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Scoutmust have a sixth sense, because he stops the car in the middle of the street right whenDallasspots his mom out the window.Asecond later,Dalthrows his body against the door, scrabbling at the handle and punching the lock until it flies open so fast he tumbles onto his hands and knees on the hot asphalt.
Ilean forward between the front seats and all three of us watch in a kind of hushed silence as he stumbles to his feet and races across the street.Hismom tries to run toward him, but after a couple of steps she starts crying so hard that she has to just stand there with her arms out until his skinny body collides with hers.Theycling to each other like it’s the end of the world and they’re on the very last life raft.Mychest feels full asIlook at them, so full it’s shoving my heart and all my organs out of place.Itfeels amazing and kind of awful at the same time.Ihave no idea why, because we’re so far past the level of emotions that me and my box brain can understand.
Scout’slean fingers slip through mine and squeeze, like he’s giving me an anchor as we watch the two of them rock back and forth, sobbing. “Youdid good,” he murmurs. “Reallygood.Lookat him.”
Iprop my ear against his shoulder and bite down hard on the inside of my mouth, to give myself at least one feelingIrecognize. “IwishIcould hug my mom.”
Hisgrip tightens. “Iknow.”Herubs his thumb soothingly along the back of my hand for a minute, then says, “Hey, maybe this lady has always wanted to adopt a giant, ugly, white son.”
Ichoke on a snotty laugh. “Shit, this is weird.”
Romantaps my arm, andIrealizeDallasis waving us over with one hand while he tries to dry his face off with the other.Hisdark eyes are sparkling, like a night sky full of stars.Wishingfor the first time in my life thatIhad on nicer clothes,Iclimb sheepishly out of the car.Iwant to wait forScoutandRomanto back me up, but they’re busy parking the car in the driveway, and it would be weird for me to just stand here.
“Beck,”Dallasbabbles, exploding with nervous energy.Hegrabs my wrist and tugs me closer, untilI’mstanding right in front of his mother.She’salmost two heads shorter than me, but there’s something regal and intense about her that makes me want to fold my hands behind my back and stare respectfully at the floor. “Thisis my mom,Anjali.Mom, this is my…”Dallashesitates for a second, like he’s finding the right word, and slides his arm around my waist. “Thisis my partner,Beckham.”
“Hi…ma’am,”Iadd, trying to remember how to be polite.Basedon whatDallashas told me, this lady with her sleek, gray-streaked updo and tailored yellow blouse is big on manners. “Thankyou for having us.”
Shedabs at her teary eyes with a handkerchief, then looks me over from my unruly hair to the holes in the knees of my jeans.Herlined face has more wrinkles from frowning than from smiling, butIthink it’s because she takes everything super seriously, likeDallas.Whenshe finally smiles, her solemn eyes brighten and the gentle kindness pouring out of her takes my breath away. “We’vespoken a little bit.You’rethe one who brought my son back to me.”
Notsure what to say,Ijust nod.
Whenshe opens her arms,Idon’t react becauseI’mtoo busy staring in confusion.Shemust take that as an invitation, because she steps forward and wraps me in the tightest hugI’veever had in my life.Ilook breathlessly over atDal, who nods at me with a shaky smile.SoIhug her back.
Ihave almost no memories of my mom, beyond vague impressions and half-obscured dreams.ButasAnjaliSantrasqueezes the life out of me,Iget a sudden, razor-sharp picture of the blonde woman from my picture kneeling down and holding out her arms.EverytimeIstaggered into them, she’d envelop me completely in this soft, warm squeeze that smelled like her and made me feel safe.Eventhough this woman can barely reach around me,Iget that same protected, wrapped-up feeling, like someone’s looking out for me.
Asif she can read my mind, she hugs me tighter.I’vebeen waiting nervously to see what she’ll ask me first.I’mnot exactly mom-impressing material.Allshe says as she steps back is, “Doyou like lamb samosas?”
Blinkingin the brutalCaliforniasun,Ifrown in confusion. “Huh?”Ithought only millionaires ate lamb.
“Mom, he doesn’t even know what paprika is.”
Thewoman’s eyes widen, andIswear her rich brown skin goes a shade paler. “Dude,”Imumble, elbowing him. “Don’tembarrass me.”
Insteadof going after me, she reaches across and playfully pinchesDallas’ arm with an exasperated gesture that looks like an old habit. “Andyou haven’t been teaching him about good food?Iraised you better than that.”
“Hemakes us a lot of cookies,”Scoutoffers as he andRomanapproach. “Justabout every kind you can think of.Thereisn’t much cooking to be done with rice and beans.”
Dallasfidgets, glancing at me.Iguess no one has told his mom that we’re filthy poor.Sheglances at our ragged clothes again, then nods graciously toward the house. “Lambsamosas wereDallas’ favorite, soI’vemade them for supper.Comein, all of you, andI’llget you settled in your rooms.”
IfollowScoutandRomeback to the car for the duffel bags, not that they need help.I’mjust not sure what to do with myself.Romanpokes me gently asIwatchAnjaliandDallasclimb up the front steps together with their arms around each other.Hedoesn’t have his voice, but he mimes taking a deep inhale.WhenIobey, he demonstrates letting it out again very slowly.Youweren’t breathing, he signs helpfully, with a small, crooked smile.Justkeep doing that.
Glancingdown,Ipoke the edge of the perfectly-mowed lawn with the toe of my sneaker.EveryonethinksI’mjust nervous to meetMs.Santra, andIdefinitely am.Butthe minute that we arrived in this sparkly, idyllic neighborhood whereDallasshould have been living his storybook life, the countdown started to the moment where nothing will ever be the same again.I’vebeen trying to get myself ready for this all week, but now that it’s real,Idon’t thinkIhave enough time.
DALLAS
It’sa good thing my mother always makes too much food, because she could never have estimated the sheer quantityRomanandBeckare able to devour between them.Bitinginto the rich, savory flavors of one of her homemade samosas, the ones we cooked together every weekend, almost makes me start crying again.Theguys love them so much that it makes me a little sad.Ifwe could afford groceries,Icould have worked on recreating mom’s recipes and introduced them to all my favoriteIndiandishes.
It’sdark out by the time we finish supper.Scoutkeeps rubbing his eyes, andRoman’sliterally asleep in his chair as the twelve hours of completely unfamiliar travel catches up with us. “Goto bed,”Iwhisper whenMomgets up to pour some coffee. “Shewon’t mind.”
ScoutcoaxesRometo his feet and leads him upstairs, butBeckhesitates. “Yougonna be okay?”
Inod, catching his hand and kissing his knuckles. “I’llbe up soon.Ijust want to talk to her a little.”
WhenMomcomes back and finds the table empty except for me, she hesitates with a flash of the same uncertainty that’s squeezing my chest. “Doyou want a coffee?”
“Idon’t really drink it much now.”Lookingfor anything to keep my hands busy,Istand up and start stacking the rattan placemats in the middle of the table.Thisis the partIwas afraid of, where we realize that we’ve lost something we can never get back.Wherethe most important bond of my life gets reduced to awkward small talk.
Insteadof sitting at the table,Momcrosses the hall to the living room and sits down on a big, gray sectional that looks as soft as a cloud.Shepats the cushion next to her firmly. “Comehere.”LikeI’mten years old again, my body instinctively reacts and pulls me to obey.
