The Sweetness of Tears (10 page)

We all stood awkwardly in the living room for a while. Then Connie asked my father to go with her into the kitchen to help get dinner on the table. I would have offered to help, except I thought what she really wanted to do was get him alone for a second. To talk about me.

Cory turned the TV on so loud it hurt. And Michelle stood and stared. After a few seconds, I asked to use the bathroom, mainly to get the crazy beat of my heart under control, to splash my face with water, and try to get some air into my lungs. Michelle led the way without a word. When I came out, I traced my way back down the hallway and stopped outside what I thought was the kitchen to hear Connie’s louder side of a whispered conversation—my father was better at whispering, so I couldn’t hear anything from him.

“Well— I mean, I just think a phone call ahead would have been— I mean, it’s such a shock. How long do you think she wants to stay here?”

Dad’s answer sounded like air.

“Well, don’t you think you should ask her what her plans are?”

More blanks from Dad, short enough to indicate that he used fewer words than Connie.

“Of course, I know that, but I just need to know how long.”

“—————”

“What about her mother? Does she know she’s here? Or did she just run away?”

“——”

“Well, maybe you should ask. How old is she, Todd?”

“—————————————————————”

“You don’t know? You don’t know how old she is?” Connie’s whisper had some voice in it now. I decided that what I’d heard, and hadn’t, was enough.

Cory was still on the couch. Michelle left the Barbie dolls she was playing with to stare at me some more. Pretty soon, Connie called us into the kitchen for dinner, as bright and cheerful as she’d been before. She didn’t ask me any of the questions I knew she wanted to. Instead, she kept up a flow of bright-eyed conversation that was saccharine-sweet enough to give lab rats cancer—asking me about “my trip,” about how long the bus ride had been and all. Michelle was still staring, making it even harder to swallow the bites that would have stuck in my throat anyway. Cory shoveled food into his mouth without looking at anyone. My father did pretty much the same.

When dinner was over, I offered to do the dishes.

Connie said, “Oh, no. You go and rest. You must be tired. Thank you.” She smiled so wide I could see the pink of her gums. I wondered what she looked like when the smile actually reached her eyes. I hadn’t seen that happen yet.

Cory was back in front of the TV. But he got up when Connie came in and said, “Go get your homework done, Cory. Michelle, put those Barbies away and finish your spelling sentences. I’m going for my walk with Deena.”

Michelle skipped out of the room backward, still staring. I sat down on the couch and waited for my dad. I wondered if Connie’s walk was a way to give me some private time with him. It wasn’t, I found out later. She went for a walk every day with the lady who lived across the street.

Dad came in, wiping his hands with a dish towel. I stood up to switch off the television. The sudden quiet was a relief. I wondered whether Cory had hearing problems. And then the doorbell rang. Dad opened his mouth and closed it a couple of times, like a fish, and then went to answer it. A few seconds later, he was back with a man wearing a tool belt and carrying a toolbox.

“I sure appreciate it, Todd. I—I haven’t worked for a while.”

My father nodded. “Don’t mention it, Jake. I know how it is. Let me show you what we want done.” They went into the kitchen. In the silence of the living room, I heard them discussing creaky doors and squeaky hinges. Then they moved on down the hallway. There was a light switch that needed to be three-way. A faucet leaking in the main bathroom. A tilting dresser in the master bedroom. My father had stuff for Jake to do in every room. Cory and Michelle were quiet. The TV was still off. I listened to every last one of Jake’s assignments. It took my father almost forty-five minutes to go through them all. When they came back to the living room, they were talking about paint colors. Navajo White. No—maybe something with a little yellow in it. Better to ask Connie. Jake was nodding, writing it all down in one of those little memo pads you could get for nineteen cents at Thrifty’s. At least you could back then. Back when ice cream was fifteen cents a scoop. I watched him tuck his pencil back behind his ear without really looking at him, waiting for my father to remember I was there. When he finally led Jake out, he turned and came back to the living room, catching sight of me with a startled look that was proof of what I had begun to think—that he’d forgotten all about me.

Connie came back just then. She helped me make up the couch in the den, explaining that I should feel free to sleep in—that they’d all be out of the house by seven in the morning.

