Authors: Anjali Banerjee

Tags: #Fiction, #Contemporary Women

Haunting Jasmine (13 page)

BOOK: Haunting Jasmine

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I can’t dispel the image of Robert in Andante with Lauren. What did I do to deserve his unfaithfulness? Was it already hardwired into him? He said he fell in love accidentally. I knew her only in passing, as one of Robert’s colleagues at the university. I detected no trace of deception, and yet… was she already sleeping with him when I met her at a faculty dinner?

I get up, insomniac that I am, and peruse Auntie’s shelves in her tiny living room. A draft whooshes in through an open window, ruffling the pages of a book perched on the sill.
The House at Pooh Corner.
Scrawled inside the front cover are the words in black ink,

Jasmine, don’t be afraid to start again…. A. A. Milne

The handwriting leans backward, and a couple of small ink blotches mar the page. Auntie must have written this. A. A. Milne could not have penned the words. He died years ago and left only his books, his characters, his imagination.

Auntie is playing an elaborate joke. She remembered that Winnie the Pooh was one of my favorite characters, many years ago. No, Eeyore was. He had such trouble spelling; he signed his own name as
eoR
. In which book did he write
rissolution
on a document for Christopher Robin?

I make chamomile tea and put on my reading glasses. I flop into bed and open the book, which emits a newly minted smell. I flip through, hold the pages to my nose, and inhale. I’m a child again, opening brand-new books from Auntie.
Winnie the Pooh
,
The Chronicles of Narnia
, and Dr. Seuss:
The Cat in the Hat
,
Green Eggs and Ham
. A long time ago, I read the stories over and over. I had no cares in the world. My heart had not yet been broken.

One day when Pooh Bear had nothing else to do, he thought he would do something, so he went round to Piglet’s house to see what Piglet was doing….

The lights promptly wink off.

“Great!” I drop the book on the bed. The night-light plugged into the wall still glows, perhaps from battery power. The walls vibrate, and a broom clatters to the floor. I nearly jump out of my nightgown. My heart pounds.

“Okay, you’re okay,” I tell myself. “It’s just an outage in a windstorm.”

What am I even doing here?

Defying Robert, that’s what.

I grab the flashlight from the bureau and tiptoe down the dusty servants’ staircase.

In the second-floor hallway, a fan of white wallpaper has peeled back to reveal an ancient floral pattern underneath. The rose petal imprint shines in metallic red and blue.

“Fuse box, first floor.” I tiptoe down the hall to the wide main staircase, which runs up to the second floor from the first-floor entry hall, facing the waterfront. I’m on the second step down when I hear faint voices. I stop cold, my legs rubbery. Must be the wind in the trees.

The flashlight beam plays across the colored glass. Just a few more steps down, back through the hall, past the parlor, library, and dining room. I can do it. As I approach the bottom step, the voices rise again. No, it’s the whistle of the wind.

I peek out through the red-tinted glass window in the front door. The silhouette of a giant maple tree sways against a backdrop of moonlit ocean. Nobody’s on the porch or on the sweep of steps leading down to the grassy slope. My ears are playing tricks. Back through the hall I go.

Branches screech against the windows. Somewhere outside, a gate is banging. I tiptoe to the back room. The telephone is plugged into the electrical outlet and doesn’t work without power.

I open the fuse box. The fuses are all in place—they’re dusty, but not a single one is blown. The power appears to be out all the way down the block. Great. Muffled sounds are still coming from somewhere. I follow the sound down the hall again and stop outside the parlor. Pale light seeps out from under the door. I take a long, deep breath and brace myself. Here goes nothing.

I fling open the door and march into the room. Someone, a woman, is standing in shadowy moonlight—high forehead, flushed cheeks. Blue dress. She’s tall and rather striking in appearance. If I’d seen her across a crowded room, she would have stood out as starkly beautiful. A faint aura surrounds her. Goose bumps race along my skin. I’m really hallucinating. Or sleepwalking. Or I never left Auntie’s bed. My tongue expands to fill my mouth.

Finally I find my voice. “Who are you? What are you doing here? The store is closed.”

She doesn’t reply.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I say. “Have you been here all evening? Were you in here when I locked the store? Are you in the book group?”

The electricity comes back on in an explosion of lights. The woman is gone. One moment she was standing in front of me, but now I’m the only one here. I check down every aisle. The window is locked, and the door is behind me. I must have conjured her from my freaked-out imagination.

On the table is a hardcover book. How could I have missed it before? I pick up a heavy memoir with a frayed jacket and brittle pages, fragile from years of wear.
My Life in Africa
, a memoir by Dr. Connor Hunt.

Connor Hunt.

I open the cover—first edition, published in 1975, when the author was thirty-six years old. The author photo splashed across the back cover nearly makes my heart stop beating. The hair is combed a little differently, and he’s in a turtleneck and bell bottoms, but the man looks remarkably similar to the Connor I know. Only this man, the Connor Hunt who wrote this book, would be more than seventy years old by now.

Chapter 20

I’m calling Tony on Auntie’s landline, at just past two a.m. “I’m leaving in the morning.”

“Jasmine, is that you?” Tony’s voice is heavy with sleep. “How did you get my number?”

“It’s here, in the office. I’m losing my mind. I need to get in touch with my aunt.” I pace in my nightgown and slippers, the lights bright, every bulb turned on. All the electricity in town must be flowing into this house. I’m carrying the memoir.

“You’ve only been here two days. It’s the middle of the night. What’s going on?” Tony’s voice is sharp now. “Is the house on fire? What happened?”

“The house is still standing. There’s something seriously wrong with me, though.”

