Haunting Jasmine

by Anjali Banerjee

  “I can’t drink my coffee in five minutes.” Robert fixes his gaze on my forehead, as always. That should have been a sign, his inability to look me in the eyes.

  The waitress brings my water and Robert’s coffee. “Menus?” she says.

  I shake my head.

  She nods and walks away.

  Robert drinks his coffee black as always. He still gulps instead of sipping. He still has a habit of clearing his throat.

  “You missed a spot again,” I say, pointing to the left side of his jaw, just below his ear. Even in this dim light, I can see his mistakes. He was never careful about shaving, although he was always careful about keeping secrets.

  “You look good,” he says, unfazed by my comment. “Something about you is different. Did you lose weight? Or is it your hair?”

  I touch my wild locks self-consciously. Robert always made me aware of my appearance. “What about the condo?” I say. “Let’s stay on point.”

  “Can’t I at least tell you you’re beautiful?”

  “Not anymore.” With every word, he carves a hollow space inside me. I imagine him on his knees, begging my forgiveness. I loved you all along. How could I have thrown away those mornings in the sun, making love on the living room carpet, frying mushroom omelets? I don’t love Lauren. I love you. I want to live with you happily ever after. . . .

  My heart will leap and then break into a thousand pieces again. I will say . . . I loved you. I’m falling apart. I wanted those things, but now there’s no going back. How could you do this to me? I’m at the edge of a precipice.

  “Could you take a look at this?” He pulls a sheaf of folded papers from an inside pocket of his jacket, like a magician, and slides it across the table. The pages are stapled together.

  “What is this?”

  His gaze softens. “Take a look. Please.”

  I unfold the paper. On the top page:THE GRANTOR(S), Jasmine Mistry, for and in consideration of: One dollar and love and affection conveys and quitclaims to the GRANTEE(S), Robert Mahaffey, Jr., the following described real estate, situated in the County of . . .

  The colors leach from the room. The bartender, the couples huddled at tables, the hanging plants—everything darkens to black and gray.

  “You want me to give up my rights to the condo,” I say. “But we agreed to sell it together.” This is the last thing we were to do as a couple. The last thing.

  He clasps his hands in front of him on the table. Pretty hands, long fingers. Hands I once held with trust. No ring on his wedding finger.

  I look away. I. Feel. Nothing.

  “I wanted to sell,” he says. “It’s not me. It’s Lauren.”

  I push my chair back, to put more distance between Robert and me. He suddenly smells foul, despite his usual subtle cologne, that familiar mineral scent.

  “She wants to live in the condo.” In the middle of all those memories. “She loves the light, the windows.”

  “She wants to take over my house.”

  “Not strictly yours,” he says. “Ours. And we—Lauren and I—want to know if you’re willing to give it up, out of the goodness of your heart.” He sits back and shoves his hands in the pockets of his coat.

  “Out of the goodness of . . . ? What?” I chuckle, softly at first, then louder. A woman at a nearby table glances over at me. Robert’s face reddens. I throw the paper across the table at him. “Nice try, Robert. I won’t give up my home to that woman. How could you ask me to? How could you ask me to give up everything I put into that place? All the love, the blood, the sweat? The memories? The tears? How could you ask such a thing?” Even as I say this, I understand how cold Robert can be. Until now, I couldn’t face the depth of his indifference.

  “I didn’t think you’d go for it,” he says. “But I promised Lauren I would give it a try.”

  “You promised her.” My voice is rising. “How much more hell can you put me through? Is it not enough that I gave up nearly everything I own—cleaned out my savings—to pay my damned legal bills? Now you had to follow me to the ends of the earth.” I get up, nearly knocking over my chair.

  “Jasmine, please. Don’t be so angry with me. I’ve told you so many times, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” He reaches out and rests his hand on mine, so quickly that I can’t pull away fast enough. His touch is a painful sting.

  “Robert, don’t come here again. Don’t call me.”

  “Just a minute. Wait.” He grabs my wrist. “Sit down. Just one more minute.”

  I yank my arm away. “Don’t touch me. I’m leaving.”

