should eat," he said finally, as if remembering that it's something people have to do. "I do not want Indian," he added, dismissing the choice that stood so obviously in front of them. "Where else can we go?"
"There's a Japanese restaurant nearby."
"No," he said.
"Or Vietnamese."
"No, I feel like pizza."
Sitara shook her head. She'd forgotten about his taste for fast food—something he had clearly acquired from her mother. "There are a couple of choices downtown by the library," she said. There were, of course, places to order a "better" pizza. But at least this way, she thought, dinner won't last so long. "I'll get a cab," she offered, thinking it might be too far for her father to walk.
"But you are old enough to drive," he said.
"Yes, but I don't have my car here." It was old and decrepit and she didn't want her father to see her in it. Besides, she usually rode her bike or walked, unless she was leaving the city.
I have eighty-one dollars in my pocket, plus the change I was saving for the payphone. I was going to call Bapa before I got on the bus. I wanted to. I wanted to hear him say, "Be careful, Sitara. Come back soon." But I didn't. I couldn't dial it. And now he does-n't know I'm leaving. No one knows.
Paying the cab driver before her father had a chance to, she prayed silently that the small hemp shop on the right would go unnoticed. It reminded her of an incident that they'd never had the courage to resolve. Walking past it, however, Raj said nothing and she focused on the swirling smell of the shop next door.
"You still like incense?" he asked.
"I do."
"Sandalwood purifies the mind."
"You think my mind needs purifying?"
"We all need purifying, Sitara. At least from time to time."
At the corner of Grafton and Blowers streets there were three pizzerias, and Sitara let Raj decide. As they walked through the chosen door, she had to admit that it didn't smell bad. She ordered a Greek slice and ate it in silence while her father ate only half of his.
"Something wrong with it?" she asked.
"No," he said, "but I cannot eat as much as I used to." Then she watched him carefully fold his paper plate around the remaining crust. "A little midnight snack." He smiled as he wiped his mouth. "Come. I'll buy you coffee at my hotel." He stood, holding his pizza in one hand, offering his other to Sitara.
She nodded, but did not take his hand.
Seated in the warm, dark embrace of the coffee shop window, Sitara watched condensation clear vertical paths down the inside of the glass. Raj sat across from her stirring milk into his coffee.
"Your mother says I drink too much of this," he said.
Sitara was drinking hot water.
"She says if it was thicker I would eat it for lunch."
"Some people make it thick," Sitara said.
"So, you are condoning it? You think I should eat coffee for lunch?"
"If it makes you happy." She was still watching water droplets collect and spill down the window. She was thinking about evaporation.
"How far is your apartment from here?" he asked.
"The other end of town."
"And your clinic?"
"About halfway in between."
"Not one above the other?"
"No."
"I suppose that would be too easy."
"It has to do with zoning." She turned to him, irritated. "Why does it matter to you?"
"It does not—but that is what I would do."
He added more sugar to his coffee and she took a breath of the steam pouring out of her mug.
It's dark and there is steam on the tall, tinted window of the bus. I reach up and try to clear it with my sleeve, but instead I make a mess of the moisture. Eventually the dry heat of the engine clears the window and I sit up, thinking I'll be able to see something of the view. But it is dark now and the cold glass reveals more of my own shy face than the mountains I know we must be driving through. The window plays tricks with me—making me look at myself.
"Bapa?" She spoke gently. "Why are you here?"
"To see you, Sitara... in case I run out of time." Before she could say anything, he added, "See how age has scared me? Today I feel old enough to be your tata. Do not wait too long to have children, Sitara. You will enjoy them more when you are young. You should have multiple children. Maybe not nine, like my family, but more than one. One is so lonely."
It's a long drive east and I have never been in motion for so long. At first, I don't know how far I will go. In some ways, it does-n't matter. Being gone is my only desire. In the hushed dark of the bus I ask the driver to list the next five stops. When we arrive at the one he emphasized the most, I step off. Looking for a sign, I see the word "Halifax" printed in dark, bold letters. As the bus doors close behind me, I shrink. There is something so final about an "x."
"Think about it, Sitara, when you start a family. Make sure you save time. It is not good to have your babies when you are too old."
"Or when you're too young," she said.
"You are not too young now."
"No, not now."
In her mind she could see a baby's face—thick black hair, moist suckling mouth, almond-shaped brown eyes. A face that knew nothing yet knew too much.
"Maybe you will get lucky and have twins. You know they run in our family... Beti, are you listening?"
Her hair had fallen in front of her face and her chin was below her shoulder. Lifting her head to her father, she asked, "Bapa, how do you feel?" Like always, she returned to the soothing subject of health when she was unnerved. "Headaches? Dizziness? Aching joints?"
"I do not need a doctor, Sitara."
"Of course not—I didn't mean to..."
"But if I did," a small cloud passed in front of his face, draining it of expression and colour, "I am sure I would come to you. I know you are good at what you do."
She shifted uncomfortably in her seat.
"Sitara, I am tired. I want to go up to bed. You will call a taxi, yes? I do not want you to walk home in the dark."
Sitara nodded. "Will I see you tomorrow?"
"If you want to." He smiled and rubbed her shoulder with his hand. "Good night, beti."
"Good night."
Outside,
