Haunting Jasmine

by Anjali Banerjee

  Ma wipes the rice off the table with a napkin. “Ruma has always been peculiar, believing in ghosts and such. Keep your feet firmly planted in reality, and you’ll be fine.”

  But my feet are not planted anywhere. I feel uncertain, ephemeral. I have to hold tight to my water glass, or I might float away.

  Chapter 6

  “Do you have time to talk?” Gita stands at the threshold of the upstairs guest room. I’m sitting on the bed with my laptop propped on my thighs.

  I look up, pulling the reading glasses down my nose. “If it won’t take too long.” I couldn’t bear to discuss the minutiae of her wedding plans. In the radiant heat of her excitement, I might burn to ash.

  Gita’s face contorts, as if she has developed a terrible pain in an unspecified part of her body. “I’ll just, uh, head off to bed then.”

  I take off the glasses, motion her to come in. “I’m sorry. Let’s talk.” I reluctantly roll up the green bar reports, which were laid out across the bed.

  Gita steps inside, tiptoeing as if trying not to disturb the carpet. “Do you ever miss our old place? The giant cedar tree in the backyard, the one with the low branches? I miss climbing that tree and looking across the fence into the neighbor’s backyard.”

  I barely remember our rambler on the other side of town, near a forest trail. “I don’t really think about it. I haven’t thought about that cedar tree in a long time.... I guess I’ve been too busy working.”

  “You don’t have to work so hard, day and night,” Gita says.

  “Yes, I do. First of all, I need the money. But second, work keeps me sane.”

  She sits next to me on the bed. “I hope you can take time off to be my maid of honor at the wedding.”

  The oxygen ebbs from my lungs. At my wedding, Gita stood beside me in a yellow silk dress. She watched Robert slip the ring on my finger, hold my hand while he recited his vows to love and cherish me forever. “Bengali ceremonies don’t have maids of honor.”

  “Maybe not, but I want you there. And when Ma and I go sari shopping on Friday, will you come? Maybe you’ll find a sari for yourself.”

  I make a face. “You know I’m not crazy about wearing a sari.” I don’t have time to wrap myself in several yards of silk fabric, tuck the pleats in at the waist, and then try to power walk to work. Saris have been known to fall off at inopportune moments, and besides, they’re formal wear, quintessentially Indian. They’re just not... me.

  Gita is glowing. “Do this for me? I’m so excited. I’ve wanted this for so long!”

  “Can’t you order a sari from India?”

  “Why do that when we have boutiques here? But we might also get some saris from India. And who knows, maybe I’ll have another ceremony there. Dilip and I have talked about that.”

  “Will any of his relatives be flying in from Kolkata?”

  “Yes, of course. His grandparents and a couple of cousins.” She plays with the tassels on the bedcover. “I hate rattling around in that house while he’s gone. When I’m alone, half of me is missing.”

  My internal organs seem to shrivel. Love is so easy for Gita. She and Dilip have always sailed along, gaga in love, drooling over each other. “Is he away a lot these days?”

  “He works hard. They’ve got him opening offices in Bulgaria and Bangalore. Next it will be China.”

  “Why don’t you go with him?”

  “I can’t leave the shop for that long.”

  “Does he stay in touch when he’s away? I mean, can you keep tabs on him?”

  She lets go of the tassels. “He calls me every night. Sometimes several times a day.”

  “Well, good for him.”

  She gives me a sharp look. “I can’t help it if he’s a good guy. He cares about me. He loves me.”

  It hurts hearing this. Robert used to care about me, too. Now he cares about Lauren. “Sure he does. All men love women—as many as they can get.”

  “Since when did you become so bitter? Don’t take it out on me just because Robert turned out to be such a pig. Dilip is not Robert. And you’re not yourself anymore.”

  “Nope, I’m not,” I say flatly, refusing to show any pain over her words. “Robert leached all the self out of me.”

  “You don’t have to be so mean.” She busies herself fluffing the pillows. “You’re just like Ma and Dad. So pessimistic, always thinking the worst, giving me advice as if I’m a child. Dad still thinks I might become a cardiac surgeon when I grow up. He thinks I’m playing dress-up at the boutique. Wake up, Dad. Hello. I’m never going to cut open anyone’s rib cage.”

