in Montreal. When the little girl across the aisle offered me one of her candies, I accepted. I shook her hand, introduced myself formally, and learned that her name was Meena. She was the twirling Brownie from the airport.
“How old are you, Meena?”
“I just turned eight last month.” When she smiled, her face creased into deep dimples.
“And is this your first trip to India?”
“No! We visited Nani and Nana three years ago,” she said in a tone that suggested that I was most definitely a silly goose.
“Ah, so your second trip, then.”
Meena’s mother, who was seated beside her, smiled at me and said not to bother the nice man.
“On the contrary, I’m enjoying your daughter’s company. And she was ever so kind to offer one of her Life Savers.” I winked at Meena, who beamed proudly. Meena’s mother nodded and shrugged as though to say “suit yourself” and resumed reading her novel.
∞
After Montreal, the head stewardess announced that it was the flight engineer’s final trip and he would begin his retirement the following day. There was a round of hearty applause for him. Then she told us that a Hindi movie would be played after the meal was served. In an excited voice she added that there was a special bonus — a movie star from the film was on the flight with us. There was a collective gasp and passengers craned their necks to get a glimpse of the celebrity. I was completely out of the Bollywood loop by then and didn’t recognize his name. The elderly woman sitting beside me opened The Magic Carpet, Air India’s magazine, and showed me a picture of him posing beside a slender white woman.
Perhaps I should have allowed Meena’s mother to rein in her chatty daughter. For the next two hours, she told me all about Miss Platt, her second-grade teacher, described each and every badge she’ d earned in Brownies, and showed me the contents of her bag, which included three picture books, a change of clothing, and a Cabbage Patch doll. It was brown, fat-cheeked, and wore a sparkly crown. Meena asked me if I wanted to hold her for a minute and then thrust the doll into my arms. I stared into its painted-on gaze and laughed out loud.
Ameera
∆
“We are going to go pack our bags now. We leave tomorrow morning,” Serena said, with a wan smile. There was a purpling smudge on her neck, a mark I’d left behind.
“Have a good trip home, you two.” I smiled politely and glanced at Manuela, who was flipping through a newspaper, likely eavesdropping.
Serena’s long white tunic fell an inch below her knees, as ungainly as a paper bag. Sebastiano’s Bermuda shorts and loose polo shirt cloaked his muscular frame, making him resemble any other middle-aged tourist. I realized, with a catch of disappointment in my stomach, that they weren’t going to ask me out again. I imagined the late morning debrief that would have determined this. Had they evaluated my performance over coffee? Whose opinion would have held more sway? Never mind, I’d scope the bar again on Thursday.
“I wish we didn’t have to leave this paradise.” Sebastiano affected a sad-sack expression, his lower lip pushed out. I had an urge to taste the soft meat of it.
“Good luck with your search for your father.” Serena said this with the kindness of a kindergarten teacher. I stiffened as the pair turned to walk away.
Frowning in concentration, I scrambled to recall the previous night’s conversation. We’ d all spoken casually about our families early in the evening, when we were making idle chatter about our lives. But what had I disclosed after the fourth drink? I wanted to jump up and follow them to find out what I’d forgotten, but my thighs were stuck to my stool’s vinyl seat.
“You’ve never talked about your father before.”
I looked off in the direction of the disappearing Italians, prickling under Manuela’s curious stare. She apprised me of her family’s news on a daily basis. Just that morning I’d learned that she’ d mediated her sisters’ bickering about the youngest’s quinceañera party.
“Oh, yeah. I don’t know anything about him.” I shrugged, as though speaking about him didn’t always cause a lump to form in my throat. I took a sip from my diet cola to push it down. Why would I have told Serena and Sebastiano about him?
“I always thought he’ d died or something.”
“My mother lost touch with him before I was born. I’ve been thinking about looking for him. Maybe. I dunno.” These words, spoken aloud, sounded surreal. I had imagined a serious search for him numerous times over the years, but the idea hadn’t progressed beyond an uneasy notion.
“Any idea where he might be?”
“India. Probably.” I sucked down the last of my drink, aspirating through ice. “That’s where he’s from. But he could be anywhere.”
“I wonder if you look like him. I don’t think you look like your mother at all.” Manuela said. She’ d met her twice when Mom came to Huatulco on vacation.
“Mom says so, but she doesn’t remember a lot of details. She only knew him for one day.” I looked at my hand, the one part of me that matched my mother. We both had long, thin fingers, the middle one standing noticeably taller than the rest. A small birthmark squatted in the middle of each of our heart lines, a sign of good luck at midlife, according to a palm reader we’ d once visited at the Ancaster Fair. As a child, I liked to press our matching hands together.
“One day?”
“Yeah.”
“Wow,” Manuela said. I doubted Manuela had ever had a one-night stand, or if she had, she’ d never said so. She very much desired matrimony and motherhood. Three kids, preferably two girls and one boy, in that order, and she had chosen names. Although she’ d accepted a promise ring from a previous suitor, none of the men she’ d dated in recent years had turned out to be a potential husband. I’d long suspected that Manuela had a crush on Oscar, but when I once teased her about him, she vehemently denied it.
“Hey, we should go. It’s quitting time.” I looked at my watch.
We collected our things, and repacked and folded the tour desk until it once again resembled a locked rectangular box. We headed off in opposite directions, Manuela to the lobby, where a golf cart would shuttle her to the main road, and I toward the staff dining room.
I filled my dinner plate with rice, refried beans, and cooked vegetables. I avoided the mini-sausages, buns, and crudités, anything that might have been previously picked over by dirty hands. A large slice of angel food cake beckoned and I added it to my plate. It was just after six, early for most of the workers to eat dinner, and I easily found an empty table in a windowless corner. I stared at a painting across from me of a calm acrylic sea reflecting an orange sunset.
I shovelled in the bean and rice slop, its mushiness pleasant against the roof of my mouth. The lump in my throat made way and I swallowed it down with the food. I consumed the cake in three greedy swallows.
∆
Having an unknown father marked me as different, even more different than I already felt as a light-brown-skinned daughter of a white single mother
