Abby Spencer Goes to Bollywood (2 page)

I’m only thirteen—too young to die. I haven’t even had a boyfriend.

The doors to the ambulance close and we start to drive. I hear the EMT talking on the phone or radio or whatever. I hope God realizes nothing bad could happen to me; I need more time to trace my DNA.

If I die now, I’ll have to come back as a creepy, frustrated ghost and haunt Mom. Like spirits with unfinished business do.

The EMT turns to me. I hear him through layers of sludge. Focus, Abby, focus.

“Are you allergic to anything?” he asks. “I don’t know.”

Was that raspy, high-pitched voice mine?

When we hiked in the mountains in Colorado, I remember feeling like air was in short supply. This is a gazillion times worse.

A needle pierces my skin. A shot. Mercy of science. Medicine injected directly into my veins and I can breathe a little bit easier. But the red blotches on my skin still feel angry.

The ambulance stops and the doors open again. The EMTs wheel me into the ER. Mom arrives moments after us. She must have driven like Roadrunner with Coyote on her tail.

“Oh, honey! Oh, honey!” she chants. Her hair flies in all directions like the hay hair on our Halloween scarecrow. Her forehead is creased with worry, but her steps are determined. She’s in Supermom mode, efficient and taking charge.

I take a breath and surprise myself. Abracadabra. Oxygen. I’m breathing normally. Was it the shot or having Mom with me?

They wheel me into a room and draw the green privacy curtain around us. Needles pinch me.

“We’re putting in an IV and a heart monitor and checking your pulse and oxygen levels,” the nurse explains. I have more wires and cords dangling from me than our computer at home.

The only shots I’ve had before this were immunizations when I was a kid. I’d clutch Mom’s hand, squeeze my eyes tight, and turn my head sideways. After, we’d get ice cream on the way home to freeze out the memory of the stick. I’m not a kid anymore but we still got ice cream last year for old times’ sake.

Here I am, with all these needles in my arm. It will take a lot of Rocky Road to freeze this memory!

Mom stares at the monitors. “Thank goodness, you can breathe. I called Grandpa and Grandma. They’re coming too.”

My grandparents, Mom’s parents, live a street away from us. Even though we live in separate houses, our lives were one.

A dark-haired doctor walks in and introduces herself. “Abby, you scared a few people and yourself, today didn’t you?” she says, patting my arm.

After checking me out and scanning my chart, she says, “You are both lucky. Abby had an allergic reaction and went into anaphylactic shock, but it wasn’t full blown. Otherwise, we would’ve had to put in a breathing tube to help her breathe. Abby, did you eat or drink anything for the first time?”

I shake my head.

“Are you sure, honey?” Mom asks, massaging my hand. “Did you take any medicine for the first time?” asks

the doctor.

“No,” I say.

Then I remember the heap of coconut flakes on my yogurt.

“Wait! Coconut flakes! I ate coconut flakes for the first time on my yogurt. Could that have done it?”

“You’ve never eaten coconut before?”

“I don’t think so,” I say, looking over at Mom. “Have I?”

“I remember you ate a bite of coconut cream pie when you were little. You hated it and spit it out.”

“Are you allergic to it?” the doctor asks my mom. “Allergies can be hereditary. Not always though.”

“No one in my family is allergic to coconut,” says Mom. “What about Abby’s father?” the doctor asks.

Mom looks bewildered, as if she’s never considered the other half of my DNA.

The words echo like in a movie
. What about Abby’s father?

What about Abby’s father?

What about my father? Is he allergic to coconut? My brain magnifies the questions and projects them onto a massive baseball stadium screen.

When my mom doesn’t answer, the doctor says, “We’ll keep you for a couple hours to monitor your vitals. We’ve also given you some Benadryl, so you’ll feel drowsy. The red blotches will take a day or two to fade. I’m glad your breathing is back to normal. For now though, stay away from coconut in all forms, and, Abby, if you think of anything else you might have eaten, let us know. Mrs. Spencer, we will refer you to an allergist so you can pursue allergy testing.”

As always, Mom lets the
Mrs. Spencer
fly.

“And the allergist will want to know Abby’s father’s medical history,” the doctor says before patting me on the arm again and walking out.

Grandma and Grandpa Spencer rush into the room, their eyes shadowed with worry. When they hear I’m going to be fine, they sigh in relief.

I’m alive, and we exchange hugs and high fives. We’ll celebrate when we get home.

For a brief moment, I’d imagined a full throttle violin concerto with me in first chair, wailing as the doctors diagnosed me with some horrible disease.

Wait a minute. Can I be the first chair and the patient? Whatever. That’s what Benadryl does to your imagination.

I fumble through a text to Priya and Zoey.
I’m fine. Talk L8R. Did you remember my bike?

As the Benadryl defeats me in the battle to stay awake, the doctor’s question rings in my woozy mind.
What about my father? Does he have mile long sweeping lashes? Does he wonder if his daughter has his hair? Does he also hate coconut cream pie? Why has he never visited? Does he hate me?

Chapter 3

Mom and I drive home from the hospital in the vast, humid night. Can a question become so real that it can breathe? The one about my father rides home with us. My groggy mind clings to it like a Snuggie on a cold night—a little weird since it’s so hot outside.

I’m still drowsy. I think my Benadryl shot was meant for the baby hippo at the Houston zoo. Also, it’s two a.m. and a brush with death is exhausting. My imaginary string quartet snores.

But the ER visit and the doctor’s reference to my dad have struck a nerve. My mind is racing with questions.

