Having Her

Chapter 3

I was born and brought up in California, until I got my first modelling contract when I was nineteen. It was a hard decision- to not go to college and take up modelling as my full-time career. Since then, I have always been on the move from one city to another, always travelling for different shows and gigs. The first time I found stability in my almost nine year long career was three years ago when I signed a contract with a Paris company. It was good in the start, but a lot of work later, an exploitation of the contract terms, and by the end of the second year, I just couldn't wait to get away.

Six months ago, I decided I had had enough of the traveller and worker's life. I wanted to settle. And no, that was not in terms of a relationship or marriage. I wanted to take a break from work, make a home for myself, relax and just pause for a moment. A place to belong to, mostly. 

Going back to L.A. to my empty childhood house was always an option, but my family was here- in New York. Cole and Sia were here. Zach and Anna were here. Even Zach's band, including Tara and her sons. Jay was here. And most importantly, my mother was here. The mother I haven't lived with since I was only nine after she divorced my father and practically flee from that abuser. Hence, Queens felt like a good place to find a home in.

California and Paris were both very different from New York. They were both diverse, elegant, and screamed porch in different yet similar ways. Queens, on the other hand, was a bustling city. A lot of people. Correction, a lot of busy people. Traffic. Subways. Metros. Fast food and fast fashion. Something I wasn't used to living in.

That is how I found myself 'exploring' the city on my first real day here. I had been to Queens tons of times before, but this was the first day I was all settled into my new house- the day after Cole and Sia's wedding. 

I ditched the personal security, the chauffeur and long cars and a paparazzi awaiting day to go undercover in a simple overcoat and cap, trading my natural black hair for a blonde wig. It wasn't a lot, but it was something.

And it worked in providing a quiet day. Half way through the day, I realised that not a lot of people even cared, and I gave up on the large sunglasses. I wandered through the streets trying hot dogs, took metros with nowhere in mind and somehow ended up in Manhattan watching the first show that I could catch in the Broadway theatre, and by evening, I was back to Queens stopping in a local café to grab some coffee.

My best-friend Sia was a writer. In her after-college days in Paris when she was working on her first book, she often did this- take a coffee and a last booth in a local café just watching closely the life of others, putting herself in their shoes for that vile one hour they were and derive inspiration from what that would feel like- to be someone else.

Today, I did just that. Sitting in a private booth, I watched people come and go. I watched students squandering their time just the way I was, a teenager couple who couldn't look at each other without smiling upto their eyes, many people working from their laptops, an arguing couple, and lastly I saw a mother-daughter duo enjoying their quiet evening time chatting about school and new girlfriends which when I left the café. 

I had wandered enough for the day.

Walking away as fast as I could, I groaned when I realised I was on the wrong street. I turned, and my eyes fell on a lady sitting on the footpath, only a few feet away from me. She looked old, but only in her late forties, wearing old clothes with a bowl in front of her.

Walking close to her, I dug in the pocket of my coat for the little change I had on me, and placed it into her bowl.

I watched as her dull black eyes shone when she saw a note and heard the coins clattered in her metal bowl, making a soft melody, and I couldn't help but wonder why a mere count of fifty dollars made her so happy. She was homeless, sure, but she didn't look the kind who was starving or didn't get any charity in a day.

"Thank you," she looked up at me, her eyes courteous.

I found myself genuinely smiling. "You're welcome."

"You're not from around here, are you?" Her eyes sparkled, her voice thick in an accent I didn't recognise.

I was a little taken aback but shook my head nonetheless. "No."

"Ah," she clicked her tongue. "Different town youngsters.. always kind. New York teenagers? All drugs and alcohol. Always so rude."

I found myself chuckling under my breath, taking a guess by her broken English. "You're not from around here either, are you?"

"No," she replied with a smile, but tears glistened in her eyes. "I come from very small town with my daughter when she small. Now she so big, like you. Lost all money on stupid bets and gambles. I don't work. I know little English. She knows good. But she lost job two months ago. Didn't tell me. Now, no money."

I found myself sympathising with her situation more than I should, as I sat on the footpath next to her. "Where is she now?" I asked.

"Away," she replied, "Yesterday I got to know she is not well. In the hospital. And she did not tell me. Again."

"Maybe because she was too ashamed to tell you that she had lost her job after she lost all your moment on the gambles," I reasoned, "And maybe she thought you were so angry about that that you wouldn't care if she was in the hospital."

The lady looked horrified. "What type of parent wouldn't care?"

I gulped, "Lots."

"What?"

A sad smile took over my lips. "A lot of parents won't care. Unfortunately, I can name a few."

She turned to me with sad eyes. "Poor child. Who hurt your heart so much?"

I chuckled under my breath, shrugging away the conversation as I changed the topic. "When was the last time you told your daughter that you cared? Or that your love was bigger than her mistakes and someday you'd find it in yourself to forgive her?"

"Isn't that a obvious thing?" She looked confused. "Is that supposed to be told?"

"If you want to take it from a girl who's mother left her when she was eight and didn't come back until she was dying and who's father lied to her until his last breath," I reply, "Then yes, I would have very much liked them to tell me that despite everything, they cared. And that they would have liked to be forgiven someday."

A small, commiserating smile spreads over her lips.

I put my hand back into my coat's pocket and removed everything I had in it, a few notes of hundred dollars and a couple twenties, roughly summarising to a five hundred dollar bill and place it in her shaking hands.

She looks at me with eyes that glistened and an emotion I couldn't quite fathom.

I smile at her. "Get your daughter out of the hospital. Tell her you care. And I know this isn't a lot, but I think it's enough to start something new again. She's lucky she has a parent that loves her so unconditionally, be sure to tell her of that."

"May God bless you, child," A tear flows from her eyes, "May God bless you."

With that, I get up and walk away, without looking back. Despite doing something good, I felt a tug in my heart. Maybe it was looking at that mother and daughter in the café or because of talking to this stranger who cared too much about her daughter but could just never say it out loud. I never had that relationship with my mother. She abandoned us- me and Cole- in her race to get away from her husband who got drunk one night and really beat her up in front of an eight year old Cole, and even though we visited each other over holidays, it was never quite the same. She was never the same.

Digging my hands into the pocket of my coat and keeping my head down, my eyes on the road ahead, I walked to my mother's house instead of going to mine. With Cole and Sia on their honeymoon, Aliyah was staying with my mother and while I tucked her into bed last night after going home, I was yet to visit her today. My mother had invited me for dinner to keep Aliyah company.

I bought some unbranded chocolates from a local bakery and had just entered the gates of my mother's house when I heard someone behind me.

A voice I absolutely didn't want to hear.

"15.528%, Remember?"

I mentally groaned rolling my eyes as I turned behind hiding my disinterest as I faced the person in front of me.

"Caleb Miller," I feigned a half-smile. "What are you doing here?"

*