Invisible Lives (11 page)

“This is Bill, my husband,” Fiona says. “I met him while I was in the Peace Corps. He’s from Nigeria originally, but he’s been here a long time.”

I nod, feeling even more comfortable here. It’s a relief not to be around relatives who would all be smiling while secretly judging: They would never allow me to date a man such as Bill. They would not approve of Nick, either. Here, I feel strangely liberated.

And Sean, the man who took me to dinner in out-of-the-way restaurants, where his close friends and family wouldn’t see that he was dating an Indian.

Here, I don’t have to worry.

Even supper is informal. The men yell across the table as if they’re at a football game. They reach over to grab a bowl of green beans, the lasagna, the salt and pepper.

“Nick’s the greatest guy you could know,” Fiona says, sitting next to me. “He was the kid who helped old ladies cross the street.”

“I believe it.”

“No, seriously! And the best football player at Juan de Fuca. We all thought he’d make it to the—”

“Fiona,” Nick says quickly, then pats his left thigh. He turns to me. “Injured this knee in my senior year. Healed okay, but kept me from playing professionally.”

“Oh,” I say.

“He was a bit of a speedster too,” Fiona whispers. “And a hit with the ladies, what with that convertible—”

“What are you saying?” Nick tries to divide his attention between his brother and us.

“Nothing, don’t you worry.” Fiona waves a dismissive hand at him, then whispers to me. “He’s settled down a lot since high school. Mainly saw this one girl, Liz. But she’s kind of stuck-up, so don’t worry about her.”

“I’m not actually seeing Nick,” I say. “He’s just a friend.”

“Right.” Fiona’s eyes indicate that she doesn’t believe me. “They almost married, but he got cold feet.”

I swallow, suddenly going numb. Sita’s words haunt me.
Love is marriage.
A man who won’t marry can’t fall in love.

“So Nick was in love?” I ask. What do I care? I glance at Nick, who’s deep in conversation with Jerry.

“I don’t know if he ever really loved her. Couldn’t give her a ring, but he still sees her once in a while.”

Still sees her? “Oh,” I say politely and focus on my food.
Couldn’t give her a ring.
Nick’s love life is none of my business. I’m having a fun evening here while Mr. Basu has kidnapped my mother.

Everyone laughs through supper while Nick’s father cracks jokes, and after we finish eating, Nick makes a fire in the living room fireplace. He looks so competent, kneeling in front of the hearth, arranging the logs and kindling, setting them aflame. A warm glow emanates through the room.

I break out the saris, and Fiona and Mrs. Dunbar lead me upstairs to a frilly guest bedroom with lace curtains, where I show Fiona how to wrap an indigo cotton sari.

“Oh, Fiona, you’re an exotic princess!” Mrs. Dunbar claps.

“It’s all puffy in the front.” Fiona frowns in front of the mirror.

“Cotton is like that,” I say. “Flatten the pleats like this.” I fix the sari, drape the pallu over her shoulder, and tuck it in at her waist.

“Now I love it!” she exclaims, “but how do women wrap these things every day? Saris are so complicated!”

“You get used to it,” I say.

“C’mon, Ma, your turn!” Fiona and I dress Mrs. Dunbar in a translucent peach chiffon sari, which promptly slips off and falls in a heap around her ankles. She poses in the petticoat and choli, pretending to be an underwear model. We all burst into laughter.

Finally, I get the sari to stay on.

“You look like a queen, Ma,” Fiona says. “But something is missing. Wait! I have just the ticket.” She presses a red lipstick bindi into the center of her mother’s forehead. “Now you’re perfect!”

We traipse downstairs to show off. I carry a couple of extra saris in my arms. The men whistle, and everyone claps.

“Now you, Nick!” Jerry shouts. “Let’s see what you look like in a sari.”

“No way, not me!” Nick holds up his hands, but Fiona and I are already wrapping a sari around him, tucking it into his jeans and throwing the pallu over his shoulder. He looks comical, a tall, muscular man draped in delicate chiffon. Next, we subject Jerry to the same humiliation, and we’re all laughing so hard, we can’t breathe.

