The Sleepwalker's Guide to Dancing: A Novel (49 page)

“That’s not the point.”

“Fine. Then why did you keep them at all?”

“What?”

“The prints. Why bother?”

“I … I don’t know.”

“Really? You don’t? You don’t know that you’ve been hoarding them in your closet—your
closet
, by the way, worst metaphor come to life—because you secretly wish other people could see them? Because I know that. It seems pretty obvious, actually. And why wouldn’t you? They’re fucking good. They’re your best work. I mean, listen, you can tell me that isn’t true, and that they were really just for your own viewing
pleasure and you want things to go back to the way they were, with you pretending that your life doesn’t suck now that you’ve traded your ambition for America’s belated goddamn moral crisis, and you know what? I will give them back. I really will. I will give them back and you will just have to forgive me at some point in the future, because no matter how right I am, I’m actually not willing to have you hate me over this. Okay? But you have to tell me that that’s really what you want, not just some sad shit you like to play out because you weren’t loved enough as a kid or whatever.”

Amina was silent, lying back on the bed, the phone next to her head. Her cousin’s voice no longer filled her entire ear, just the space near it. It felt much less personal this way; the difference between getting blood drawn and getting a mosquito bite. It also allowed her the distance to admit that something was happening every time Dimple said
best work
. It felt like eating or fucking or otherwise having the right thing go in the right place. It felt primordially good.

“Who else’s permission did Lesley get?” she asked.

There was a pause, and then the sound of shuffling paper. “Okay, so the Lorbers, obviously. The passed-out grandma reminds me of Snow White in the coffin. Dara Lynn Rose is fine with us using the one where she looks like she’s going to kill her husband with the hairbrush. And Caitlin McCready signed off on her sisters wrestling over the bouquet. She wanted a signed printed copy, too, which is what I’m offering people if they seem hesitant. Um, what else … Oh! Lorraine Spurlock looking up at her father all moon-eyed. Is that as gross as I think it is?”

“It’s her stepfather.”

“Disgusting. But good for us. Lila Ward is fine with the ring bearer wetting his pants, the Abouselmans signed off on sad wheelchair grandpa on the dance floor, the Freedens are pretty close to releasing Dad handing the check to the caterers, and the Murphys haven’t decided on the best man pissing in the corner of the tent.”

“That’s eight.”

“Yeah.” Dimple took a breath. “Jane owns the puking bridesmaid. I thought she might want to share it. It looks better for the business, ultimately, if she’s on board.”

“Let me guess how that went over.”

“Mmm.”

“And the other?”

“Bobby McCloud.”

“No.”

“
Yes
. It’s the reference point. The catalyst. It makes everything that follows make sense.”

“But it’s not even a wedding photo.”

“No, it’s a Microsoft party-boat photo. It works, trust me. I will make it work.” Dimple shut what sounded like a filing cabinet. “Listen, we are going to retell that story, okay? Do you get that? This is your chance to set the record straight.”

She had switched tones again, imbuing her voice with the kind of self-importance that had served her well in the gallery community, those trusted to be the arbitrators of meaning when the artists behind the work had lost track of their own narratives. A pulse beat between Amina’s eyes. She eased it with her thumb.

“Ami? You there?”

“Kind of.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t call you this week,” Dimple said after a moment. “I got your messages and all this stuff was going down and I just wanted to get some of it sorted before I talked to you. Anyway, how are things? When are you coming home?”

It seemed impossible now to have a conversation about anything else. Amina took a deep breath, trying to gear up. She turned her head slightly, her father’s trophy sneaking into the periphery of her vision, and waited for the news to find its way out of her.

CHAPTER 3

“I
think,” Jamie said that evening, his heart thundering under her ear, “you just raped me.”

They were on the floor in between the foyer and the living room. Overhead, ceiling fans spun in lazy circles.

Amina rolled off of him, onto the tile, where her underwear found her ankle and clung to it. “Really? You seemed like a willing participant.”

