Bright Lines (15 page)

It was the checkered shirt he’d been wearing this morning.

I should’ve just washed the damned thing in the shower.

“I remember I bought this at Macy’s, with my first paycheck from that terrible Manhattan salon. You have taken pretty good care of it, even though this button you’ve sewn on is white; the others are tortoiseshell. You know, these days, I go out for lunch. Not in restaurants. But I’ll pack some food, then sit in the park, or stop by and talk to old Dr. Duray. On my way out of the house, Ramona came down to the salon with a load of laundry. I was on my way out to visit one of my favorite clients, Gladys. She’s a minister over at Emmanuel Baptist Church on Lafayette. She is my age but broke her hip when she missed a step walking out of her house. Bedridden. Can you imagine? So, I paid her a house visit. I washed and blow-dried her hair, waxed her arms and legs, did her brows. I kept her company for about an hour, until her goddaughter came home after school.

“When I came back to the salon, Ramona was folding her laundry, chatting on her cell phone. And there was your shirt, just folded into neat rectangle, stacked on top of all her undergarments,” cried Hashi. “The bitch heard me come in and threw her laundry into the basket—mussing all the folded pieces along with the unfolded ones. She said something into the phone, in Spanish, and rushed past me with barely a hello. I looked up the word in your Spanish-English dictionary.
Esposa del propietario
. Landlord’s wife.”

Anwar did not know what to say. He’d been caught, by a moment of stupidity. Why had Ramona left the shirt out for the world to see? Why did he have that damn dictionary, knowing he’d never learn Spanish?

He wished that he’d never gone through the damned wall.

“I have loved you since you first met me. I thought of you as the handsomest friend Rezwan Bhai had ever brought to our house. I wanted you to be in our family.” She knew that any mention of Rezwan would work its magic on him, for he had the resolve of a noodle.

“Forgive me. I am a terrible man. A terrible husband. I swear to you—it was the shortest affair in the world.”

“I do not keep secrets from you. But, from here on, you can keep yours.”

They stared at each other for a long time. For how long, neither of them knew. They read the lines written on each other’s faces—lines carved out of sharing a life together for twenty-five years.

They read each other’s minds:

You are tired of me. You hate me. I love you.
I hate you.

Hashi looked at him, until she could no longer keep her eyes open, tired from a day of working, cleaning, crying, discovering and confirming the worst. Her eyes fluttered closed, then open again, until Anwar shut her eyes with the palm of his hand. He kept his hand on her forehead until she started snoring.

He hugged the cotton kantha quilt over his body. Hashi had stitched it years ago, when she was in twelfth standard. Yellow and red threads stitched together thin layers of worn old saris, which had belonged to generations of women. Each separate layer was so fine he could pull it through his wedding band. The stitches on the quilt were perfect and small. He missed that longing, thinking of her as a teenage quilter. He buried his face into the kantha. Each stitch was a small part of a long dotted line. The multitude of lines secured all the layers. So they could never fall apart.

 * * * 

Three days and one man with a van later, Ramona and Hugo packed up her life into six cardboard boxes. They left the place spotless and empty, save for an envelope with a set of keys. Anwar would not realize they had left until days later.

B
y the thirteenth of August, Ella wondered if she should rack up the nerve and go up to Maya’s apartment. Once, she’d gone to A Holy Bookstore, but Sallah S. hadn’t been in. But what if it made things worse for Maya in the end? Her father might lose his shit. Anwar claimed he hadn’t seen Maya since the night Charu got caught. With only two weeks until summer’s end, Ella had taken to spending more time at Anwar’s Apothecary. He’d asked for her help replacing the storefront window and creating another batch of the destroyed Magic Jojoba shampoo. Poor guy. Ella felt a pang of sadness thinking of Anwar’s innocence—he believed the whole business a random attack, a few “brick-happy” teens. But Anwar had never had problems in the neighborhood. Ella had a strange feeling about this unusual vandalism. She kept his team-signed Brooklyn Dodgers baseball bat under the counter in case anyone came around to mess with them.

