Abby Spencer Goes to Bollywood

by Varsha Bajaj

I miss Mom. Is she making coffee? Is she scrambling to get to the café on time? Is she baking my favorite apple pie to welcome me home? What will she think of all this?

  The movie has romance and musical numbers like Dad’s previous movies, but it has a grittier plot and more of Dad in it—his words and his feelings. He plays the idealistic investigative reporter. I can hear him in the dialogue. I recognize one of the pictures in our house used in the movie. I spot Shiva in one of the street scenes.

  I’m an insider.

  He’s the everyman hero fighting corruption and bad guys like the publicity blurbs said.

  I’ve read all the press articles about him and I understand what they meant about how Dad dominates the screen. I now know that the opening box office could make or break a movie. Then I come prancing in and take the focus away from his film.

  The credits roll, and the audience claps, hugs, and thump one another on the back. Admirers mob Dad and Rani. Grandma and I clap until our hands are sore.

  Grandma Tara beams as she watches Dad accepting all the congratulations from his fans. I squeeze her hand. I knew how she feels because I’m proud of him too.

  Salima drives us to the after party in a nearby five-star hotel with polished floors, fabulous Indian art, and views of the city lights.

  Posters of the movie stare at us from the walls. CDs of the movie sound track for Dad and Rani to sign for the guests are piled high on tables. Perfumed women in diamonds and chiffon and silk saris air kisses. Music from the film plays over the speakers. Tables groan under samosas, chicken tikka, pakoras, Chinese dumplings, vegetarian sushi, pastries, and gulab jamun.

  I know in a few hours I’ll be at the airport, boarding my flight home and I can’t eat a bite. Especially not after how sick I got on the flight here! I stare at the vegetable sculptures that decorate the platters and fight back regrets.

  “Abby, I am tired,” says Grandma Tara. “Do you mind if we skip the party and go home and be together?”

  I almost hug her in relief. This is the first time she’s gone out except for doctor visits since she was ill. Of course she’s tired. And so am I.

  From the corner of my eye, I can see Dad and Rani approach us.

  “You say your good-byes, I’ll wait for you.” Grandma Tara takes a seat on a sofa nearby.

  Can we make a dash for it? The thought of saying good-bye to Dad and Rani makes me choke up. I can’t think of anything I want to do less.

  Rani hugs me with surprising warmth. “Abby. I know you’re leaving in a few hours. I’m so sorry we couldn’t spend more time together. You look beautiful. This dress is so you.”

  She kisses my cheek and I hug her.

  “I’ll leave you and your dad to say your good-byes.”

  Dad looks sheepish. He holds my shoulders. “I hate good-byes, Abby. It’s not my thing.”

  Another thing we have in common, Dad, I want to say.

  I gulp.

  “Your grandmother wants to take you home. You have a little more than an hour before you have to leave for the airport,” he says looking at his wristwatch.

  Then he looks into my eyes. “Abby, I wish things could

  have been different, and you could have stayed longer, but I know you have to leave today to make it back to school. Thank you for coming. You have no idea how much it meant to your grandmother.”

  Before he can say more or I can tell him I love him, a bunch of noisy people walk over and ask to meet me. They seemed to be Dad’s childhood friends. Dad introduces me as his daughter.

  I don’t register anyone’s names. More chitter chatter.

  Grandma Tara reminds us it’s time to go. Dad hugs me again, and then Grandma Tara, Salima, and I are in the car, and Shiva was driving us home. I guess that’s fine, neither of us likes good-byes anyway.

  In the car, I replay Dad’s words. I know how much my visit meant to Grandma Tara already. But what had it meant to him?

  He said he wished it had been different. How? Does he wish I hadn’t ruined it all?

  Did he really mean that he wishes I could stay longer? I know what a great actor he is already. Was he acting?

  I stare at the lights twinkling around Marine Drive and remember when Dad told me that they’re called the Queen’s Necklace. Through the moisture in my eyes, the lights flare and melt.