  “You didn’t look at the other pages. We’re offering another option. We’re willing to buy you out, buy out your share of what the condo is worth. Here.” He flips a few pages and shows me a highlighted paragraph.

  This can’t be happening. This isn’t real. I see Robert, dressed for our wedding, slipping the ring on my finger. Robert, holding me close, in the crook of his shoulder. Robert, feeding me ice cream from a spoon.

  “That amount?” I say mechanically, staring at the paper. “My share is worth much more than that. No, I won’t do it.”

  “Jasmine.”

  I’m already rushing to the door. Robert scrambles to pay for his coffee. I’m racing down the street. The wind howls, and driving rain smacks me in the face.

  “Jasmine, wait!” He’s close behind me.

  “No, Robert.” When I reach the door to the bookstore, I’m soaked to the bone. My teeth are chattering. I’m shaking all over. “I won’t give up the condo,” I say, breathless. “I loved that place. That was our home, not hers. We’re selling, Robert. You should not have come here. Find yourself another place to live. Don’t ever talk to me again. From now on, speak to my lawyer.”

  “You never gave an inch,” he says.

  I stumble inside, slam the door in his face, turn the deadbolt. Then I rest my back against the door, slide down to the floor, and burst into tears.

  Chapter 24

  Tony directs me to sit in a saggy armchair and makes me a cup of chamomile tea. Customers glance at me with concern. He ushers everyone out of the room.

  I grip the mug in both hands, savoring the warmth. “Thank you, Tony. I needed this.”

  “In my opinion, no selfish bastard is worth the tears,” he says. “The minute he walked in here, I knew he was trouble.”

  “I wish I had known before I married him. I can’t believe I considered staying with him.”

  Tony grabs a damp rag and wipes down the counters. He’s obsessively neat, but somehow he can’t keep up with Auntie Ruma’s clutter. “You mean after you found out . . . ?”

  “I read about surviving infidelity. I thought—maybe I can make this work. Maybe he cheated because I was boring—”

  “You’re wound up, but you’re not boring. Don’t ever think of yourself that way.”

  “Thanks, Tony. You’re kind, you know that?”

  “Hey, what can I say? Maybe he’s going through the midlife crisis thing.”

  I grip the mug tighter until I’m sure it might break. “I thought of that. I thought maybe he needed more attention or I was unavailable. I don’t know why he didn’t just leave. I don’t know what would have hurt more.”

  Tony squeezes the rag in the sink and drapes it across the faucet. “What a lowlife for cheating on you.”

  I sip the soothing liquid. A few chamomile leaves have broken free of the tea bag and are floating to the top of the cup. “He’s narcissistic, totally self-involved. . . .” My hands tremble so much I spill the last of my tea on my lap. I jump to my feet, and Tony is there in a second, wiping at my jeans with the rag.

  “You’re going to be okay. Deep breaths. You have to believe in yourself. You’re a survivor.”

  My throat tightens, and tears sting my eyes again. “I feel like a wreck, and we’ve been separated almost a year—”

  “Takes time. You’ll feel better. Go and do something fun. Bungee jumping. Cliff diving.”

  “I’m sad, n
ot suicidal.” I wipe my cheeks. Black mascara comes off on my fingers. “I want time to leap forward, past all this pain. I don’t want to go through this.”

  “I’ve heard time travel may be possible someday, but for now, you need to let it out. Scream and yell.”

  “I don’t want to scream and yell. I’m okay now. I’m going to put some books away.” I leave my empty cup on the counter and stride down the hall, my chin up. In the Self-Help section, a bunch of used paperbacks are piled in a corner. The Woman Alone, Private Lies, First Aid for the Betrayed....

  I pick up one book, then another, and throw them against the wall. Each one hits with a thud and tumbles to the floor. The only other person in here, a round woman in a purple bonnet, gives me a startled look and hurries out of the room.

  I keep throwing books, and the more I throw, the better I feel. At the bottom of the pile is the book How to Be a Better Wife.

  I stare at the book for a moment, my mind blank. Then I rip off the cover and begin tearing out the pages, one by one, then in handfuls. Yes, take that. Here’s what a good wife does.

