The Orphan Keeper

by Camron Wright

  Her inky hair loved to drape forward across her flushed cheeks. Her Barbie-like blouses happily hugged her curves in all the right places. Her slender fingers were always ready to illustrate her words, of which there were plenty.

  If people on the train stared, Taj knew it wasn’t at him.

  The first few weeks of riding with a stranger were awkward. She was attractive, yes, but at times acidic, like a sparkling glass of refreshing iced vinegar. She was a girl who spoke her mind about everything, a girl with a lot on her mind.

  “Tell me something about you I don’t already know,” she said, with words too cheery for the early hour. It was one of her favorite games to play on the train.

  “I despise people who talk too much,” Taj deadpanned, keeping his eyes tight.

  “Wow, a joke! We’re making progress. We may become friends yet. My turn. In high school, I was a champion spelling bee-er. Now you go.”

  Taj tried again. “My favorite thing to do in the morning is to think quietly without interruption.”

  “That’s good,” she gave him a shoulder squeeze. “However, the game is things we don’t already know. Buzzzzz. You lose. I’ll start again. Let’s see . . . I belong to a small group of people who actually know the meaning of the word esoteric.”

  Taj had been resting his head against the window. When he straightened, she was waiting like an impatient puppy looking for a treat.

  “You’re exhausting,” he said. “If you really want to become a psychologist and expect your clients to ever come back, you’re going to have to learn to be . . . agreeable.”

  “People aren’t looking for agreeable,” she retorted. “People crave honesty.”

  He raised his finger, was about to argue, but let it fall back into his lap.

  “If you want me to be honest, then,” he said, harnessing bluntness in place of wit, “I’d be fascinated to know if anyone has ever asked you out on a second date?”

  It was one of those questions that sounds funny and clever in your head but jumbles into malice when it breaks itself free. Taj started to immediately gather the pieces.

  “That came out wrong. I just . . .”

  She glanced back without a flinch, not speaking a word, seeming to mull the notion over in her head, and for just a split second, Taj might have detected sadness.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just, you’re smart and . . . sort of intimidating, and I can see . . . well, how you might scare guys off.”

  Still nothing.

  “I guess I should just shut up now,” he added.

  Her finger touched her lower lip. “Are you saying you prefer shallow girls?” she asked.

  “No . . . I . . .” Taj glanced at his feet.

  “Seriously,” she insisted, “what kind of girls do you date?”

  “How do you turn every conversation into a psych session?”

  “This is your topic, not mine. So, what kind of girls do you date?”

  He was no match. “Blonde.”

  “Why did I know that? Did you date a lot?”

  He would have hoisted a white flag if he’d had one. He knew from experience she’d be relentless.

  “Quite a few.” He glanced again at the floor. “But I was never really fair to them, if you want the truth.”

  “The truth! Now we’re getting somewhere.” It was like giving a dog red meat. She latched on to it instantly. “What do you mean?”

  He’d seen that look. “Do you want your five cents now or later?”

  “Later. What do you mean, not fair to them?” she repeated.

  Taj arched back in his seat, waiting for her eyes to meet his. “I’d chase, flirt, take them out, date them just to . . .”

  “Just to what?”

  Did her eyes just smile? “I think to prove to myself that they liked me because of . . . me. Not because I was a novelty.”

  “You mean because you were the only Indian?”

  He feigned a smile. “The only one around for miles.”

  “It’s interesting you say that.”

  “Why?”

  “Here in London, especially living in Upton with the Tamboli family, you’re not unique at all. You’re actually pretty common—and yet . . .” she paused, as if for dramatic effect, “ . . . yet, people here still seem to like you. A lot. Crazy, right?”

  She had a way of doing that—making him consider notions he hadn’t—and she wasn’t through.

  “You said most of the girls you dated were blonde?”

  “They were.”

  “Why would that be?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Sure you do. Dump the doubt and admit it.”

  “You never filter, do you?”

  “Takes too much energy—and stop avoiding the question. Why don’t you date dark-haired girls?”

  “Girls like you?” he confirmed.

  “Yes, like me.”

  He knew the answer. Worse, he knew that she knew it. He glanced across the half-empty train, as if hoping someone would scurry by and rescue him. Nobody came.

  “Because the dark-haired girls looked too much like me.”

  “And you didn’t like what you saw?” she confirmed.

  Taj didn’t answer.

  She could have quit there but didn’t. “Would you date a dark-haired girl now?”

  “Are you asking me out?” he asked with a smile.

  “Me?” It was her turn for surprise. “NOOOO! That’s not where I’m going with this at all. No offense.”

  “Now you’re just being rude—getting even.”

  “Would you?” The girl was Webster’s definition of determination. “Date a dark-haired girl?”

  Taj fidgeted with his watch. “I think when I get home . . . ,” he said, still putting the words together in his head, “ . . . that I’d like to try to date . . . an Indian girl.”

  Kelly’s lips creased upward.

  “Good answer.” And then she reached out and squeezed his leg, as if she instinctively understood that a simple touch would communicate more than any words.

  “You’re like so many people, just hiding, waiting to be found.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Hide and seek. You played it as a kid, right?”

