It was as if Neha had gone out to run an errand and never returned. This wasn’t the home of someone who had known she was going to die. Meena wandered into the enormous bedroom. The bed was covered with a bright-pink comforter and deep-coral pillows. You never know the last time you’ll sleep in your own bed. Meena felt sympathy for the woman who had lived here. Neha must have loved this place. She must have lived here a long time to accumulate so many things. Oddly, there were no photos. No wedding pictures in silver frames or family photos on the fireplace mantel. The apartment was absent of anything personal. Only art, abstract and kitsch, hung on the few walls that had no shelves.
“Who are you?”
Meena turned at the sharp voice by the front door. A woman in a red silk shirt and black pants stood with her arms crossed.
“Meena. And you are?”
“The caretaker of this building,” the woman said. “What are you doing here?”
Meena held up the keys. “I’m the new owner.”
“That’s not possible. This is Neha’s apartment.”
Meena heard the shakiness in the woman’s voice and softened her face to appear more approachable. A tactic she’d honed well in reassuring uneasy subjects. “She left it to me. I have the paperwork.”
The woman straightened her shoulders. “I see. And you are moving in?”
No. The reaction was knee jerk. She didn’t live anywhere. Meena had a base in London—a small room in her college friend Zoe’s flat where she kept her things—and a PO box in Manhattan for mail. “I’m still figuring that out.”
“Well, do it soon,” the woman ordered. “This is a place that’s meant to be lived in, not sit empty.”
Meena gave her a wide smile. Maybe this woman would want to buy it. It was too soon for that, but if the option was there, it would make things less complicated. “I didn’t get your name.”
“Sabina.”
“Nice to meet you.”
The woman nodded and left. Meena headed to the door and locked it.
She grabbed her laptop from her backpack, looked around at the overwhelming number of things that were now hers to deal with, and sighed. If only it had been a portable heirloom like a Tongan woven mat or even a clichéd locket with a photo.
Except Meena didn’t live with if-onlys. A few months of therapy in her teens had taught her that things happen, circumstances change. An undetected rusty gas pipe can blow up a house as a couple eat breakfast. In an instant, their teenage daughter becomes an orphan. There’s nothing to do but accept it and move forward. She logged on to change her flight. New York City would have to wait a week while she figured out what to do about Neha and this place.
Meena woke and blinked to adjust her eyes in the dark. It took her a few seconds to get her bearings. Streetlight streamed through the front windows. Meena rose from the sofa. She’d slept in her jacket and boots, her laptop still open on the coffee table next to her. She was used to waking up in strange places at odd times. According to the length of her assignment, her body clock was quick to adjust to wherever she was.
She glanced at her watch, a silver Timex she’d bought in a street market in Kathmandu a few years back. It still worked. Six. She’d slept most of the day. She rolled her neck. Caffeine. In the kitchen she spotted a box of Lipton tea bags, then found mugs. None of them matched. Each looked as if it had been picked up from a yard sale. The one she took out was in the shape of a basketball. While the water heated in the microwave, she riffled through the box of Lipton. The first packet she grabbed was empty, yet still sealed. Meena opened it and unfolded the paper to reveal a note.
The handwriting was familiar, the same small, precise penmanship as on the index card.
Never trust a person who is too lazy to brew tea. The only use for generic tea bags is to reduce puffiness around the eyes. If you drink this stuff, I do not want to know you.