  Chapter 25

  “This one is so beautiful,” Gita says in a breathless voice. She unfolds the red sari on the glass countertop of Krishna’s Indian Fabrics in Bellevue. We’ve been shopping all morning, traipsing around every sari store within an hour’s drive of Seattle.

  “Looks like blood to me,” I say. “So bright, like a bloodred stoplight.” My head still aches from my encounter with Robert yesterday. Did he stay in a fancy Seattle hotel, or did he hop a flight back to L.A., to Lauren? You never gave an inch, he said. What was that supposed to mean?

  “This doesn’t look like blood at all,” Gita says, frowning at me. “Or a traffic light. Reminds me of roses! A bouquet of flowers. I love this one.”

  “Whatever you say. You wanted my opinion—”

  “Don’t you love the gold border?”

  “It’s printed, not woven,” Ma says.

  “But the print is beautiful. You’re both against me!”

  “Don’t you want a properly woven border?” Ma says.

  Gita pouts, picks up another red sari, discards it.

  On the drive over, she didn’t stop talking about the wedding—what type of paper to use for the invitations, what flowers to order, what color the tablecloths should be. I worried about all the same things before my wedding—about details that, in the end, didn’t matter.

  “This one isn’t silk,” Ma says, rubbing a pink sari between her fingers.

  The woman behind the counter, a pudgy, creamy-skinned beauty in a banana-colored sari and copious costume jewelry, waves her hand. “Chiffon is all the craze,” she says.

  “Chiffon’s fine. I don’t care if it’s silk or not.” Gita holds the sari up to the light. The material is translucent, X-rated if she wears nothing underneath. “I love the way it looks and feels. A possibility, right? Will Dilip find me ravishing?”

  “He’ll find you looking like bubble gum,” Ma says. “Too pink.”

  The smells in here—of spice and fabric and body odor—are making me nauseous. Half the store is an Indian grocery. The imported clothes are squished into the other side, where customers mill about, pulling salwar kameezes off racks, trying on cotton kurtas, shawls, and piles of saris.

  “One looks like blood, the other’s too pink,” Gita says. “I’m glad you two aren’t choosing for me.”

  “We’re trying to help you,” I say. “Do you want us to lie?”

  Gita glares at me. “I want you to be totally honest.”

  Then don’t get married. Don’t worry about saris. In the end, the rituals don’t matter. But I force a smile. I don’t want to dampen Gita’s exuberance.

  Ma pulls another sari from the pile on the counter. “How about this one? Darker red and such a lovely silk.”

  “Too dark,” Gita says.

  The banana-clad woman produces more saris from the shelves behind her, dropping them on the counter while she keeps her gaze focused on some young girls giggling in a back corner, pasting sparkling round bindis on their foreheads.

  “What about wearing another color?” Ma says. “Blue or green or—”

  “If I’m going to wear a sari, I should wear red,” Gita says, sifting through the samples on the counter. “Isn’t that what a Bengali bride wears?”

  “You can choose what you want,” Ma says. “I thought you were blending East and West.”

  “We are—but Dilip’s family might want me to wear traditional red.”

  Ma unrolls a silver sari with a striking red border. “What matters is what you want.”

  I’m surprised to hear my mother say this. Perhaps she’ll allow this much, for Gita to choose her own wedding sari, now that she’s marrying an Indian.

  “I’m not sure what I want,” Gita says. “But you’re right, I shouldn’t compromise.” She motions to the banana-clad woman. “Do you have more silk saris with woven borders?”

  The woman nods her head sideways and produces another stack of saris in various colors.

  “Why are you bothering to look here at all?” I say. My feet are starting to hurt. I’m ready for lunch. We’ve been shopping for three hours at three different shops, unfolding saris and holding them up to the light. I’m tired of all the gaudy costume jewelry.

  “I need to take my time,” Gita says. “The wedding has to be perfect.”

  “If you expect nothing to go wrong, you’ll be disappointed,” I say. “Remember the photographer was late to my wedding? Then he took too long to send me the pictures. . . .” Doesn’t matter anymore.

