Notes

~Nariya Patel~

Stretching my limbs as much as my injury would allow, my nostrils caught the scent that filled the room, and right on cue, my stomach growled. Retrieving the dishes, I opened the heating casserole to reveal beautiful, flowery swirls of cooked eggs in hot broth. A note next to the dish indicated that this delicacy was called "Egg Drop Soup," featuring a nourishing broth with beaten egg slowly swirled into it, creating enchanting blossoms in the soup. My mouth watered as I marveled at the delicious sight before me. A few spoons later and a burnt tongue afterward, I had finished the entire dish.

A satiable gruff escaped my lips as I glanced at the dreaded part of my daily meal these days – horrid-looking pills awaiting my digestion. Taking a deep breath, I offered a silent prayer to Hanuman, the Hindu god known for courage and strength, and swallowed the pills down my throat. The bitter taste lingered on my taste buds, and I washed it down with a flood of water. Once that settled, I picked up the notes, adorned with his magnificent penmanship.

"Good morning Nari,

I hope you're feeling better today. I'll be going out to run some errands and will be back by lunchtime. If you need anything, feel free to explore the kitchen; it's equipped with everything you might require. I've left your crutches by the bed, so be cautious and take your time before getting up. And please, no matter what happens, avoid putting pressure on your injured leg.

P.S. I'd love to hear your thoughts on the dish from last night. Indian food isn't my expertise, and it was my first time attempting something like that.

Alexie"

As my fingertips traversed the lines of his signature, I observed the distinctive blend of elegance and sharpness, giving it an authoritative undertone. It was evident that when he wielded his pen, it symbolized a sense of purpose, perhaps unintentional in our context. The notion lingered that certain habits, even those as subtle as the stroke of a pen, proved resilient in their persistence.

I surveyed my room, noting that everything was meticulously arranged in its designated space. Even the book I had been reading last night, forgotten next to my pillow, was perfectly aligned on the bedside table against the wall. It became apparent that this man was an organizational perfectionist—somewhat cliché, yet oddly fitting for his lively personality. In fact, it puzzled me when I had seen his disheveled state on the day I woke up. Truth be told, I found myself preferring that side of him more; it seemed, how should I describe it, more human.

Anticipating his penchant for organization, I made a fortunate guess that the drawer of the bedside table would be stocked with appropriate stationary and other necessities. To my delight, my guess was spot on, as I discovered everything from notepads to pens, and even stickers and glitters neatly arranged in the drawer. A chuckle escaped my lips as I observed that everything, once again, was in pastel colors. It seemed like he was genuinely making an effort to understand the mind of a teenage girl.

Pulling out a notepad, I started to write with my non-dominant hand. It proved a bit challenging to maintain a flowing and legible script, yet I persisted in making it as comprehensive as possible.

I signed it with my name, a frown forming on my brows as I compared our notes side by side. His exhibited perfect penmanship on beautifully embossed cream sheets, while mine appeared more as a collection of scribbled letters on pastel paper. Even my signature looked crooked compared to his flawless strokes. I shook my head, reminding myself that this was to be expected, considering I was using my non-dominant hand. I could only write a little with it, having been taught to write with my right hand in elementary school, a response to the prevailing bias against left-handedness, deeming it a sign of imperfection. I couldn't help but recall how my mum had rushed and threatened to sue the school after noticing me practicing writing with my right hand one day.

I read the letter once more, and a tiny thought popped into my mind: 'Should I suggest to him that I don't mind teaching him...?' However, I quickly dismissed that line of thinking. Despite him taking care of me for a year, I was determined never to become a burden. I placed the letter on the trolley and proceeded to make myself comfortable with the crutches.

Initially, it proved challenging to maintain balance on just one leg, but some basics from my days practicing dance returned to my memory. Slowly lifting my right leg, bent at the knee, I balanced my weight on the left one. I started by holding onto the bedside table for support, gradually letting go. Normally, this task would have been easy for me, given my five years of experience in yoga. However, the strain from the past couple of days, coupled with constant bed rest, had introduced a rigidity to my muscles. Once I had regained mastery over my balance, I began with slow hopping. The weight of the bandages added an unevenness to one side, potentially making for a comical scene if observed by someone else. Thankfully, I was alone at the moment, and Nyx's curious gaze didn't really count.

