Abby Spencer Goes to Bollywood (22 page)

“It feels weird,” I tell him. “Like I’m not sure where I am. After being on the plane so long I feel like I can still hear the drone when I close my eyes, and one of my ears hasn’t popped either.”

“How was the premiere? Your dad?”

“It was all awful. The stupid press kept asking him about me instead of his movie. One of them even asked Dad if he had more hidden kids.”

“You’re kidding,” Shaan interrupts. “Like he has kids hidden in his attic?”

“Exactly. His movie was great though. Way more interesting than me. Why don’t they get it? Knuckleheads.”

“Abby, I miss you already.”

“I miss you too, Shaan,” I say.

I brushed my hair smiling after we finish our call. My head hits the pillow but my eyes fly open.

I’m an idiot. How does all this matter? Yes, I’d been quite the hit with Grandma Tara, Shiva, Mina, Bina, and Shaan, but…

I screwed up the one relationship I went to Mumbai to find. Dad hates me.

He doesn’t even want to talk to me.

He didn’t come to the airport to see me off.

He didn’t want to talk to me on my last day in Mumbai. He smiled and looked normal on the red carpet and at the party because he’s the best actor in the world and there were fans around us the whole time.

I open my violin case to check it and my eyes bulge. Every single string had popped.

My sane mind says strings often pop due to cabin pressure changes on airplanes. However, a louder part of me says maybe it’s an omen.

Broken strings = broken relationship.

Chapter 28

For the first few days home, I live in a weird world. I have to remind myself of where I am and who with. I have two families in two countries and two different cultures. Weirdville. Jet lag dogs me and I wake up at three in the morning and relive the mistakes I made. I can’t forget or forgive myself.

Shaan texts me a lot and I text him back. I have to tell him that I don’t have unlimited texting and Mom will kill me when she sees the bill. He says his Mom would too. So we Facebooked instead.

In Mumbai, people drive on the left side of the road. The first morning home, I thought Mom made a turn onto the wrong side of the street and cried out, “Watch it!”

Startled the heck out of her.

That week I jumped each time the phone rang. Was it

Dad? No, it was a marketing call selling us new siding or a vacation to Bermuda.

It’s been a week and he hasn’t called. I stop hoping and feel hollowed out like a rotting Halloween pumpkin without the candle glowing in it.

The next week in Algebra as I plough through my equation, the intercom crackles and interrupts. “Could you please send Abby Spencer to the office?”

Huh? Why? Which rule did I break?

I walk the long corridor to the office filled with dread even though I can’t think of any crime I’ve committed against Roosevelt Middle School.

It turns out I missed a few things on my enrollment form at the beginning of the school year. The office missed it too and forwarded them to wherever forms go. All these months later, someone realized and sent the form back to the school. Whew!

It asks for real basic information and Mom already signed it so the office person says, “Take a few minutes and fill it out right now.”

“Sure,” I say, taking the clipboard, pen, and form.

I filled out name, address, phone number, you know, the standard lalalalala. Then I stop in my laced-up boots.

Race (Optional): Caucasian, African American, Hispanic, Asian, Pacific Islander, Other.
With a blank that you can fill out.

I’ve checked Caucasian all these years, even though I knew my father is Indian. His absence made me want to snub him. Now it’s different. My identity is a combination of two cultures.

I stare at the blank hypnotized. Two phones ring together and strangely remind me of my days in Mumbai when Dad’s phones would ring simultaneously in the house.

Deliberately, I write
biracial
.

I smile with satisfaction when I’m done. As if I’ve done something important. Even if Dad doesn’t care enough to call me.

For the first time in my life, I fill in my father’s name, address, and phone number. Because I can. Even if the school is unlikely to contact him in case of emergencies in Mumbai!

I hand the form to the woman at the desk and walk back to class with a skip in my step. I may not have much of a relationship with my father but it’s better than never having met him.

