“I’ll check my calendar,” Sabina said.
“Great.” Disappointed, Meena let it go.
“Here. I’m going to put this in a container for you to take to Sam.”
“Thanks.” Meena had thought they’d share a bowl, continue the conversation. If only to see if she could rattle Sabina. “Can I help you clean up?”
“I’ve got it,” Sabina said. “You might want to bring that to him while it’s still warm. It tastes better fresh than reheated. You might even convince him to share.”
Something was off, or maybe Meena was looking for things that weren’t there. Sabina was always abrupt, wasn’t she?
Or Sabina was shaken up by Meena’s birthday.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Meena played catch with Wally. He loved the little stuffed porcupine she’d bought for him. For the last four weeks, she’d settled into a rhythm with Sam and Wally, so much so that the puppy came and went between their apartments at will. And while she’d tried to do more sleuthing with the aunties, there had been very little progress. What she’d learned hadn’t brought her closer to the truth.
She’d watched all three eat bananas; no one broke out in hives. She’d asked them to share stories about their teenage years; none of them exhibited even an eye twitch when it came to sex, relationships, or broken hearts.
“Wally! No. Stop.” She tugged him away from the ottoman, and a large piece of the fabric came off. Attached to it was a thick card, which flipped open to reveal familiar writing.
What is it about your destiny that you cannot stay where you’re put?
The news came from Margaret Beaufort. I do not chitchat with my colleagues. That’s not our environment at Merriam-Webster. Margaret is one of the few who chatter around the kitchenette. Once she spoke of a family who asked for prayers during Mass. They wanted God to bless them with a child. It was your fate to go to them.
When I handed you to Margaret, that was the end. Margaret has informed me of your tragedy. And there is nothing I’m willing to do.
I am a selfish person. If I were a better person, a kinder, generous woman . . . alas, I’m not. I cannot offer you my home, even though you have lost yours. The only thing I can do is leave you mine when I’m gone. It’s your legacy, after all.
“What happened here?” Sam came through the door. “Wally, did you tear up the ottoman?”
Meena looked up at Sam. “He found a note.” She patted the dog, who was curled up on the couch next to her. “He ripped open the bottom of that ottoman. By the time I noticed, he had a piece of notebook paper in his mouth.” Meena handed it to him and bit the inside of her cheek. Her leg bounced to contain her roiling emotions. Neha had known where she was, could have found her, told Meena who she was, done something, anything. Instead she’d been left in that cold institutional home in a shared room with three others.
Two years. Lost. Grieving. Scared. Alone. Always alone. And this selfish, manipulative woman could have made it better. “She didn’t have to offer me a place to stay. Even a temporary one.” Her voice broke, so she bit the inside of her lip. Neha could have let Meena know she hadn’t been left alone in the world, that there was a safety tether in the form of a past. Neha could have given her a foundation, roots. Tears she could no longer hold back rolled down her cheeks. She’d been adrift suddenly. In shock, she hadn’t known how to manage a life that had shifted from daily hugs to no contact. From a home filled with music and noise, aromas of plain food, to one with silence and communal buffets.
Sam sat down next to her, put his hand on her knee. “You OK?”
She forced herself to stop the bouncing under his hand. If she spoke, anger would spew out at him, and he didn’t deserve it. She didn’t know what it would mean to loose the reins of her fury.