After what felt like relearning the basics of walking from my toddler days, I progressed to hopping around the room. Crutches were still not my forte, and I preferred hopping over entrusting my body weight to a stick. My first order of business was attending to my personal needs. I searched for a door leading to the ladies' room and found one behind a Japanese-style room divider. Unlocking the handle, with Nyx following closely, I marveled at the enormous walk-in closet that greeted me. The grumble from my abdomen came before further marveling. Navigating to the end of the closet, I found the door that led to the washroom.

After completing my business, my thoughts briefly calmed only to intensify again. Closets like these were no rarity to me; since childhood, I had my own walk-in closet filled with luxuries a child might desire. As a child, I failed to realize the true value of each item in that closet. It only became apparent when we lost everything, including my jewelry and expensive possessions. I was bewildered the day the bank seized our home, assessing the worth of everything in my closet. Almost everything remotely valuable was taken away, and by the end of that day, my father and I were not only left homeless but also deprived of our belongings.

I must add, though, my closet was way smaller than this ginormous one before me. Sections, of course, were organized based on occasions and types of clothing, and then further categorized by an array of colors. I couldn't help but wonder how much this man loved to organize, as I walked slowly, marveling at the pieces of apparel neatly hung in each section. The sections weren't overly stuffed; I could discern a thoughtful consideration of leaving space for the owner's choices or belongings. But I didn't have much belonging left! Just a suitcase and a duffle bag were all I had, though I wasn't sure where the suitcase was anymore after the incident in the alleyway.

My fingers brushed against an asymmetrical dress that hung elegantly, its layers flowing with precision, and suddenly, I halted. My eyes widened as I slowly picked up the piece, searching for its label. "Alexander Wang," it read, and my breath caught as I carefully placed it back. It dawned on me that all of these items were expensive designer goods. My mind raced, and I retreated from the priceless pieces, as if even my breath would devalue their worth. My back pressed against the center glass display, redirecting my attention to it. Shocked words escaped my lips, "Oh my god, what on earth."

On the display, what seemed like endless pieces of jewelry and accessories sparkled before me. Just a glance was enough to tell that they were all made of precious metals—gold, platinum, silver, you name it. I pondered whether this man was a jeweler or a gold mine owner, considering the array of bling in front of me.

My fingers unintentionally traveled to my ear, where a tiny piece of gold adorned my ears. It was shaped in the form of little hearts and centered with a diamond. This was the gift my grandmother had given me, insisting, against my mother's reluctance, that I should get a piercing done and how the gold would complement my wheatish skin tone. I was very grateful the day the bank officers came that my long, well-cherished hair managed to hide this heirloom from my grandmother, who had received it from hers.

Slowly, I backed out of the room, but before I could leave, a yellow note caught my attention. I read,

"Don't think too much about it."

I sighed, pondering how I couldn't avoid thinking about it, and I hopped toward the plush seat situated on the center of the other side of the glass display. I sat down, contemplating how to explain it to him. His generosity, meant as a kind gesture, seemed overwhelming to me. While it might thrill any other girl, I felt like the absurd one for pushing away his generosity. I knew he meant well, but I couldn't fully accept that goodwill of his. An uncertainty settled in my mind—was it just goodwill toward his mentor's daughter, or was there more?

I looked at the mirror and noticed how my tangled, tameless nest was neatly woven into a nice French braid. I had no memory of doing this the night before; perhaps it was caused by the dizziness from the pills. Another note caught my attention as I peeled it off the mirror and read,

"I hope everything is to your liking. I tried to include everything a girl your age might need, but my knowledge is limited. I didn't know your skin type or what would suit you, so when you feel comfortable, let me know about any items you might need, and I will get them for you. Alternatively, you can order them from the computer in the library."

Instantly, my gaze fixated on the carefully arranged personal items, and a pang of guilt tugged at my heart. The vanity, adorned with an assortment of items, had a designated space for skincare, marked with organizers. Although I felt uneasy, something was amiss. Despite searching every nook in my room, my phone remained elusive. I recalled losing it during the alleyway conflict, yet the memory of its retrieval escaped me. The urgency to connect with the outside world heightened, and the note hinted that the library held the solution.

Sighing, I rose from the seat, my attention drawn to a slightly ajar drawer with another note affixed to it. As I read the note and opened the drawer, a vibrant flush spread across my face. Inside lay a diverse collection of undergarments - lace, silk, cotton, and satin, leaving me hesitant to explore the array of types hidden within. Dropping the note, I hopped my way out, Nyx again on my trail.

"Don't worry I asked the store lady to fetch something in your size, although I will suggest that the pink lace set would look marvelous on you."