Later, we all play games—Taboo, Pictionary, Cranium—and laugh again until our bellies hurt. Finally, the family drifts into the dining room for dessert.

“I can’t eat another bite,” I tell Nick while we’re sitting by the fire. “I’m full of your mother’s wonderful lasagna.”

“Food is always a huge event for us,” Nick says. “Meals go all night—”

“In India too!” I say. “Family events revolve around food. It’s the same everywhere.”

Nick gives me a funny look. “Yeah.”

“Thanks for bringing me here. But I should go soon.”

“Don’t go.” He stokes the flames, rearranging the logs.

“We’re leaving for India in a few days. I still have to catch up on work.”

“Why do you have to go?”

“Because it’s in the stars. Because my father wanted me to meet Ravi. Because I like Ravi. I have to go. I have to know if we get along.”

“You and I get along.”

“Nick, I like you. We could be friends. You have a wonderful family, but I don’t know you very well and—”

“You don’t know the Ravi guy at all.”

“But our families have known each other for a long time. In India, families are intertwined like branches of a banyan tree.”

“What about love? Do you believe in love at first sight?”

My throat goes dry. “Maybe only in the movies. Not in real life.”

“Why not in real life?”

“Is that how you felt about Liz?”

“My sister’s been talking to you.”

“She told me a little.”

“I’m talking about you. It’s how I feel about you.” He looks at me directly, piercing me with those stone-blue eyes.

I’m frozen, my vocal cords disappear. I think back to the moment he walked into the shop, the way the
knowing
dissolved.

Love? What does love feel like? Is it the bowling ball of longing from Mrs. Dasgupta? Ma’s golden bubbles when she’s around Mr. Basu? Is it this feeling of disorientation? Is it the bubbles that burst from me when Nick’s around?

I look away. “You can’t possibly love me already.”

“Why not? Love is simple, Lakshmi.”

“No, it’s not.”

“I knew the moment I saw you.” He grabs my chin and forces me to look at him. Then he gently kisses me, and the sari slips from my shoulder. I’m swept away. Everyone else disappears, and I am lost inside him, wrapped in need, in a world where anything is possible.

“Lakshmi,” he whispers against my lips. “You’re perfect.”

Only the goddess is perfect, divine, entwined with her lover in paradise. Her voice drifts back to me—
Love will be a long and difficult journey.

I draw back. “Nick, I have to go.”

“Wait—give me a chance, Lakshmi.”

“Nick, my family, my mother—it’s complicated. Love takes time. It has to blossom, to grow.”

“So give us some time.”

I put on my sweater, and we go outside onto the porch in the cold. “Your sister told me about Liz, and I have to go to India. That was always the plan.”

Nick moves closer, until his breath warms my head. “What do you want, Lakshmi? I’m not talking about your family, your mother, what you’re supposed to do.”

“I want to keep helping people at the store, and I want the business to expand. I love the feel of saris, the fabrics, discovering new designs. I love watching the trends change over time. I love seeing the relieved or ecstatic faces of women when I give them exactly the right sari. And I want to be happy and settle down and have a family one day.”

“Don’t you think I want the same thing?”

“I don’t know what you want, Nick.”

“What, I’m not good enough for you?”

“That has nothing to do with it.”

“Oh, yes it does. I’m a driver. You’re too high class for me, is that it? You have to marry someone from your caste. Am I like one of those untouchables?”

“Nick, no!”

“Think about it. Why won’t you give me the time of day?”

“I do, Nick—”

“You hire me to drive, but would you go out with me? Just the two of us?”

“I can’t change our plans, Nick. Ma has been looking for the right husband for me for a long time. Arranged marriages do work. I have to give this a try.”

“Why? Don’t go. Stay with me.”

I take off down the steps, my heart racing. Part of me wants to stay with Nick, to throw propriety and promises to the wind, but I can’t. The pull of my mother, my father’s words in that old, parched letter, and the call of India are far too strong.

W
hen I get home, the house feels different—older and creakier, wiser and darker. Nick drove me in silence, a mountain of ice between us. A lump grows in my throat as I watch him drive away. The
knowing
slips back into me and curls up in the corner of my mind.

