Invisible Lives (8 page)

P
ooja and Mr. Basu rush over to help Chitra and Asha, while Ma drags me into the office. The
knowing
drapes around my shoulders away from Nick.

“What was that all about?” she whispers. “What is going on?”

“I must be catching a cold or something.” I collapse into a chair. “I nearly lost Asha’s business. I must be tired!”

“Now take your time, gather your wits. It’s a good thing it’s Friday. Maybe you need a weekend off, nah?”

“I’m taking Pooja to her wedding rehearsal on Sunday.” I tell Ma about my secret plan to hire the limousine. “I’m getting an extra-good deal.”

“Ah, the rehearsal. Yes, her parents invited me,” Ma says. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Bibu. Make sure she gets there!” She bustles out into the store, and when I emerge from the office, the
knowing
spirals away.

Nick’s back.

“And now, Lakshmi, you will measure Nick for a kurta!” Asha says.

“What? Who, me?”

“You’re the best measurer we have.” Ma slaps the tape measure into my hand.

“I want him in a respectable, yet elegant, kurta pajama,” Asha says.

I glance at Ma. “I’m sure that Pooja can—”

“Certainly not!” Asha says. “Pooja says your hand is the most accurate for measuring.”

Pooja’s face falls with disappointment.

“But really, I’m not the best,” I say.

“You are!” Ma says.

The tape measure resembles a foreign artifact. I’m sure I’ve forgotten how to use one.

Then Mr. Basu pushes me forward. I nearly stumble over Nick.

“Lakshmi will measure you in the dressing room,” Mr. Basu says in a loud voice. Nick’s already heading into the dressing room and there I am, packed in with him, surrounded by mirrors. An image of a blond god smiles back. He’s more than a head taller than me.

He stares at me in the mirror.

I push the glasses up on my nose. My fingers tremble. I beg the gods to banish the blush in my cheeks. “I, uh, have to measure you.”

“Put your magic hands to work.”

“Could you take off your jacket? Just, um, hang your coat there on that hook.”

“Do I need to take off my shirt?” He’s flirting, the way Sean did. A flicker of memory prods at me. Sean coming to my cubicle at Overseas Investments, sweet-talking me, insinuating himself into my life.

“That won’t be necessary. Just lift your arms like that.”

I measure Nick’s neck, his torso, put my arms around him to measure his waist. He lifts his arms, the whole time a slight smile on his face, as if this is all a mating dance.

“So what’s this getup you’re measuring me for?” His voice spreads through me like deep blue sugar.

“It’s a traditional outfit, formal.”

“Like a sari?”

“Not exactly. Saris are very complex, difficult to put on, and they’re made differently in different parts of India. Worn differently, too.”

“Show me how you do it. My sister’s birthday party is next weekend. She likes ethnic dress.”

I feel curiously breathless. Perhaps we need more air in the dressing rooms. “I can’t show you,” I whisper. “I’m working.”

“Then come to the party and show my sister how to put on a sari. It’ll be a surprise. Asha told me that you do that sometimes—go to parties to help women try on saris.”

My insides flutter. “Well—I could do it. If you think she might like it. But this wouldn’t be a date, you know. I’m going to India—”

“I know, no date. I’ll pick you up, bring you home—”

“I can drive myself.”

“I insist. I’ll pick you up.”

“Okay, I’ll do it.” I find I’m looking forward to riding in the limousine again. I nearly forgot. He’s driving me and Pooja to her wedding rehearsal.

S
unday afternoon, clouds saunter across a brilliant blue sky as Nick drives me to Pooja’s place. Grateful for a day of winter sunshine, biplanes trail across the sky, couples walk their dogs, and boats emerge from hibernation to glide along Cedarlake, white sails billowing in the breeze.

I’m riding in the limo’s backseat, and as usual, the
knowing
has taken leave. Pink bubbles pop from my skin. How delicate, how fragile these orbs look today, their translucent membranes quivering in the light.

But why do they hound me like the paparazzi?

I’ll ignore them for the sake of surprising Pooja. When she sees the limo, she’ll exclaim with delight. Her wide smile brightens my thoughts but disappears when a shivery pink sphere dangles from my nose. Annoyed, I swat it away.

As Nick drives around the lake, he keeps glancing in the rearview mirror, his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. Oh—I’m not wearing my glasses, and I let my hair down. I forgot how my natural look affects men. But even when I wore a frumpy outfit and ponytail, Nick flirted with me.

I meet his gaze for a long moment, and he smiles. I pretend to look out the window. The bubbles float all around me in a maddening jumble. Why am I affected this way? Why do I want Nick to take off the shades so I can see his eyes, so blue they make the world look drab?

He’s decked out in a black suit to match his driver’s cap. From my vantage in the backseat, his features are concrete, unreadable. He’s strangely familiar, and yet we are as distant as continents. I must look foreign in my silver-blue pleated sari, gold bangles, and necklace. I bite my lip, a flutter of nervousness whisking through me.

I take a deep breath and try to relax. Everything had better go smoothly at the rehearsal. Pooja’s family and friends will be waiting at the temple. I picture Dipak pacing, pockets of sweat dampening his armpits. Dipak and Pooja. They fit like two perfect pieces in a cosmic puzzle.

