Page 88 of Thiago
“My name is India?—”
“Indy Monroe! I knew that was you! My name is Verna. I’m your daddy’s wife. We got married a few years back.” She pushed open the storm door and extended a hand.
India shook it, surprised. “Nice to meet you.”
“You got his whole face. Same cheekbones and everything. Would you like to come inside and wait?”
India had never felt so out of sorts and unsure of herself as she did in that moment. Should she go inside and wait or come back another time?
“He won’t be long,” Verna added, as if sensing her dilemma.
“Sure, I’d love to come inside.”
India entered the dim living room—dim because the curtains were drawn, shielding the interior from the brightness of the sun. Dark furniture, mostly brown and worn, filled the space. The pieces had obviously been there for years, the sweet scent of cigar smoke clinging to the fabric of the chairs.
India’s gaze swept the room. Except for a magazine askew on the leather recliner, the place was neat and tidy. But there was no mistaking the pared-down life her father and his wife were living, and sadness filled her. It was far removed from the life she lived but reminded her of growing up in her grandmother’s home.
“He talks about you all the time, you know.”
Verna’s voice pulled India from her thoughts, the words shocking her. “He does?”
His wife nodded. “Since we’ve known each other. He got a bunch of pictures of you. Let me show you.”
Her father had pictures of her?
Verna spun toward a built-in bookcase. As she searched the shelves, India’s gaze landed on a couple of drawings hanging on the wall.
“Did he draw those?” she asked, pointing.
“Mhmm. He always drawing something, chile. He has a bunch of paintings too, but he mostly draws now. He’s real talented, ain’t he? Do you do any artwork?”
“I draw a little. Charcoal, like those.”
While she was pleased to see her father hadn’t given up on his passion, she wondered how great he could have become if he’d been given the same opportunities as other artists.
Verna removed a photo album from one of the shelves. Moving to the sofa, she sat down and patted the spot beside her. India joined her, leaning closer to look at the first page.
“This was when you was first born,” Verna said, tapping a picture. “He said his momma wrapped you in that blanket.”
They spent the next fifteen minutes going through the photos, and there were plenty of them, many India had never seen before. All from when she was a little girl.
“Look at all that hair,” Verna said with a laugh.
In the photo, India was sitting between her mother’s legs while her mother braided her hair.
She smiled wryly. “I used to hate getting my hair braided.” She smoothed a hand over her short hair.
“You took care of that, didn’t you?” Verna said, eyeing her short cut.
“Yeah, I did,” India replied.
The front door opened, and Karl walked in. “Verna!”
India immediately stood, watching as he closed the door. He looked older than his fifty-one years. His dark skin was lined with wrinkles, and though he was a tall man, his stooped shoulders made him appear shorter.
“Well, hello,” he said when he saw her, wiping his feet on the mat inside the door. He rested a paper sack on the table near the door. “Didn’t know we had company. Howdy.”
India had a sudden, sinking feeling. He had referred to her as “company.” She was standing in his house, and he still didn’t recognize her. She swallowed back the pain and humiliation.
