Grown-Up Pose

by Sonya Lalli

  “Oh, shit.” He pushed her back. There was a green tinge to his skin now. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  He ran to the bathroom, and when a wave of dizziness passed over her, she sat up and followed him. The way he was bent over heaving into the white porcelain toilet, it almost looked like he was praying.

  “You OK?” She squatted down to rub his back, and suddenly the smell of vomit hit her. “Neil. Move over—”

  “I’m not done—”

  “Neil!” She just made it to the sink when it all came out. The champagne. The cocktails. It was like acid on her tongue, and she tried to remember what she’d eaten that day.

  “I love you, Anush.”

  She spit and rotated her head to the side. “I love you more.” She stood up straight, but when the room started spinning, she leaned heavily back on the sink. “What the hell did we drink?”

  “Love potion?”

  She laughed. “That’s so lame, I’m going to throw up again.”

  He was smiling at her, his elbow on the toilet seat. Even though there was quite possibly vomit in her hair, she knew that when she thought back to her wedding day, tried to pinpoint that moment of pure happiness, it was going to be this one.

  “What is happening here?”

  She turned toward Priya’s voice. She was standing next to Lakshmi in the bathroom doorway.

  “Are you feeling OK, my honeys?” Lakshmi asked, smiling.

  Anu swayed her head around and looked at Neil. “They had a key?”

  “Lakshmi, look how drunk they are—”

  “Mom, get out,” Neil yelled, and Anu laughed. Her stomach felt sick again, and she turned back to the sink. Someone was laughing behind her. She couldn’t be quite sure because another spasm caught her stomach and she was back over the sink. A hand was pressing at the small of her back, another one cold against her forehand.

  “How much did you drink, beti?” A sigh. “Priya-ji, did we really need open bar?”

  “It was your husband who insisted.”

  “Leave us alone, OK?” she heard Neil say.

  “Yeah,” Anu said, spitting into the sink, “we’re married. Mom, please leave us alone. We’re grown-ups!”

  chapter thirty-one

  ANUSHA: Hey, Imogen, it’s me again. I’m worried about you. Am I allowed to say that? Please text me back, even if it’s just to say “Screw you.” I mean, I’d prefer if it didn’t but at this point I’ll take anything. . . . Anyway, there will be an open house next Sunday for the redesign. It’s going to be just the way we imagined. I hope to see you there. xox

  Yoo-hoooo.”

  Anu turned toward the voice and found the pair of them back-to-back, posed like some sort of girl band. Jenny and Monica were wearing matching T-shirts that read, “WEST BROADWAY YOGA SQUAD,” the same ocean blue as the color in the paint cans Anu held.

  “You didn’t,” Anu gasped.

  Monica tossed her a T-shirt. “We did.”

  “Every new business needs merch.” Jenny shrugged the canvas bag on her shoulder. “We bought two dozen in adult sizes and a miniature one for Kanika.”

  Shrieking in delight, Anu hugged them in the foyer, squeezing them tight until they grew annoyed and pushed her off.

  She couldn’t imagine better friends. For the past three weeks, both Jenny and Monica had been helping her on trips to Home Depot to pick up paint and primer, accepting deliveries for the brand-new mats, blocks, and other equipment Anu had bought from a distributor down in Seattle. The week before, Monica had even helped her interview the new teachers Anu had found to teach family and prenatal yoga, as well as meditation courses.

  They were taking a Friday off work to help her fix up the place. Now that the contractor Anu hired had torn down the wall, and the practice room was double its original size, everything else was up to them.

  Anu pulled her new T-shirt over her tank top and then grabbed her clipboard from the front desk. “Who’s up for assignments?”

  “I already know mine,” Jenny said, flipping back her hair in an exaggerated fashion. “Where are my paints, minion?”

  Anu gestured behind her. “Yes, we get it. You minored in art and get to paint the feature wall. But please make the mural look ocean-y. Zen and all that.”