“I was off from work today. I’m a nurse.”

I blinked. And stared. A nurse. Same as Mom. If I gasped, Connie didn’t seem to notice.

She was still talking. “Tomorrow, my shift starts at six o’clock in the morning and I won’t be home until six in the evening. Todd will pick Michelle up from school. Cory takes the bus. And then he’ll take ’em for their after-school stuff.” She was chattering away. I could tell she was uncomfortable. “Just make yourself at home, okay? Here’s a towel for you to use. Is there anything else I can get for you?”

I shook my head, said thanks, and wandered back into the living room where my father was. He was watching TV now, and Connie was with her kids, checking homework and running a bedtime bath for Michelle.

I stood and waited for him to notice me for a few minutes. Finally, when that didn’t work, I said, “Maybe I should call home?”

My father looked up and blinked a few times. Then he said, “Uh— of course. There’s a phone in the den. Feel free.”

He didn’t ask about Mom or Ron and hadn’t mentioned them since I’d gotten there.

That was when it hit me. The failure. I’d come looking for a way out of my troubles and confusion—a happy ending that wasn’t going to happen. I wouldn’t have come if I’d known about Connie and her kids. My father wasn’t some tragic hero, wandering and lost—the way I guess I’d pictured him from my grandmother’s description—pining away for the family he’d left behind, someone I could save who could then turn around and save me. He had picked up and moved on and there wasn’t ever going to be a happy ending that involved him coming back to a family he’d never been a part of in all the years of my life.

I woke up the next morning to the bustling sounds of that family, the one he
was
a part of, getting ready for its day. I may as well have not been there at all. I didn’t bother getting off the couch I’d slept on, just waited until the house was quiet before getting up to get dressed. I thought of my phone call to Grandpa as I did—he’d been relieved to hear from me. And quiet when I told him where I was.

I could hear him sigh into the phone. “Won’t you come home, Angela?”

“No.”

“I’ve spoken with your mother. She’s worried sick. Trying to get a flight back as soon as possible. If you’re not coming home, she might as well stay in India. What do you want me to tell her, Angela? Should I tell her to come home?”

Yes, yes!
I wanted to shout, thinking of the man in the next room who was my father, who didn’t have anything to say to me and no interest in anything I had to say, either. Choked up, I said, “No. I’m not coming home.”

Remembering that call, I started to cry. The simple truth was that Mom was all I had. Mom and Grandpa Pelton and Ron. This home, the one I woke up in that morning, was the home of a family that I had forced myself on. I wasn’t stupid enough not to know that. But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

I was still crying, half-convinced that I should leave, when the doorbell rang. I wiped my face and went to answer it.

A woman was standing there, holding a carton of eggs.

“Hello. I’m Deena. From across the street. I wanted to return some eggs I borrowed from Connie.”

“She’s not here.”

“I know. You must be Angela.”

I nodded. She spoke with an accent. I couldn’t figure out what kind. She looked like she could be Spanish or Italian, but she sounded British. Sort of. Iranian maybe—there had been a lot of stuff about Iran on the news. About American hostages being held there and pictures of an angry-looking old man with a beard that Grandpa Pelton had said might be the Antichrist. I’d seen it on TV, big crowds of people, women with their heads covered, waving their fists angrily around, burning American flags.

“Will you put these in the fridge for me?”

I took the eggs from her. Her eyes were dark and beautiful. And full of sympathy.

“You’re alone. Why don’t you put those in the fridge and come over to my house for a visit? I’ll make us some tea.”

I couldn’t think of any reason to say no. I put away the eggs and followed her across the street. She led me into her house—painted yellow on the outside, with white trim—and into her kitchen. I watched her put the water to boil. She opened cabinets and drawers, laying out teacups, saucers, and spoons.

She gave me a quick glance. “You were crying? When I rang the bell?”

I nodded.

She sat down at one of the chairs at the kitchen counter, pointed to the other one for me to sit on, and asked, “How old were you when you last saw your father?”

“I was a baby—like one and a half—when he left my mother.”

She shook her head as the kettle of water began to whistle, and stood to turn the stove off. Then she frowned. “The tea. I can make it any way you like. But our way is different. I cook it with milk and spices.”

