Haunting Jasmine

by Anjali Banerjee

  “How will I know you’re okay?”

  “Don’t look so worried.” Auntie plays with her bangles. “I must have my heart fixed in India.”

  “Your heart?” I take her hands in mine. My dearest aunt, who has lived here alone for so long, working hard for everyone else, has an ailing heart. “I didn’t know. I’m so sorry.”

  She holds the teacup against her chest. “I’ve been so tired. But now, now I’ll be well again, and whole.”

  “You can’t be treated here?”

  “What must be done must be done in India. I must go home.”

  “If you’re sure.”

  “Don’t tell anyone. This is my secret. I don’t want your ma and dad to worry about me.”

  “But what if—?”

  “Nothing will happen to me. You must promise.”

  I sigh. “Mum’s the word. But let me know how you are.”

  She squeezes my fingers. “First, I must visit family. And then, well... I should be ready to return in a month.”

  I lift her hand and press it to my cheek. “I love you. Please take care of yourself.”

  She kisses my forehead. “Thank you for coming, for agreeing to help Tony in the store. He’s skilled and experienced, but I need your special talent.”

  I don’t have any talent, but I’ll help my aunt, as long as she takes care of her heart. “I won’t let you down.”

  “You must try to find some happiness here.”

  I laugh dryly. “I’ll watch over your store. Nobody said anything about happiness.”

  She gives me an intense look. “You must never stop believing in love. Forget about Robert the dung heap.”

  “I believe in love for you. You’d better get well and come home, so we can find you a good man.”

  Her eyes twinkle. “Don’t worry about me.” She gets up and slips her feet back into her sandals. “Now, your ma and baba want you to arrive in time for supper. Let me show you the attic apartment before you go. You’ll find magic upstairs.”

  Chapter 4

  Magic, my eye.

  The thought of sleeping in Auntie’s tiny apartment in mossy, damp darkness gives me chills. Black mold is probably growing on the walls. I’ll stay in this creaky old haunted house when hell freezes over or pigs fly, whichever comes last. But I humor my fragile aunt, following her up a wooden staircase in the center of the house. “I forgot how narrow these steps are,” I say.

  She swipes at cobwebs, her sari gently swishing. “These stairs were originally for the servants. The main staircase in the front of the house—that was for everyone else. Don’t you remember?”

  “Vaguely. We should stick to the well-lit staircase, don’t you think?” I haven’t set foot in the bookstore in years. Who has time? During my last visit to the island, Auntie came to see me at my parents’ house.

  “The main staircase only goes up to the second floor,” she says. “My apartment is in the attic. Third floor. You’ll be sleeping on top of the world.”

  “I’ll come here in the morning to open the store, and I’ll stay in the evening until the last customer leaves. But I’m not sure about sleeping here—”

  “Remember, you must immerse yourself in the life of a bookseller. There is no halfway.”

  I clear my throat. The dust thickens as we climb; the smell of age grows stronger. “I’ll hold down the fort. I know you said nobody else will do. But I’m not a bookseller. I’m only going to pretend to be one.”

  She pivots on her heel, hitching up the sari to reveal her slim calves. Her eyes glint. “There is no pretending, Bippy. You promised to help me.”

  “And I will, but... I don’t want to invade your space. By staying in your apartment and all.”

  “You mean you’re afraid of this creaky old house.”

  “That’s not it.” But I am afraid. I’m afraid of empty rooms, moaning floorboards, the wind rattling the window-panes at night. I’m already rattled, my insides battered by Robert’s betrayal. I’m afraid of my own thoughts, of sleeping on one side of the bed, waking alone. I’m afraid my aunt may not come back.

  “Then you’ll have no trouble watching over my precious bookstore while I’m in India. If you don’t stay here, well, the house becomes cranky. In a manner of speaking.” She opens a door into the attic apartment, dimly lit by antique lamps and packed with furniture and books. Everything from the narrow overhead beams to the floors is made of a golden wood. Layer upon layer of age and dust breathe from the rafters. The place is so small, a doll could live here.