“How come my father never comes to visit me?” I ask Mom.

“Abby, are you unhappy?” she asks.

“No, I’m fine,” I say. I’m not
unhappy.
Except I’d be happier if I knew my father. That’s what I should have said.

“I want you to always be happy. Grandma, Grandpa, and I love you. We’re family,” she says, getting all gushy.

I’m happy and healthy and have a great family, even if it is different.

If my dad didn’t care to visit me, why should I care about him?

Who needs a dad? It’s his loss, not mine.

It isn’t until later that I realize she didn’t answer my question at all.

The next day, Mom wakes me up at noon. “I checked on you a million times last night. Didn’t want to wake you too early this morning. You needed the sleep. Grandma is filling in for you at the café today. Grandpa wants to spend the day with you. Call him when you’re ready. If you feel anything but 100 percent normal,
call me right away
.”

“Got it, Mom. I’m fine,” I say and return her hug and kiss.

It’s Saturday, the busiest day at Slice of Muse. Mom and her chef/business partner, Susan, will be knee-deep in latte and pie orders. Normally I’d be at the café helping and earning yogurt and jeans money.

I have a zillion texts from both Priya and Zoey since nine this morning. Maybe I can spend time with them and Grandpa.

When I call my grandpa, he picks up the phone on the first ring. “Good morning, Sparkles!”

Grandpa has always called me Sparkles. He claims my eyes glimmered when he first saw me—probably a minute after I was born. He’s always been around, especially since my father hasn’t.

I remember when I was in kindergarten, Grandpa came with me to Doughnuts with Dad Day at school. I chose chocolate-covered doughnuts for us and poured coffee for him and orange juice for me. Grandpa and I enjoyed every last crumb together.

“How come your grandpa came today?” Cassidy had asked after the first period bell rang and Grandpa left. “It’s Donuts with
Dad
.”

My red face matched my Elmo T-shirt.

Today I would have flipped back, “Dad, Granddad?

What’s the diff?”

But back then I was all soft-centered. The protective shell was not on the M&M yet.

“Families come in all shapes and sizes,” I said, echoing the answer Mom gave whenever I asked her why my dad didn’t live with us.

“I know that,” said Miss Know-It-All. But one with a dad and a grandpa like mine is the best.”

In that moment, my five-year-old self learned to bite back words. (“No, it’s not! Mine is the best too.”)

“I have a dad too. He just lives in India,” I said. “Does he ride on elephants?” she asked.

That afternoon at recess, I accidentally threw the basketball at Cassidy’s head instead of the hoop.

At some point growing up, I learned to put on a poker face.
Relax all facial muscles, including the ones around your eyes
, I would remind myself when I was hurt by a comment about my missing father.

All of that felt so long ago as Grandpa and I make plans for a pool party with Priya and Zoey that morning.

Stomach rumbling, I go to the kitchen for a glass of milk. I smile at the sign Mom tacked to the fridge. On a sheet of yellow legal pad paper, she wrote in bold red marker,
Coconut-free zone
—
strictly enforced
, and pinned it with a magnet in the shape of a blueberry pie.

The doorbell rings, and Priya and Zoey fall all over me. “We were so worried! We love you!”

We walk over to Grandpa’s.

“Priya, remember how I thought our dads might be brothers when we were little?” I ask. After all, both our fathers are from India.

“Yes.” Priya grins. “And we would imagine that we were long-lost cousins.”

Mom met my dad, Kabir Kapur, in college and fell madly in love. Unfortunately, it didn’t work out. After graduation, they broke up. My dad returned to India and never came back. Mom returned to Houston with a bachelor’s degree in business. I was born eight months later.

We jump in the pool as soon as we get to Grandpa’s place.

“Abby Tara Spencer, do you have sunscreen on?” Grandpa reminds me from the grill.

I clamber out of the pool. As I slop on the lotion, I remember when I tried to research my middle name. Tara—Hindi for
star
. Mom said my father often talked about his mother when they were dating, and Mom had taken an instant liking to her from the stories he told. My middle name was her nod to my father’s mother.

Zoey sneaks up behind me and shoves me into the pool. All morning, we spray each other with squirt guns and play Marco Polo as if we’re five. We race and make human towers and collapse into the forgiving water, giggling and sputtering.

Grandpa signals that lunch is ready.

Why do hotdogs taste better with friends and when you’re trailing water from a soaked swimsuit?

After my friends leave, I flop on Grandpa’s couch, and

we watch the baseball playoffs. Grandpa covers me with an afghan and strokes my hair.

Who needs a dad when you have a grandpa like mine?

Then I think about the note I wrote when I was six, asking my father to come visit.
Dad
in huge, tilted block letters filled the front of the envelope. I had written to Santa at Christmas and he had gotten my letter. I knew because I had asked for an American Girl doll, and he brought it for me. If Santa had gotten my letter, my dad would get my letter too.

Years later, I found the letter in Mom’s memory box. It was an intricately engraved wooden box lined with velvet. Carved flowers and birds rose out of the wood. It also holds her brownie pin, the playbill from her junior high play, a BFF friendship bracelet, and a receipt from the post office.

Grandpa’s voice brings me back from my time travels. “You okay, Sparkles? You’ve been awfully quiet.”

“I’m fine,” I say. “A little sleepy.”

I doze off on the couch and dream that when I reached for the coconut flakes at Yogurt Cup, my dad emerged out of thin air, grabbed my hand, and said, “Abby, stop! You might be allergic to coconut like me.”

Chapter 4