  “She told me she’s going to hide a penis somewhere—”

  “Mon! Way to tattle.”

  “No penis,” Anu said, laughing. “OK. Well, not a big one.”

  She put Monica in charge of setting up the studio proper: organizing the equipment, varnishing the hardwood floors, and arranging the minimalist decorations. Meanwhile, Anu tackled everything else. She installed the new faucets and fixtures, deep-cleaned the change room and bathrooms, painted all the walls but Jenny’s feature wall either a “Swiss coffee” off-white or a “dove” gray. Anu also managed to install a new audio system for the music-inspired classes without tearing her hair out and, later, hung art and other decorations she’d found anywhere from vintage stores on East Hastings to furniture outlets in Richmond.

  “You’re next,” Monica said to Jenny when she caught her taking long breaks from painting to text Damien. “You are so going to marry him.”

  Jenny slipped her phone into her back pocket, ignoring her.

  “And you’d better have bridesmaids—none of this ‘we’re keeping it simple’ nonsense.”

  Jenny rolled her eyes. “Who says you’d be a bridesmaid?”

  “Yeah,” Monica spit out, “right.”

  “And who says I even want to get married? We don’t need a piece of paper, a party, to build a life together—”

  “You’ve been dating Damien for three weeks”—Monica smirked—“and already you’re ‘building a life together’?”

  “Oh, my God, Monica, you brought it up!” Fuming, Jenny spun around from the feature wall. “You are being so annoying!”

  “This is so fun.” Monica winked at Anu. “Isn’t this fun?”

  Anu winked back. “Women in love are so sensitive, don’t you think?”

  “I am not sensitive,” Jenny said.

  “So you admit you’re in love?”

  “No. Not yet.” Jenny’s face relaxed. “I’m merely . . . sexually sated.”

  Laughing, Anu turned back to her current task, sanding off the cracking paint on the front windowsill.

  “Speaking of being sexually sated,” Jenny said nonchalantly behind Anu, “when are you going to go out with Tyler?”

  Anu didn’t turn around.

  “They’ve been texting,” Monica said. “She already told us that.”

  “According to Damien,” Jenny said, “Tyler has asked her out three times, and she keeps making up excuses and postponing it.”

  Anu gestured at the chipping paint. “Uh, I think this is a pretty good excuse!”

  “So you’re saying that in all this time, you haven’t been able to spare an hour for coffee?”

  “Jenny,” Monica said, “don’t pressure her. If she’s not ready, then she’s not ready.”

  They were silent for a while, and just when Anu thought it had blown over, she felt someone standing next to her.

  “What’s going on with you?” Jenny said loudly into her ear.

  “Who, me?”

  “No, Justin Bieber.”

  Anu stood up, taking a deep breath. When she was ready, she turned around.

  She hadn’t let it slip in three weeks. Throwing herself into the studio, she’d pressed it down, flattened it out, pretended it had never happened.

  Jenny was squinting at her, her face drawing closer. No. She couldn’t tell them. She wouldn’t tell them.

  “Anusha Manjula Rohini Desai, what is—”

  “Neil and I had sex.”

  She’d predicted these reactions; that was why she didn’t want to see the
m: Jenny’s shit-eating grin. Monica’s gaping mouth, her face instantly a paler, almost translucent hue.

  Eventually they calmed down, and when Anu started to explain how the night had unfolded, Jenny interrupted her.

  “OK, I don’t care about any of that,” she said. “Was it good? Were you sated?”

  Anu blushed, and Jenny threw her hands up in the air.

  “Hallelujah!”

  “It was?” Monica screamed.

  “It was incredible. It was . . . better, way better than it ever was with us.” She shrugged. “It was like . . . that passion we used to have—when we were young, when we really, really loved each other—was back.”

  “That’s so romantic, Anu.”

  Jenny rolled her eyes at Monica. “Did you orgasm?”

  Anu giggled a shy-schoolgirl giggle, prompting Jenny and Monica to egg her on.

