Syria,
Based on our search of your birth certificate, and the details you gave of your father’s other children, we have definitively narrowed the search to Arnav Sharma of Kolkata, born July 3, 1951. Married Anisha Shah in 1974. They had two boys, Deepak in 1976 and Manish in 1979.
Anisha filed for divorce in 1995, but rescinded the papers one month later.
All these things align with what you told me last night.
Arnav worked as a banker and did very well for himself. Unfortunately, he had a heart attack on Dec. 6, 2012 and died in surgery the next day. I have enclosed his obituary. I believe his resemblance to you makes this definitive.
I am very sorry, Syria. Perhaps we can still make a journey to his country together and see the places he called home.
Fondly,
Erik
Syria peered at the obituary, a print out from a web site memorial. The man stared up at her, his black hair shot through with gray, but a riot of curls. His eyes were shaped like hers, set wide, and something about his mouth seemed familiar, as though their smiles would be the mirror images, if she could make the face on the paper come to life.
She let the paper go. It fluttered from side to side as it caught on the current from the heater, then rested beneath the hall table. She felt so heavy, like she might fall forward. She succumbed to it, sliding off the bench to the floor. She’d never meet him. Never know him. He would never explain anything to her. She would not know if her laugh mimicked his, since it was not like her mother’s.
She wouldn’t know anything at all. Not ever.
Her head fell against the satin cover of the bench, cool and firm. Maybe it was for the best. She could nurture this fantasy of him all her life now, and the real thing could never disappoint her.
She should call her mother. Or Mia. Someone. She had to tell someone. Maybe Erik. He said he would contact her today.
Her heart thumped against her chest. No. She wanted Tyson.
She tugged her phone from her coat pocket. Maybe all this would be all right. He’d have some explanation about the call from the party. They would laugh about it. Then she could tell him about her father.
Or she could talk about her father and forget the video ever happened.
She laid the phone on the bench. This was all so impossible.
Syria pushed herself up and walked back to her desk and woke up her computer. She started the looping slideshow of images she’d taken of Tyson from the first shoot, and a few others she had accumulated on his visits. Three times she’d seen him. Just three. How could she know him any more than her mother had known her father?
A close up shot of his face came on screen, and she paused the show. She stared into those gray eyes tinged with blue, earnest, merry, open. She couldn’t see anything about him that made him look like a liar. He was open about his work, the stripping, the parties. He had told her on that first day, or maybe later, that he didn’t have sex with his clients very often, but that certainly left room for the possibility that sometimes he did.
She picked up her phone, her finger hovering over his name in the contact list. Rather than go directly for video chat, she called him normally on the voice line.
Each ring seemed to last an hour.
Finally, he picked up. “Syria?” he asked, sleep thick in his voice.
“The grannies kept you up late?”
He chuckled. “Those women were live wires. But they had trouble deciding which to do first — make me a sandwich and sit in my lap.”
“Sounds like you had fun.”
“Gigs like that are a nice break from the aggressive ones.”
He’d handed her an opening. “Like the night before? The bachelorette party?”
He was quiet a moment, then said, “Yeah, like that one.”
“You want to talk about it?” Maybe he would just tell her, and that would be that.
He sighed. “I’d rather forget the whole thing happened.”
Syria hesitated, the news about her father heavy on her heart. She could bring it up now, and forget the party. Or she could tell him about the video chat.
But he cut in. “Apparently they called Mia using my phone. Did she tell you?”
“I knew about that, yes.”
“They seemed to think they were busting me.”
“Who all did they call?”
“I don’t know. My phone never turned up. I got a new one yesterday and had the other shut off remotely. I was able to keep my number, thankfully, and my contacts were backed up.” He paused. “Did they call you?”
“Yes.”
“Can we switch to video?” he asked. “I need to see you.”
Syria gripped the phone. “Okay.” She pulled the screen away and saw the Facetime request come up. She accepted it and Tyson’s face, hair every direction, made her heart flip. “Hey,” she said.