Haunting Jasmine

by Anjali Banerjee

  “I’m going to love you forever,” Rob whispered on our honeymoon on Maui. His voice flowed across my skin like a tropical aphrodisiac. I lay with my back against him, his arms around me on a gently swinging hammock strung between two palm trees. Maybe we wouldn’t go anywhere all day.

  We’d rented a sunny cottage on the beach. I could almost believe that this paradise belonged to only the two of us, that there were no other people in the world.

  “I’ll love you forever and a day.” I closed my eyes, felt Rob’s chest against my back, his heartbeat, my head in the crook of his shoulder. Pinpricks of sand wafted across my skin. The sea gave off faint smells of salt and seaweed, mixed with Rob’s scents of sweat and coconut suntan lotion.

  “Forever and two days,” he said.

  “Three.”

  “Infinity.”

  “Infinity plus one.”

  “No, I mean really love,” he said, as if trying to convince himself. Now, I wonder, was he trying to understand what love actually meant, what its limits would be?

  “I mean really love, too,” I said.

  He interlaced his fingers in mine, stroked the palm of my hand with his thumb. “Even when I go bald? When I have to shuffle to the door and my back goes out?”

  “We’ll shuffle together.”

  “When I drop my false teeth in a glass every night?”

  “Your dad said he still has all his molars—at the reception dinner, remember?”

  Rob chuckled. I felt the deep vibrations from his body. “I have no idea how the subject came up. My dad’s a hoot.”

  “Your mom’s great, too. I loved her speech at the wedding. All about giving up her son and gaining the daughter she never had—”

  “A beautiful daughter.” His parents, his two younger brothers, his best friends—the nice people that came with him would also go away with him, eventually. They all belonged in a boxed set.

  “Your mom was too generous,” I said, my eyes still closed.

  “What if I grow a potbelly like that guy over there?” I felt him pointing. I opened my eyes and watched a paunchy sunburned man, wispy gray hairs blowing on top of his head, saunter along the shoreline several yards away. His pale belly spilled over the top of his plaid shorts.

  “I don’t care what you look like,” I said. “I love you for you. For who you are inside.”

  But what did I truly know of who he was? I thought I understood him, but he projected a false front. How do we really know people?

  What do I know of Connor? I pull on my shoes and run downstairs and out the front door, but there’s no sign of him. No car, no bike, no man striding away. Only the white ribbon of road winds along the waterfront, and above me, the constellations crowd into a black dome of sky. Look at the stars.

  Robert never gazed at the stars—he was too busy staring at women. Now I’m free of his earthbound preoccupations, free of the confines of the known world. I imagine soaring through the universe, exploring uncharted territory. I touch my fingers to my lips, where Connor’s kiss lingers.

  I turn back toward the house, and as I step inside, shivering, his absence closes in around me. Did I make a mistake, sending him away? No, I’m not ready to try again. I may never be ready.

  I go to bed, fall in and out of restless sleep, and awaken before the first light of dawn. When darkness begins to lift, I head out to the beach for a jog in the cool morning air, without my cell phone. For now, I need to burn off this frenetic energy.

  I follow the shoreline for nearly two hours, until my feet hurt. I half hope to see Connor here, but I find only the cormorants floating on the waves; gulls calling in their piercing voices; and a seal bobbing and dipping, watching me through black marble eyes. I wonder what that seal thinks of me, a wild-haired, lonely woman racing along this windswept stretch of sand?

  I stop to gather treasures offered up by the ocean—a ridged pink cockleshell, both halves still intact and connected; clamshells; and colorful volcanic rocks. I return to the bookstore winded but refreshed, just in time for work.

  Tony’s dressed in lighter blue—faded jeans fashionably ripped at the knees and a pale blue T-shirt that reads Careful or You’ll End Up in My Novel. He flits about in his usual feverish way, straightening displays and replacing the newspapers in the front hall. “Where did you go? I thought the island swallowed you.”

  “I was on the beach. Be right back.” I run upstairs to shower and dress. I feel alive, alert. The run did me good. I can taste the sea salt on my lips.

