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Chapter 1
It's always the same, no matter where in the world we happen to be. Just when I get used to noodle soup for breakfast in Laos, or endless glasses of supersweet mint tea in Morocco, or crazy little tuk tuk taxis in Thailand, Layla gets that look in her eyes, that faraway, wistful look, as though she's squinting at a movie in the distance, and on the screen is a place more exotic, more dazzling, more spiritual than wherever we are.
On rainy hills, she dreams of parched desert drum rituals. On windswept islands, she yearns for ancient jungle secrets. On palm-treed beaches, she imagines sacred mountain water?falls. When her mind starts drifting off, our bodies and suitcases soon follow.
And here we are, Layla and me, on the last leg of a journey from Southeast Asia, our plane swimming in clouds above the Andes, hovering, once again, between homes.
The plane lurches like a spooked elephant. My hands clench my notebook, and my eyes flick back to the flight attendants to see if they're in emergency mode. No, they're stuffing sugar packets into a metal container, their faces calm under thick masks of makeup. In the window seat beside me, Layla sits cross-legged, flirting with the middle-aged guy in the aisle seat, both of them leaning across me.
Turbulence doesn't faze Layla. She loves it, like a roller-coaster ride thrown in for free, that flutter in the stomach, that rush of adrenaline pulling her into the moment.
I click my seat belt shut and elbow her. "Hey, Layla, the seat belt light's on."
She shrugs. "Don't worry so much, Zeeta, love."
I reach across and fasten her seat belt. She kisses my temple and leans toward the flight attendant, her blond hair hanging like a curtain over my lap. "Red wine, please."
Of course, the man insists on paying for her wine, pulling a few bills from a silver money clip with manicured fingers. He's wearing khaki pants, a neatly tucked-in white cotton shirt, the sleeves carefully rolled up to reveal muscular forearms, and a silver watch. He looks like he stepped out of a magazine ad for something domestic. He's the quintessential Handsome Magazine Dad, metallic blue eyes and a touch of distinguished gray at his temples. He'd be posed in a shiny stainless-steel kitchen, casually flipping a pancake while his younger wife and daughter smile at the table, as if they've been caught midjoke.
I wonder what he thinks of Layla: a cute, disheveled hippie chick in a slightly see-through cotton wraparound skirt tucked over her knees, with her bare toes peeking out. She's almost thirty-five but looks twenty-five. She always smells of sweet sweat and essential oils, whatever scent addresses her chakra deficiency that day. Today she's chosen a citrusy smell, something bright and tart.
I used to wish for a Handsome Magazine Dad, but I've pretty much given up by this point. Every year in a different country. Fifteen years, fifteen countries, well over fifteen boyfriends for Layla. Fifteen dozen maybe, one for each month. It's way too late now for a normal home, normal family, normal childhood.
I open my latest notebook, indigo-colored, and ask the man, "What's your full name?"
"Jeff Ryan."
I jot that down and then write, Efficiency Consultant for Financial Institutions, which is apparently his job, whatever that is. "Jeff, if you had one wish, what would it be?"
Usually people ask why I'm asking, and usually I say, "So I can remember you," which is true, and flatters them. But...