  “Dad wanted me to be a pediatrician.” I type an e-mail to Robert as I’m talking, a polite refusal of the lowball offer on the condo. I hit the Send button. “Can you imagine?”

  “And me a surgeon!” Gita hugs a pillow to her chest.

  “Can you picture it? You doing open-heart surgery and me prescribing penicillin to snotty-nosed kids?”

  “Kids aren’t so bad.” Gita frowns. “I wouldn’t mind having a few kids someday....”

  “Why? If you get divorced, they’ll be just another part of the battle.”

  “Who says there will be any divorce?”

  “Statistics. Most first marriages end in divorce.”

  “You’re worse than bitter. You’re—I don’t know what! Robert really did a number on you, didn’t he? Don’t you still believe in love? Can’t you believe in it for my sake?”

  A familiar ache settles beneath my ribs. I gaze out the window at the rough water, lit by a pale, indifferent moon. No matter what goes on below, the moon still travels across the sky. Cities burn; wars rage; civilizations topple and disappear. Lonely women cry. And yet that damned moon keeps rising and falling. The water keeps flowing in the sea—and Robert keeps living without me.

  I take a deep breath, and my insides fall like an elevator full of stones. “Honestly, Gita, I don’t know what I believe in anymore.”

  Chapter 7

  In the morning, after a quick breakfast of cereal and two cups of extra-strong coffee, I bundle up, shove files into my briefcase, sling my handbag over my shoulder, and head for the front door. All for the love of Auntie Ruma.

  “Wait. I made you lunch.” Ma rushes up, waving a paper bag, and suddenly I’m a kid again, heading off to school. I have the same sinking feeling—as if I’m about to take a test, and I forgot to study.

  “Thanks, Ma. You didn’t have to do that. I was going to buy my lunch.”

  “Why waste your money? Everything is overpriced at Island Market. No competition.” She stuffs the paper bag into my gigantic handbag. “What on earth have you got in there? You’re carrying all that stuff to the bookstore?”

  “I’ve got some work I need to get done. I need to make a few calls on the way. Where can I get a cell phone signal?”

  “Best chance is along the waterfront, before you round the bend into town. Watch out for the waves. They sneak up on you.”

  “See you later, Ma.” Waves, my eye. My mother loves to warn me about the dangers in life. My plane might crash. Auntie’s house will go up in flames. I’ll trip, crack my head open, and end up in a coma. And now errant ocean waves will drown me.

  But I can get a good calf workout in the sand, so I make for the beach. I spot pink cockleshells, white clamshells, blue and red chunks of volcanic rock. I can’t stop to pick them up. I’ve got too much weight on my shoulders.

  A gaggle of cormorants chatters on the waves. Seagulls hover above, calling in their high-pitched voices. I speed walk past a couple of early risers—an elderly woman and man strolling hand in hand. They look so happy, like two pieces of a puzzle that fit perfectly together.

  My answer to melancholy—technology. I’m on the phone, finally checking my messages. Robert’s voice still makes my heart jump, a reflex reaction to the sound of his smooth tenor, the faint hint of a Texas accent. Heeeyyy, Jasmine.

  As I listen further, I clench my jaw. Robert’s tone is lightweight, unencumber
ed by guilt or regret. I wish he would grovel at my feet, so I could enjoy the pleasure of rejecting him. But he never comes crawling back to me. I need to ask you a favor, he says. The rest of the message is garbled.

  I return his call, and his cell phone dumps me into voice mail. You’ve reached the disembodied voice of Robert Mahaffey. You know what to do.

  I know what to do, and I would do it, if it weren’t illegal. If I wouldn’t end up in jail for life.

  “The answer is no,” I say. “No to the lowball offer on the condo.” I hang up, blink tears from my eyes, and focus on returning calls from clients. I pitch portfolios, selling my skills as morning sunlight breathes across the sky. Cold, salty air whips against my face. In my windbreaker, jeans, and running shoes, I barely ward off numbness. I follow the line of the surf toward town.

