by Varsha Bajaj
“I want you to always be happy. Grandma, Grandpa, and I love you. We’re family,” she says, getting all gushy.
I’m happy and healthy and have a great family, even if it is different.
If my dad didn’t care to visit me, why should I care about him?
Who needs a dad? It’s his loss, not mine.
It isn’t until later that I realize she didn’t answer my question at all.
The next day, Mom wakes me up at noon. “I checked on you a million times last night. Didn’t want to wake you too early this morning. You needed the sleep. Grandma is filling in for you at the café today. Grandpa wants to spend the day with you. Call him when you’re ready. If you feel anything but 100 percent normal, call me right away.”
“Got it, Mom. I’m fine,” I say and return her hug and kiss.
It’s Saturday, the busiest day at Slice of Muse. Mom and her chef/business partner, Susan, will be knee-deep in latte and pie orders. Normally I’d be at the café helping and earning yogurt and jeans money.
I have a zillion texts from both Priya and Zoey since nine this morning. Maybe I can spend time with them and Grandpa.
When I call my grandpa, he picks up the phone on the first ring. “Good morning, Sparkles!”
Grandpa has always called me Sparkles. He claims my eyes glimmered when he first saw me—probably a minute after I was born. He’s always been around, especially since my father hasn’t.
I remember when I was in kindergarten, Grandpa came with me to Doughnuts with Dad Day at school. I chose chocolate-covered doughnuts for us and poured coffee for him and orange juice for me. Grandpa and I enjoyed every last crumb together.
“How come your grandpa came today?” Cassidy had asked after the first period bell rang and Grandpa left. “It’s Donuts with Dad.”
My red face matched my Elmo T-shirt.
Today I would have flipped back, “Dad, Granddad?
What’s the diff?”
But back then I was all soft-centered. The protective shell was not on the M&M yet.
“Families come in all shapes and sizes,” I said, echoing the answer Mom gave whenever I asked her why my dad didn’t live with us.
“I know that,” said Miss Know-It-All. But one with a dad and a grandpa like mine is the best.”
In that moment, my five-year-old self learned to bite back words. (“No, it’s not! Mine is the best too.”)
“I have a dad too. He just lives in India,” I said. “Does he ride on elephants?” she asked.
That afternoon at recess, I accidentally threw the basketball at Cassidy’s head instead of the hoop.
At some point growing up, I learned to put on a poker face. Relax all facial muscles, including the ones around your eyes, I would remind myself when I was hurt by a comment about my missing father.
All of that felt so long ago as Grandpa and I make plans for a pool party with Priya and Zoey that morning.
Stomach rumbling, I go to the kitchen for a glass of milk. I smile at the sign Mom tacked to the fridge. On a sheet of yellow legal pad paper, she wrote in bold red marker, Coconut-free zone—strictly enforced, and pinned it with a magnet in the shape of a blueberry pie.
The doorbell rings, and Priya and Zoey fall all over me. “We were so worried! We love you!”
We walk over to Grandpa’s.
“Priya, remember how I thought our dads might be brothers when we were little?” I ask. After all, both our fathers are from India.
“Yes.” Priya grins. “And we would imagine that we were long-lost cousins.”
Mom met my dad, Kabir Kapur, in college and fell madly in love. Unfortunately, it didn’t work out. After graduation, they broke up. My dad returned to India and never came back. Mom returned to Houston with a bachelor’s degree in business. I was born eight months later.
We jump in the pool as soon as we get to Grandpa’s place.
“Abby Tara Spencer, do you have sunscreen on?” Grandpa reminds me from the grill.
I clamber out of the pool. As I slop on the lotion, I remember when I tried to research my middle name. Tara—Hindi for star. Mom said my father often talked about his mother when they were dating, and Mom had taken an instant liking to her from the stories he told. My middle name was her nod to my father’s mother.
Zoey sneaks up behind me and shoves me into the pool. All morning, we spray each other with squirt guns and play Marco Polo as if we’re five. We race and make human towers and collapse into the forgiving water, giggling and sputtering.