“Do you need an ambulance? Hang up and call 911.”

“I thought I heard voices, and then I thought I saw some woman in the parlor. I’m hallucinating.”

“Whoa, girl. You’ve got the third eye. I told you.”

“Is there some kind of toxic mold growing in this house? Something that could cause hallucinations?”

“Nothing toxic. Your aunt’s been talking to the bookstore spirits for years.”

“She didn’t tell me that.”

“I thought you knew.”

“I never believed it was for real. I thought she was just eccentric. She is eccentric.”

“And so are you, obviously. How can I help? What can I do for you?”

“I didn’t know who else to call. Not my family. They’ll think I’m crazy. I am crazy! I need to reach my aunt—”

“I can’t believe you saw a ghost.”

“Not a ghost! I didn’t see anyone. I was dreaming. But I found a book.” I tell him about the memoir. “It’s written by a Dr. Connor Hunt. He looks a little different, not exactly like the Connor I met but very close. Maybe Connor’s father. No pictures of any kids—”

“I thought the name sounded familiar. Now I remember. Dr. Hunt, yes. He lived on the island way long ago. Used to go back and forth to Africa. Died there—”

“In Africa? The memoir was published before he died,” I say with a shiver. “How did he die?”

“I have no idea.”

“It’s weird that I would find the memoir sitting out on a table. I don’t remember seeing it before tonight. Connor was probably reading it. Or maybe he left it here. It might belong to him. Do we carry copies in the store?”

“I don’t know,” Tony says. “Your aunt takes in so many books from estates, and only a fraction of the inventory is in the computer system. We have a lot of catching up to do.”

“We need to start cataloging the books properly.”

“Yeah, okay. Can we talk about this tomorrow? I need to get back to REM sleep.”

“I’m sorry. I forgot how late it is.”

“No problem. You’d better try to get some shut-eye, too. Make some valerian tea. The stuff stinks, but it works.”

When I hang up, I feel no better. I sit in an armchair in the tea room and begin to read the memoir. Through his words, Connor’s father returns to life. I absorb his anguish at the limitations he faces in his humanitarian work in Africa. I smell the odors of dust and death, watch children baby-sit cows and snooze on banana boxes. He’s forced to work without the simple equipment needed to save people from curable diseases. I take in his bouts with fever, his single-minded dedication to his work, the difficulties of returning to America. The culture shock. He feels responsible for the death of a Nigerian girl who perished from dehydration. He didn’t have enough intravenous fluids to treat her. He misses his wife in America. The more I read, the better I know him, and the deeper I fall—into what? Infatuation? Fascination?

Could I feel the same way for Connor? He’s not like his father, this serious man who longed to save the world. Connor seems so laid-back. Does he have noble aspirations? Does he travel to Africa to help people in need? I want to know him better, and I wish I had met his father.

I jolt awake to the shrill ring of the telephone. The book falls off my lap. I must have dozed off, sitting up, in my nightgown. I glance at my watch. Six a.m.

It’s Ma, her voice tense with worry. “I’m sorry to get you up so early.”

“I was already up,” I say, rubbing my eyes. “Has something happened?”

“I tried to call you during the storm, but of course I couldn’t get through. Did a tree fall on the house?”

“What? No.” I push my hair out of my face. “Why would a tree fall?”

“Happens in storms all the time, especially around Ruma’s place.”

“A tree has fallen before?”

“No, but there are many tall trees around, and she hasn’t hired an arborist to check on the health of those firs.”

I roll my eyes. “Ma, the house is fine.”

“Dad wanted to come and get you, but the wind was too strong. Better we all stayed indoors.”

“Everything’s okay here,” I say.

“We should all move to California. I’ve had enough of this weather.” Every few months she threatens to move, but she always stays.

“We get rain in California, too, and mud slides,” I say. “And earthquakes, and drought, and Santa Ana winds.”

“Not these storms. But this is not why I’m calling. I’ve just heard from your auntie Charu. Sanchita is missing.” My mother says this with expectation, as if I’m supposed to instantly solve the problem before the sun rises.

“Missing from where? What happened?”

“She walked out on Mohan. Everyone’s distraught. Mohan is beside himself. Have you seen her?” Ma asks, an edge in her voice.

“Why would I have seen her? I barely know her.”

“You grew up with her.”

I pace, pressing the cordless receiver to my ear. My stomach is growling and I need to pee. “Not exactly. We were forced together during all the parties you guys had when we were growing up. But Sanchita and I never had much in common.”

“Perhaps you can get to know each other again, when she returns. Now that you’re here. I’m sure she would love to see you. She seems lonely—”

“She has kids, a husband, and a demanding career. She doesn’t need me to be her friend….”

“We’ve got to find her.”

“It’s early morning. Maybe she left for work. Did Mohan try her office? The hospital?”

“Her overnight bag is gone. She left a note saying she’s all right and not to worry, but of course everyone’s worried. Mohan’s been calling all her friends and her office. She hasn’t shown up at work. She hasn’t answered her cell phone.”

“Maybe she doesn’t want to talk to anyone.”

“He’s very worried.”

“She’s a grown woman.”

“But this isn’t like her.”

“Maybe she needs some time by herself. Sometimes people do unexpected things, things that don’t seem like them. She’ll come around.”

“She left her children with Mohan.”

“He can’t take care of them?”

“He doesn’t know the number of the babysitter.”

“Maybe he could take care of his own children,” I say, but I have to feel sorry for the man.

“Jasmine.”

“Ma, this is none of our business. It’s not her parents’ business, either.”

“They’re worried about her.”