Abby Spencer Goes to Bollywood

by Varsha Bajaj

  Who is he?

  A man who wants to make up for the lost years and get to know his daughter.

  “Abby, I want to meet you. This Skype thing is so fake. I wish I could hop on a plane. But I can’t right now with your grandmother in the hospital and my shooting schedule and a big movie premiere coming up.”

  All these words are so strange. Grandmother. Shooting schedule. I’ve heard of shooting ranges but not of shooting schedules. Movie premieres happen in Hollywood, and I guess Bollywood. Abby Spencer doesn’t hear about them. Nobody I know mentions them. Instead, we talk about upcoming birthdays and plans for long weekends.

  And then, as if the whole thing isn’t weird enough, he sheepishly asks, “Meredith, Abby, does anyone else know about this?”

  “You mean about your mother?” Mom is usually smart. I guess we all have our duh moments.

  “You mean about you being my father?” I jump in.

  “Yes,” my dad says. “I told my publicist and he wants to think about the best way to release this information to the media.”

  Publicist, media, press release! Whoa!

  “Oh! Oh!” says Mom. “My parents and Susan, my business partner, know. I realize that our lives will change once the world knows. Abby, you haven’t told any of your friends, have you?”

  “Priya and Zoey know. But I told them to keep it a secret because I need time to figure things out. They would never tell anyone unless I said they could.”

  “Abby, Meredith, could we keep this quiet a bit longer?

  Please?”

  After we sign off, I can’t help thinking that having a daughter is a skeleton in my dad’s closet. Except I’m not a pile of dead bones. I’m living and confused by it all. The string quartet wails.

  Chapter 9

  Bacon in your cupcake?

  Zoey decides we have to meet at the Yogurt Cup the next day since my allergic reaction started it all. They want to hear more, hear all.

  This time I choose mango with white chocolate chips as the topping. As I approach the coconut, I dance away in mock fright. Zoey steps in as a human shield between the coconut and me. Priya provides the sound effects of the ambulance siren blaring and the da-da-da of a horror movie. Priya covers her yogurt with coconut in honor of its major role.

  Counter Guy laughs. “Hey, glad you girls came back. Thought you might boycott us forever. You,” he says, pointing at me, “scared us that day.”

  Zoey grins wide enough to show her molars. I drag her away, afraid she’ll scare him.

  “So, your mom wrote him a letter and he didn’t get it,” says Zoey when we sit in a deserted corner.

  “That is so tragic,” says Priya. “Like a movie or a book.” “Yup, my life would make the best book,” I reply.

  “So you think the letter got lost or do you think someone hid it from him?” Priya’s eyes are the size of bottle caps, her voice all dramatic.

  “I don’t know. My grandfather died the next year, so I guess we’ll never know.” All this is so strange, it belongs in a Ripley’s Believe It or Not.

  Priya bursts in, “OMG, Abby, does this mean that you are rich and famous? Naveen Kumar is like a big deal in India.”

  “No!” I say. “No! Don’t be ridiculous. Nobody knows him here.”

  But I wonder, would I be rich or famous because my father is Naveen Kumar?

  Priya breaks the silence. “My mom suggested I have a Bollywood-themed birthday party this year.”

  I almost choke. Get outta here! A week ago, Bollywood didn’t figure into my world and now it’s splashed all over. Figure that!

  “It was so weird after what you’d told us earlier. I said it was the lamest idea I’d heard,” Priya says.

  If my father had turned out to be a plumber instead of a Bollywood star, I’d think it’s a brilliant idea.

  “You don’t think your mom knows, does she?” I ask, scared. “I have to keep it a secret. My mom and my father are worried that the media will hound us.”

  “I thought that too. But no, she doesn’t. There’s no way she could.”

  “I trust you both completely. It can’t be leaked,” I say.

  “It’s a pact. We swear to not say a word,” Zoey says as we hold hands and giggle.

  “A pact needs blood,” I say.

  “No blood,” says squeamish Priya. “I’ll faint.”

  “Okay, how about we smear yogurt on our fingers and swear secrecy?” I suggest.