Grandpa signals that lunch is ready.
Why do hotdogs taste better with friends and when you’re trailing water from a soaked swimsuit?
After my friends leave, I flop on Grandpa’s couch, and
we watch the baseball playoffs. Grandpa covers me with an afghan and strokes my hair.
Who needs a dad when you have a grandpa like mine?
Then I think about the note I wrote when I was six, asking my father to come visit. Dad in huge, tilted block letters filled the front of the envelope. I had written to Santa at Christmas and he had gotten my letter. I knew because I had asked for an American Girl doll, and he brought it for me. If Santa had gotten my letter, my dad would get my letter too.
Years later, I found the letter in Mom’s memory box. It was an intricately engraved wooden box lined with velvet. Carved flowers and birds rose out of the wood. It also holds her brownie pin, the playbill from her junior high play, a BFF friendship bracelet, and a receipt from the post office.
Grandpa’s voice brings me back from my time travels. “You okay, Sparkles? You’ve been awfully quiet.”
“I’m fine,” I say. “A little sleepy.”
I doze off on the couch and dream that when I reached for the coconut flakes at Yogurt Cup, my dad emerged out of thin air, grabbed my hand, and said, “Abby, stop! You might be allergic to coconut like me.”
Chapter 4
Telling Tales
I sense differentness the minute I walk into the house Monday, Mom’s day off.
The house looks immaculate as if Mom has inherited Mary Poppins’s skills. The floors gleam, tabletops and counters are visible, and the mounds of paper have disappeared to wherever clutter travels. Mom always cleans when she’s stressed. A single rose in a one-stem vase on the dining table and an aroma of spices mimic a restaurant. Mom is cooking. I find Mom in the kitchen. She gives me a hug. “I made the tandoori chicken that you love and rice pilaf and potatoes to go with it.” I like to think that my half-Indian genes make
me love tandoori spices.
She fidgets with her apron. Her eyes look like they’re open too wide.
Whoa! This is the farewell dinner Mom made when she and her ex-boyfriend, Simon, parted ways. Is Mom planning to say farewell to me? Ha! Ha!
She and Simon dated for almost four years. They broke up when Simon got a new job that took him back to the Northeast, where his extended family lived. Mom decided she couldn’t move. Her parents were here, she couldn’t disrupt my life, and her business was taking off. The break-up was all civilized, kind of like an ad for Polo shirts. I was okay with them breaking up. I didn’t want to move either.
“Wow! Is someone…coming over for dinner?” I ask suspiciously.
“No, no,” Mom answers. “I thought we could have a nice evening. The two of us.”
Distress signals go off—a symphony of alarm bells, church bells, and doorbells.
Mom pours herself a glass of red wine. She never drinks anything but water with dinner. This is too odd.
The string quartet plays the frantic “Flight of the Bumblebee.”
“There’s ten minutes before dinner. Do you want to shower?” Mom asks, all formal.
I dump my stuff and flee.
Zombies ate my mother and replaced her with whoever is downstairs.
I let the day’s sweat wash away in the shower.
A thought enters my brain, like water trickling down the drain. Am I going insane? Why am I rhyming?
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Are we going to have the Conversation? The one about my father. The one she said we would have when I’m old enough?
Could the allergy attack over the weekend and the doctor’s questions about my medical history have made Mom realize it’s time?
My sixth sense takes over my other five senses and my brain.
Then fear takes over. What if my father is an ax murderer or a pervert serving time in an Indian prison? And Mom hasn’t told me to protect me?
Nah! Stop overreacting, I tell myself.
Maybe Mom’s just relieved that I’m alive. Or maybe she hit a milestone at Slice of Muse.
I towel my hair dry and pull on my pj bottoms and T-shirt in a hurry to get downstairs.
Mom drains her glass of wine and serves the food. “This looks awesome, Mom!”
“You remember I was trying to get the Epicure to carry our pies? I might be this close”—she gestures a pinch.
