by Varsha Bajaj
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.
We have so much to talk about.”
They have a lot of catching up to do.
If I had any doubts about Dad’s ability to win over people, they are gone after I see him with my grandparents.
“This sauce is the best I have ever eaten,” he says to Grandma as he reaches for a second helping of her spaghetti and meatballs.
He admires Grandpa’s handiwork around the house and asks, “When are you two coming to visit me in Mumbai?”
“Well now,” says Grandpa pleased, “we’ll have to plan that, won’t we?”
That night,
Priya greets me at her door with “Abby Spencer, you are late!”
I can barely keep the grin from my face. Her party’s guest list has grown. I can see at least ten girls behind her.
I take a deep breath. “Well, since you rolled out a red carpet,” I say, pointing to the construction paper, “I thought I’d bring along a real, live movie star.”
On cue, Dad gets out of the car and saunters up to the door. The girls inside shriek in disbelief.
Priya is speechless.
Her mom makes some garbled sounds and then faints. Luckily, she’s quick to revive and we don’t need to call 911.
After things calm down, I show them the magazine cover. Even though one copy is a charred mess, Dad has a few more copies in his suitcase. Lots of oohs and aahs!
Dad asks them if I’ve told them about Shaan and me being in a song in his next film. Priya and Zoey’s faces are priceless.
“Dad,” I say. “I didn’t tell them because I didn’t think we’d make it in the movie. We could be cut, you know.”
Dad grins. “I do have some influence. I plan to make sure that you kids stay.”
More shrieks. Then it’s performance time.
Dad takes out his iPod as planned and plays the song from the movie and I play it on my violin, which I’d bought along.
Dad and I teach them the dhak, dhak, dhin moves. Shake, shake, twirl, and bump. Dancing + happy = happy dancing late into the night.
I’ll never forget that party. Ever.
I text Shaan and fill him in. If only he could be there, it would be complete.
The next morning, Dad insists on coming to Mom’s store. We tie on our aprons and get to work.
Mrs. Harris, one of Mom’s regulars, looks over at Dad, and winks at me as she leaves with her chocolate chiffon pie. “My, my!”
“He’s my dad,” I say, and she turns bright red.
I text Priya that Dad is at the store. She tells her mom who beats the drums and makes sure the entire community knows. Every South Asian person in Houston must have come to buy a pie that morning.
Mom has to call in the reserves—Grandma and Grandpa!
With a pie in my hand, I look around me. I have to literally stop and take in the moment and capture it and savor it like a bite of blueberry pie.
Dad is at the counter, Grandma running the cash register. Grandpa coaxes the crowd into order and Mom runs back and forth replenishing pies. All the people I love, my entire family, are with me, around me, and my heart feels as light as a balloon floating above a field of bluebonnets. If only Grandma Tara were here! But I know I’ll see her again.
“Hey, Dad,” I say, looking at the empty pastry case at noon, “you didn’t tell me how your movie did.”
“It wasn’t important, Abby.” But then he beams. “It smashed all box office records. I plan to start a charitable foundation in Mumbai with some of the profits. “Will you come down and help me?”
“I’ll be there to help you when summer rolls around,” I promise.
They are the best three days. There is a once-in-a-decade dusting of snow in Houston. Only appropriate. Dad is here. It’s a miracle. Even the weather gods understand that.
I’m so content I almost don’t need presents for Christmas. Almost. The string quartet merrily plays “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.”
“He’s my dad,” I say. “Meet my dad.” I say it a million times during those days, and—believe me—it never gets old.
Acknowledgments
Kelly Barrales-Saylor at Albert Whitman edited this book and made it stronger. Kristin Zelazko has an amazing eye for detail and made sure Abby’s journey was on schedule.
My agent Jill Corcoran’s enthusiastic response to this story carried Abby and me through the journey.
Gratitude goes to Cynthia Leitich Smith and Kathi Appelt, who helped me believe that I could write. They have hearts as big as Texas.
Thank you to my readers and writing friends: Vonna, Kathy, Marty, Laura, Russell, Melissa, Shelli, Vicki, Liz, Chris, and Joy.
My biggest thanks go to my family. Karishma wanted me to write a “happy story about India.”
Samir’s zest for life is reflected in my writing. Rajeev’s quiet strength is my anchor.
Thank you to my Dad, Shashi Walavalkar, who read every line of the manuscript and has been present every day of my life.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2014 by Varsha Bajaj
978-1-4804-7557-1
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