He wants to offer his seat, to climb onto the roof so she might have space in the car, but he’s trapped. A small little girl in a pink salwar kameez, her hair in two messy braids, now sits at his feet, eyes him expectantly. She is about the same age as Laila, and this realization makes him ache for his sister. Temporary, he thinks. Their separation will be temporary. As soon as he reaches Delhi, he will write his sister a long letter begging her forgiveness. As soon as he earns money, he will mail her a gift.

The little girl appears to belong to no one. Her eyes are locked on him. He smiles at her, pats her head.

The train heaves away, builds speed. Each meter brings him closer to his wife. He thinks about her waiting for him at her home, pacing the floor, crying out for her parents. These last three weeks must have been terribly difficult for her. She must be so afraid. Maybe she doubted his intention to return. But he is coming for her. He is on his way, at last.

The little girl rests her head on his knee. He lays his hand on her damp cheek, leans back, feels the warmth of the rising sun on his face. The train rocks gently from side to side, lulls him to sleep.

He wakes to the little girl’s screams.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Amsterdam

July 2, 2017

Above the Amstel River, Caspian gulls circled and swooped, sliced through the orange glow of the sunset with their wide wingspans. The moon’s reflection grew larger against the water’s rippling surface. Deepa rose from a bench, meandered through the cobblestone streets. Her favorite cheese shop, the bakery with the moist scones, loomed in the distance. At the curb, a line of bikers zoomed past her. The gust of wind in their wake cooled her face. The bikers here reminded her of India, where bicycles and bike rickshaws once ruled the roads.

India. She imagined how much it had changed in seventy years but had never returned to see those changes herself. The very thing that kept her away, her grief, is what drove her son to it. How ignorant she had been to keep Amir from Vijay, to pretend she could be enough for her son. Gertrude had been right all those years ago. Vijay needed to know about his father. He had a right to know, a right that superseded her right to keep Amir’s identity from him. What good did she think could come of denying Vijay? She had been wrong. She wished he were alive so that she could tell him how sorry she was, could beg her son for forgiveness. She had been wrong, too, about staying away from his daughter. Death had turned her into such a hardened old woman. She missed the Deepa she once was, the school girl surrounded by her parents’ love.