Pinprick to the balloon of hope. “Oh wow! That’s mega big,” I lie.
“Yes. Keep your fingers crossed. We would triple our business if we succeed.”
She pours me some cider in a wine glass and we toast. “To Slice of Muse taking over the world!” I manage to smile and say.
That’s what all this is. Part of me is so disappointed it hurts. Part of me is weirdly relieved.
The string quartet in my head is confused. What music should it play? Sad, happy, disenchanted?
We eat. Mom has outdone herself. The chicken is tender and spiced perfectly. Peas and golden raisins make the rice yummalicious. “This is so good, Mom.”
After putting the leftovers away, we move into the living room and sit on the couch with our buttermilk pies. A celebration dinner needed pie.
Without taking a bite, Mom puts her plate on the side table. She takes a swig of wine and blurts, “Abby, I need to talk to you about your father.”
My stomach dives like a roller coaster.
I’ve waited and dreamed of this moment all my life. Now it’s here. Hope waltzes with fear. I put my plate on the coffee table.
I gulp. I’ve practiced what I wanted to say for this conversation so many times. But where are the words when you need them? Instead, I stare at her blankly.
“My romance with Kabir had an expiration date, Abby,” she says with a faraway look.
My heart squeezes painfully.
“You know we met while were both students in Dallas and that he is now in India,” she continues and reaches for my hand.
“So he’s not in prison?” I say, laughing in relief. Her eyebrows rise. “Why would he be in prison?”
I can’t stop laughing. “I was afraid that he might be a perv in prison and you were trying to protect me,” I say between laughs.
She smooths her hair and looks a little confused. “He’s far from a criminal, I know that about him.”
What does she mean by that? “Tell me more,” I beg.
“Every little detail?” she tries to tease. But I can tell she’s as nervous as I am and the joke is as flat as day-old Sprite.
She twirls a strand of hair and turns serious. “Abby, maybe I shouldn’t have kept it a secret for so long. You have the right to be mad at me. I thought you’d understand better if you were older. I’ve been meaning to have this conversation for the past year and kept putting it off.”
I don’t say anything. Can you be thankful and angry
with a person at the same time? I feel both toward Mom right now.
“I always knew he’d return to India. Everyone who knew Kabir knew that about him. His big dream of becoming a news anchor in India consumed him. But he had a smile that could melt women. He had eyes that spoke and your ridiculously long lashes. His dreams and his drive made me forget reality. He was different, and I was in love.”
I let her talk and soak in every word like a sponge. I touch my lashes—the ones like my father’s.
“Our last meal together, the day before graduation, he made me apple pie and we laughed and cried and in a crazy moment he asked me to marry him.”
I almost fall off my chair. “No!”
“But we both knew he didn’t really mean it,” she adds hurriedly. “I couldn’t have left the country anyway. I couldn’t imagine living in a different country, especially one with such a different culture. My life was here. Grandma was recovering from breast cancer. And we were young.” She still has the distant look, as if she’s looking through a window at her past.
“We were so young,” she repeated, shaking her head. “He was twenty-two. I was twenty-one. We were babies.”
The floodgate of questions gushes open. “Mom, why has
he never wanted to see me? Are you in touch with him? Where is he now? Why didn’t he stay to see me?”
Mom refuses to look at me. She’s almost peeled her nail off. I can see her gulp repeatedly. She looks as guilty as I had when I tried to hide a bad grade.
“Days after graduation, he returned to India. We never talked about the night he proposed. We talked a few more times after he returned home, but it wasn’t the same. It was stilted, long distance, and awkward. The phone lines echoed back then. He had a new life and a new job and he was so excited. He had moved on…” he trails off.
“I didn’t realize until later that I was pregnant. I tried to call after I found out. I spoke to Kabir’s father, who didn’t seem pleased to talk to me. I left messages. I waited by the phone. Kabir never called back. Finally, hurt and upset, I moved back to Houston to be close to my parents without giving him a new address or phone number.”
I don’t say a word. I feel cheated. How could she have given up so easily?