  “... choose our socially responsible growth fund,” I’m saying, and then I scream as an icy wave rushes up to my thighs. “Oh, I have to call you back!”

  I run up the beach, lifting my feet like a prancing horse to get out of the water. I’m soaked, and I’m already more than halfway to the bookstore. No turning back now. By the time I reach Auntie’s doorstep, I’m on the verge of hypothermia.

  Inside, the house is quiet and warm. The spicy scent of chai wafts down the hall, mixed with the usual dust and mothball odors. I’m shivering, my teeth chattering. “Auntie, hello! Help!”

  Auntie rushes down the hall in a new clashing outfit—blue sari and purple striped sweater. “Bippy, did you fall in the sea?”

  “Nearly.” I unload my technology in the parlor. “My feet are numb.”

  “Come, come—we’ll put your clothes in the dryer and your shoes in front of the heater. I’ve got some pants for you to wear in the meantime.” She leads me to the laundry room, next to the office, hands me a towel, and rushes away.

  I peel off my wet jeans, underpants, and socks, shove them in the dryer, and wrap a towel around my waist. Now what? I’m standing here half-naked, with no cell phone signal and no prospects for a happy life.

  Auntie returns with a pair of baggy purple polyester pants with an elastic waist; orange socks; and giant fluffy slippers in the shape of rabbits, complete with two ears growing up from each foot. I put on the clothes. I look like a giant grape. I’m glad Auntie didn’t bring a pair of her panties. I hope my jeans dry in record time.

  “You look nice and warm now.” She steps back and grins. “Perhaps you’ll wear this to Gita’s wedding!”

  “So Ma told you.”

  “She called me early this morning. What wonderful news!”

  “The best news I’ve heard in years.”

  Auntie pats my shoulder. “Stop making such a long face. You mustn’t stop believing in love, nah?” She glances at her watch. “I’ve got more packing to do upstairs before the store opens.”

  “The front door is already open.”

  “For early risers who like to come in and have tea or coffee before work.” She heads for the stairs.

  “So technically, you’re open?”

  “Oh, I suppose, but not really. I’ll be finished soon and come right back down.”

  “But what about showing me—?”

  “I’ll be down again soon. Make yourself at home.”

  She disappears. Fine, leave me here.

  I head for the parlor to retrieve my technology and nearly bump headlong into... Connor Hunt.

  My face flushes. I gaze down at my baggy purple pants, my giant rabbit slippers. How did he get in here? Through the door, of course. But I didn’t see him come in. He’s not supposed to be here. Does he ever wear anything other than cargo pants, travel jacket, and hiking boots? Does he have a job, or does he spend his life reading in dusty old bookstores? “What are you doing here, Mr. Hunt?”

  “Research.” He shoves a book back onto the Fun New Arrivals shelf: 101 Uses for an Old Farm Tractor.

  “You have an old farm tractor?” I wish I could hide behind a bookshelf. I hope he can’t tell that I’m going commando.

  “Not exactly.” He gazes at my slacks, the rabbit slippers, and smiles. “But the title looked... intriguing.”

  “The book is obscure. This one, too.” I grab Across Europe by Kangaroo. “Who on earth would travel this way?”

  “Someone adventurous?” He smiles. His eyes look darker today, more intense. “But this family took a van across Europe, not a kangaroo.”

  “False advertising.” A book falls on its side on the shelf, making a dull clapping sound. I pick up the book—Be Bold with Bananas by Crescent Books. “Look at this picture. Makes me never want to eat another banana. Are they sliced or glazed? And what are those red things? Who buys this kind of book?”

  Connor peers closely at the cover image. “Someone impulsive? Someone who departs from the ordinary?”

  I put the book back on the shelf. “A bookstore is a business. My aunt needs to pay more attention to turning a profit, not departing from the ordinary.”

  “Isn’t reading all about departing from the ordinary?” He’s staring at me, his gaze pinning me again.

  “Sure, if you’ve got time for it....”

  “That’s it? You have no interest in unusual book titles? I’m doing research on unusual tomes.”

  “I’m sure my aunt has many more in other rooms as well. You’re here early, doing your... research.”

