Disowned

by Tikiri

  I plopped onto Katy’s chair, touching the computer mouse as I did so. The computer came alive without asking for a password. I hesitated a few seconds, then opened up a web browser and punched in Air India’s website address.

  It took a minute to get flight schedules and prices. It was a good thing I was sitting. The cheapest flight from Toronto to Goa, with four stops along the way, was $1,500. That was one thousand, four hundred, and ninety-two dollars and forty-seven cents more than I had in my purse—more than I’d had in my entire life.

  I swiveled around in Katy’s chair, desperately trying to think of what to do next. I needed a better plan. I also needed a good story to tell the police if they stopped me at the airport. So many questions gnawed at me. Where am I going to find the money? How am I going to get to Goa? Where am I going to stay tonight? I sat in Katy’s chair for several minutes collecting my thoughts, too tired to be hungry, too anxious to fall asleep.

  Then I made a decision.

  I got up and walked back to the kitchen, ignoring the annoyed croaks coming from Dick’s office. There was one thing I could do. I looked under the sink and pulled out a pair of oversized rubber gloves.

  Chapter Forty

  “Who the hell are you?”

  I jumped a mile high and came down hard on the wooden chair. It was like a bull had bellowed right next to me. The roar was still ringing in my ears.

  “I said, who the hell are you?” the bull thundered again.

  The room spun. I shook my head to clear it.

  “Hello-o-o-o?” a familiar voice said nearby.

  I wiped my bleary eyes. Where am I? Who are these people? And why is everyone shouting?

  “I said, who the hell are you, and what have you done to my kitchen?” My heart thumping like mad, I squinted up at the bull roaring in my face.

  I knew it was Dick the moment I saw him. There couldn’t be too many Mafia goon lookalikes in town. He was wearing a crumpled gray suit with a white T-shirt, his neck adorned with a thick gold necklace with a cross. His face was flushed a dangerous maroon; I could almost see steam rising out of his ears. A thin cigar dangled from his lips, and the parrot I’d locked up in his office the night before was casually perched on his shoulder. It regarded me with disapproving eyes.

  “I can he-e-ear you!”

  I stared at the feathery apparition.

  “Go-to-hell,” it said to me.

  “Shut up, Jim!” Dick spat, without taking his eyes off me.

  “Shu-u-u-t-u-u-p,” echoed the bird softly. “Go-to-hell.”

  “I…” I tried to speak, but I’d lost my voice. My throat felt dry and cracked. I looked around me. I’d fallen asleep on the most uncomfortable chair in the bakery kitchen. “I was—”

  “And what the hell is this?” the man thundered again. My head started to throb. Does he have to yell?

  I looked in the direction of his angry finger. A dozen rum cupcakes stood on a stainless-steel tray on the table. The cakes were topped with chocolaty swirls and dusted with multicolored sugar crystals. They looked pretty and proud, I thought. Then, I remembered. This was why I was exhausted. After having cleaned for Mrs. Rao night and day for months on end, I couldn’t stand the sight of an unclean room, especially an unclean kitchen the magnitude of this one. It was in my blood now.

  Too stressed to sleep or think about more important matters like how to get my hands on an expensive airline ticket and how to evade border guards with my fake visa, I’d done the only thing I could do. I’d scoured the kitchen, scrubbed the counters, and cleaned the cabinets. I’d washed the steel appliances until they shone and I’d dusted the shelves and organized the flour and sugar sacks, containers, and tins according to their contents. I’d vacuumed and mopped the floor until the early hours of the morning, and I’d opened the windows to air out the smell of smoke.

  This was nothing compared to what I’d done at Mrs. Rao’s every day and night, together with keeping good grades and finishing my graduating exams on top of it. I’d enjoyed the massive cleanup just to see the final results.

  Once done, the kitchen had gleamed so clean I couldn’t bear to see it go to waste. Whoever inhabited this place during the day was sure to ruin my hard work and return it to its dirty state tomorrow, so I’d donned the apron and chef’s hat and baked a dozen cupcakes with a generous dollop of rum. When the cakes were done, I’d promptly kicked off my shoes and fallen asleep on the chair closest to the oven radiating warmth and sweet baking smells.