“Then I wrote him a letter, a very long one. I registered it, so I’d know that he got it. I still have the return receipt from the postal service. I told him about being pregnant…” Even after all these years, Mom’s voice is strained.
The silence in the room speaks. Writing that letter must have been so hard.
Then she says softly, “Abby, he didn’t call. He didn’t write back.”
The hole in my heart is as big as the Texas sky. I’m speechless. I’ve waited to hear this since forever. Had time stopped when Mom said those words? That’s how it feels to me.
“How could it have worked anyway?” Mom asks the universe. “What would we have done even if he had answered?”
The world has stopped spinning. I know it did.
I pick up the plate of pie to give my hands something to do and then I look at it with revulsion.
“Mom,” I ask. “What are you saying? Are you saying he doesn’t care about me?”
She looks back at me, the truth in her shimmering eyes. “Abby, wait. There’s more.”
My father hadn’t cared enough to call back. Holy Schmit! No wonder he had never come to visit me. Not because he was in prison or didn’t have the money to travel. The jigsaw puzzle falls into place.
“You waited all these years to tell me this. I don’t want to hear more. Really, I don’t.” I run to my room.
“Abby, wait. I knew you would be hurt. It’s exactly why I waited to tell you. You were, and are, the most precious thing in my life.”
He didn’t care that I was walking around with his DNA. His dark hair. His ridiculously long lashes.
And his coconut allergy.
Chapter 5
Two-stepping with anger
I wake up battered by dreams, but I can’t remember them. This is my first day knowing that my dad didn’t care enough to even contact my mom when she wrote him that she was pregnant.
Why has nothing changed? Shouldn’t the sun at least not shine so bright?
I brush my teeth as if I’m trying to strip the enamel. Like brushing hard is going to erode my anger. Can I crawl back into bed and lie there wallowing in anger mixed with letdown? Anger + letdown = anglet or angdown…whatever. I rummage through my laundry basket for a pair of not-too dirty jeans. I find a pair and scramble into them. As I pull on my orchestra T-shirt, I remember
the director telling us we’d get a new piece of music today. In spite of
my messed-up life, I feel the anticipation. Maybe the music would be as dramatic as my turmoil.
Pots and pans clang in the kitchen. What is Mom doing this early?
The aroma of blueberry pancakes lures me downstairs. Weird! That’s a weekend breakfast. Did I sleep through the week?
There it is. A stack of pancakes with a slather of butter between each one, the way I like them. That way the butter melts into each pancake. Mrs. Butterworth stands with her hands together.
Mom hovers, eager to satisfy my every need instead of sipping her coffee and watching the Today show like normal. What do you want to drink? Orange juice or milk?
Really?
I want to dig into the stack to fill the hole in my life. Maybe the syrup will soak up the anglet feeling.
But I don’t. The string quartet plays an angry concerto.
Bonding over pancakes was what we did on weekends growing up. She would top them with chocolate chips, blueberries, raspberries, or Craisins. The choice of topping depended on our mood. When I was little, she used molds to make hearts and bears. She’d taught me to look for the bubbles before I flipped them so they would be perfect. A few years ago, we retired the molds. Who knew—pancakes taste just as good round.
Sharing pancakes that morning would seem wrong. Last night I was told that my father didn’t bother to reply when he found out about me. My anger has been building since yesterday. Seriously, Mom? Does she think pancakes can fix how I feel?
How would my life have been different if my father had been thrilled to hear I was coming into this world? Would he have eaten pancakes with us? Would he have loved me?
“I’m not hungry,” I say.
“Abby, have a bite. A little one.” Oh, I want to.
“I’m not hungry,” I snap. My voice is flinty. It has to be if I have to get those words out. I realize I’m getting angry with the wrong person. Mom had me, by herself. After all, she has been the one to raise me. She was around and my dad wasn’t. I should be mad at him, but he isn’t here to be mad at.
Mom blinks several times as she picks up the untouched plate of pancakes and puts it aside.
