Invisible Lives (10 page)

T
hursday evening, when I email Nisha about a sari she ordered, I get an automated reply saying she’s gone for three days. Did she finally get Rakesh to go to Baja?

Friday slides by in slow motion, and late Saturday morning, Ma leaves the shop early for Sonia’s house in Kent. I have the jitters, knowing that Nick will soon arrive to take me to his sister’s party.

Pooja and I close the shop around noon. I quickly let my hair down, remove my glasses, and apply a thin layer of pink lipstick. I put on a soft, mauve sari and gather up a few other saris, petticoats, and cholis to take with me. “Take the organza saris,” Pooja says. She’s the only other person left in the store. “Women always like those.”

She strides to the front door, ready to lock up. Then she freezes, backs up. “Holy smokes,” she whispers. “Is that him? He looks different. He looks—oh my.”

She’s right. It’s Nick, nearly at the door. He’s in jeans, black boots, an open jacket, and a sweater, the rough lines of his face shadowed beneath the streetlights. There’s something about him—a suggestion of all the things I long to reach.

A lump of sheer terror—and a great thrill—rises in my throat. My lips tingle with the memory of the phantom kiss in the darkness.

Pooja opens the door, converses with him in a hushed tone. I give her a
don’t leave
look, but she’s already waving at me, out the door and disappearing.

Nick’s piercing blue eyes cut laser swaths through me. As he strides over, the kameezes blush and gather for whispered conversations. I imagine the saris slipping off the rack to wrap around his feet.

He takes my hand, my fingers lost in his. “Hey, Lakshmi,” he says then lets go of my hand, but his gaze doesn’t waver. “You look beautiful. That’s a…silk sari you’re wearing, right?”

“You got it right. Thanks.” A soft heat spreads across my cheeks.

“Amazing. Is that just one piece or many?”

“It’s a long stretch of unstitched fabric, like this.” I take a silver silk sari off the shelf. “Indians believe that unstitched fabric is the most pure. Untouched.”

“I like pure, untouched.” Nick gives me a look, runs his fingers along the cloth. “So soft, like a woman’s skin.”

My breathing becomes shallow. “The story goes, the sari was born on the loom of a master weaver, who dreamed of women, of their shimmering tears, the drape of their hair, the rainbow colors of their many moods, their soft touch. And he kept weaving yards and yards of fabric—”

“So the sari
is
a woman.” Nick picks up the silk and runs it through his fingers, stopping to capture the endpiece.

“Yes, I suppose. And when he’d finished he kept smiling. The weaver had created a pure woven fabric that embodied every aspect of the feminine.”

Nick’s watching me, his gaze traveling down to my bare navel above the sari hem.

“Look, we should leave now.” I stride around, turning out the lights. “I have to set the alarm on the front door. We can go out the back way. I just need to use the restroom.” I rush to take a few minutes in the restroom, to catch my breath and my bearings. Okay, this will be a business evening, an outing to help Nick’s sister. So why am I breaking out in a sweat, and why are the invisible bubbles sprouting around my head?

When I come out, he’s waiting in the hall. Just then, the doorknob jiggles. I hear a set of keys drop to the pavement, a muttered curse, someone picking up the keys.

“Someone’s coming,” I whisper. “Maybe they forgot something.”

Ma, Mr. Basu, Pooja, and I are the only people who have keys. I yank Nick’s sleeve and pull him back into the office, into the closet with the coats. If Ma is here, I don’t want her to find me alone with the American driver. She’s traditional in that way. She won’t understand, even if I try to explain. I shut the closet door, leaving only a sliver-sized opening.

My heart pounds. I try to keep the sari from rustling. Nick’s so close, I can feel the firm muscle of his arm, his pulse, the heat through his shirt.

The back door opens, shuts. Cold air wafts in. Footsteps in the hall! Breathing.

Through the opening in the closet, I see Ma rush into the office, bend to pick up her black handbag from her chair. A cloud of sandalwood scent drifts into my nose. Ma never uses perfume!

“Ah, thank the gods, it was here,” she says. “I thought I’d lost it! Where was my head? We can’t go to Vancouver without my passport!” Ma, going to Vancouver?

“
Thanda lege jabey,
” an affectionate voice says in Bengali.

Mr. Basu walks in, all dressed up in a suit, his two hairs slicked back. Mr. Basu!