  Chapter 27

  Arrivals and departures

  I take off Grandma’s earrings in my room and place them back in their little velvet box. I can’t possibly take them, not after what I did. I snap the box shut with regret and leave a note on the dresser saying, Grandma Tara, I’m sorry. I don’t deserve to have them. Abby.

  While saying good-bye, Grandma Tara hugs me a million times. She obviously does not dislike good-byes. She holds my face between her soft, lined hands and says, “Beta, I want to get strong again so I can travel to America and see you graduate. Thank you for coming to see me.”

  What can I say to that? You’re welcome? My words are stuck in my throat.

  She smiles at me and says, “At my age you can’t leave

  unfinished business. Abby, I do wish life had been different. Naveen and I will go through all of my husband’s papers. We should have done it years ago.”

  The lump in my throat is a boulder. I nod. I will not bawl.

  My knees feel weak as I walk out the door.

  I want to say I’ll see you soon, but don’t trust myself to speak. Do people miss trouble? No one, not even Grandma

  Tara, had invited me back.

  After looking back at her one last time, I get into the car, and Shiva drives me to the airport. I check my watch, a few minutes before midnight.

  I look out into the night. What if Dad’s film flops? I shake my head as if it’s an Etch-A-Sketch and I can wipe the thoughts away. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work that way.

  At the airport, a chaperone meets us in the lobby. “Abby, I remember you!” Shiva’s voice is weighed with

  emotion.

  “Oh, Shiva, I will think of you too!” I say.

  He extends his hand. Maybe he thinks it might be inappropriate to do anything else or maybe he’s embarrassed. I don’t care. I hug him tight. Startled and thoroughly uncomfortable, he pats my back.

  I leave before I get too emotional.

  My chaperone whisks me through immigration, customs, and security. It’s all a big blur.

  When called to board, I turn and walk around the waiting area again. As if I need to see India with all its contrasts and beauty and its warm people one last time.

  “Are you okay?” the flight attendant asks when she sees my dejected face.

  “I’m fine,” I reply.

  She gives me an uncertain smile and walks down the aisle. A few minutes later, she returns with a questioning smile and a sealed blanket, “Aren’t you Naveen Kumar’s daughter?” she asks. “I thought I saw you in the newspaper.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “I am. I hope the headlines you read weren’t too nasty.”

  The flight attendant blushes.

  Now there’s a difference from ten days ago. I can admit to being my father’s daughter publicly.

  Buckling up, I think back to when I had yearned to meet my father. Now I know my father, my grandmother, Shiva, Mina, Bina, Rani, Salima, and so many others.

  When the plane takes off, I’m exhausted from feeling so much. I had my first kiss but the boy I like lives in a different city. I should be glad he lives in the same state, I know, but why can’t he be in my city? Not fair!

  When will I see Dad again? Ever?

  There are so many things I wanted to see and do. I wanted to see the Taj Mahal and the Rajasthan Desert with Dad and attend a cricket match and learn Hindi, eat Shiva’s paneer, and attend a big fat Indian wedding, and get henna done on my hands.

  Will we exchange Christmas and birthday cards? Even my orthodontist sends me those.

  The thought of Dad communicating as often as the orthodontist is the last straw. The tears come in bursts
like the dancing sprinkler at the water park.

  The woman sitting next to me looks alarmed. On my way over, I scared away my co-passenger by barfing. Now I’m hysterically sobbing.

  And when I sob, I snort and set off my sinuses. So then I have to blow my nose. Honk! Honk!

  There’s a goose in first class. Awesome.

  Abby, seriously, get a grip, or the airlines will put you on a no fly list.

  Twenty-eight exhausting hours later, Mom stands outside the customs gate with her arms outstretched. “Abby!” she shrieks. “Abby!”

  I ran the last few feet. Not easy to do while pushing a cart loaded with suitcases. I get a look and an under-her-breath “Kids these days!” from a woman wearing pearls and a boxy suit.

  Mom and I hug.

  “It’s good to be back, Mom.”

  Mom holds me at arm’s length and looks me over. Then she hugs me again. “Oh Abby, I missed you.”

  At last, I’m with someone whose life I hadn’t messed up. The air is crisp and cool when we step out.