I frowned back. “Where are you from?”

She smiled. “Pakistan. Which is next to India.”

“Oh.”

I watched her scoop tea leaves into the kettle, along with whole spices that she named out loud. “This is cardamom. See? These pods?” She split them open as she dropped them into the kettle. “A very good breath freshener. And these are cloves—not too many of these. They’re strong. Cloves are good for a toothache. They numb the pain. And cinnamon. Now, I’ll let the water boil again, with all the tea and spices. Then I add the milk and let it all simmer together. That’s the way to have tea.” She rocked her head side to side and sighed before sitting down again. She propped her face up in her hands and focused her eyes on me, sparkling eyes that reminded me of Grandma Pelton’s.

“My mother’s in India,” I said.

“Is she? India and Pakistan used to be one, you know. Before Independence. Before Partition. What is your mother there for?”

“She’s a missionary.”

“A missionary? Oh.” There was a long moment of quiet. “Catholic?”

“No. Just regular Christian. My grandfather’s church—he’s evangelical—it’s nondenominational.”

She said, “Ah,” with a frown, but I don’t think she knew what I was talking about. After a second, she said, “I went to a Catholic school. A convent school, for girls. Run by nuns.”

“You’re Catholic?”

“No, no. I am Muslim.”

“Oh.” Now I was the one who didn’t know what she was talking about.

“Tell me, Angela, how old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

“Seventeen? Only two years older than my son.” She stood up and turned off the stove. I watched her use a little strainer to catch the spices and tea leaves as she poured out two cups and brought them to the kitchen table, where we sat. “Normally, the tea is made with the sugar boiled in also, but I have stopped taking sugar myself.” She pushed the sugar bowl in my direction and watched me put in a spoonful and stop. “Oh, no, no. This is your first cup of
chai
. Have it properly. With lots of sugar.” She was doing the job herself, adding another two heaping spoonfuls to my cup as she said, “
You
are a skinny little thing. No need to worry.” She stirred my tea for me and then wrapped her hands around her own cup and sat back to wait for it to cool. “It was brave of you to come to see your father.”

“Brave?” My voice croaked. My face crumpled. She stood to get some Kleenex and patted me on the back. After a few minutes of bawling, I said, “He—he won’t even talk to me.”

“Hmm.” She put her hand on her chin and stared out the window. She seemed to be speaking to herself. “Yes. That’s the thing. When so much time has passed in silence—so far away—it is hard to know what to say. Too hard. He was probably shocked to see you. You were so young when he left. And now—you are already grown up. You know, when you are older, it is easy to look in the mirror and live in denial—you don’t see those wrinkles, you tell yourself that those white hairs are just a trick of the light. But children—there is no escaping the truth when you have children. That time is passing. They grow so fast, mocking the best of intentions. I imagine your father always meant to come back for you, to get in touch. But time—and circumstances—got away from him. And then you showed up—not the little baby girl that he left behind. A grown lady instead! With what kind of ideas and opinions about him, he has no idea. What could he say to you? What explanations would answer such a gap?” She turned to face me again and smiled. “Listen to me—philosophizing about what is none of my business! There is this, also—Todd is a very shy man. Very quiet. He probably needs time to figure out what to say. Time—such a cheap word for one as young as you, I know. But so precious to those of us who have seen its wings spread in full flight.”

“You know him really well? Him and Connie?”

“Todd, not so well. Connie and I are friends. We go for a walk together every day.”

“She’s mad, isn’t she? About me coming?”

“Not mad. Surprised, I think.” She was frowning a little, shaking her head again. “Was she— did she make you feel unwelcome?”

I didn’t answer her.

After a minute, she picked up her cup and took a sip. I did the same.

“Mmm. This is delicious.”

“You like it? Very good. You come tomorrow also. I’ll make it for you again, okay?”

M
y dad came home around three o’clock that day. Michelle was with him. A little while later, Cory came home on the school bus. By the time Jake the handyman showed up with his toolbox, the house was beginning to feel like a train station—like any second a whistle would blow. My father waved Jake off into the bathroom to start work, made the kids a snack in the kitchen, and then hustled them out to the car, remembering me on the way out the door.