  “Enchanting, isn’t it?” Auntie bustles through the miniature living room and yanks open a wavy glass window. Cool air rushes in, replete with the scents of cedar and damp grass. A few flecks of white paint fall from the sill and land on the hardwood floor.

  “The apartment is quaint.” I press a finger to my nose. My eyes are tearing up from the dust again—the room swims in a watery haze.

  “Those are Hemingway’s pencils,” she says, pointing to an antique desk in the corner, littered with writing instruments. “John Steinbeck preferred pencils as well.” She picks up a yellow fountain pen, holds it carefully between thumb and forefinger. “Mandarin Yellow Parker Duofold used by Colette.”

  “Quite a collection.” I play along, although I doubt any of these items belonged to any famous authors. She probably found them at local garage sales.

  “You’ll watch over them?”

  “Of course.” I have no intention of staying overnight, but sure, I’ll watch over her things... from downstairs.

  She shows me the tiny bathroom, in which a gilt-framed mirror hangs above an antique ceramic sink.

  “Dickens?” I say.

  “Of course not,” she scoffs. “Emily Dickinson. Found it on a trip to Massachusetts many moons ago.”

  “Does the museum know you have it?”

  “They would deny it ever belonged to her.”

  “So how do you know it did?”

  “How do you know it didn’t?”

  I should know better than to press.

  Auntie shows me her storybook bedroom. She claims the brass double bed frame belonged to Marcel Proust, who wrote while lying down. The mattress sags in the middle—and she expects me to sleep here, beneath an elaborate spiderweb hanging from the ceiling?

  In the tiny kitchen, garlic cloves and onions hang in baskets; various colors of squash and miniature pumpkins are arranged in a bowl.

  “Plenty of vegetables for your recipes,” Auntie says.

  “I don’t usually cook, but thanks.” I have no idea what to do with raw ingredients that require preparation. I don’t have time to slice up a squash and watch it bake in the oven for an hour.

  “I hope you enjoy my humble abode.” Auntie clasps her hands to her chest, a warm smile on her face.

  “You’ll be back in no time.” I turn away from her, toward the window, to hide my worries. Across the water, majestic, snow-capped Mount Rainier rises fourteen thousand feet above the landscape. “You’ll come back to this beautiful view.”

  “Yes, isn’t it lovely?” she whispers behind me. But when I turn around, nobody is there. Auntie has already left the room.

  Chapter 5

  I hurry along Harborside Road toward my parents’ house on Fairport Lane. In the biting wind, I pass evening walkers, joggers, and couples strolling arm in arm. They stare into each other’s eyes as if they will always remain in love.

  I hold my cell phone up at all angles. No signal. Fairport Café is closed early, too. No newspaper stand, no Wall Street Journal.

  At least I’ve escaped every foul whiff of Robert. I can keep my eye on Auntie’s musty store for a few weeks, clean up the place, no problem.

  I’m here, at my parents’ Cape Cod-style house perched on the bluff overlooking the bay. Along the walkway to the front door, my mother has planted perennials in terra-cotta pots, and as usual, the lawn is pristine, nearly unnatural in its sharp-edged neatness.

  As I raise my hand to knock,
Ma opens the front door. She is compact, straight backed, her hair cropped close to her face. Ma rarely wears a sari, preferring beige slacks and printed blouses. Her skin is light, her hair squirrel brown. Warm air wafts out around her and draws me into the pink-tiled foyer. Scents of onion, cumin, and garlic drift through the air. I’m home.

  “So Auntie finally let you leave!” Ma says, hugging me.

  “She held me under siege, but I escaped.”

  “I’m glad you’re staying here instead of in that dusty old house. I don’t know how Ruma can stand the untidiness. Come in. Gita took the ferry over this morning. She’s upstairs having a shower. She’s been preparing dinner all afternoon.”

  “She’s such a chef,” I say, feeling a pang of envy somewhere behind my ribs. Gita, my dear younger sister, knows how to whip up gourmet meals. She knows how to choose the latest fashion and make it all look effortless. I, on the other hand, know how to choose blue suits and ill-fitting pumps that give me blisters. And how to get the top off a gourmet take-out container without damaging my nails.