  The drive home makes me aware of how much I’ve taken for granted. The wide, clean roads, the relatively cleaner air, the uncontaminated water, and Mom.

  We drive straight to Grandma and Grandpa’s house.

  Grandma has saved leftovers from Thanksgiving for dinner. Grandpa does what he calls a jig, singing, “Happy, happy, Thanksgiving, dear Sparkles!” and swings me around the kitchen.

  I’ve missed Grandpa calling me Sparkles. In spite of my fatigue and jetlag, I make a plate, loading it with turkey, stuffing, and mashed potatoes, and of course pie.

  I’m home.

  I feel a twinge when I look at my wristwatch, still on India time.

  Before I eat, I dial Dad’s phone number to let them know I reached home.

  Shiva answers. “A-bby,” he says. “A-bby, you in home.” “Yes, Shiva, I am.” Thousands of miles away.

  “I make pooris, but you not here,” he says. “Oh, eat one for me,” I reply.

  Then in turns, I speak to Grandma Tara and even Mina and Bina.

  Dad isn’t home.

  Grandma Tara says he’s in Delhi for the premiere and will be doing a whirlwind publicity tour, visiting a different city each day for the next ten days.

  “Abby, this morning I woke up and you weren’t practicing your violin. I miss your music. Record songs and mail them,” says Grandma Tara. “Naveen called and said to tell you he misses you and will talk to you once he’s home.”

  Why can’t he call me himself? Is Grandma Tara making up the part about Dad saying he misses me? Maybe he’s forgotten me already and Grandma Tara is being kind.

  “The house is not the same without you, Abby,” Grandma Tara says before she hangs up.

  I miss them all already.

  I want a poori on my Thanksgiving plate. I want to clone myself and be in two places.

  I show Mom, Grandma, and Grandpa some of the million pictures I took.

  Before falling asleep, I call Priya and tell her about the newspapers and how the story was leaked, but ever-optimistic Priya wants to talk about the premiere and how she saw me on Asian satellite TV instead.

  “Abby, I recorded the red carpet, and I loved your dress.

  I’ll host a viewing party. You’ll be the guest of honor of course. Vivian, Karishma, Emma, Michelle, and Zoey are coming. Did I forget anyone? I’ll buy some red construction paper and make a red carpet. Should I tell my Mom to fry some samosas?”

  Priya is on a roll. She doesn’t really need me to say or suggest anything.

  At least I still have my friends.

  I decide to text Shaan. Hey. It’s Abby. I’m home.

  Almost instantly my phone pings. He’s been waiting for me to get home. Smug happy dance.

  Can you walk over? Sigh

  I text back. I would if I could. Too bold?

  I would if I could too, Abby. Can I call you? I want to hear your voice.

  Of course you can

  I want to hear his voice too. I also want to grin back at his silly goofy smile.

  I answer the phone on the first ring. His familiar voice makes me miss him more.

  “It feels weird,” I tell him. “Like I’m not sure where I am. After being on the plane so long I feel like I can still hear the drone when I close my eyes, and one of my ears hasn’t popped either.”

  “How was the premiere? Your dad?”

  “It was all awful. The stupid press kept asking him about me instead of his movie. One of them even asked Dad if he had more hidden kids.”

  “You’re kidding,” Shaan interrupts. “Like he has kids hidden in his attic?”

  “Exactly. His movie was great though. Way more interesting than me. Why don’t they get it? Knuckleheads.”

  “Abby, I miss you already.”

  “I miss you too, Shaan,” I say.

  I brushed my hair smiling after we finish our call. My head hits the pillow but my eyes fly open.

  I’m an idiot. How does all this matter? Yes, I’d been quite the hit with Grandma Tara, Shiva, Mina, Bina, and Shaan, but…

  I screwed up the one relationship I went to Mumbai to find. Dad hates me.

  He doesn’t even want to talk to me.

  He didn’t come to the airport to see me off.

  He didn’t want to talk to me on my last day in Mumbai. He smiled and looked normal on the red carpet and at the party because he’s the best actor in the world and there were fans around us the whole time.