  “What did you steal from my kitchen?” Dick shouted.

  “Steal?” I sat up quickly. “No, no, I didn’t take anything…er…I made these for you.” I pointed to the cakes.

  “Asha?” I glanced over Dick’s shoulder to see Katy. Her eyes widened as she saw me.

  “Katy!”

  “You know this hobo?” Dick pointed at me, like I was a piece of rotting garbage.

  “She’s my friend.”

  “How the hell did she get in?”

  “Through the window,” I answered.

  “Through the window?” Dick bellowed so violently it unsettled the bird on his shoulders. “Through the window?” I was sure he was going to have a heart attack.

  “That’s what I said.” My head was beginning to throb again.

  “Who the hell do you think you are to walk in like this?” Dick turned to Katy. “And why the hell was the window not locked?”

  “Dammittohell!” Jim said, not wanting to miss out on the debate.

  “She didn’t know I was here,” I said quickly. I couldn’t get her in trouble. “I came through—”

  “Thru-u-u the window! Thru-u-u the window!” echoed the parrot. I stared at it. I couldn’t decide whether it was smart, or annoying, or both.

  “Dick, I know her,” Katy said, getting in between the angry bull and me. She stood with her hands clasped in front of her, worry lines on her face, eager to please her boss. “She’s a friend from my school.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Dick didn’t seem convinced. “You’d better have a good explanation why she’s in my kitchen chair.”

  “Yes, I do,” I said adjusting my chef cap. My brain was starting to click. “Katy said you were looking for a baker.”

  Dick turned to me with a frown.

  “A good one, too,” Katy said. Our eyes met briefly.

  “Well, here I am.” I spread my arms bodaciously. Katy skipped behind my chair and grabbed me by my weary shoulders. “Ta-da! Best baker in town for your money.” Her voice was strained and not totally convincing, but I was glad she was playing along.

  “You know I always come through, Dick,” she said. “You won’t regret this. She’s not like the others.”

  Dick stared at her with a frown, then looked me up and down, scratching his chin. I sat up and squared my shoulders, hoping I looked like the best baker in town for his money.

  “She’s already made samples for you,” Katy said, “Here, try one.” She was all sunshine and sweetness, though the catch in her voice was still there.

  “If you’re my new baker,” Dick said, turning to me, “then why the hell are you drinking my rum?”

  “Rum?” I looked at him, startled. That was when I noticed the half-open bottle of rum on the table. “Oh, that. I used it in the cakes.”

  “You cooked with my good rum?” he bellowed.

  “Good” was a stretch, but I kept a straight face. “Good chefs always cook with good rum,” I said.

  “R-u-u-u-u-m,” Jim rolled his tongue.

  “Damn it to hell!” Dick said abruptly. “I’ve had enough of this yakking. Get back to work, both of you!”

  He was about to turn and stride out of the room when he stopped. I watched him warily, fearful he’d yell in my ear again. Or worse. I pulled back, bracing for a slap or a punch. He bent over me, scooped up a cupcake, and limped out of the room, muttering to himself. The bird wavered on his shoulder, trying to keep its balance.

  “Wasting my time and money. These frigging girls�
�” Dick said.

  “Friiiggingirls,” the bird practiced quietly to itself, sounding excited to learn a new phrase. “Friiiggingirls.”

  I looked up at Katy and let out my breath. “I’m sorry.”

  She shook her head. “His bark’s worse than his bite.”

  “I guess I owe you an explanation, eh?” I said, removing my hat and sheepishly putting it on the table.

  Katy gave me a sad look. “Mrs. Jones said you needed an intervention.”

  “An intervention?” I stared at her wide-eyed. My biology teacher thought I needed serious help? The teachers at my school were an overworked, underpaid lot who had barely enough energy to teach our classes, let alone worry about each of us on a personal level. Other than the one teacher who’d called Mrs. Rao about my late homework, most of my teachers had been happy with my progress. “Why?”

  “She said you looked like you were either being hounded by a killer gang or suffering from a terminal illness.”