Anwar had found the collector’s item during one of his rummage sale binges. She was unsure why he hadn’t sold the thing for a small killing, but Anwar had not yet met a worthy owner.

That afternoon, Ella decided to pay Anwar a visit. Just as she was walking in, a customer entered behind her. She was a Black woman in her twenties, with thin brows shaped like crescent moons, the long eyelashes of an old Hollywood starlet. Her head was wrapped up in a batik beehive, and she carried a small baby on her breast in a sling of the same cloth. The baby slept and gurgled in his dreams. Anwar tickled the baby’s drool-covered chin. The woman gave
Anwar a bemused half smile, and stepped back to move her baby’s chin away from his finger.

“How may I help you?” asked Anwar.

The woman gestured for Ella to go first. “I’m just visiting my uncle; please go ahead,” said Ella.

“I’m looking for an alopecia ointment,” said the woman. “I’ve been looking for something herbal. Don’t want any injections or chemicals.”

“Of course not, of course not.”

The woman pulled out a stuffed corner of fabric and unraveled the wrap on her head. Her head was as smooth and brown as an egg.

“You’ve got alopecia totalis,” said Anwar, peering in closer, but careful not to touch.

“Universalis. I don’t have hair on my entire body.”

“My wife would be out of business if this were an epidemic,” said Anwar, but he waved his hand when the woman returned a confused look. “Never mind.” He turned to scan the shelf of ointments. “Amla oil stimulates scalp growth,” he said, grabbing a small bottle marked
AMLA (INDIAN GOOSEBERRY)
.
He unscrewed one of them, infusing the air with the scent of Indian gooseberry.

“Please hold out your hand,” said Anwar.

The woman did as instructed, and he squeezed two drops onto her palm.

“Rub your palms together; let the friction create heat. Massage the oil into your scalp.”

The woman raised her arms to her bald scalp and closed her eyes, inhaling the scent. “This cures alopecia?” She raised a skeptical, pencil-drawn brow.

“I believe it can help.”

“I guess that’s good enough,” she said, laughing. Her baby awoke and started crying. “I think the smell of this stuff made him either hungry or upset,” she said.

“Him and me both,” said Anwar. “You know, you look quite attractive bald, which is not easy for most women. Why wear such a huge cloth in this heat, unless of course you are doing it for faith’s sake?”

“It’s not for faith or fashion. I just stopped feeling like a woman when my hair started to disappear. I’ve spent so many years
processing it, and then, when I got pregnant, I decided to go natural. But as the months passed, all of my hair fell away. How stupid, right?” She retied her batik back on her head; this time it took on a turban formation.

“Try the amla; perhaps it will work for you,” said Anwar.

“You know, I’m not sure if I care. I’ll use them like a magic bottle of intention, not for hair to grow back, but to remember it’s all an illusion,” said the woman. “Having something or not having it. Can’t do anything about it either way.”

“Excuse me,” said Ella. She grabbed her backpack and left her uncle and the bald lady inside the shop. She sat on the curb and slipped off her glasses. Cars whizzed past like mechanical fish.
Why am I acting like I’m here to hang with Anwar?
For the past couple of weeks, Ella had managed to spend hours in the apothecary without running into Maya. A few stolen glances at the window upstairs revealed nothing; the curtains were always drawn.

An archipelago of droplets wetted the back of Ella’s shirt. She heard the flapping of a wet fabric, then felt a splash on her head.

“Hey!” exclaimed Ella. She put on her glasses to see who was up there.

“Did I get you wet?” said a girl’s voice. Maya hopped from the last rung onto the pavement, right in front of the bald woman, who had just stepped out of the shop.

“You’ve got to be careful. These rickety old fire escapes aren’t safe.” The woman nodded at Ella and Maya before disappearing around the corner with her giggling baby.

“How have you been?” Maya clamped a hand on Ella’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

“Why haven’t you call—” began Ella, but she stopped, catching Anwar staring at them through the store window.

“Follow me,” Maya said, walking over to a rack with six bikes arranged in a modernist sculpture. Her bike rested on top, hitched upward as if ready to escape.

Ella helped Maya bring her bike down from its perch, and then walked over to unlock her own bike from a parking sign.