  The sex had been incredible. Even the few hours afterward had been perfect as they lay in bed eating saag paneer, laughing into the early hours of the morning, limbs in gridlock. But what came after didn’t feel so incredible. It was Neil picking up his clothes piece by piece from the floor, telling her he’d better get back home even though she didn’t want him to leave.

  It was Neil, for once, being the mature one and telling her that their slipup didn’t have to mean anything they didn’t want it to. It could just be what it was: what was leftover between two people who had loved each other, but were on a path moving forward.

  When she eventually said all this to her friends, Monica was near tears. Even Jenny looked morose.

  “He’s such a good guy,” Jenny said after a while. “Sounds like he’s really changed.”

  Anu let her head fall back against the wall. She had painted it only the day before, and the chemical smell was still strong.

  “Is there a part of you that wants to give your marriage a second chance?” Monica said softly, turning to Jenny. “I wouldn’t be against it. Jen, would you?”

  Jenny shook her head. “Not at all.”

  Anu narrowed her eyes at them. “How long have you felt this way?” Neither one answered, and Anu stood up, shaking her head. “So you guys think I should get back together with Neil? Just because . . . he’s learned how to load a dishwasher?”

  “Anu—”

  “You remember what it used to be like between us, right?”

  “You’ve both changed, Anu,” Jenny said. “That’s all we’re trying to say.”

  Monica stood up suddenly and disappeared into the back room. A moment later she returned, a piece of hot pink paper fluttering in her hands.

  “What’s . . . ?” Anu trailed off as it dawned on her.

  “You forgot this in my car,” Monica said. Turning to Jenny, she added, “This is Anu’s—”

  “List on how to be a grown-up. I know. I was there when she wrote it.”

  Monica turned back to Anu. “As I was saying, I found your list in my car . . . and I think it’s time you take it back.”

  Anu took the paper from her. “Why do I need this?”

  “Why do you think?” Monica shrugged, turned back to her work. “You haven’t finished it yet.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Have you uploaded the new pictures on the website?” Monica asked, the evening before the open house.

  Anu nodded. “Yep, and I’ve updated the class schedule to include Greta’s mindfulness seminar.”

  “And the ads are live?”

  Again Anu nodded. She’d paid an arm and a leg for Facebook advertising to hit a huge cross section of her potential demographic starting that very day. The week before, she’d also papered the neighborhood with flyers and e-mailed out a press release about the open house to several hundred, maybe close to a thousand, media contacts that Monica had discreetly borrowed from her publicist friend. Anu had so far received about a dozen calls, a few promises that she’d have local press coverage and that a radio broadcaster would drop by for the open house.

  As they lay there in the practice room, ocean blue and calm and lit up by fairy lights, Anu wished Imogen were here to see this. Anu wondered if she’d turn up at the open house. She’d sent several messages inviting her.

  “I think you need more lights,” Monica said, “in the far corner.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Jen, what do you think?” Monica rolled to the side, shook Jenny on the shoulder. “Are you asleep?”

  Anu sat up. Jenny was rolled over on her side, texting on her phone. “Nope, she’s texting.”

  “Who?”

  “I bet it’s the man she’s building a life with—”

  “Oh,” Jenny said, sitting up, “you both can fuck right off.”

  Anu and Monica burst out laughing as Jenny picked herself up off the floor, but there was a smile on her face as she flipped them the bird and left the studio.

  “Have fun!” Any yelled out provocatively.

  Laughing, Monica called out, “We’d better be bridesmaids!”

  Anu and Monica put away the new mats they’d been lounging on and shut off the practice room lights. When Anu reached into her purse, her heart dropped when she looked at her phone. She had a missed call from Imogen.

  She showed the screen to Monica, and then setting her bag down on the desk, Anu clicked the callback button. It went straight to voice mail.

  “Try again?” Monica said.

  Anu tried calling four more times, but each time the call wouldn’t connect. The room suddenly felt hot, and she took off her hoodie.

