Chapter 9
Zoey decides we have to meet at the Yogurt Cup the next day since my allergic reaction started it all. They want to hear more, hear all.
This time I choose mango with white chocolate chips as the topping. As I approach the coconut, I dance away in mock fright. Zoey steps in as a human shield between the coconut and me. Priya provides the sound effects of the ambulance siren blaring and the da-da-da of a horror movie. Priya covers her yogurt with coconut in honor of its major role.
Counter Guy laughs. “Hey, glad you girls came back. Thought you might boycott us forever. You,” he says, pointing at me, “scared us that day.”
Zoey grins wide enough to show her molars. I drag her away, afraid she’ll scare him.
“So, your mom wrote him a letter and he didn’t get it,” says Zoey when we sit in a deserted corner.
“That is so tragic,” says Priya. “Like a movie or a book.” “Yup, my life would make the best book,” I reply.
“So you think the letter got lost or do you think someone hid it from him?” Priya’s eyes are the size of bottle caps, her voice all dramatic.
“I don’t know. My grandfather died the next year, so I guess we’ll never know.” All this is so strange, it belongs in a Ripley’s Believe It or Not.
Priya bursts in, “OMG, Abby, does this mean that you are rich and famous? Naveen Kumar is like a big deal in India.”
“No!” I say. “No! Don’t be ridiculous. Nobody knows him here.”
But I wonder, would I be rich or famous because my father is Naveen Kumar?
Priya breaks the silence. “My mom suggested I have a Bollywood-themed birthday party this year.”
I almost choke. Get outta here! A week ago, Bollywood didn’t figure into my world and now it’s splashed all over. Figure that!
“It was so weird after what you’d told us earlier. I said it was the lamest idea I’d heard,” Priya says.
If my father had turned out to be a plumber instead of a Bollywood star, I’d think it’s a brilliant idea.
“You don’t think your mom knows, does she?” I ask, scared. “I have to keep it a secret. My mom and my father are worried that the media will hound us.”
“I thought that too. But no, she doesn’t. There’s no way she could.”
“I trust you both completely. It can’t be leaked,” I say.
“It’s a pact. We swear to not say a word,” Zoey says as we hold hands and giggle.
“A pact needs blood,” I say.
“No blood,” says squeamish Priya. “I’ll faint.”
“Okay, how about we smear yogurt on our fingers and swear secrecy?” I suggest.
Zoey is the first to follow through. She dips all five fingers in her yogurt cup and we form a circle with our hands and touch the tips of our fingers. I have too much yogurt and it ends up trailing down my arms. Oh what a sticky mess of secrets we are. After we rush to the bathroom and wash up, we look at pictures of Priya’s newly born niece and walk home. I’m more relaxed than I have been for days, and for once don’t have a headache.
The minute I enter the house, Mom looks up from her computer, frazzled. “Abby, your father called. He wants to Skype again in an hour. I don’t know what’s going on. He said he had been up all night at the hospital with his mother.”
“I have to shower,” I say.
“Abby, we have to respect his request. Give him some time. He’s just found out he’s a father. That is huge. I had months to prepare after I found out. And he’s a celebrity—we don’t understand the complications of his life and work—and he’s trying to protect us too. Or maybe it has to do with your grandmother.”
The possibility of the Skype call being related to a sick grandmother I’ve never met makes me feel guilty.
Why can’t my father be an engineer or an accountant or a janitor? Why does he have to worry about media and red carpets?
Mom and I watch an episode of Cupcake Wars while we wait for my dad’s Skype call. We wail at the ingredients (zucchini, salted peanuts, bacon, rice) the poor contestants are asked to put into their cupcakes. In their place, I’d say, “No can do.”
An hour later my dad calls. Funny how fast I’ve started calling him my dad. Maybe it’s because he’s always been Dad in my daydreams. I try referring to him as Father at times and Dad at other times depending on my mood. Mom says something about it. Calling him Father seems weird, like I belong to the British aristocracy. Father, the palace is a bit drafty today, eh?
Even though I call him Dad, he doesn’t feel like he’s my dad yet.
I ask him the question that’s been on my mind. “So why did you change your name?”
“I changed my name to Naveen because there was another actor named Kabir at the time,” he explains. “Naveen is my middle name. Your grandmother was the last one to switch to my new name.”
Then my bleary-eyed father makes a request as unexpected as adding bacon to cupcake batter. “Meredith, I know I’m asking a lot, but could Abby come to India? To Mumbai?”
Excuse me? Wailing violins! What did he say? Did I hear that right? I look over at Mom.
Mom and I stare at each other and then at the monitor.
Mom keeps gulping.
Before either of us can say anything coherent he says, “Hear me out. My mother is doing better. Last night she was so sick, I thought I might lose her. I was overwhelmed and emotional and told her about Abby. She was shocked at first, but then she perked up.” My father shakes his head, looking stunned.