  Zoey is the first to follow through. She dips all five fingers in her yogurt cup and we form a circle with our hands and touch the tips of our fingers. I have too much yogurt and it ends up trailing down my arms. Oh what a sticky mess of secrets we are. After we rush to the bathroom and wash up, we look at pictures of Priya’s newly born niece and walk home. I’m more relaxed than I have been for days, and for once don’t have a headache.

  The minute I enter the house, Mom looks up from her computer, frazzled. “Abby, your father called. He wants to Skype again in an hour. I don’t know what’s going on. He said he had been up all night at the hospital with his mother.”

  “I have to shower,” I say.

  “Abby, we have to respect his request. Give him some time. He’s just found out he’s a father. That is huge. I had months to prepare after I found out. And he’s a celebrity—we don’t understand the complications of his life and work—and he’s trying to protect us too. Or maybe it has to do with your grandmother.”

  The possibility of the Skype call being related to a sick grandmother I’ve never met makes me feel guilty.

  Why can’t my father be an engineer or an accountant or a janitor? Why does he have to worry about media and red carpets?

  Mom and I watch an episode of Cupcake Wars while we wait for my dad’s Skype call. We wail at the ingredients (zucchini, salted peanuts, bacon, rice) the poor contestants are asked to put into their cupcakes. In their place, I’d say, “No can do.”

  An hour later my dad calls. Funny how fast I’ve started calling him my dad. Maybe it’s because he’s always been Dad in my daydreams. I try referring to him as Father at times and Dad at other times depending on my mood. Mom says something about it. Calling him Father seems weird, like I belong to the British aristocracy. Father, the palace is a bit drafty today, eh?

  Even though I call him Dad, he doesn’t feel like he’s my dad yet.

  I ask him the question that’s been on my mind. “So why did you change your name?”

  “I changed my name to Naveen because there was another actor named Kabir at the time,” he explains. “Naveen is my middle name. Your grandmother was the last one to switch to my new name.”

  Then my bleary-eyed father makes a request as unexpected as adding bacon to cupcake batter. “Meredith, I know I’m asking a lot, but could Abby come to India? To Mumbai?”

  Excuse me? Wailing violins! What did he say? Did I hear that right? I look over at Mom.

  Mom and I stare at each other and then at the monitor.

  Mom keeps gulping.

  Before either of us can say anything coherent he says, “Hear me out. My mother is doing better. Last night she was so sick, I thought I might lose her. I was overwhelmed and emotional and told her about Abby. She was shocked at first, but then she perked up.” My father shakes his head, looking stunned.

  Mom says, “But…”

  “God help us all,” he laughs with a tinge of panic, “she wants to meet Abby. She seems to have summoned the strength to live to meet her.” He continues, “We haven’t talked about what my dad might have known yet. But she

  was genuinely surprised when I told her. Her big regret has always been that she didn’t have any grandchildren, which is why I believe she had no idea about the letter you wrote.”

  I say, “But…”

  “What do you think, Mere? A short visit? I’ll send her a ticket, of course,” he hastens to add. “I would invite you too, but I’m sure you are busy with your café.”

  “Oh, absolutely,” my mom agr
ees. “And I could not impose on your mother right now.”

  And it would be majorly awkward.

  Then it gets even weirder than adding bacon to cupcake batter.

  “Well…” says Mom, tugging at the hem of her sweatshirt and tapping her foot rhythmically. She has a sheepish look on her face. Would she agree?

  “Thanksgiving is coming up, and Abby has a week off from school. She does have a passport.” Last year, we applied for a passport for me, thinking we might go to Mexico.

  Mom looks at me begging for help!

  “I don’t know, Naveen. She’s so young and the journey to India is so long and…” Mom’s voice trails off.

  “I’m thirteen, but I don’t even know you,” I interrupt.

  My father takes a deep breath. “I agree, Abby, but that’s not my fault. It’s no one’s fault,” he adds. His voice is hypnotic and comforting but with an edge. “But I’ve missed out on

  much of Abby’s childhood—isn’t it time we get to know each other? Skype is a poor substitute, don’t you think?”

  How could anyone disagree with that?

