have time to tell Jess about the letter. Or my arm. Or my slow dance with danger. Soon, maybe at night after Dad goes to sleep, I’ll sneak to his room and tell him everything. Or even better, when summer vacation starts while Lagan leaves for his internship and Dad works late.
***
The future reels toward me like an animated movie. Days turn to weeks. May. Then June. Lagan and I secretly meet under our waterfall willow twice, but each occasion leaves me wanting. On June 23, graduation arrives and leaves like a ghost. I barely notice, because my family doesn’t attend. Dad had a very important meeting with a client from New York. So important, you couldn’t reschedule for your daughter’s graduation. No surprise there. The school mails me my diploma. I’m official.
Lagan’s graduation party is on June 30, not on the seventeenth. If I find some way to visit, I risk unraveling future opportunities with him, but he reminds me every day up to the last day of school. “It would mean a lot. Just stop by for a quick minute.”
On June 30, I dismiss any chance of leaving the house when Dad arrives home on that Friday like clockwork, at 4:45 p.m. By seven o’clock, dinner is done, the dish rack sits empty, and the floors sparkle. Dad reaches in the fridge for milk to add to his nightly cup of chai right before the startling bellow of my name leaves his lips. “Talia?”
I jump, thinking maybe cleaning out the fridge was on the list and I forgot to throw out old leftovers. “Where’s the milk? I just bought a jug two days ago.”
I shrug, but Jesse points to the kitchen sink while Dad’s head remains buried in the fridge.
“Oh yeah.” I steady my voice. “Jess accidentally knocked the jug over this morning from the counter after I poured some into his cereal. Don’t worry. I get paid this week. You can take the money out of my salary to cover the loss. I’m sorry, Dad. I should have paid attention to Jess’s clumsiness.”
My brother and I exchange a stolen glance. Dad slams the fridge door shut.
“I am tired.” Dad bores holes into me with his eyes. “Not in the mood to run out to the store just to buy milk.” Then he glares at Jesse and says, “So the one time you decide to move, you waste my money? What a waste you are.”
Dad, just because he can’t walk and talk, doesn’t mean he can’t hear you. I swallow my words and wait for the fire in Dad’s eyes to simmer down, just a tad, before suggesting something I’ve never offered before.
“Dad.” I choose my words carefully. “Do you want me to run over to the nearest deli, across from the high school, and pick up some milk? It takes about twenty minutes to walk there, and it doesn’t get dark until close to nine these days. I’ll bring back the receipt and exact change, and I can make you a fresh cup of tea when I return. If that helps?”
“Okay.” Dad blurts out as he marches past us to his office. “I’ll be busy at my desk. Just leave the change on the counter and put the kettle to boil when you get back. And, Talia?”
“Yes, Dad?” I speak to his back.
He turns to look at me from down the hallway, holding a ten-dollar bill out, and warns, “Don’t talk to anyone. Get the milk and come straight home.”
I approach him, palm open to receive the money. Dad drops it a few centimeters in front of me. The bill sails to the floor, and Dad turns to enter his bat cave. Except he’s the evil Joker, and Batman awaits at his graduation party, a few blocks from the high school. My mind swirls as I pick up the cash and stare at my dingy jeans and stained green sweatshirt.
I run upstairs and change my clothes to my nicest jeans and a clean white, button-down, long-sleeve shirt. Wearing a dress, the one black dress I own from Mom’s funeral, would draw too much attention. This will have to do. I brush my hair and slip on my black flats, anxious and terrified to see Lagan in a social setting.
Think Cinderella, I remind myself. Get in. Say hello. Get back. And don’t forget to buy the milk. I decide to buy the milk first, afraid that after seeing Lagan, my mind will malfunction, and I’ll run home empty-handed. The carriage turning back into a pumpkin does not compare to the consequences of a botched up return.
Self-talk accompanies my entire jog to the store, taking all the shortcuts I’ve learned and arriving in under six minutes. Only one person stands in line at the cash register. I check the expiration date on the milk and pay, holding my tongue from making small talk. Thanking the owner, my s
tride slows with the jug at my hip as I race toward the south street neighborhood behind the high school. Thinking back, I’m relieved that Lagan made me memorize his address when I told him I’d try to attend his party. If my mind remembers correctly, his house is only two blocks from the playground where he pushed me on the swings. I cross the yard, aware of the changing sky and ticking clock.
I can do this. Slip in. Smile. Slip out.