  Ma and Gita are quiet for an awkward moment, then Gita smiles. “I can do my best.”

  Ma lays out a green sari on the counter, imprinted with giant lotus flowers. “Now this one is lovely!”

  “No!” Gita says. “I’ll look like a frog in a lily pond.”

  The banana-clad woman moves away to help a customer who is pointing at the Light and Lovely skin-bleaching cream under the glass. For Indians, pale skin is still considered beautiful. My fading Los Angeles tan would not qualify.

  I can’t believe the colors of some of these saris—neon lime, lemon yellow. “Auntie Ruma is bringing you saris from India,” I say. “I’m sure they’ll be higher quality.”

  “Why can’t I look here? There’s a silk sari, and another one, and another one. They’re beautiful.”

  “You could wear what you’re wearing now,” I say, pointing at Gita’s simple white dress, which she wears beneath a long, button-down blue sweater. “You look elegant.”

  “I can’t wear white at a Bengali wedding!” She screws up her perfect nose. “The color of mourning?”

  “You can wear any color you want. A wedding is just a ceremony; overrated, if you ask me. We put so much emphasis on the ritual but what really matters is the character of the person you’re marrying. Is Dilip going to sleep around on you? That’s what you should ask yourself.”

  “Jasmine!” Ma says.

  “Sorry—I couldn’t help it.”

  Gita’s lips tremble. “Don’t ruin this for me, Jasmine.”

  I hold up my hands. “I didn’t mean it. I just worry about you. I want you to be okay. I want you to be ready for this.”

  “I am ready. Stop worrying about me. Dilip and I are going to live happily ever after.”

  “Okay, then, I’m happy for you.”

  “You don’t sound happy. You’re not, are you? You’re bitter.”

  “Girls!” Ma yells. She unrolls a bright orange sari and waves the fabric in the air between Gita and me, like a peace flag. “How about this one? It’s silk, lovely.”

  “Ma, no!” Gita stamps her foot on the floor, something I haven’t seen her do since she was a child throwing a tantrum. “The Hare Krishnas wear orange. They’re a cult!”

  Ma rolls up the sari again. “How was I supposed to know? I don’t want you two arguing like children.”

  “We’re not arguing,” Gita says, glaring a
t me. “Jasmine thinks it’s a waste of time to shop for a sari.”

  “I didn’t say that. Just be careful. Just be . . . sure. Do you want to be with the same man, day in and day out, committed to him? Your finances entangled with him? You might even have children before you find out you’re not right for each other, and then what?”

  “I’m as sure as I’ll ever be.” Gita ignores my advice, as usual. She is starry-eyed, blindly in love. The brightness of her idealism could illuminate a planet. The trouble is, the light can’t last.

  I’m back in the bookstore by closing time, after a day of shopping, arguing, and trying various sweets and pastries at the Indian bakery in Bellevue—so Gita can choose her dessert menu for the wedding. I did my best to be helpful. I did my best to be happy for Gita.

  Tony left me a note, wishing me a wonderful weekend. I collapse into an armchair with a cup of tea, propping my feet on an ottoman. Auntie’s books don’t argue, they don’t make demands, they don’t talk back. They don’t remind me of things I’d rather forget. I’m strangely comforted here, in the chaotic clutter and dust, even if my nose is itchy.

  “Jasmine,” someone says behind me. A baritone voice. I turn around in my chair. He looks stunning against a faint backdrop of light, raindrops glistening on his windbreaker. He carries his usual scent of the outdoors, of salty air fresh from the ocean. “Connor!” I say, sitting up straight. I completely forgot our date.

  Chapter 26

  “You forgot.” He leans casually against the doorjamb.

  “Oh. My. I did.” I get up quickly, brush down my jeans, pat my tangled hair.

  “I can come back another time.” His voice, several tones lower than Robert’s, has a strange effect on my nerve endings.

  “I’m sorry. I’ve been . . . A lot has happened.” I’m suddenly aware of my wrinkled shirt, puffy eyes. I’m blushing.

  “Long week, huh?” His voice resonates, and my heart beats crazily. He glances at his watch, the same old silver chronograph with the leather strap.