  I open my violin case to check it and my eyes bulge. Every single string had popped.

  My sane mind says strings often pop due to cabin pressure changes on airplanes. However, a louder part of me says maybe it’s an omen.

  Broken strings = broken relationship.

  Chapter 28

  Special delivery

  For the first few days home, I live in a weird world. I have to remind myself of where I am and who with. I have two families in two countries and two different cultures. Weirdville. Jet lag dogs me and I wake up at three in the morning and relive the mistakes I made. I can’t forget or forgive myself.

  Shaan texts me a lot and I text him back. I have to tell him that I don’t have unlimited texting and Mom will kill me when she sees the bill. He says his Mom would too. So we Facebooked instead.

  In Mumbai, people drive on the left side of the road. The first morning home, I thought Mom made a turn onto the wrong side of the street and cried out, “Watch it!”

  Startled the heck out of her.

  That week I jumped each time the phone rang. Was it

  Dad? No, it was a marketing call selling us new siding or a vacation to Bermuda.

  It’s been a week and he hasn’t called. I stop hoping and feel hollowed out like a rotting Halloween pumpkin without the candle glowing in it.

  The next week in Algebra as I plough through my equation, the intercom crackles and interrupts. “Could you please send Abby Spencer to the office?”

  Huh? Why? Which rule did I break?

  I walk the long corridor to the office filled with dread even though I can’t think of any crime I’ve committed against Roosevelt Middle School.

  It turns out I missed a few things on my enrollment form at the beginning of the school year. The office missed it too and forwarded them to wherever forms go. All these months later, someone realized and sent the form back to the school. Whew!

  It asks for real basic information and Mom already signed it so the office person says, “Take a few minutes and fill it out right now.”

  “Sure,” I say, taking the clipboard, pen, and form.

  I filled out name, address, phone number, you know, the standard lalalalala. Then I stop in my laced-up boots.

  Race (Optional): Caucasian, African American, Hispanic, Asian, Pacific Islander, Other. With a blank that you can fill out.

  I’ve checked Caucasian all these years, even though I knew my father is Indian. His absence made me want to snub him. Now it’s different. My identity is
a combination of two cultures.

  I stare at the blank hypnotized. Two phones ring together and strangely remind me of my days in Mumbai when Dad’s phones would ring simultaneously in the house.

  Deliberately, I write biracial.

  I smile with satisfaction when I’m done. As if I’ve done something important. Even if Dad doesn’t care enough to call me.

  For the first time in my life, I fill in my father’s name, address, and phone number. Because I can. Even if the school is unlikely to contact him in case of emergencies in Mumbai!

  I hand the form to the woman at the desk and walk back to class with a skip in my step. I may not have much of a relationship with my father but it’s better than never having met him.

  That evening, Mom is working late. The holidays are a busy time of year for her. I have the house to myself and I decide to wrap some Christmas presents.

  I gather the scissors, tape, and gifts I’d bought for my grandparents and Mom in Mumbai. I wrap the kurta I bought for Grandpa with Dad’s help. For Grandma Spencer, I bought

  some pure cotton paisley place mats. Grandma loves setting creative tables and I know she’ll love these.

  I bought a small box for Mom to match her memory box. I place a picture of me and Dad inside. I also bought her a scarf in a riot of colors. I can see her wearing it with her little black dress.

  As I stick a bow on the last package I think that Dad is probably at the end of his publicity blitz tour by now. I texted once but didn’t hear back. Why can’t he take a moment to text me back?

  My stomach rumbles. Dinnertime.

  Mom left some pasta for me but I’m in the mood for a grilled cheese, crispy on the outside and melty, gooey on the inside. I wander to the refrigerator to grab some cheese, bread, and butter, and stack them all in my hands like Rachael Ray, and put the pan on.

  The doorbell rings as I’m about to slide the bread into the melting butter. I turn off the stove and go to the door.

  I’m not allowed to open the door when I’m alone at home unless it’s my grandparents or my neighbor.

  I peek through the frosted glass. A man stands, hunched with his hands in his pockets. I can see his back as he faces our front yard. My heartbeat gallops and then stops. No way!