A few houses down the street, I hear music pumping, and I slow my pace as I approach a sea of twinkling lights, forming a canopy across the backyard of the house. I’m here. Lagan told me his cousin Rani planned to create a milky way experience for him and his friends. Impressive. The sights and sounds of how I always imagined a party envelope me. And the music, streaming from large speakers in different corners of the yard, moves me like I’ve arrived on the moon.
The words to a song I have never heard before play. But for some reason, I recognize the lyrics. Of course. Lagan’s voice playing through the sound system confirms my suspicions. He left his notebook in class once, and I didn’t know it was his song-writing composition book until I skimmed through a few pages before slamming the book shut. I felt guilty that I never asked his permission. Wow! His voice sounds like a cross between Jason Mraz and Swedish House Mafia. Plan to suggest he learn to carry a guitar on the back of his bike so I can hear him sing more often. As I enter the gate, I stash the milk jug by the side fence, and scan the crowd. Everyone in the whole school must be here.
As I stroll toward a speaker, the music pulls me in like horizontal gravity. Lagan’s voice streams across my ears as if he were singing to me. The words return and I sing along, softly, not wanting to draw attention to myself. I close my eyes for a moment, disappearing in between the strum of guitar chords around me and the starry lights above.
When I open my eyes, Lagan stands in front of me and time stops. I am still mouthing the words, wanting him to know I love his song. The poetry of his heart. His voice. He shakes his head in disbelief, perhaps that I showed up. Or that I knew the lines to his song. I don’t know what overcomes me, but I want to remember this moment. Every detail. The sights. The sounds. The scents. So I lean forward, my cheek grazing his jawline, close my eyes, and inhale. Deeply. Until I can inhale no more. I allow the aroma of a peppermint-sprinkled summer night to wash over all my senses. Satisfied by the nibble from this surprise sample of a life I thought I’d never live, I turn to leave.
“Wait,” Lagan begs. We both know I can’t.
I continue out of the gate, scooping up the milk on my way out. Glancing at my watch, I have about ten minutes to enter the front door void of suspicion. I hold the jug close to me and run the whole way home, squealing every few blocks, replaying Jesse’s gift to me. Lagan’s gift to me. I feel rich tonight.
I wipe the sweat off my forehead with my sleeve as I unlock the front door. One minute early. And as I enter the kitchen to place the change in the correct location, Jesse sits in his chair, exactly where I left him. Smiling. He knows. I put the kettle to boil after placing the milk on the counter. Jesse holds up the age-old sign for okay with his thumb and first finger kissing. I look down the hall toward Dad’s office. Nothing. He’s absorbed in his work.
I turn back toward Jesse and mouth two words I have not said enough to my little brother. Thank you. I lean over him and hug my baby brother, and his arms squeeze back. Watching the clock continue to tick, I realize that my heart rate takes longer to return to normal than the entire length of the brief clandestine encounter. My heart pounds even as I lay down to sleep that night. Escaping Dad’s radar whets my appetite. For the sparkle of stars. The scent of peppermint. And the melody of Lagan’s voice, a lullaby that ushers me into my dreams.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The routines of my life post-graduation are driven by one day alone. The seventeenth of each month. Consistently, Dad works late into the evening, sometimes returning past midnight. And Lagan and I meet one last time before he leaves for overseas. At the garden, we share stories of growing-up years, most of my stories about my fondest memories of Mom. We share sunsets, each time a completely new display of colors across the same canvas.
And on that last day, Lagan sings in my ear as he attempts to teach me two steps, and we waltz under our waterfall willow, the shadow of entwined arms our only audience. I muddy his shoes with my fumbling, but he continues to sing. Tuning out the world. Tuning me into his thoughts. Writing songs on the Post-it notes of my heart. Lyrics I memorize and replay when I need a gita for my lost Gita. Mommy, how I need you more than ever. I don’t know the way to move from girl to woman, and yet I’m here. At the crossroads without a map.
Soon college will begin and schedules will change again. My hours will cut back, but perhaps I can request to work on the seventeenth of the month, even if it falls on a weekend. I need something to look forward to. One thing.
A week into August, Lagan gone and a note from Dad alerting us that he won’t be home for hours, I decide a better time might not come. So I tell Jesse everything. About meetings with Lagan at the garden and our brief encounter at his party. About the gardener. And about the pain in my arm mysteriously disappearing for a short while. He doesn’t say anything at first. I can’t tell if he’s processing, or if I’ve upset him.