They rode down the midday madness on Atlantic, all the way to Bedford Avenue, where they cut a right onto Eastern Parkway.

At a red light, Ella asked, “How’d you manage to leave the house? And not before?”

“You’re mad at me.”

“I just want to know how you’ve been.”

“I’m fine. I’m alive.”

“Are you going to get in trouble now? For leaving?”

“My father left town for a couple of days. My mom is sick in bed and sleeps most of the day. She doesn’t know what I do half the time!” Maya sped away, racing the green lights.

 * * * 

They rode to the Prospect Park entrance on Ocean Avenue. They stopped at Maya’s favorite spot, near the Boathouse, under her favorite tree, a
Pinus densiflora
, or Japanese red pine. Ella recalled when they had come to this tree once before, when they’d gone to see Erykah Badu’s tribute concert. While they waited for the show to start, Charu taught them yoga postures for relaxation. Maya had given Charu a disciple’s attentiveness, but as soon as Charu lay on the ground with her eyes closed, Maya had stolen a glance at Ella, silently giggling.

The tree was coppiced into multiple trunks, like a giant polydactyl hand giving them a high six. Rough-hewn bark peeled into reddish orange sheets. Ella and Maya sat on a blanket of its dried needles. Passing clouds cast shadows on the lake’s surface. A young couple was making out under another tree. A svelte West Indian nanny chattering into a headset strolled blue-eyed twins around. An ice cream truck was surrounded by a horde of other nannies with their sugar-high charges.

“So, to answer your question. I won’t get in trouble,” said Maya. “My father’s upstate. He’s at a detention center, providing spiritual counsel to a man about to get deported for selling fake Chanel. Imagine the insult—you make a few bucks on some knockoffs, then spend two years in jail waiting to go back to Guinea. Spiritual counselor. Fuck you.”

“We . . . we don’t have to talk about it,” said Ella.

“Close your eyes.”

Maya spider-crawled her fingers across Ella’s temples, neck, and
back. Ella shuddered with a chill. Maya stopped, and swiped Ella’s glasses off. Ella felt her eyes waver. She tried to hold them steady, to look at her friend, but couldn’t.

They stayed in the park for many hours, finding different nooks and corners away from people. Ella pointed out the different wild edible plants that grew all over the park. Cattails grew beside the lake, corn-dog-shaped and full of calcium. They nibbled on pink clover flowers, wild grapes, and treacle berries.

“I’m finding you when the world ends. We’ll have all the food.” Maya laughed. “You ready to ride back?”

In the distance they heard the evening concert begin. Thunderous applause faded into a drumbeat. Ella could hardly imagine returning to the cold and beautiful Ithaca. In just two weeks, she’d be away from all of this life.

 * * * 

They locked their bikes down the street from 111 Cambridge Place. Ella and Maya snuck their way to the garden along the side of the house. The humid air was thick with the scent of night phlox, moonflower, and evening primrose. And the vestiges of a cigarette, Ella realized.

“You’re back.” Charu was sprawled out by the flower clock, and didn’t bother to sit up.

“Hey, sweetie,” said Maya. “How are you?”

“In motherfuckin’ house arrest. What do you care?”

“Easy, now,” muttered Ella.

“Shut up,” said Charu.

“Do you want to talk?” asked Maya.

Charu jumped to her feet, but lost her balance and fell down.

Ella and Maya rushed to kneel beside her. “Ella, she looks like she’s going to pass out,” said Maya.

“Have you eaten anything today?”

“I can’t,” cried Charu. She dry-heaved a few times and swooned backward into Maya’s arms.

“Get her some water,” said Maya.

Ella slid the back door open and fetched a glass of water. She checked for Advil and lavender oil to help Charu relax. She stepped
back outside, remedies in hand. Ella held the glass as Charu drank it in one long gulp.

“All she’s had today is this,” said Maya, holding up a bag of low-fat Reese’s peanut butter cups and a pack of American Spirit cigarettes.

“I don’t want to be a fatty in college,” mumbled Charu. “My chest hurts; it hurts real bad.”