  I peel off my outer layer, remove my shoes, and follow Ma into the living room. The furniture forms a smorgasbord of my parents’ travels—folk art from Hawaii, India, Africa.

  “I need an Internet connection,” I say, trying not to sound stressed.

  “In my study, as always.” My father shows up with a glass of whiskey in hand. Stooped and gaunt, he seems to have shrunk an inch or two since I last saw him. He has aged in his wrinkled linen pants and shirt, his gray hair mussed.

  I hug him tightly, surprised at the emotion welling inside me. I’ve missed him, too. And my e-mail. “I’ll be right back.”

  I slip down the hall to his messy study. I sign into my account and find 157 new messages since this morning. Ninety-seven are urgent.

  Three messages pop up from Robert, directing me to check my voice mail. Contingent offer on condo, below asking price. Where are you?

  I hadn’t told him about my trip. Let him wonder, for once. How gullible I was, sitting up on clear summer nights, waiting for him, believing he simply had to work late.

  I type quickly. I never wanted to move. You drove me out of my home. No way will I accept a dollar below the asking price.

  I delete the message before sending, sit back, and take several deep breaths. I hope the buyers don’t rip out my flower garden or remove the stones in my walkway. But I have to let go of the condo. I’ve got no choice.

  “You all right?” Dad asks from the doorway. “We’re having supper.” He swirls the whiskey in his glass. He is always swirling or twirling something—if not whiskey, then a fork or a straw or an unlit cigar.

  “I’m fine.” I sign off and follow him into the dining room. We sit at the long oak table, the table my parents have owned since my earliest memories—the table at which I sat through countless meals, where I refused to eat liver and instead fed our cat, Willow, under the table. She died of old age, or maybe the liver killed her.

  There is an empty chair next to me, the chair in which Rob used to sit when we came to dinner. Now the space is bare, his green bamboo place mat gone. Ma has laid out the rest of the settings and the good silver cutlery. She is neat, reining in the centrifugal force of my father’s messiness. I know without looking that if I open any drawer in the house, its contents will be arranged in compartments, letters held together with rubber bands. I know my mother still keeps the blinds drawn on sunny days, to prevent bleaching of the hardwood floor. Unlike me, she never allows leftovers to accumulate in the back of the refrigerator.

  Seated at the head of the table, Dad swirls the ice in his tumbler of whiskey. “Good to have you home. Your sister has some—”

  “I thought I heard Jasmine’s voice.” Gita emerges from the kitchen, her hair still damp from her shower, a plate of basmati rice in hand. I stand, hugging her, avoiding the plate of rice. In her designer pantsuit and colorful jewelry samplers, she is a walking advertisement for her Seattle boutique. Her angular face could grace the cover of Vogue.

  “How’s Dilip?” I ask her. “Is he—?”

  “Business trip,” Gita says quickly, smiling, as if she’s hiding a secret. “He’ll be back tomorrow. If he’s not, I’m leaving him.”

  Mom gasps. “Gita! What about, you know?”

  Gita holds up her hand. “Wait, Ma! When I’m ready, I’ll tell her.”

  “Tell me what?” I say.

  “Sit down and relax first.” Gita smiles a bit too brightly, motioning me back into my chair. I can’t get comfortable. The wood is hard and cold.

  “Jasmine looks tired, doesn’t she?” Ma says. Translation: Jasmine works too much. She needs to spend more time with her family. My mother often speaks sideways, to my sister, when she means to admonish me instead.

  Gita sits across from us. “So Jasmine, how are you holding up? What’s going on with that jerk? Is everything all settled or is Robert still being an asshole?”

  Ma gasps. “Gita! Watch your language.”

  Gita rolls her eyes. “Okay, is he still being a shithead? You must be so glad to be free of him.”

  Ma frowns.

  I smile, although my heart is splintering. “I’m free. I’m doing... great.” Gita means well, but she has no idea what it’s like to pack your husband’s belongings into boxes, to find reminders of him left behind—a dry cleaning receipt, a grocery list scrawled in his slanted handwriting, half a bottle of his favorite wine.

  Mom lets out an audible breath. “Come, let’s eat! We’re all hungry.”