I also outline what I remember of Amit Shah’s letter—the information I long ago dismissed as depressing and useless. Our grandparents’ apparent search for us surges unusual energy in Jesse’s eyes, but I remain skeptical. A home where we’re wanted but we’ll probably never know creates one more taunting key beyond prison bars, just out of reach.
“Were there any letters from Benton Harbor?” Jesse’s question confuses me.
“As in, our old neighborhood? School? Not that I recall. Why?” Is Jesse keeping in touch with someone? Expecting someone to find us? Him?
“It’s nothing. Forget I asked.” Jesse shuts the door before I can open it.
But I’m not that easily swayed. “Who would write you from back there? Come on Jess, you know your secret’s safe with me.”
“What’s the point? She’s gone. And she never tried to find me.” My brother’s confession opens a window to his heart. Broken by a girl I never knew. “It’s my fault anyway, so just drop it. Don’t wanna talk about it anymore.”
“Just tell me her name. Maybe I knew her from school.” I just want a name. A name makes her more real. I want my brother’s chance at love to be real. Even if the chance is long gone.
His silence answers for him. And I’m sorry I pushed so hard. Some stories are too painful to share. Because sharing means remembering. And remembering slows down the journey to forgotten. Something tells me this girl is someone Jesse will never forget.
He doesn’t say much to me for many days following. I allow the silence. The very mention of the gardener makes his eyebrows wrinkle. Like he’s stuck behind a wall of anger so high he can’t see over it. Nor think of a way to climb over it.
The tragedy of Mom’s separation still fails to explain why Dad turned out the way he did, although my grandparents’ poverty might have spurred their decision to let Mom travel overseas alone. The age old myth that America is the land of promise. But still. What promise did you make them, Dad? I could draw up a long list of the ones you’ve broken.
One night, when Dad strolls in nearer to the 1:00 a.m. clang of the grandfather clock, I’m wide awake with thoughts of Lagan. He’s been gone for three weeks, and my aching for him paces like a marathon runner through my mind.
I decide to rise and empty my bladder, but when I exit my room, I hear voices. Dad’s not alone, and the voice sounds awfully familiar. Jed! That sounds just like the cowboy who said those crass things some time ago. And he speaks with the projection worthy of a Broadway show. I decide to leave the bathroom door slightly ajar so I can listen in.
“Geri, she’s older than most of the girls, but she’s beautiful and ready, if I do say so myself.”
“Shut up!” Da
d sounds furious. Beware the kitchen, Jed. Wouldn’t put it past Dad to turn the kettle on you. Literally. “I already told the boss that she’s damaged. Just like Gita was. So she will never be an option. Am I understood?”
“Boss always picks the cream of the crop when it comes to lawyers. Bet he didn’t bank on one brilliant enough to write his own contract. Doggone it.” Jed sounds annoyed and a muffled thud suggests someone banged the countertop. “You and the pilot make a secret pact? Cuz his girl, now there’s a blond beauty I wouldn’t mind for myself.”
“You disgust me,” Dad retorts. So why bring scum like Jed into your castle, Dad?
“I think it’s a little strange that all the women in this house have been crossed off. Just sayin, my friend.”
What kind of friend makes creepy propositions like that?
“Discussion over. And don’t call me ‘friend.’ My family is off limits. Good night.” Dad’s voice speaks with finality.
“What about the plans? The new hotel? There are plenty of girls—er—cases, we have to discuss. I’m flying back tomorrow, Ger—”
“I said good night. E-mail me.” A slam of the front door puts a period on the sentence. More like an exclamation point.
What was that about? I close the lid gently and leave the toilet unflushed before tiptoeing back to my room. As I pull the covers over my head, I wonder what kind of debt Dad, the financial-genius himself, could possibly get himself into. Who owes who. And what would a pilot’s daughter have in common with me? And what the heck were they talking about when Jed said I’m ready. Ready for what?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The first day of college arrives, and I’m a nervous wreck. Here I go again, having to weave my way through new crowds, inquisitive professors, and nosy college girls. Ironically, no one really bothers me. Some students race from class to class while others stroll at a snail’s pace, the absence of late slips offering a new type of freedom, I suppose. And everyone is in their own world, including the teachers. Students like me frantically copy every detail from droning lectures, and others just lean back their heads and catch up on missed sleep. I might not sleep well, but I can’t risk getting poor grades and Dad taking this away from me.
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