Everyone will cheer when she steps from the limo, her smile warming the crowd. On the way, we’ll pour champagne from this small wine bar, lit from the inside with fluorescent pink bulbs.

The seats, smooth and shiny, look new, and a clean pine scent touches the air. The engine vibrates through me and I wonder what celebrity secrets have unfolded in here, what couples have consummated their marriages—

Don’t go there.

Nick must’ve seen it all. He keeps all his limousine secrets tucked up under his cap.

“Thanks for agreeing to do this,” I tell him. I run my hands along the smooth vinyl seat. “I can hardly wait to see Pooja’s face. She has a bit of a crush on you, but don’t tell her I told you that. She’s getting married.”

“Which one is Pooja again?” He glances at me in the rearview mirror.

“You don’t remember her? The pretty young thing with the frizzy hair? Really slim? Don’t flirt with her, though. She’s engaged.”

“Oh, her. She’s a nice kid. Now, if you had a crush on me…”

I let out a tiny, nervous laugh. “Why would I—I mean, why would you care?” Am I flirting? Playing coy with this driver? What has come over me?

“All I’m saying is I would pay attention.” He turns away from the lake, the limo climbing along a narrow street lined with ornamental pear trees and pastel bungalows.

“Oh. I see.” A creeping heat travels from my cheeks to my ears. I make a point of wiping the condensation on the window. Why can’t I think of a better comeback?

Nick clears his throat. “Is she going to one of those arranged marriages?” His voice slides across the seat and rests on my shoulders.

“Semi-arranged.”

“Does she love the guy?”

“If she doesn’t now, she will.”

“Hell of a way to go.” He turns up the radio a half degree. A Billie Holiday melody, “My Old Flame,” slinks from the speakers.

“You make it sound like she’s getting killed. She’s completely excited.” I arrange my sari, which suddenly goes tight around my thighs. “If you met Dipak, you’d like him.”

“How well does she know him?”

“Since they were children. She wants to marry him, and everyone’s very happy for her. We’re celebrating. You sure you know the way?” I lean forward so he can hear me, and I catch a whiff of his metallic aftershave.

“Trust me. I always know the way.”

I sit back, feeling oddly comforted.

He does know exactly where to find Pooja’s place, a modern green apartment building sandwiched between two others. A few scrawny magnolia trees struggle up in the bathroom-size yards, where the sod has been hastily unrolled between stretches of concrete. There’s a faint odor of sulfur in the air, as if a septic tank is leaking somewhere. Traffic noise foams up in the distance.

Nick parks in the guest lot, and in a second he’s opening my door. My arm brushes his as I hold up my sari and walk to the front door. I ring the bell for Pooja’s apartment and wait.

And wait.

Nick’s standing next to the limo, hands in his pants pockets. He never taps a foot or glances at his watch. A good quality in a driver. Patience.

I have only a thimble of patience.

Finally, thumping footsteps come down the stairs and Pooja opens the door. I suck in a breath.

She’s a kleptomaniac’s dream. In her shiny, red silk sari, gold jewels, and precious gems, she’s a gleaming vision with frizzy hair. A jewelry shop hung its entire inventory from her limbs. And yet beneath the fancy garb, she’s a delicate dewdrop.

“Oh, Lakshmi,” she whispers, “you look lovely.” Her voice trembles. Intricate patterns of henna cover her hands and climb across her forehead.

“No, you’re the lovely one, Pooja! You’re an absolute…you’re beautiful.” I give her a hug, as best I can with all the metal and stones in the way. Her body shakes a bit, and her skin is warmer than usual.

“Do you think so?” She glances past me at the limousine, at Nick standing there like a broad-shouldered statue, and she covers her mouth. “What have you done, Lakshmi? Oh, you got a limo for me. Are you serious? Why did you go and do that?” She’s grinning, pinpoints of color springing up in her cheeks.

“For you—so we can arrive in style.” I take her arm.

“Ma and Baba will be there! Oh, I can’t wait to show them!”

“Are you ready?”

“Oh, you shouldn’t have done it, shouldn’t have.” Her eyes are watery. She slings her handbag over her shoulder and takes my hand in a tight grip. Her fingers are cool. “Let’s go, Lakshmi. I have to get out of here.” She takes a deep breath, and I take her to the car.

Nick opens the door for us, and Pooja assesses him before getting into the backseat. “He’s a cutie,” she whispers to me, a hint of longing in her voice. I put a finger to my lips, hoping that Nick didn’t hear.

He pulls out easily and threads back through town toward the highway.

“Do you know where the temple is?” I ask.

“I know the way everywhere,” Nick says.

Arrogant,
I’m thinking as I sit back.

“Oh, Lakshmi—I haven’t slept a wink and my armpits are itching,” Pooja says. Her fingers are slender tendrils clinging to the armrest.

“I’m sure all brides go through this. You’ll be fine. It’s only a rehearsal.”

Her black eyes implore me. “Are you certain? Do you see it? I mean, my future? Do you see Dipak and me happy together? Is that the kind of thing you can see?”