  “And if your grandmother wasn’t so frail, I wouldn’t ask,” he adds.

  That is the clincher. I can see Mom’s expression soften. Her own parents mean so much to her, and she knows my dad’s mom means as much to him.

  “Meredith, don’t worry about the travel. Abby will go first class, and I will arrange for the airline to escort her. One of my friend’s kids traveled to the U.S. from Mumbai and it all worked out,” he cajoles.

  Mom and my father talk for a while. Mom raises all her doubts and he appeases her. I exhale and start to breathe again.

  They decide. I, Abby, will go to India next week.

  Should I scream with excitement or be terrified? The string quartet is confused too.

  My father is jubilant. Mom and I don’t know what to do after we hang up.

  “I’m going to India to finally meet my father and my grandmother, Mom,” I say uncertainly.

  “I know, honey, and I’m happy for you,” she says, smiling. “But I’ve never gone to a foreign country and I’ll be

  alone,” I say, nervous.

  Mom raises her chin. “And you’re a smart girl and you’ll be fine.” Her tone is determined, as if she’s off to wage a war.

  Is Mom trying to convince herself?

  Mom tells Grandma and Grandpa Spencer and they react with all the questions Mom had asked my dad. This time she uses all the answers that he gave her to calm their fears. I tell my friends and again swear them to secrecy and promise to tell them everything and email and text. They are super duper jealous.

  Two days later, I stand in line clutching my paperwork at the Indian Visa office with Mom. It’s a sparse room, the posters on the wall providing the only color. Incredible India! they read. Some are a bit faded and curled at the corners. The Taj Mahal blinks at me, as does a mysterious woman in a red sari.

  I wonder if my father was acting or was it real when he said he felt bad about not having been part of my childhood. He sounded so sincere. Does he really want to get to know me? He must love his mother to go to all this trouble.

  I was angry before, but now I can’t be angry with him.

  He isn’t a deadbeat dad. He just didn’t know.

  He is an actor though; it’s what he does for a living. Is it all an act?

  This is going to be such an adventure. I ride the roller coaster between thrill and terror.

  The woman at the window stamps my passport. Bang! “Have a great trip!”

  It’s too late to question the ball rolling down the hill.

  My father’s “people” have already talked to Mom and gotten dates. The ticket is booked.

  My people—Mom, Grandma, and Grandpa—are scrambling. There is so much to do!

  Father and his people say, “Don’t worry about anything.

  We’ll take care of it!” But Mom worries.

  She frets about packing clothes and taking medicines and being in a foreign culture and traveling for more than twenty-four hours on my own and the shots I need and my cell phone working in India and granola bars and pudding cups in case I don’t like the food.

  “Abby, I’ve packed two pairs of jeans, do you think that’s enough? Do you think it’s okay to wear sleeveless shirts in India? I wonder if it’s hot in November. Maybe I need to call Naveen and clarify the clothing dos and don’ts.”

  We go back and forth about my violin and in the end, I decide I have to take it. I can’t go without practice for ten days.

  I worry about everything my mom is worrying about too. But mostly I worry that my father and I won’t like each other. It could be a huge problem when father and daughter

  meet so late instead of at birth. Babies are all so cute and adorable that all dads love their babies.

  At thirteen, I have a zit on my nose. I don’t have headgear or anything tragic like that, but I’m a metal mouth. My knees are dry and gray. I have opinions about people and canned versus frozen peas, music and T-shirts. If I don’t wash my hair every day it looks stringy and ugly.

  What if he thinks, “She is my daughter? Nah! Not feeling the love”?

  Chapter 10

  Hicbucroak!

  I belong in first class like a bull belongs in a china shop. To make matters worse, I catch a bout of incurable hiccups as soon as I find my seat. The flight attendant fusses over me, bringing me water, orange juice, and Sprite. I sip each one.

  No. Effect. On. Hiccups.

  They sound like a cross between a hiccup, a burp, and a mating bullfrog. Hicbucroak! So elegant! I want to hide under the seat with the flotation thingy.

  The flight attendant says taking off my sweatshirt might make me feel cooler and possibly get rid of my hiccups. I take off my sweatshirt. And freeze.