This house is no longer the innocent abode of my mother and me. We both have secrets. The images of Ma and Mr. Basu hide in the corners. And I see the shadow of Nick. His kiss lingers on my lips, a ghost.

On the couch, the cats dream their secret dreams. I won’t sleep so easily. I’ll toss and throw the covers into a Kama Sutra tangle. But I fall into a dreamless slumber.

Sunday evening, Ma is home, reading the newspaper and sipping tea at the dining table. The setting sun reveals streaks of gold in her graying hair. She’s in her usual kurta and slippers, yet she looks not like my mother but like a woman with an invisible life.

“How was your weekend?” she asks. Out-of-focus baubles of happiness play in her mind.

“Fine. The usual.” I avoid her gaze. I didn’t tell her about my visit with Nick and his family. She doesn’t know that I can be as wild as she is. As deceptive.

“You watched some movies last night, nah?” She opens the afternoon newspaper.

“Yes, a movie, Ma. It was about a woman who pretended to be a virgin but who was actually sleeping with some guy she worked with.”

“Why on earth would she pretend? Was she married?” Ma peruses the Life & Arts section.

“She had been married once and had been deeply in love, in fact. She even had a child, who still missed the father, and, well, when the child found out—”

“Sounds like the woman had quite a lot of fun.” Ma’s lips curl into a little secret smile. Why haven’t I noticed that smile before? Or perhaps I have, but I didn’t understand its true meaning.

“Actually, the man was taking advantage of her. She was lonely and unsure of herself.”

“Sounds like a strange movie.” She gives me a sharp look.

“How was your weekend, Ma? How was Sonia’s?”

Ma pretends to read, but I notice that a clothing ad takes up the whole page. “Lovely—the same as usual.”

“How’s her arthritis? Her hands?”

“Oh, paining her, paining her as usual.” Ma looks up at me, and the bright baubles come into focus. “Everyone is so thrilled for you. They’re all saying how happy they are that Ravi Ganguli has shown such interest, which is of course not at all surprising.”

“Not at all.” I scrape my chair back and go to my room.

M
onday morning, the shop looks different—brighter, awash with ancestral secrets hidden in the folds of a million saris. The erotic rush of Nick still simmers in my subconscious.
Do you believe in love at first sight?

I remember Nick’s face as he dropped me off and waited for me to go inside my house. I peered past the curtain and saw him standing there. He stayed there a minute before getting into his car and leaving.

I worked up my nerve to confront Mr. Basu, but he’s out with the flu. After his wild night seducing my mother!

No matter. Today I visit Chelsea’s sister, Lillian. She lives in a modest, blue Cape Cod–style split-level in northeast Seattle. The house is newly painted, and a few large Japanese maples stand in the manicured front yard.

She invites me into her living room, furnished sparsely in soft, pastel colors. Her hair is coiffed, her white blouse and tan slacks perfectly laundered and pressed. An errant, straight hair falls over her forehead. She gives me a brave, weary smile and directs me to a couch. And there, on the carpet, sitting cross-legged and playing with Legos, is the boy I saw in her mind. In person, he’s smaller, maybe only four years old. His hair looks finer, like strands of golden silk from a sari.

“This is Jeremy,” she says.

“He’s beautiful. Hi, Jeremy!”

He doesn’t reply, doesn’t look up even when the briefcase slips from my hand and lands with a thud. I quickly pick it up.

“How do you like your new house?” I ask him.

“He won’t talk to you,” Lillian says.

He rocks gently back and forth, intent on the intricate fortress he’s building from black and blue Lego pieces.

“That’s a cool house, Jeremy,” I say.

No answer.

“He’s not very social,” Lillian says.

“Oh. That’s okay. I’m not a huge talker either.” Disturbed, I sit on the couch and cross my legs, hoist the briefcase onto the coffee table. A wall of red bricks rises from Jeremy’s mind. He’s spent his life building that wall, brick by brick, against the unbearable chaos of life outside. He’ll do anything to keep that frightening world at bay.

“I see you’re still moving in.” I point at the stack of boxes sitting unopened in the corner.

“I’m so busy with Jeremy,” she says. “He’s still getting used to the layout of the rooms, the noise. Too much traffic here. He doesn’t like the sound of motorcycles. My husband got the house after our divorce. I couldn’t afford to keep it.”