Nick glances in the mirror, his brows furrowing.

I nod and lie, because at the moment, I see nothing but bubbles. “You’re blissful, sitting at a bay window with lovely views, and you’ll have the most beautiful children.” I see nothing but the backseat and the triangle of road ahead.

Pooja lets go of my hand, fumbles in her purse, and produces a miniature bottle with a Glenlivet label. Whisky! But Pooja doesn’t drink. A mere sip of wine makes her tipsy. “I need to calm my nerves,” she says and takes a swig.

“Pooja! You can’t drink before your rehearsal,” I whisper.

“Just a shot to fortify me.” Her cheeks are flushed.

“You okay back there?” Nick glances in the mirror again.

“I’m not feeling well, so nervous.” Pooja takes another gulp of whisky. “Is this normal, Lakshmi? Tell me.”

Nick glances in the mirror again.

“This will be your second happiest day,” I say. “I’m here for you. Hang in there. Once the ceremony begins, it’ll be just like riding a bike.”

She gives me a pleading look. “Are you sure? You’ve never been married, have you?”

“No, but I’ve helped many through the pre-wedding jitters.”

“I can stop the car if you want to get out,” Nick says. “There’s a rest area in a few miles.”

“I need more whisky.” Pooja stares forlornly at the nearly empty bottle.

I snatch the bottle from her. “You need fresh air.”

At the rest area, Nick helps Pooja out of the car. She takes a deep breath. “Okay, I’ll get some coffee then.” She totters away toward the coffee stand near the restrooms, the wind whipping her hair and jingling her bangles. She’s a walking jewelry store, drawing stares from passing truckers and travelers.

I stand awkwardly next to the limo, the sari pressed against my legs. The closer I get to Nick, the more the bubble bath fizzes around me.

“We have to get her straightened out before we reach the temple,” I say.

“Maybe she’s not ready,” he says.

I give him a sharp look. “Not ready for what?”

“To get married.”

“Of course she is. She has the jitters, that’s all.”

“It’s more than jitters. She’s physically ill.”

“She’ll be fine. It’s a big deal having all the family there waiting.” I set my jaw.

“Why does she have to stick to your traditions?”

“They’re not my traditions,” I say, and I realize that these half-arranged marriages feel alien to me as well. “They belong to our ancestors, to our culture.”

“You don’t seem so traditional.”

I glance toward Pooja, who is waiting in the coffee line, her arms crossed over her chest. She looks so forlorn and fragile that I want to grab her before the wind carries her away.

“Okay, I’m not traditional. I grew up here. I’m an American,” I say. “So is Pooja. But she’s always been very close to her parents. They’ve always expected her to marry.”

“That doesn’t mean she should do it.”

“Haven’t you heard of American brides getting nervous? Where do you think the term ‘cold feet’ comes from?”

“She has more than cold feet. She’s a walking ice block.”

“She’s a grown-up. Besides, she loves Dipak.”

“How do you recognize true love?”

“You have to see the two of them together. Then you would know! Why are you intruding, anyway? I hired you to drive me and Pooja to the rehearsal, not to break up her marriage!”

Nick holds up his hands, palms forward. “Whoa—look, I hate to see someone get pushed into a marriage she doesn’t really want just to satisfy some family tradition. Love is the one thing in life that should not be compromised.”

“Compromised! You think Pooja is compromising?” I’m seething now, but I muster my best smile as Pooja returns, sipping coffee. She looks marginally refreshed.

We’re going to be twenty minutes late, not that time would matter so much in India, but it matters here, and the freeway’s slowly clogging with traffic.

I lean back in the car, my fingers curling into fists. Please, let this day go smoothly.

Pooja finishes her coffee, then gives me a woozy look. Her cheeks are pale. I touch her forehead. Her skin feels cool and damp.

“Pooja, what is it?”

“I took a sedative, a pill for anxiety, before—”

“Before what? Before the whisky?”

She nods. She’s turning into a regular addict overnight.

“You should never mix alcohol and drugs!” I shout.

Nick frowns into the mirror. “Everything okay?”

“I’m so sorry, Lakshmi,” Pooja whispers. “It’s just that, you know, Dipak doesn’t understand how much I want to be a doctor. And I love San Francisco.”

“I’ll turn around,” Nick says. “Take you home.”

“No, you won’t!” I shout. “Just because she took a pill doesn’t mean she’s calling off the wedding. She’s not giving up so easily, are you, Pooja?”

“Dipak wants to stay near his parents,” Pooja goes on. “I want to go to California. Oh, I don’t know…” Her voice trails off.

“You don’t know?” I say incredulously. “Look, we’ll deliver you to your family, and you can talk to your parents, to Dipak.”
Make sure she gets there,
Ma said.

“They won’t understand. I don’t want to go.”

“She doesn’t want to go,” Nick says.

“Nick!” I shout. “Look, Pooja. I didn’t realize you were so…worried about all this. Drink some water, and all will be well.”

“There’s water in the pocket behind the seat,” Nick says. “To your left.”

The spring water calms Pooja for now.