“Oh, Sanjay!” Ma says. She and Mr. Basu step out into the hall, out of view, their shadows falling across the office carpet. I try to keep my breathing silent, but the blood rushes in my ears. Nick is still holding my hand. What are Ma and Mr. Basu doing together? Ma’s supposed to be with Sonia in Kent!

Then the shadows blend together, and the smack of lips colliding in a noisy kiss. Mr. Basu moans, and Ma makes a funny strangled sound.

Oh, no. Ma!

“Oh, Sanjay!” Ma says again in a husky voice, and I hear clattering as something gets knocked over. They back up into the bathroom, and a bottle falls from the sink and lands with a thump.

My heart races. The bathroom door slams, the giggling muffled inside. Ma screeches with laughter.

I push open the closet. “We have to get out of here!” I whisper.

Nick and I tiptoe down the hall and out the back door.

N
ick brought a black BMW, not a limousine. I sit on a few CDs on the seat, maybe a box of tissues. There are hints of citrus and his metallic aftershave in the air. Ma’s perfume still lingers in my nose.

Nick has his seat pushed all the way back to accommodate his legs. Long fingers curl over the steering wheel.

I arrange the sari around me, pull the pallu tightly over my bare shoulders. I wish I’d brought a sweater.

“I can’t believe it,” I say. “Ma and Mr. Basu!”

“What’s wrong with the man? He seems cool to me.”

“But she hates him! She always yells at him.” And he’s round!

“A sign of true love.”

“Why didn’t she tell me? Or anyone? Why didn’t I see this coming? The golden bubbles,” I say half to myself. “The yellow roses.”

“Bubbles and roses? Is this Valentine’s Day?” He turns the car onto Main Street, past closed shops and the town hall.

“I see them sometimes, I mean, thoughts coming out in bubbles and roses and things. You must think I’m crazy.”

“I like crazy women.”

Nick makes a smooth turn onto the waterfront road. The sky is a cloudless blue above us.

“I see what’s important, what I need to see to make a difference—I feel so betrayed! I mean, how could she—”

“Enjoy her life?”

“No, no—that’s not what I mean at all. How could she sneak around? Mr. Basu is taking advantage of her.”

“She’s a grown-up. She’s your mother, so you can’t imagine her having a life of her own, eh? I nearly hurled when I saw my mother in the nude master gardener calendar.”

“What’s that?”

“To raise funds for the county master gardeners, some of the members volunteer to be photographed nude in their gardens. It’s all tasteful—flowers strategically placed, but it’s really weird seeing your own mother that way. She’s a good-looking woman, mind you, but a son doesn’t want to see that. She posed behind her rusty wheelbarrow.”

I can’t help laughing. “Your mom sounds like a lively character!”

“So does yours, Lakshmi.”

“Yes, but she’s lonely and vulnerable. My father was her only true love. Mr. Basu sees she’s lonely, and he pounced!”

“I wouldn’t jump to conclusions. Maybe she enjoys his company. Like you’re enjoying mine?” He raises an eyebrow at me.

I cross my arms over my chest. “Okay, I see your point.”

“So what did that mean, what Mr. Basu said to your mother? At the store. Was that Bengali?”

“Oh—” I make a sour face. I’m not sure I want to remember.
“Thanda lege jabey.
It means, ‘Careful, you’ll catch cold.’ Bengalis are known for wrapping themselves up at the slightest sign of cold. You might see a Bengali child wrapped in linen and wool, even on a warm summer day. It’s what Bengalis are most afraid of, catching cold. Even though they love to vacation in the mountains. Speaking of catching cold, would you mind stopping by my house so I can get a sweater?”

“Sure thing.”

When Nick steps into our house, the laws of physics change, altered by his breath. The strange heat between us dissipates in the ghostlike presence of my mother.

“Cool place. Homey.” He follows me into the living room.

“Please, sit down.” Suddenly I feel like a formal hostess.

He sits on the couch, and Shiva promptly appears and settles in his lap. Nick strokes his fur and whispers to him in a secret language.

“He never does that,” I say. “He never goes to a stranger like that.”

“Animals like me.” He winks at me, and I blush.

“I’ll be right back.” I rush off to my room, and when I return with a sweater, Nick’s scratching Shiva behind the ears. “What’s his name?”

“Shiva. The girl is Parvati, Shiva’s consort in Hinduism. They’re eternal…lovers. But Parvati’s a bit shyer. She likes to hide.”