  “Really?” She was partly right on the first point, but I couldn’t tell her that.

  “Latoya heard you throwing up and crying in the toilet stall for a few days in a row, and Mrs. Jones asked me if I knew anything was wrong.”

  It was true I’d been acting odd lately, especially after finding Preeti’s letter.

  “You’re trying to get away from that mad aunt of yours, aren’t you?” Katy said to me.

  “I guess I need a place to stay,” I said. “But I didn’t know anyone.…”

  “Stay at mine,” Katy said, with a shrug. “You can work here, and help me pay rent like the other bakers before.”

  “Seriously?” I stared at her. “Thanks.”

  “I should warn you, though. Dick fires a baker every few weeks.” She paused. “But I have a funny feeling he’ll like you. Just don’t expect him to be nice or anything.”

  “How much does he pay?” I asked, feeling slightly dazed. Things were happening too fast to process.

  “Minimum wage,” Katy said.

  “Okay,” I said, nodding, feeling slightly elated. I had a place to stay and a way to make money. All in one morning. I desperately wanted to ask what the minimum wage was—that way, I’d know how long it would take me to make $1,593—but I didn’t want to sabotage anything now.

  “I was in your shoes once,” Katy said.

  “You were?” I looked at her, startled. Was she forced to get married to an older man too? And run away from a country with a fake visa?

  “I was twelve when I left home,” Katy said. “So I totally know what it’s like.”

  We both were quiet for a while.

  “Hey, you need new shoes,” Katy said, staring at my feet under the table.

  I looked down at the flat black shoes I’d found in the basement in Mrs. Rao’s home, a pair bought for five dollars at a dollar mart for a girl before me, most probably.

  “I have an old pair of red heels you can have,” she said. “They’re a bit too small for me, so I’ve never really worn them.”

  “Really?” My spirits rose. Katy had the nicest shoes in town. That she was even thinking of letting me borrow a pair from her was a small but happy spark to a difficult night. Day. Week. No, month.

  “Welcome to the Next Day Catering Company,” Katy said with a smile before walking out of the kitchen.

  I noticed she hadn’t touched a cake.

  Part EIGHT

  We must be willing to get rid of the life we’ve planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us.

  Joseph Campbell

  Chapter Forty-one

  “Where the hell are you?”

  I was running toward the party hall with a plate full of frosted blueberry cupcakes in one hand and my mobile glued to my ear with the other. I didn’t need to hold the phone so close. Dick’s voice boomed through loud and clear.

  He was going to kill me for being late again. It had taken me ten minutes to find parking for our van, and in the rush, I had forgotten to pull the handbrake. I had to jump back into the rolling van to take control while trying not to upset the cake tray. It had been a rough morning.

  “Just outside, Dick. Be there in half a minute,” I said, prying the door open with one foot. “Ouch!” My ankle bracelet had caught on a splinter on the door. I bent down and noticed a white scratch mark on my left heel.

  “Oh, no.”

  I was wearing my own red heels, a pair of hand-me-downs from Katy when she was younger and skinnier. I wore them every day and would have worn them into the shower if I could have. I didn’t care they were old or the heel was slightly worn. They were fiery red and made me feel beautiful—just like the sandals my parents had bought me had made me feel, just like I’d hoped the ruby red sandals I’d stolen for Chanda, oh so long ago, had made her feel.

  “Oh, no?” shouted Dick on the phone. “You’re fifteen goddamn minutes late and all you have to say is “oh, no”?”

  “Sorry—”

  “One more time and you’re demoted!”

  My heart sank. I’d heard his threats before, and every time, he’d managed to make me feel two inches tall.

  I hated my boss. Mr. Domenico Benedetti Valentini, or Dick as everyone called him, was CEO of Toronto’s Next Day Catering Company, which had minimum wage slaves for employees and a 1-800 number for clients who called us as a last resort. That usually happened when their own caterer had bailed and they had no other options. When it came to local catering firms, we were at the bottom of the pile.