“Do you want me to call Anwar or Hashi?” asked Ella. “Where are they, anyway? Have you been smoking out here?”

“Fuck those fools, fuck no. I don’t know where they are. I think they went for a walk or something. I couldn’t hear what Baba said through the door.”

“What does it hurt like?”

Charu gestured up and down her sternum. “It feels like a man wearing Timberlands is stomping on my chest.”

Ella gave Charu the Advil and sprinkled a drop of lavender oil on her wrist. “Sniff this.”

“Let’s go upstairs,” said Maya.

 * * * 

“Disaster zone” was an understatement for Charu’s room. Stifling and hot, it was covered in shreds of fabric, loose threads, and 150 hijabs.

“Let’s get this window open,” said Maya. She grabbed the box fan from the floor and placed it in the window. She adjusted the speed to the highest setting, which sent fabrics flying around. “I think you should just strip and lie down in front of the fan. You will feel better, I promise.”

Ella had never seen Charu like this. Her cousin’s skin glistened, sweaty and unwashed. Her hair was matted on her forehead. As Maya helped Charu out of her clothes, seeing Charu naked was without thrills for Ella. Charu’s face quivered, as if she would cry. “Everyone hates me.”

“We don’t,” muttered Ella. She peered closer at her cousin. Tiny Charus were running up and down Charu’s shoulder down her abdomen. Ella pinched Charu’s shoulder, to grasp one of the Lilliputian beings.

“Ow!” Charu yelped.

“I’m sorry. I thought you had something on your shoulder.”

“Ella, why don’t we get some air and let Charu rest?” Maya said.

 * * * 

Outside, Ella saw moths and fireflies multiply into millions, skating up and down the trunks of the hibiscus tree. Blossoms twirled like cocktail umbrellas. Leaves flitted as wings, trying to whisk their flowers upward.

“You seeing your visions?” asked Maya, as they sat down on the lawn chairs.

“Yeah.”

“You ever been to a doctor for it?”

“I think it’s getting better.”

“I wish I could see like you. Wild and twisted and beautiful shit.”

“No, you don’t.”

A phrase—
maya lage
—came to Ella’s mind. Anwar said it all the time. It was fitting whether someone’s house foreclosed or an earthquake claimed thousands of lives. “Maya lage,” Ella said.

“What?”

“It’s like feeling empathy and sympathy and love and hurt—all in one.”

“That’s cool. I always felt like Maya was about as interesting a name as Sarah.”

Maya stood up from her chair to join Ella. Ella tried to let Maya relax into her arms. They watched the sky darken and the night critters claim their flowers.

 * * * 

Hours later, Ella woke up and realized that Maya was not in her arms. She recalled the distinct sensation of Maya’s hair bristling her chin. But where was she? Fireflies, tiny Charus, flower cocktail umbrellas, and winged leaves—Ella recited all of her visions. Maya had been with her.

“Maya,” Ella said into the garden. She couldn’t remember falling asleep, nor did she remember being awake.

No answer. No Maya.

Ella tiptoed inside the house, through the living room, upstairs
to Charu’s bedroom. She twisted the door open. For once, it was unlocked. Charu lay with her mouth hanging open, whistling through her nose.

Ella shook her cousin awake.

“What the fuck! Are you fucking crazy?” Charu snarled, snapping to attention.

“Where’s Maya?”

“There.” Charu pointed to a person-shaped pile of hijabs.

“That’s just your mess. Where the fuck is she?”

Charu switched on her bedside lamp, and reoriented herself. “We were talking, and then . . . I don’t know. You think she went back home?”

“I don’t.”

“Let me try calling her.” Charu fumbled for her cell phone. “Shit. Straight to voice mail.”

“I think I know where she is,” said Ella.

“Let me come with you.”

“No, you’ll be too slow.”

“Fuck you, I’m coming—”

Ella was already out the door.

 * * * 

Ella biked as fast as she could, zipping down Vanderbilt Avenue, swerving to avoid potholes. She swerved left to the Prospect Park West entrance to the park and slowed down in case she saw Maya.

“Good morning,” said a passing jogger.