“No ma’am.” Jamie let his hand fall against her belly. “I swear to God, I just answered the door.”

Amina laughed. She hadn’t meant to come at him that way, so fast, so grabby. She turned her head to look at him. Dots of sweat lined his upper lip and hairline. He looked a little overwhelmed.

“Was it … too much?”

“No way. I just wasn’t expecting you.”

She sat up, found her shirt, and slipped it over her head. “So you want me to go? Maybe come back later?”

He cupped her calf, squeezed it. “Don’t be a freak.”

Amina smiled to show him she was not a freak. She stood up and stepped over him, walking toward the kitchen.

“Can I get you something to drink?” she asked. “You have seltzer and beer.”

“I don’t have beer, actually. We drank it all last night.”

“Do you have seltzer?”

“Yeah. You hungry? I could make us something.”

She did not want to eat, possibly for months, but Amina made the appropriate noises of enthusiasm. Ever since her parents had returned from the hospital, shrunken like old apples and unable to say anything beyond the fact that the results weren’t looking great, she had felt weirdly high. Not stoned, but toxic—the kind of high you get on gas fumes in your own garage.

Jamie walked down the hall toward his bedroom, taking off his shirt. “Just let me jump into the shower real quick.”

Amina got herself a glass of water and sat down at his kitchen table, an old red Formica job from the late sixties, red with a slightly lighter harlequin print. A single paper napkin lay on it, and she folded over an edge.

“So how have you been?” Jamie called from the bathroom, peeing. She shuddered. Pee talkers baffled her. How could they do that? Give you no opportunity to not listen?

“Fine. You?”

“Fine. Good, actually.”

He had a good view of the park from his kitchen, the tops of the trees, the lush, interlaced branches that seemed to hold the darkening sky up behind them. Amina tore a bit of the napkin off, listening to the screech of the shower turning on, and wondering what it meant about their future that Jamie showered with the door open. She was a closed-door showerer, a hoarder of steam and privacy, and for a minute it seemed like that meant something, then the sweet, rich smell of deodorant soap wafted down the hallway, filling her with a satisfaction so complete that even ripping up the napkin felt rewarding. Jamie turned off the shower and went to his room. A few minutes later he emerged, wearing the same shorts but otherwise clean in a way that made her want to get him dirty again.

“You’re getting tan.” She tapped the bridge of his nose, where the contrail left by sunglasses made his eyes look greener.

“I was out at the pool all day.”

“Oh, yeah? What pool do you go to?”

“Paige’s. She’d love to see you sometime, by the way.”

“Yeah.” She looked back down at the napkin, folding the remains into a tidy square. When she looked up, Jamie was studying her with a funny look.

“Is that weird or something?”

“Not, it’s not that, just that I’m …” There was no good finish to the sentence, Amina realized,
uncomfortable
, and
nervous
, and
scared to see Paige as a grown-up
not being feelings she wanted to share. “Hungry. I’m hungry. You’re making dinner?”

Jamie nodded slowly, as though unwilling to break from his thought. “Actually, I was thinking in the shower—what do you think about going to the Frontier instead?”

“I think you’re a genius.”

Of all the things Amina loved about the Frontier Restaurant (its tacky faux-barn exterior, the walls jumbled with bad desert paintings, the tortilla maker spouting fat gobs of flour like something out of a Mexican Willy Wonka’s), she loved the orange vinyl booths in the front the best. Right across from the ordering counter, they offered a steady view of the kitchen and the clientele of doctors and gallery owners and car salesmen and students and junkies who came in all day, every day.

“Who do you think gets the bigger socioeconomic cross section of Albuquerque: this place or the DMV?” she asked, stealing an onion ring off Jamie’s plate.

“Here for sure. You sure you don’t want to get more to eat?”

“I’m not that hungry.”

“You ate your dinner and half of mine.”

“I did not!”

“A third. Definitely a third.”