  He glances at his watch, an old silver chronograph with a leather strap. “Is there a law against showing up when the store opens?”

  “I’m not sure if the store is open yet... technically.”

  “I like to get here before the crowds descend.”

  What crowds? “Well,” I say, exhaling, “I’ll go and find my aunt.”

  “Wait, not so fast. You’re so quick to reject me.” He touches my arm, sending a peculiar electric wave through my body.

  I pull away, startled. “I have work to do, and I don’t know anything about you.”

  “I’m a doctor. I used to live on the island, many years ago. I traveled quite a bit, and now I’m back, visiting. I’m thinking of settling here again. What else do you want to know?” His gaze follows my rabbit slippers up past the purple pants to my black turtleneck sweater, and I feel, somehow, as though he has magically removed every piece of my clothing.

  “So, you’re a doctor?” I say quickly, annoyed. “What kind of doctor?”

  “Internal medicine. And you? What do you do?”

  My fingers are slowly thawing. I need to buy gloves. “I’m an investment manager.”

  I can’t read the expression in his eyes—assessing, hungry, critical? “You don’t look like one.”

  “And you don’t look like a doctor.”

  “I don’t normally dress this way.”

  “Me, either. I had a run-in with a rogue wave on the way here.”

  “I’m glad you survived.”

  I glance down at Auntie’s orange socks, the rabbit ears. “I didn’t know my aunt had these slippers. Better than pumps, I guess. More comfortable.”

  “That’s why I like this place,” Connor says. “The absence of pumps. Not a single pair on the whole island. I believe the dearth of shoe stores is what keeps this place so quiet and rural. Stops people from moving here. That’s my theory.”

  “It would certainly keep my ex-husband away.”

  One eyebrow rises. That piercing gaze again, a doctor’s gaze. I wonder if he notices the pulse in my neck. “Your ex liked shoes?”

  “Had way too many of them. Armani, Rockport, Ferragamo. He was a shoe junkie.” I’m telling Connor Hunt too much.

  “So you’re single now, free of all those shoes. Have coffee with me.”

  “We’re back to that. I have a bookstore to run.”

  “And you don’t date because your bastard ex-husband screwed you and now you can’t ever fall in love.”

  “You must be a mind reader.” I focus on the banana book. “It doesn’t matter, either way. I’m planning to be alone from now on.”r />
  “But I can tell you’re an optimist at heart.”

  “I know you mean well, Dr. Hunt—”

  “Call me Connor.”

  “Connor. I’ve been through a lot, and I need some quiet time in this store.” My voice is a wavering thread. I don’t want to date anyone. I’m not ready for that.

  “I doubt this store is going to be quiet,” he says.

  “It has been so far.”

  “You showed up in the evening—I bet evenings are slower, when people go home for dinner.”

  My heart skips a few beats. “Tony and I will handle what-ever comes.”

  “You could take a break.”

  “You’re persistent, aren’t you?”

  He grins. “I don’t like to give up.”

  “It was good to see you again,” I say in a neutral voice. “But I’m really sorry, I can’t go out with anyone right now. I hope you understand.” I’m crossing the room, on my way out to the hall, when the books begin to fall.

  Chapter 8

  The banana book tips over again, setting off a cascade of falling tomes like dusty dominoes. A hardcover tumbles at my feet, a book of poems by Emily Dickinson, open to a telling page: Heart, we will forget him! / You and I, to-night!...

  I close the book and shove it back on the shelf. “I hope my aunt has earthquake insurance.”

  Connor rubs his finger across his eyebrow, as if this will help him think. “Not an earthquake. The floor isn’t shaking.”

  “Auntie needs to do a better job of securing these shelves, then.” Another book topples onto the carpet, this one a Neruda gift book open to a bright page and the illuminated words... struggling and hoping, / we touch the sea / hoping... A shiver runs through me. I shelve and straighten the books. “Why she keeps silly titles so prominently displayed, I’ll never know. Who buys these books?”

  “People like me.”

  “You’re strange.” I stride to the door, but it slams closed in front of me. I step back, my throat dry.

  You have to live, a voice whispers close to my ear. I whip around. “Stop whispering.”