  Except that one conversation in London, Anu had never known Imogen to use her phone to actually receive a phone call. Why today?

  “Something’s not right.”

  “Maybe she wanted to accept your apology, get her job back. . . .”

  Anu just shook her head as a dull dread washed over her body. She’d told Imogen to call her anytime, day or night. A call she needed to make, one Anu wasn’t around to answer.

  Her heart pounded into her chest. Something was wrong.

  Out loud with Monica, she went over everything she knew about Imogen, and Anu pored over her social media for information while Monica kept calling. But there was nothing, not a clue, and Anu racked her brain for how to get in touch with Imogen.

  Should she call the police? But what would they do? What could they do? Imogen mentioned once that she lived near that hip-hop club they’d gone to once; but what could Anu do? Knock on random doors? That neighborhood was huge!

  Scrambling, Anu tore through the office, the desk drawers, scavenging for some clue Imogen might have left behind. She got to the bottom drawer, and a lightbulb went on when she spotted Mags’ old record book.

  “Haruto!”

  “Huh?”

  Anu pulled out the brown binder and started flipping through the pages. “The guy Imogen is seeing. He took her class.” Anu flipped past another page, dragging her hand along the names. “Mags did everything by hand.” She flipped another page. “He’s got to be in here—there!”

  She pointed at the sign-in sheet, dated nearly a year before: Haruto Doi. Age 24. 604-501-9988.

  He didn’t answer at first, but Anu kept calling until he did. He sounded surprised to hear from her, and rather stoned, but he had an address. A basement suite, ten minutes away from the hip-hop club.

  “When was the last time you saw her?” Anu asked, before hanging up.

  “It’s been weeks,” he said. “She ghosted me.”

  Weeks?

  They took Monica’s car; Anu was too rattled to drive. Anu urged her to drive faster, get there faster, and so Monica squeezed Anu’s hand from the driver’s seat and stepped on the gas pedal.

  The house was at the end of a tree-lined block and in complete disrepair. There were no lights on. Monica banged hard on the front door, bu
t there was no answer.

  “Haruto said it was a basement suite,” Anu said, climbing back down the steps. “Maybe there’s a separate entrance?”

  They both eyed the “BEWARE OF DOG” sign on the back gate. Anu took a deep breath and stepped through, anyway. Luckily, there was no dog, just an old path covered in leaves winding its way back around the house.

  She found a staircase leading to a back door. Anu knocked hard, pounding the door with all her might. There was no answer, and so she knocked on the window.

  “Maybe she’s out . . . ,” Monica said, her arms wrapped tight around her body. It was freezing outside, and in the rush, both of them had forgotten their coats.

  “She doesn’t have a job. I don’t think she has any money.” Taking a deep breath, she shrugged off her hoodie and wrapped it tightly around her fist. “Mon, I know she’s home.”

  “Anu, no!”

  She didn’t listen. As hard as she could, she punched a hole through the glass of the door. It was easier than she thought, and carefully, she unlocked the door through the hole, avoiding the shards of glass.

  “Imogen?” she called, opening the door. “You here?”

  The place was bare. Imogen’s faux-fur coat was on a hook down the hall, a few pairs of boots scattered just beneath. There was nothing in the living room but two patio chairs, and on the counter in the galley kitchen were a few empty liquor bottles, an orange, a rogue pizza crust. There, the hallway curved, and she came face-to-face with a closed door.

  “Imogen?”

  Anu didn’t wait for an answer. She pushed through the door, and her chest burst when she saw Imogen, her head lolled back over the edge of the bed, her eyes half open and slits of white.

  Anu heard Monica gasp behind her.

  “Call nine-one-one,” Anu said, trying to stay calm. She bent down by the bed and started shaking Imogen’s lifeless body.

  “Hello? Hello . . . ?” Monica said in the background.

  “Imogen, wake up,” Anu pleaded, her face wet. She leaned down, her ear to Imogen’s mouth. She heard something. “She’s breathing, Mon. Tell them she’s breathing.”