  “Sure.”

  “If you were like me, your competitive side wanted to find the best hiding place ever, somewhere no one would ever think to look, a place from which you could emerge triumphant after all the other kids had been found.”

  “So?”

  “The problem is that hiding can also be boring, empty, lonely, even scary. True?”

  “I guess.”

  “I remember sometimes, in the middle of the game, starting to panic a bit as the minutes ticked by and the other hiders were discovered and released one by one. You’re no different, Taj. I think the softer side of everyone simply wants desperately to be found, to be accepted, to belong. So quit holding back. Quit hiding. Reveal your true self. Let Taj Rowland be found.”

  When the train stopped, they stood, and as people crowded around the door to exit, he leaned close. It was his turn to whisper.

  “You’re going to make one hell of a psychologist.”

  Chapter 24

  After class, on the ride home, Kelly jumped up when the train reached Plaistow Station, one stop earlier than their normal exit. She twisted toward Taj.

  “Oh, I forgot to tell you. This is where I need to get off. I’m meeting my mum and dad at West Ham Park. They’re watching Archie, their little grandson. I told them I’d help. We’re all going out for crumpets after. You want to come?”

  “What’s a crumpet?”

  “I’m not completely certain. It’s either a musical instrument or an English pastry. Either way, I believe they slather them in melted butte
r.”

  Did she ever quit? Taj followed her out the door.

  “Why do you do that?” Taj asked, as they hopped up the stairs to the street.

  “What?”

  “Call them Mum and Dad when they aren’t related to you?”

  “Because they love it . . . and I guess they feel like family. Don’t the Tambolis feel a bit like family to you?”

  Taj had never considered the notion. “My mom and dad back home hardly feel like family to me, let alone strangers here in London.”

  Her eyes drew together, nearly crossed with confusion. “You don’t get along with your parents? I wouldn’t have guessed that.”

  “Why not?”

  “After talking with enough people, one learns to tell who’s loved. It shows in people’s relationships. Guess I’m just a little surprised. Why do you say you don’t get along?”

  Taj had quit making therapy jokes. He was actually growing to enjoy their conversations.

  “My mom always works. My dad, he’s a real treat. He carries a clipboard everywhere with his to-do list. When I was in high school and it was time to wake me up, he’d come in and grab my hand, raise it in the air, and hold it there all the while asking, ‘Taj, you awake? Taj, you awake? Taj, you awake?’ Over and over and over. How would you like to wake up to that every day? It was miserable. I was just one more thing he needed to check off his list.”

  Kelly said nothing but seemed instead to count their footsteps against the pavement as they walked.

  Step . . . step . . . step . . .

  “No comment?” he asked. “That’s not like you.”

  “Just thinking.”

  “About what?”

  She hesitated. “I’d get woken up in the morning too.”

  “And . . . ?”

  “Let’s just say . . .” Her pace slowed, and it was the first time he’d noticed she wasn’t using her hands to help hold her words. “ . . . my stepdad would come into my room after my mother had gone to work.” Her voice trickled to a whisper. “I would have preferred your dad’s clipboard.”

  Step . . . step . . . step . . .

  Every word Taj tried to form rang hollow, felt petty. “Kelly, I’m so sorry,” he finally sputtered.

  “I’ve been living with my older brother and his wife for the past four years. All is good now.”

  Step . . . step . . . step . . .

  “Is that why you’re studying to become a child psychologist?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Look, there’s Archie. Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

  For the neighbors living around West Ham Park, the place was nearly eighty acres of bliss. It contained a botanical garden, tennis courts, soccer fields, cricket nets, and a track, with the highlight for anyone under ten being a children’s playground that was second to none—a massive modern play area encircled by a protective wrought iron fence.

  The Hamiltons hadn’t yet arrived, but their daughter, Millie, was waiting with Archie, her son. Kelly greeted her like a sister, made introductions to Taj, and then Millie waved good-bye as she rushed off to meet her husband for a business dinner.

  “You’re a dear!” she called out. “And you’re so FIT!”

  “NO, YOU’RE FIT!” Kelly hollered back, but Millie was gone.

  “What was that all about?” Taj asked.

  Kelly grinned—often a bad sign for Taj. “Do you think I’m fit?” she asked.

  “I’ll bite. Yes. You’re very fit.”

  Archie was tugging her off to the slide. She didn’t prolong the torture. “Fit in England means hot, stunning, beautiful—so thank you!” She batted her eyelashes twice and then chased after Archie.

  While Taj waited for the Hamiltons, he grabbed the metal fence with his fingers, pushed his face against the posts, and leaned in to watch. Kelly was climbing the steps to the slide with the boy, and while Taj would never tell her in a million years—because he’d never hear the end of it—she was not only fit, she was going to make one remarkable—though demanding—mother.

  Archie was young, just three or four, and as Kelly held his hand and helped him climb, a line of small boys backed up behind them—all Indian boys.

  They weren’t just waiting at the slide. They were everywhere: Indian children—running in circles, playing tag, chasing each other around with no cares in the world.

  It was all instantly familiar.