“Let’s find her.” Nick puts Shiva gently on the floor and goes straight to the cabinet above the fridge, opens it, and there’s Parvati, blinking out at us. She lets out a plaintive meow and Nick brings her out, cradling her as he carries her to the floor.

“How did you know she would be up there?” I ask.

“I had a cat who hid in cabinets all the time,” he says. “Name was Charlie from
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.
”

My heart warms. “Um, we should go, or we’ll be late, won’t we?”

The strange bubbles are bouncing around me again. But what the heck? Ma is out with Mr. Basu. What do I have to lose?

Nick comes to life behind the wheel as he drives to his parents’ home in Port Westwood where the party is taking place, his eyes bright, his voice animated, as if his favorite place is the journey between two points. I could sit in the car beside him all day and night. He vibrates hot in my nerve endings.

Like a fever.

Yet riding next to him I feel safe, as if I could close my eyes and jump off the top of the Taj Mahal and land unharmed.

I lean back against the headrest and watch the hills and valleys speed by.

He turns off the highway abruptly onto a narrow road, past a green sign reading Port Westwood. “We’re in the rain shadow of the Olympic Mountains here,” he says. “During harvest, you can smell the lavender everywhere.”

“Sounds lovely,” I say dreamily.

“We don’t get as much rain as other parts of the state. Lots of evergreens.”

He slows in a small strip of quaint businesses—a library, brick town hall, community center, drugstore, ice cream shop, bakery. He turns down a dirt road lined with large oaks, cedars, and firs until we reach a clearing, and there, like a mirage against a backdrop of sky and sea, stands a blue Victorian with several cars in the driveway. Coiffed hedges and dormant flowerbeds stretch away into a forest of thick fir and pine and Western red cedar, and beyond the forest, the ocean twinkles. A misty peacefulness rises from the dewdrops gleaming in the grass.

“I went to Juan de Fuca High School down the street,” Nick says, “played football, drove to the local drive-in more than once.”

I try not to imagine Nick making out in a car with the prom queen. I glance at the garage, painted blue with white trim, set away from the house. Even the garage is surrounded by vines and lush vegetation.

On the porch, there’s a swinging rattan bench with sagging pillows, and I imagine him sitting out here, gazing at passing freighters and ferries. I close my eyes and take in the silence—how wonderful it is not to have invisible lives crowding my head.

Inside, the scents of lavender and apple rise gently in the air. The ceilings dome in spacious arcs, and the house is furnished in dark, polished woods with sleek lines and soft touches—blankets draped over the backs of chairs and pillows on the couches. Laughter drifts from the kitchen, and two men are watching a football game in another room.

“Yo, bro!” Nick yells, leading me into the living room. One man stands, grabs Nick’s hand, and they exchange a high-five greeting.

“Yo, Nick!” the man replies. Except for his stocky build and prominent nose, the man resembles Nick. He’s holding a Heineken bottle in one hand, and he’s dressed in a checkered flannel shirt and baggy jeans.

“When did you get here?” Nick asks.

“Couple of hours ago. This is my friend Hardy. He’s staying here too. Partner at the firm.”

Hardy is a dark-haired, thin man with a mustache, also in jeans and a T-shirt. He and Nick exchange greetings, and Hardy gives me a nod.

“Laurel stayed home tonight,” Nick’s brother says. “Holly picked up a cold in preschool.”

Laurel and Holly?

“This is my brother Mike,” Nick says. “He’s an attorney. Mike, this is Lakshmi. She’s got the sari shop—”

“Oh, you’re Lakshmi!” Mike’s eyes widen, and he shakes my hand in a firm grip. “Nick’s told me all about you.”

I smile. “What could he have told you?”

“How beautiful you are, for one thing,” Mike says. “You weren’t kidding, bro. Welcome to our crazy family, Lakshmi. We’re only a little crazy. We’re actually normal in real life.”

I glance at Nick. He looks a bit embarrassed. “Yeah, we can be crazy,” he says. “We like to play games. But it’s a good kind of crazy.”

“So what’s up with the business?” Mike says. “Jerry’s in the kitchen, wants to talk—”

“I’m about to go in there,” Nick says. “This way, Lakshmi.” He’s holding my hand again, leading me down a hall. “Laurel’s his wife and Holly’s his two-year-old daughter.”