“Wow. Territorial. Did you count the actual onion rings I took?”

“Ninety-seven.” Under the table, Jamie’s knee brushed against
hers; it felt hairy and slightly damp and strangely not off-putting. “So you’re going to do it?”

“I guess so.”

“You haven’t decided?”

“No, I’ve decided. I just feel funny about it.”

Jamie grabbed a stray onion ring and dragged it through ketchup. “When is the opening?”

“September.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah. Hopefully I can go.” She tried not to think of her parents’ faces as they emerged from the car that afternoon. They hadn’t been mad about Sanji showing up, or at least they hadn’t said as much to Amina, but then they hadn’t said much at all.

“How’s your dad doing?” Jamie asked.

Amina shook her head, not trusting herself to talk about it without getting upset.

“Any word on the prognosis?”

She shook her head again.

“So you don’t want to talk about it.”

“I just don’t have a lot to say about it.”

Jamie took a sip of soda. “Just using me for the sex, huh?”

“That’s not true,” Amina said, realizing too late that a serious answer turned it into a serious question. Jamie said nothing, rattling the ice around in his cup.

She took a breath. “It’s just my whole life, you know, I just thought doctors knew things the rest of us didn’t. Like they were privy to some metaphysical library or something.”

“Metaphysical library?”

“Just go with me here.”

“Are the books there written in invisible ink?”

“No, dummy, ghost blood.”

Jamie looked at her appreciatively. “Go on.”

“And now, I’m just so, uh”—she laughed to cover up the way her eyes had begun to tear up—“I’m just so fucking disappointed right now. I mean, seriously? Nobody knows
anything
. It’s all just tests and results and more tests, but where’s the part where they take you into a
room and say
He has two months to live
or
That was a close call, but it looks like he’s going to make it
? Where is the part where I stop making deals with the universe like it’s some karmic pawnshop that will let him get well if I’m a better person?”

Jamie handed her a napkin, and she pressed it over her face, willing herself to pull it together.

“Shit,” she said. “I’m sorry. Are we making a scene?”

“Nope. Just you.”

She laughed and crumpled the napkin into a ball. “You were right, by the way. There were other things in the garden besides the jacket.”

“Yeah?”

She told him, careful to keep her tone even but watching his face like it was an emergency weather report. The keys, she explained, had been lost right before she came back home. She had no idea about the mango pickle. But the rest of the items were definitely for members of her family—the trophy for Ammachy (Thomas had always joked that he should have sent it to her), the album for Sunil, the shoes for Itty, and of course the jacket for Akhil.

“Wow,” Jamie said, looking more impressed than concerned. “So he’s seeing your brother, too.”

“I guess so. I don’t know. It’s sad.”

“Is it? Whoa, don’t give me that look, I’m just saying that it could be worse. At least he’s seeing people he loved.”

Amina looked at him. Really looked at him, at the light skein of wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and the little patch of stubble he’d missed by his sideburns and the unnerving way he was squinting at her like
she
was the one who had somehow overlooked the central truth about what was really happening. “Jamie Anderson, how did you of all people become such a Pollyanna?”

He picked up an onion ring, shoved it into his mouth whole. “Must have been the divorce.”

The family descended the next day. First came Raj, hurrying up the steps with pale blue rings stamped under his eyes and a cardboard box
that smelled several kinds of delicious, then Sanji, huffing under a bright red cooler.

“Hello, baby,” she said, sticking out a cheek for Amina to kiss.

Bala came next, looking nervous and slightly corrosive in a bright yellow-green sari. She handed Amina a pack of store-bought cookies as Chacko parked the car.

“His brain? You’re sure about this?” She said it as though it were a bad decision Amina was in the middle of contemplating:
You’re sure you want to drop out of college? You’re sure you want to give your father a tumor in his brain?
“Because Sanji said she saw them yesterday and he seems fine, but then of course she said he’s been seeing things, so he must have been putting on a good show for her benefit, isn’t it?”