  The flight attendant gives up and walks away. I swaddle my blanket around me and press the satin-edged corner over

  my mouth to muffle the sound. My string quartet plays a lurching song and keeps in beat.

  Hicbucroak! I try to sleep. Hicbucroak!

  To take my mind off my hiccups I look around my rather posh surroundings. I’m in first class because my dad is rich. Does that make me wealthy by association?

  Apparently, my dad has a big film coming out soon. His career hinges on it. His people don’t want controversy or any focus on his personal life to affect the opening weekend. He is a single star in his mid-thirties, and no one expects him to have a teenage daughter. Doesn’t exactly go with his image. Who’d have known the existence of Abby Spencer could derail a big budget Bollywood blockbuster? I should feel powerful, but I don’t. Hicbucroak!

  The premiere is at the end of my stay, the day before I return. I’m missing three days of school before Thanksgiving break. We keep the official story for the world simple. I was invited to India by one of Mom’s college friends—half-truth. My dad is Mom’s friend from college. Mom isn’t going with me because Thanksgiving is the busiest time of the year for Slice of Muse—truth.

  To distract myself, I do some makeup homework. In language arts, we have to write our life story.

  My life story is not what I thought it was. It’s a construction zone roped off so no one falls in and gets hurt. Does that make my life story prior to the big reveal a lie? Possibly.

  Hicbucroak! That one had the volume turned up. I give up and put away my assignment.

  The flight map on my monitor is hypnotic. The plane is a little ant flying through the skies leaving behind a path of dotted lines. Kind of like Hansel and Gretel leaving bread crumbs. The plane is circling around Boston and almost out of the States. I will it to move faster.

  The longest flight I’ve been on was from Houston to San Francisco—in coach. No one offered me hot mushroom soup with homemade croutons on that flight. All I got was a bag of pretzels and a soda!

  Maybe it’s the rich mushroom soup or the refined air in first class or me thinking about my revised life story. Maybe it’s the f
irst flight on my own or saying good-bye to Mom and Grandma and Grandpa at the airport. Or maybe it’s the thought of meeting a stranger called Dad, but I feel queasy.

  Maybe suffocating my face with the blanket to muffle the hicbucroaks was not such a good idea. The air pressure in the plane pounds against my head.

  At the airport before I left, Mom handed me a pill for motion sickness. “Abby, it’s a long flight and Priya’s mom

  thought you might need this. So take it.” I slipped the pill into my pocket and I thought I’d take it if I needed it.

  I should’ve taken it. I needed the medicine thirty minutes ago. I need to rest my spinning head. One minute the soup sloshed in my stomach and then the next it was in my throat.

  Frantic, I search for the barf bag. There isn’t a bag, only an in-flight magazine selling fake rocks to hide your speakers in the garden.

  Jeez, do passengers not get sick in first class?

  The soup sloshes its way up my digestive track. I reach for the blanket and the rest is history. The woman sitting next to me shrieks and sits on the flight attendant buzzer. She didn’t pay upward of five thousand dollars to sit beside a girl who makes hicbucroak sounds and throws up into a blanket. The flight attendant calms her and moves her to another seat. She finds an unsuspecting glamorous Indian woman to occupy the seat beside me.

  I’ve never been so embarrassed. Physically I feel better after chucking up. The barfing realigned by body’s internal organs and magically cured my hiccups. Yippee!

  After a quick wash in the miniscule capsule pretending to be a bathroom, I change into pj’s.

  Yes, the nice flight attendant gave me pj’s!

  Airline’s huge hint to Abby Tara Spencer, Shut up and fall asleep!

  The plane now inches toward Europe. I didn’t want to be sick again. I take the tablet Mom gave me and conk out.

  Hours later, I wake up over the edge of Africa. The cabin is dark. The woman beside me looks less glamorous with her head lolling to the left and emitting a barely audible snore.

  My stomach growls in protest.

  The flight attendant with the smiley freckled face sees me and comes over. “You missed dinner. We’ll serve breakfast in a few hours. Would you like a snack?”