“I made espresso,” he offered. “You only have instant.”
She wanted to joke, to tease. All she could do was sit at the table and hold the hot cup in her hand. She was raw. He’d been there for her. Had held her through the night, brought her coffee. She should feel better, healed. She should appreciate that she had someone like Sam who was here now. Instead her anger sat heavy in her stomach, flared as the espresso met the heat of it within her.
“Thank you.” She tried to keep her voice calm. Her tone mild. “For last night and for this.”
“You’re not alone,” Sam said.
She nodded. What he didn’t understand was that it wasn’t about the now. It was about the past, the one she’d chosen to revisit because of Neha and her notes, her manipulations. The woman had shoved Meena into the truth in the cruelest of ways.
“You also have the aunties,” Sam added. “Tell them all of it.”
Meena shook her head. She couldn’t focus on anyone except Neha. Too bad the woman was dead; Meena would have loved to unleash it all on her. “I need to think. I’ll shower and then deal with it.”
Sam stood. “I’m right across the hall. Wally too.”
She cupped his face as he leaned over to kiss her. She barely stayed in control until she heard the snick of the door closing with Sam on the other side.
She paced around her living room, searched for stasis. Then she stood in the middle of the floor, her hair a wild nest—she didn’t even care. She stroked the wood panels on the bookshelves. Even with the knickknacks gone, these shelves were full of Neha’s books. She’d been careless with them just as she’d been with Meena.
Meena moved to the desk. The woman had sat here with her fancy fountain pen and perfect penmanship, writing her notes while Meena was out there, lost, without a home, without family. She had done nothing. Worse, she played games, toyed with Meena from beyond the grave.
Meena ran her hand over the stack of blank journals and reference books. With a swipe she swept them off, onto the floor. Her chest heaved, not from exertion. Anger thick in her veins, she moved on to the built-in shelves. Meena imagined Neha casually picking out a book to sit in a chair in front of a toasty fire and read while Meena lay curled in a bottom bunk believing there was no one in the world who was hers. Neha had flipped pages knowing that it was a lie, knowing where Meena had come from, where Meena might be.
This apartment wasn’t a gift—it was a minefield, littered with hidden bombs designed to mess with Meena, to torture her. Another swipe of the hand and more books cascaded to the floor. She kept going until half the books on the shelves were heaped at her feet. She stepped over them with slight regret for the dented covers and crumpled pages. Methodically she kept going, from row to row. The books were Neha’s, hopefully her most precious items.
“What is going on?”
Meena stopped and stared at the wide-open door. Uma. It was just as well that it was the grumpy auntie; she could go toe-to-toe with this one. “I’m doing a little cleaning.”
“I see that.” Uma stepped in and closed the door behind her.
“I’m not in the mood for company.” Meena crossed her arms, her skin sweaty under her gray sweatshirt.
“I came down to tell you to cut out the noise,” Uma said.
Meena raised her chin.
“Are you mad at something specific or the world in general?”
A tiny laugh tickled Meena’s throat. If anyone knew anger, it would be Uma. Meena wondered if rage was genetic. Meena was tempted to lay it all out, ask Uma if she’d given birth to an unwanted baby thirty-four years earlier. “I’ve asked you this before, but I’m asking again. Did you like Neha?”
Uma picked up a pile of books and stacked them on the sofa. “Not particularly. We loved her, but Neha wore bitch as a badge of honor.”