That evening, Mom is working late. The holidays are a busy time of year for her. I have the house to myself and I decide to wrap some Christmas presents.

I gather the scissors, tape, and gifts I’d bought for my grandparents and Mom in Mumbai. I wrap the kurta I bought for Grandpa with Dad’s help. For Grandma Spencer, I bought

some pure cotton paisley place mats. Grandma loves setting creative tables and I know she’ll love these.

I bought a small box for Mom to match her memory box. I place a picture of me and Dad inside. I also bought her a scarf in a riot of colors. I can see her wearing it with her little black dress.

As I stick a bow on the last package I think that Dad is probably at the end of his publicity blitz tour by now. I texted once but didn’t hear back. Why can’t he take a moment to text me back?

My stomach rumbles. Dinnertime.

Mom left some pasta for me but I’m in the mood for a grilled cheese, crispy on the outside and melty, gooey on the inside. I wander to the refrigerator to grab some cheese, bread, and butter, and stack them all in my hands like Rachael Ray, and put the pan on.

The doorbell rings as I’m about to slide the bread into the melting butter. I turn off the stove and go to the door.

I’m not allowed to open the door when I’m alone at home unless it’s my grandparents or my neighbor.

I peek through the frosted glass. A man stands, hunched with his hands in his pockets. I can see his back as he faces our front yard. My heartbeat gallops and then stops. No way!

Am I hallucinating? Could it be?

That back and those shoulders, I would know them anywhere. It can’t be! Or can it?

Rules be darned, I throw the door open.

He turns around. “Home delivery!” he says and holds out a familiar box of earrings. He grins from ear to ear.

I have goose bumps all over. Does Mom know about this? Did she keep it a secret?

Dad?

He laughs at my shocked face.

“You forgot your earrings. Your Grandma wanted me to deliver them to you. I also have a special magazine for you.”

I step out and fling myself in his arms. He almost falls over but steadies himself and hugs me tight. I can barely breathe. “Dad, you’re in Houston. What? How?” I blabber,

completely shocked.

Then we both look at each other and laugh.

Dad was standing there in the flesh outside my house. “Are you going to invite me in? It’s a bit cold out here,”

Dad says, laughing.

“Of course,” I say, dragging him in. I clutch the box and the magazine tight.

Dad looks around our decorated house and says, “I love being in America at Christmas. I imagined Meredith’s house being like this. Homey.”

He walks to the tree and hones in on an ornament with a picture of a gap-toothed me.

“Abby, can I get some coffee? I need to stay awake for a few more hours, but my eyes want to close this minute.”

“Of course,” I say. He washes up.

I’m brewing coffee for Dad in my house in Houston. Is this real? I pinch myself. Can I even make coffee worth drinking? I mimic what I’ve seen Mom do.

I quickly pick up the wrapping paper and stuff off the table to tidy up the kitchen.

I imitate Mom again and light the candle sitting on the table. Then very deliberately, I slip on
my
heirloom earrings.

The string quartet bows furiously. I’m so happy it trips all over itself.

Dad sniffs when he comes back to the kitchen. “Abby, I like the gingerbread perfume.”

He likes our house and our candle. I feel all warm.

“I’ll tell Grandma Tara you wore your earrings as soon as you could.”

Then we’re quiet. The silence suddenly challenges us. I don’t know what to say, where to begin. Luckily, Dad takes the lead.

“Abby, sit down. We need to talk. I’ve been thinking about what happened during the last days of your trip to India.” He

weaves his hands through his hair. “I have so much to learn about being a father, a parent.”

“I ruined it all,” I interrupt.

“No,” he says, placing his hand on mine. “No, you didn’t, Abby. I didn’t think that for a moment. I was angry at the press, worried about my movie. I shut down and don’t talk when I’m that furious and upset. Rani helped me see that. It worked for me before, when I was married to my career.”

“Oh, Dad, I did my part too,” I say.