I nod, my hands clammy. In the kitchen, everyone turns to us and smiles. The counters are covered with baskets of fruit and garlic and plates of cookies. My house—my mother’s house—isn’t as generous. Ma keeps the counters spotless, and even with all the spice and the scents of India, there’s a kind of closed-in sterility. Ma likes to keep everything clean, keep her secrets hidden.

“Hey, Nick!” a tall man shouts. He’s wearing a World’s Worst Cook apron and embraces Nick in a bear hug, pats his back. I think of the way my relatives embrace, in a fluid, soft style. They’re always dressed up for these occasions. But in Nick’s house, family members crash into each other, and they’re all wearing whatever they want, as if they closed their eyes, reached into their closets, and threw on whatever they touched.

This man with the apron is clearly Nick’s brother. He’s Nick but slimmer and narrower, as if he stood between two walls that squished him.

“Lakshmi!” he shouts and gives me the same bear hug. I’m squashed and momentarily unable to breathe.

“This is Jerry,” Nick says.

“I know who you are. Nick described you—long hair, exotic.” Jerry grins. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

“So am I.” Nick described me?

His mother embraces me as well, and I’m enveloped in the scents of perfume and bread and her own mother-smell. She’s a slim, regal woman with flushed cheeks, grayish-blond hair sticking to her sweaty forehead. Her eyes are shockingly light gray, as if the sun is constantly passing in front of them.

She lets go of me and hugs Nick as if she hasn’t seen him in years.

“Mom, this is Lakshmi.” Nick presses a proprietary hand to the small of my back, moves me close to him.

“Nick didn’t tell us just how beautiful you really are,” she says. “We can’t wait to see how you put on a sari!”

“Thanks. I own a sari shop.” I blush. “Co-own, actually. With my mother.” My mother’s moment with Mr. Basu floods back to me.

“How amazing! You must be very busy.” Mrs. Dunbar is slicing tomatoes and throwing them into a giant salad bowl. “Owning a business is a twenty-four-hour job. Nick knows.”

“It is a lot of work—”

“Hell yeah,” Jerry pipes in. He starts peeling a cucumber. A man, in the kitchen, cooking with his mother! “Nick’s thinking of getting out of the business, aren’t you?”

“That’s what we should talk about,” Nick says.

Nick’s thinking of selling his business? My heart flips. What if he no longer drives Asha to the shop? I didn’t think the possibility would fill me with such panic.

“Would you like some wine, Lakshmi? We have Merlot,” Nick’s mother says.

“Wine would be great, thank you!”

She hands me a glass, and the slight bite of the wine spreads through my insides.

A young, red-haired woman comes running in and flings her arms around Nick’s neck. She’s wearing slippers, sweats, and a sweatshirt. “You made it, Nicky!”

Nicky?

“This is my sister, Fiona,” Nick says. “Fiona, Lakshmi.”

“You’re the famous Lakshmi!” She throws her arms around my neck too, as if we are long-lost cousins, and I take a step backward. Freckles cover her face, some piling together to form one big freckle, and her eyes are the same startling blue as Nick’s eyes.

“I’m not famous,” I say.

“You are to us.” Fiona takes my hand. “I was hoping you’d come. Mom’s making lasagna.”

“It’ll be ready soon,” Mrs. Dunbar says. “Get your father in here, will you?”

“He’s outside with my husband, Bill,” Fiona says. “Showing him the garden, mostly the fruit trees. Dad’s always planting new trees. Mom’s the flower woman.”

“Nick says you’re a teacher,” I say, trying to make polite conversation.

“Yeah, second grade over at Juan de Fuca. Same school Nick went to. He was a wild kid. He’s still wild!”

Nick’s off in the corner talking to Jerry.

“Come outside and meet my dad.” Still in her clog slippers, she leads me out the back door and across the patio. The backyard is filled with plants and raised gardens, and in the distance, the waning sunlight glints off the ocean. Two tall silhouettes stand near the fruit trees.

“Dad, Bill, come and meet Lakshmi!”

The two men traipse over. Nick’s father is taller than Nick, more broad-shouldered, with deep lines in his face and a shock of white hair. He takes my hand in a warm, firm grip. “Pleased to meet you, Lakshmi. You’re gonna get cold out here.”

Bill is so dark that he could be the coming night. His hand grasping mine makes my skin look pale. “Good to meet you,” he says with a slight foreign accent.