  Gita has conjured a spread of fragrant mango chutney, fish curry, and aloo gobi, my favorite. Of all the Bengali dishes she has mastered, I most relish the curried potato and cauliflower. The complex scent swirls through the air in a medley of coriander, garlic, ginger, onion, green chiles, and turmeric. My mouth waters, reminding me that I can still enjoy these simple pleasures.

  The subtle aromas carry me back to India, to the dust and noise of Kolkata, the crowds, the rustle of saris. I should return to the country of my birth, although I haven’t visited in nearly a decade. Perhaps I could find a better mate there—the loyal, elusive Bengali husband. But I doubt he exists anywhere except in my mother’s imagination.

  She piles food on the plates, while Dad swirls his whiskey and Gita shovels mouthfuls of rice and curry into her mouth. She is not a delicate eater.

  “So when are you going to tell me your news, Gita?” I ask. The water in my glass is lukewarm.

  There’s a sudden silence.

  “Dilip and I are getting married,” Gita says finally, with her mouth full.

  Dad clinks his glass against his plate. “Finally, after all this time.”

  “Dad! We’ve only been living together for a year.” Gita’s top lip trembles, the way it does when she is holding back anger.

  “A year!” Dad laughs. “Your mother and I had how many dates together?”

  “Three,” Ma says. “And two were chaperoned by our parents.”

  Gita stabs her fish with her fork. “Times have changed. People live together all the time.”

  Ma straightens her napkin next to her plate. Her eyes are bright. “We’re busy with all the plans. So much to be done.” She looks at me carefully, as if seeking permission to get excited about the wedding. “Gita and Dilip would like to be married here—”

  “On the island, at Island Church,” Gita cuts in. “We’re making up a guest list. I hope I don’t forget anyone. The reception will be out in the park, overlooking the water. We’re combining East and West. I might wear a sari, if I can find a good one. Jasmine, you must come sari shopping with Ma and me.”

  The mound of food on my plate has grown impossibly large. I’ve lost my appetite. “When did you decide all this?”

  Gita glances at Ma. “A few days ago. We waited to tell you. We know you’re going through a lot. Auntie doesn’t know yet, either. You are happy for me, right?”

  “Of course I’m happy for you.” But I’m not sure whether
the tears in my eyes are out of happiness for her or misery for myself. “Congratulations, Gita. This is wonderful news.”

  Gita and Ma trade glances again.

  “Thanks,” Gita says.

  I dab at my mouth with my napkin. “When is this... wedding going to happen?”

  “April twentieth,” Gita says. “Auspicious date, according to Dilip’s family astrologer.”

  I can’t believe this. “He has an astrologer?”

  Ma frowns at me. “We may not believe in such things, but we honor tradition.”

  She means I didn’t honor tradition when I married Robert in a secular Western ceremony, and look what happened.

  I ignore Ma’s sour expression and turn toward Gita. “What are you going to do, after you’re married? Are you still going to run the boutique?”

  “Of course! In this economy, people are flocking to the used clothing racks.”

  Dad twirls his fork. “We’ll see how long that lasts. And Jasmine, how long will your visit last?”

  “Until Auntie comes back from India.”

  “Why don’t you stay longer?” he asks gently.

  “Auntie’s coming back. I have a presentation at work.”

  Mom turns to me. “I suppose it’s difficult to keep up with everything these days.”

  “I’m keeping up just fine.”

  She attacks her potatoes with her fork. “Have you started seeing anyone? A new boyfriend?”

  Gita drops her fork on her plate. “Ma, it’s way too soon for that.”

  “I’m not dating,” I say. “I’ll have my hands full at Auntie’s.” I think of Connor Hunt. No way am I going to mention my encounter with him. And anyway, a stranger hitting on you in the bookstore does not constitute dating.

  “Yes, your hands will be full,” Ma says. “Be careful in that rickety house.”

  “I can handle it.” I laugh, a bit nervously.

  “Auntie has always believed the bookstore is haunted,” Gita says. “You’d better watch out.” She points her fork at me. Grains of rice fly off and hit the table.

  “The house is not haunted,” I say. “It’s just... old.”