bedroom door (not surprising; it was barely nine o’clock in the morning, and she hadn’t woken up until close to ten so far into his stay) before slowing to look at the large gallery wall of pictures. He’d noticed them before but hadn’t really taken the time to look.
There were a lot of photographs, most of them black and white, in black frames with white matting. He touched a frame with his fingertip; it looked like wood, but the texture felt different. Weird. Was it made of plastic or something? But then his attention was caught by a photograph in the center, of two little girls, clearly Pinky and Dolly when they were about seven or eight, in identical pigtails, eating ice creams on the front porch of this house. Dolly’s pigtails were immaculate, whereas Pinky’s were halfway out of their hair elastics. Her face was smeared with chocolate—even her eyebrows were covered—while Dolly looked like she might be in an ice cream ad.
Grinning, Samir looked at another picture, on the right, of a ten- or eleven-year-old Pinky sitting between her parents on a couch, a tiny kitten in her lap. The kitten’s foot had been bandaged, and Pinky was petting it gently, not at all focused on the camera. There was another picture right below it, of just Pinky and her mom, in what looked like a garden, surrounded by butterflies. Pinky was very little, only about four or five, her chubby hands outstretched, her eyes crinkled in delight, her mouth open mid-laugh. Her mom was gazing down at her adoringly, oblivious to the cloud of butterflies around them, as if no one and nothing else existed in the world except for her daughter. How did they get from that to where they were now?
“Samir?”
He turned to find the Shark herself studying him from the bottom step. “Everything okay?”
He smiled. “Yes, absolutely. Just checking out your pictures.” Ms. Kumar started up the stairs. “You have a really nice family.” He meant it too.
Ms. Kumar gave him a tight-lipped smile in return as she joined him in front of the gallery wall. “Thank you. I wish Pinky thought so.”
Samir couldn’t think of what to say. Another thing for Pinky’s list: Doesn’t appreciate the fabulous family she has like she should. “Where was this taken?” he asked finally, pointing to the picture of Pinky and her mom in the garden.
The sound of a door opening interrupted Pinky’s mom’s response. Pinky stood out in the hallway in an old Panic! at the Disco T-shirt and pirate-themed pajama bottoms. Her multicolored hair was in a frizzy halo around her head, and she blinked blearily at Samir and her mom, as if she couldn’t quite place them. “Wh-what’s happening?”
Samir grinned. “Wow. You look fresh as a daisy.”
She managed a sleepy glare but shuffled closer. “What’re you guys looking at?”
“Samir was asking me where this picture was taken.” Ms. Kumar caressed toddler Pinky’s chubby cheek in the picture, a small smile on her face. She glanced past him at real-life Pinky. “Do you remember?”
“Sure,” Pinky replied, her voice all sleep-scratchy. “That’s the butterfly habitat.”
“Mm-hmm. This was the year after it was built. You could never get enough of the butterflies. Or, as you called them, the ‘wuh-wuh-whys.’ ”
Samir laughed, kind of touched by this mental image, and Pinky slapped him on the arm. “I was little.”
“Do you guys go back every year?” he asked.
Pinky and her mom exchanged a look. Nonchalantly itching her elbow, Pinky said, “We used to. Not so much anymore.”
“Not since Pinky got too cool for her parents.” Her mother laughed. Pinky opened her mouth to respond, but then closed it again. After a pause, her mom added softly, “You should take Samir. All the plants and trees are so much more mature now. He would like it.”
Pinky looked at him and shrugged. “Do you want to?”
Samir didn’t know exactly what was going on, but it was clear the habitat was a lot more than just a place to watch butterflies flit about for both Pinky and her mom. “I’d love to,” he said sincerely.
“Great. It’s a date.” Pinky’s eyes lingered on the picture for another moment, and then she turned for her room. “I need coffee, but first I need a shower. See you guys in a few.”
* * *
Downstairs, Mr. Yeung was in a frenzied state of cooking in the kitchen.
“Samir!” he said heartily. Mr. Yeung, Samir was finding out, was always hearty. “It’s build-your-own-omelet day! What would you like on