“Abby, you’re the kid. As an adult, it took me a while to learn to deal with the photographers. I’m supposed to be the parent, the adult. I should have comforted you, made sure you knew that I was not angry with you, but frustrated at the situation. In my defense, I have not been a parent for long. Will you give your old dad a second chance?”

“Yes, yes, yes!” I yell. My face will split from my grin. I dance. A happy, joyful, ungainly dance.

Dad looks touched. “I have so much time to make up for and it will take me a while but I’m determined to get it right.”

We look at each other, happy.

His forehead scrunched, he says, “There’s more. Abby, your Grandma Tara and I went through all of my father’s papers and we found the letter that Meredith sent me all those years ago. My father did not open it or give it to me. Your Grandma Tara thinks that he was afraid I would return

to America and he didn’t want to lose his son. He didn’t know that your mom was pregnant. I am so sorry. I honestly don’t know how life would have been for all of us if he had read that letter.”

So much to take in. I don’t know how to feel. “I’m sorry,” Dad whispers. “I feel so helpless.” We hug and are silent for a while.

“Dad…” I hesitate. Do I really want to know? “Did the press stop the ugly stuff?”

“Yesterday’s newspapers line today’s garbage cans. They’ll get over it,” he said. “I realized that my fans were more loyal than I gave them credit for.”

Whew! I haven’t ruined Dad’s career.

Then I have to ask. “Dad, why didn’t you call or answer my text after I left Mumbai?”

“I wanted to surprise you in person. I discussed it with your mom and she played along. I toured the major Indian cities and then took two days to get here. Abby, I have three days before I report for my next movie, which is shooting in Toronto. I want to spend that time with you. Get to know your school, your friends, your city.”

I whoop for joy. “You can come to Priya’s viewing party tonight. She will die!”

He picks up the magazine that we’ve both forgotten in our excitement. It’s the issue of
Film World
with our photo shoot.

“I think it turned out well. Don’t you?” He hands it to me. We’re on the cover! In the photo, Dad sits on a bench and I stand behind him, my hands on his shoulders. I think back to the day that the news leaked in Mumbai. The editor of
Film World
had called. Disappointed that she did not have the scoop anymore, Maya recovered fast. She was still the first one to have real posed pictures and an interview with us. All the headlines would only make fans more eager to read and see more. She’d put us on the cover and she’d print more copies of the issue.

We look amazing.

I open the double spread. These two really like each other, I think as I stare at the picture of Dad and me goofing around.

I sniff. So does Dad. I wonder what’s burning. I look back at the picture. The smell is stronger, harder to ignore.

We’re on fire! Literally. I jump to my feet.

“Abby, the magazine is on fire. It was too close to the candle,” Dad says as he grabs the magazine from my hand and runs to the sink and turns the faucet on.

The last thing I need is to burn down the house. I run to the closest bathroom and fill a pitcher of water. I throw it at the magazine and Dad. The flames were already out. Now Dad is drenched too.

Wouldn’t you know it? Then the smoke alarm goes off. Shrill, loud, and obnoxious. I run and open the windows to let the smoke out of the kitchen. It doesn’t help.

The alarm continues to buzz.

I’m scared the entire neighborhood and the world will know by now. Our neighbor hears the alarm, knows I’m usually alone at this time of evening, and calls Mom and my grandparents.

Within minutes, they’re all at the house. We’ve managed to make the fire alarm stop shrieking by then. Dad and I assure them that all is fine.

Mom and Dad are hesitant, unsure as they meet each other. “Meredith,” he says, “It’s been a long time.”

“Yes,” she replies, her face red, smoothing her skirt. “Yes, it has.”

“You look the same as you did fourteen years ago,” he says.

Then they do this weird kind of handshake turned hug. Could they get back together? Maybe if we were in a

Bollywood movie, but this is real life. And there is Rani too. “Meredith, I have to thank you for raising Abby alone.