  In the eight months I’d been with Next Day, I’d been promoted from Catering Trainee to Assistant Manager of Desserts, Baked Goods, and Sweets. It’s true what they say. The longer your title, the smaller your job and the bigger the chance your boss is a dick. The “manager” in my title was Dick’s way of getting me to work day and night without overtime, so I ended up getting paid even less. He said managers got a special bonus at the end of the year if we did well, so I kept trying. I had more than my seven dollars in my purse now, but not enough for a one-way ticket to Goa.

  Preeti’s letter was always in my right-hand pocket and, whenever I had a bad day, I’d reach in, feel the soft pink paper, and remember why I was doing this, and that Preeti was in a worse place than I was. It was her letter and her ankle bracelet that kept me going, every day.

  I knew my getaway from Mrs. Rao and Franky had been a lucky break. I was even luckier they hadn’t tracked me down yet. Toronto was a big city, but not that big. The longer I stayed, the closer they were going to get to me, but my departure date was dependent on my boss’s generosity and mood.

  And he was in a bad mood, as usual that day. I could imagine him, pacing up and down the hall, yelling into his earpiece and glancing at his Rolex knockoff every few seconds. Dick looked the quintessential used-car salesman, slightly overweight and always wearing the same ill-fitting suit with a liter of cheap cologne. His dark hair was slicked back with grease, he wore a signature gold necklace, and a skinny cigar always dangled precariously from his lips. His unique smell warned of his approach from a mile away.

  Tim had got one thing right. With that hint of Italian accent Dick put on to impress the girls, he’d have made an excellent goon in a Mafia movie. He went to the racetrack with other strange men in dark suits every afternoon and then to church every Sunday. I was hundred percent sure he had connections to the local mob.

  When I finally managed to open the church’s basement door a few inches, it banged shut on me. My plate of cakes nearly smashed in my face, and I struggled to balance the tray.

  “Can’t you get your crap together for once?” Dick shouted.

  “This order came close to midnight, Dick, and I’ve been up since four, trying to make this happen,” I said to the phone. “It’s a miracle I got it all done.”

  “It’s a miracle you’re still my assistant manager. That’s what, goddammit! Get in here now!” The phone clicked dead.

  I hung up. Dick wasn’t helping. He never did. Taking care to balance the cake
tray, I pushed the door with a gentle shove of my shoulders and propped it open with one leg, not the easiest maneuver in Katy’s hand-me-down miniskirt and heels.

  I took a deep breath and stepped inside, faking calm. That was when I saw Dick at the other end of the corridor, shaking a fist at Katy. Her beautiful red curls drooped onto hunched shoulders, looking as limp as their owner. With anyone else, Katy would have rolled her eyes. I once saw her stick her tongue out at the back of another driver who’d cut her off. She could be a firecracker when she wanted to. Now, she was a nervous, quiet girl with downcast eyes taking a verbal beating from our boss. Dick was the only person in the world who could do this to Katy.

  Though she didn’t like to admit to it, Katy got an automatic crush on every power figure she met, from our grade-twelve gym teacher to the security guard at school. Dick was no exception. For months after starting the job, Katy dreamed of the day Dick would whisper sweet nothings in her ear, shower her with flowers and jewelry, sweep her into his strong arms, and carry her away into the sunset.

  One day, her daydream came true, but instead of a romantic date, it was a quick one-night affair after work and a few drinks, one that left Katy dangling over a cliff. Dick knew how to rein her in now. Some days, he’d bring her flowers and tell her she was the most beautiful woman in the world; other days, he’d tell her she was an idiot. After one particularly nasty day, I gave him a new nickname—Dick the Douche. I told Katy he was no sugar daddy, just a jerk from hell, but she wouldn’t listen.

  “Eight! Not eight goddamn fifteen!” The Douche’s voice rang through the corridor. This was how I knew his Italian accent was fake. When he got mad, he reverted to his mundane inner-city drawl. “Can’t you read the goddamned time? Where’s your brains, girl? There’s nothing up in there, is there? You’re only good for one thing!”

  Katy’s face went beet red. I was stunned.

  “I should fire your ass.”

  Just when I thought my job was so bad I couldn’t stomach it any further, it had gotten worse. My mouth opened before my brain kicked in.