Page 32 of A Shade Too Far
7
Laurent droveus in his truck to Naveen’s house. Before, when he’d only had his motorcycle, I’d coerced him into my sedan more often than not, and he’d nap, so I figured after our weird encounter in the backyard, I’d flip the dynamic, close my eyes, and feign sleep.
There’s no way he bought my act. I kept forgetting to slow down my breathing and as a shifter, he could hear my heartbeat, which was anything but relaxed, but he didn’t call me on it. We had bigger things to deal with.
The Arts and Crafts bungalow that Naveen shared with his sister and niece in the neighboring city of Burnaby was absolutely charming, from its low-pitched eaves and wide front porch that reminded me of a welcoming cottage in a fairy tale, to the narrow, stained-glass panels on either side of the door.
However, just like in “Hansel and Gretel” with the candy house that was every child’s dream, the reality might be a nightmare. I dragged my feet up the walk, Laurent already knocking.
A chubby woman in scrubs, her black hair piled in a messy bun, opened the door and yawned in his face. Blinking, she gave a deep and joyful laugh that brightened up my day, and hugged Laurent. The top of her head only hit midchest on the shifter, and yet she tugged him down so that she could knuckle the top of his head like an older sister.
“If my patient hadn’t rescheduled her C-section, I’d have missed you,” she said. “Again.”
“Daya,” Laurent whined. “Quit—” He flinched because she’d caught sight of me and screamed. Right in his ear.
I screamed back and the two of us ran to each other, grabbing each other’s hands, and babbling a mile a minute.
Naveen bolted onto the porch with a screwdriver in his hand, his eyes flashing, ready to battle whoever had harmed his sister, but at the sight of the two of us he muttered “For fuck’s sake, Daya” and marched back inside.
Laurent opted to follow Naveen rather than stay here with us, which was fine by me.
Dr. Daya Kumar looped her arm through mine, chattering brightly up the front walk. “I couldn’t believe it when Evani told me about the guest that Uncle Wolf had brought over.” Her upper-crust English accent was the result of her parents’ hard work to send both their kids to top schools when they’d immigrated from Delhi to London. “You must show me photos of Sadie right away. What is she now? Twelve? Thirteen?”
I already had the photo album open on my phone. Daya had been my obstetrician, delivering Sadie after my unfortunately drug-free labor. To this day, I resented never having gotten the laughing gas. “Sixteen.”
Daya was one of those people who made others smile and my joy at our reunion—and the fact that she didn’t seem to care that I was a Banim Shovavim—meant everything to me.
My friend grabbed my cell, swiping through pictures of my daughter. “Impossible. I am not that old. Does she still sleep with her hands like this?” She held them up to either side of her head as if they were antlers.
I laughed. Sadie had come out of the womb with one of her hands pressed to her head that way, resulting in Eli and me calling her Moose when she was little. “Sometimes, but she gets put out if I say anything. I can’t believe you decided to have one of your own after insisting that motherhood was not for you, but Evani is adorable. Is she around?”
Their home was infused with Daya’s natural warmth from the comfortable furniture made of honey oak to the attention-grabbing pieces from all her travels: Turkish tiles in earth tones that formed a border about three-quarters of the way up the living room wall, a Russian samovar sitting on the ornate dining room set imported from France, and a spectacular blown glass lampshade from Murano.
Naveen had told me about many of these pieces the first time I’d met him, before he’d learned what I was and our newly formed friendship had gone to shit.
“No, my little handful is at my parents’ place,” Daya said with a fond smile. “But having a child at forty-one was an insane idea. My friends are all rubbish because not one of them stopped me.”
“Good thing you were never big on sleep,” I teased.
“No kidding.” She ushered me into the kitchen, then sighed. “I’d offer you an iced tea, but our refrigerator decided to bite the dust last night and we’re struggling.”
While magnets from Madrid to Macau crowded the fridge securing finger-painted masterpieces by Evani, it had been pulled away from the wall, the back panel lying on the ground next to a toolbox. Laurent and Naveen were crouched down, peering at the motor or whatever was back there.
“We are not struggling. I can definitely fix it,” Naveen said. “The problem is in here. I’m about 85% sure.”
Laurent pointed at something. “I think you have to take that out.”
“You’re worse than he is,” Daya said. “No guesswork on my fridge. Call in a professional.”
“Agreed. Will you hear me out now?” Laurent said.
“No,” Naveen said. “But you can hand me a ratchet.”
Daya crossed the kitchen and kicked the toolbox out of Laurent’s reach. “Miri, what kind of tea would you like?”
I stifled a laugh. She was awesome. The pediatrician I’d taken Sadie to when she was little worked in a group clinic with Daya, so we’d often run into each other, though once I’d gotten divorced and moved to our current duplex, I’d switched doctors, and we’d lost touch. I promised myself that wouldn’t happen again.
“She’s not staying.” Naveen reached for the toolbox, but Laurent got there first.