Mom says, “But…”
“God help us all,” he laughs with a tinge of panic, “she wants to meet Abby. She seems to have summoned the strength to live to meet her.” He continues, “We haven’t talked about what my dad might have known yet. But she
was genuinely surprised when I told her. Her big regret has always been that she didn’t have any grandchildren, which is why I believe she had no idea about the letter you wrote.”
I say, “But…”
“What do you think, Mere? A short visit? I’ll send her a ticket, of course,” he hastens to add. “I would invite you too, but I’m sure you are busy with your café.”
“Oh, absolutely,” my mom agrees. “And I could not impose on your mother right now.”
And it would be majorly awkward.
Then it gets even weirder than adding bacon to cupcake batter.
“Well…” says Mom, tugging at the hem of her sweatshirt and tapping her foot rhythmically. She has a sheepish look on her face. Would she agree?
“Thanksgiving is coming up, and Abby has a week off from school. She does have a passport.” Last year, we applied for a passport for me, thinking we might go to Mexico.
Mom looks at me begging for help!
“I don’t know, Naveen. She’s so young and the journey to India is so long and…” Mom’s voice trails off.
“I’m thirteen, but I don’t even know you,” I interrupt.
My father takes a deep breath. “I agree, Abby, but that’s not my fault. It’s no one’s fault,” he adds. His voice is hypnotic and comforting but with an edge. “But I’ve missed out on
much of Abby’s childhood—isn’t it time we get to know each other? Skype is a poor substitute, don’t you think?”
How could anyone disagree with that?
“And if your grandmother wasn’t so frail, I wouldn’t ask,” he adds.
That is the clincher. I can see Mom’s expression soften. Her own parents mean so much to her, and she knows my dad’s mom means as much to him.
“Meredith, don’t worry about the travel. Abby will go first class, and I will arrange for the airline to escort her. One of my friend’s kids traveled to the U.S. from Mumbai and it all worked out,” he cajoles.
Mom and my father talk for a while. Mom raises all her doubts and he appeases her. I exhale and start to breathe again.
They decide. I, Abby, will go to India next week.
Should I scream with excitement or be terrified? The string quartet is confused too.
My father is jubilant. Mom and I don’t know what to do after we hang up.
“I’m going to India to finally meet my father and my grandmother, Mom,” I say uncertainly.
“I know, honey, and I’m happy for you,” she says, smiling. “But I’ve never gone to a foreign country and I’ll be
alone,” I say, nervous.
Mom raises her chin. “And you’re a smart girl and you’ll be fine.” Her tone is determined, as if she’s off to wage a war.
Is Mom trying to convince herself?
Mom tells Grandma and Grandpa Spencer and they react with all the questions Mom had asked my dad. This time she uses all the answers that he gave her to calm their fears. I tell my friends and again swear them to secrecy and promise to tell them everything and email and text. They are super duper jealous.
Two days later, I stand in line clutching my paperwork at the Indian Visa office with Mom. It’s a sparse room, the posters on the wall providing the only color. Incredible India! they read. Some are a bit faded and curled at the corners. The Taj Mahal blinks at me, as does a mysterious woman in a red sari.
I wonder if my father was acting or was it real when he said he felt bad about not having been part of my childhood. He sounded so sincere. Does he really want to get to know me? He must love his mother to go to all this trouble.
I was angry before, but now I can’t be angry with him.
He isn’t a deadbeat dad. He just didn’t know.
He is an actor though; it’s what he does for a living. Is it all an act?
This is going to be such an adventure. I ride the roller coaster between thrill and terror.
The woman at the window stamps my passport. Bang! “Have a great trip!”
It’s too late to question the ball rolling down the hill.
My father’s “people” have already talked to Mom and gotten dates. The ticket is booked.
My people—Mom, Grandma, and Grandpa—are scrambling. There is so much to do!
Father and his people say, “Don’t worry about anything.
We’ll take care of it!” But Mom worries.
She frets about packing clothes and taking medicines and being in a foreign culture and traveling for more than twenty-four hours on my own and the shots I need and my cell phone working in India and granola bars and pudding cups in case I don’t like the food.
“Abby, I’ve packed two pairs of jeans, do you think that’s enough? Do you think it’s okay to wear sleeveless shirts in India? I wonder if it’s hot in November. Maybe I need to call Naveen and clarify the clothing dos and don’ts.”
We go back and forth about my violin and in the end, I decide I have to take it. I can’t go without practice for ten days.
I worry about everything my mom is worrying about too. But mostly I worry that my father and I won’t like each other. It could be a huge problem when father and daughter
meet so late instead of at birth. Babies are all so cute and adorable that all dads love their babies.
At thirteen, I have a zit on my nose. I don’t have headgear or anything tragic like that, but I’m a metal mouth. My knees are dry and gray. I have opinions about people and canned versus frozen peas, music and T-shirts. If I don’t wash my hair every day it looks stringy and ugly.
What if he thinks, “She is my daughter? Nah! Not feeling the love”?