  It wasn’t just that they were Indian children—this was East London, that would be expected. It was deeper. Beyond the slide were Monkey Bars, a Teeter-Totter, Jungle Gym, and Merry-Go-Round. They weren’t in the right order, not where he’d remembered they should be, but all still there.

  “ . . . You distract him while I climb the fence . . .”

  Taj glanced at the ground near his feet and then behind him, as if half expecting to see a crouching, dirty boy.

  His feet stood in London, but his head had bolted elsewhere.

  “ . . . If the guard catches you, he’ll beat you like a sewer rat . . .”

  If Taj had to describe to someone what had been happening lately in his head, the best he could piece together was that his brain had been switching channels. It would be like watching your favorite sitcom and right in the middle of a funny sentence, when you’d least expect it, the picture would change. The new images would be like snippets of old movies strung together, and while strange, jumbled, and confusing, they were also vaguely familiar.

  “Taj? Hello . . . Are you okay?”

  He looked up to find Kelly, to feel her arm gently poking his shoulder. “Taj, you zoned out there. You tripped to zombie land.”

  “Sorry, sorry. I’m fine. I’m back now.” But his brow was still rippled, his eyes still those of someone straining to see in the dark.

  “Taj, the Hamiltons are here.”

  Only then did he notice the confused couple standing right beside Kelly.

  “You must think I’m on drugs,” Taj mumbled, before deciding that was perhaps not the best way to introduce himself, given that he would be helping Kelly watch their grandson.

  Kelly stepped in to save him. “I could go for a crumpet or two right about now. How ’bout you all?”

  Archie bounced excitedly on cue, evidently an avid crumpet lover. Kelly herded everyone toward the street.

  “Sorry to bow out,” Taj said, “but I think I’ll head home. I have a lot of . . . homework.”

  Kelly was blinking. “Wait, you’re walking back by yourself?”

  “Why not?” Taj asked. “You do it all the time.”

  “Yes, but I’m a teeny white girl, and you’re a big, strong Indian man. You’re usually terrified.”

  Taj smirked, then turned away. She was right. He did hate walking in the area alone, especially once it was dark.

  Tonight was different. Fear be damned—he needed time alone to think.

  He was only a few steps away when Kelly hollered again. “Excuse me, Taj?”

  He spun around. “What?”

  She pointed behind her. “You’ll end up in Scotland. Home is that way.”

  Wait, what?

  He glanced around at the park, the location of the slide, and then past Kelly toward Green Street. He was generally good with directions, seldom got turned around. Odd.

  “Right, good. Thanks.”

  As he walked past, he considered telling her to wipe away the silly grin, but she’d only slap him with a witty comeback. He’d already accepted that she could beat him in a verbal duel any day of the week.

  Besides, a new question echoed in his head, demanding an answer:

  Why did it feel like home should be on the opposite side of the park?

  Taj ignored the light sneaking in from the hall that seemed determined to keep him company. Still, it proved bright enough to highlight his surro
undings—elephants, tigers, beaded pillows, ­paintings—all India, all keeping him company. It had taken time, but the sitting room, once foreign, now felt warm, even awkwardly anxious, as if waiting for a first kiss.

  The lock clicked open. The light flipped on. Pranay hurried inside but paused when he realized someone else was home.

  “Taj?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What are you doing in the dark?”

  “Thinking.”

  “Where is everyone?”

  “Your parents went to pick up dinner. Shyla took Amil to buy shoes. They should be back soon.”

  Pranay parked in the opposite chair as his gaze frisked the room.

  “Are you all right? You usually avoid this place.”

  “Pranay, I’m Indian!” Taj announced, as if he could hold in the discovery no longer.

  The man smiled. “Yes,” he replied. “Most of us can see that.”

  Taj edged forward. “I’m not sure you understand. I don’t mean that I have dark skin, that I was born in India. I know all of that.”

  “What then?”

  “I don’t know, but . . . I think I might have family there.”

  Pranay’s nose wrinkled. “You said you were adopted in the U.S. as a child? From India?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But you can’t remember anything?”

  “Tiny flashes. More bits than pieces.”

  “Well, what do you remember?”

  Taj answered with feeble eyes. “Fragments . . . crazy things that come at the most unusual times. It’s like I’m asking my brain to remember what I’ve spent a lifetime demanding it forget. It’s as if the memories are there, in the shadows, waiting like a frightened child to step forward. The thing is . . . I think they want to be discovered.”

  “Then discover them. Let them out.” Pranay stood. “I’ll be right back.”

  When he returned, he carried a map of India. He spread it across the coffee table and motioned Taj close.

  “You’ve never been to India?” Pranay asked.

  Taj shook his head no. “You?”

  “Certainly. Many times.”

  “What’s it like?”

  “Crowded.”

  “Besides that.”

  Pranay glanced at the map and then around the room, as if waiting for the décor to step in and help explain. “How does one begin to describe India? Besides the hordes, she can also be . . . peaceful but hectic, soothing yet sad, incredibly poor while holding the wealth of the world. Taj, India is thousands of years of devotion, energy, thought, study, commitment, love, and loss, all woven into a single, colorful fabric. She’s a complicated woman—but once you relent and let her take your hand, you will never be the same.”