“I’m sorry.” A cacophony of disjointed images rushes at me—her wedding to a muscular jock, his bewilderment when their son didn’t start talking. The slow decay of the marriage. She’s put up two pictures of her son on a shelf near the TV.

She sits across from me in an armchair and rubs the palms of her hands together. Her fingernails are bitten to the quick.

I put the briefcase on the table, glance at the large, blank windows overlooking a fenced yard with a swing set.

“You’ll want to let the light in,” I say. “And go with a soft color. I brought some samples you can hold up to the window, if you like.”

“Thank you so much for coming,” she says. “Can I get you some tea? I’ve got some Earl Grey steeping.”

“Very kind of you. I’ll have a cup.”

While she’s in the kitchen, I kneel next to Jeremy and watch him building his dream structure. His mind is still a wall, the world outside like a dense mass of unlabeled wires.

“Jeremy, you’re going to be all right here,” I tell him. He has shut me out, but I catch a glimpse through a crack in the bricks. Inside him lies a heavenly room in smooth blue. Breaths of cartoon cloud blow across that sky.

Lillian returns with tea. “He could read at two, you know. He did arithmetic at three. But no conversations. He didn’t say his own name.”

“An unusually bright child.”

“That’s what I thought. To me, he is brilliant. But not to the doctors. He doesn’t respond appropriately in social situations, so…you’ll have to excuse him if he does anything unusual.”

“What’s appropriate?” I say. “It’s all relative.”

“We have him in two special programs. I should say, I have him in the programs.” Her fingers tremble, and her cup clatters noisily onto the saucer.

Still Jeremy doesn’t look up.

“You’re very busy and tired,” I say. “I hope you’re not doing all this alone, taking care of him.”

“Oh, no. I have a support group, my mother, my sister, friends. But still—”

“Jeremy’s father?”

“He didn’t want to have much to do with us when he realized he couldn’t play catch or roughhouse without making Jeremy scream—”

“Lillian—I have a good feeling. You’re strong, and—”

That’s when the motorcycle roars by, the engine noise reverberating through the house. Jeremy covers his ears and lets out a pure animal screech. The sound terrifies me, and it goes on and on, not stopping as he rocks back and forth, screaming and screaming.

I put my tea on the coffee table. I should leave—I don’t belong in this family moment. But I can’t go.

Lillian takes Jeremy’s hand and whisks him down the hall, into another room, slamming the door. I’m in the empty living room alone, the Legos strewn across the carpet. I pace, my fingers curled into fists. Why am I here? Why did I feel compelled to bring the shop to Lillian’s house if I can’t help?

The screaming waxes and wanes, and I hear Lillian’s voice in between, soothing in a practiced, weary way.
Damn her husband, damn fate,
I’m thinking. A beautiful boy, so sensitive, thrown into life without a buffer to help him make sense of the world.

I grab my samples and stuff them back into the briefcase, and then I see it. The sky-blue cotton sari with puffs of candy-cotton cloud. How did that get into the briefcase? I tiptoe down the hall and knock on the bedroom door.

The screaming has died down to a rhythmic moaning. “Come in,” Lillian says. “I’m so sorry about this. Usually our neighbor with the motorcycle has left for work by now.”

“I’m sorry for intruding.” I step into the semidarkness.

Jeremy’s room isn’t what he wants. It’s pale green with a yellow border. His comforter is green too.

“Blue,” I say. “He needs a blue room. Blue like the sky.”

She gives me a curious look. “How did you know about the sky-room?”

“I—”

“The only words he says often are ‘sky room.’ When he looks up at the sky. How did you know that?”

“I didn’t. He looks like a boy who enjoys a clear day.”

He’s still moaning, rocking back and forth on the bed.

“Jeremy, I have a present for you,” I say. “I know it was your birthday recently. You got some presents from your aunt Chelsea and other people, and I have one for you today.”

Lillian gives me a questioning look.

I place the sari gently on the bed in front of Jeremy. The moaning instantly stops, and he stares at the sari as if watching a fantastic, private circus. He’s quiet and still, floating away in his sky-room.