  Back downstairs, I make a cup of strong coffee and carry a new box of books to the Fiction section.

  “How did your date go last night?” Tony asks, coming up next to me. He removes the packing slip from the box.

  “He kissed me, that’s all.”

  “What did it feel like?” He grabs books from the box and begins to slip them into new open slots on the shelves.

  “Like a kiss. I don’t know. Good. It was good.”

  “Sexy?”

  “Yes, that, too.” I’m blushing at the memory.

  “What else?” Tony sits on the carpet, cross-legged next to the box, and removes the rest of the books in piles.

  “Nothing else. We talked.” I sit next to him. “I freaked out after he kissed me, and he left. I couldn’t help it.”

  “You’re a wounded bird. He’ll understand.”

  “He might be gone for good.”

  Tony points a book at me. “He’ll be back, and next time, have more fun with him.”

  I give Tony a playful slap in the arm. “I wasn’t going to jump into bed right away. What am I supposed to do—take off all my clothes, slip under the covers, and say, ‘Here I am, come and get me’?”

  “Why not have a little fling? You don’t have to marry the guy.”

  I stare at the novel in my hands. The Ghost and Mrs. Muir, about a woman who falls in love with a ghost and waits all her life to be with him. I shove the book onto the shelf. “I’m not ready for that kind of fun.”

  “You deserve to have that kind of fun. No stress, no crap.”

  I shelve a copy of In Love with the Past. “That’s what my ex-husband did, have flings with no stress, no crap. He forgot he had a wife waiting at home. Slight oversight.”

  “But you’re not your ex-husband, and you’re no longer married. No Strings Attached can be fun. I’m the king of No Strings Attached. I could give you a few lessons.”

  I hold up my hand, palm forward. “It’s okay. Really. Too much information.”

  “Imagine, you get to spend time with a hunk of a man who’s drooling over you and can give you pleasure. Why not give in? Throw all caution to the wind. Then you go back to L.A.” He makes a motion as if tossing up dust.

  I point to another stack of books. “I’m going to put those away now. And I’ll donate the ones we don’t need. No more talk about jumping into bed with strange men.”

  Tony clucks his tongue. “He’s not strange. What do you think will happen? You’re not going to disappear in a puff of smoke.”

  “How do you know? Sometimes I feel ephemeral.”

  “Once you sleep with Connor, you’ll feel like a woman again. You’ll feel whole.”

  “I’ll feel whole when the divorce is final. I hope Robert doesn’t keep trying to take the condo from me.”

  Tony pats my shoulder. “Look, forget about that guy. Why don’t we get out of here for a bit?”

  “Who’ll keep an eye on the store?” A headache is pushing at my skull again.

  “I’ll put a Be Right Back sign on the door. We won’t get in trouble. I’ll take you to the Fairport Café for a cinnamon bun.”

  “I could use some sugar.”

  In a few minutes, we’re out in the blustery day. The cold air and drizzle feel fresh against my skin.

  Fairport Café bustles with local color—students tapping away on computer keyboards, a group of women with their toddlers in strollers. The sweet scents of freshly baked bread and croissants make my m
outh water.

  “I don’t remember so many people living on the island,” I say. “They look happy.” They’re so lighthearted, they might float away on the slightest breeze.

  “Must be the island’s enchantment,” Tony says. “Some people think there’s magic in the currents that converge around the island; some think it’s the weather patterns.”

  “I need a little happy magic.”

  We order espresso drinks and two large cinnamon buns from the glass case and sit at a corner table near the window.

  I stir my cappuccino. A woman jostles me as she passes with a tray in her hands.

  “I wish my aunt would modernize,” I say. “I have a feeling she’s going to lose the bookstore. I ordered in some new bestsellers, and I dusted. I’m trying, but I can’t find all the answers in a month—”

  “I’d like someone to give me all the answers, too.” Tony slurps the froth from the top of his mocha, leaving a faint white mustache on his upper lip. “Like why I’m not published.”

  “You’re a writer? Your T-shirt gave me a hint.”

  He sighs and stares into his frothy cup. “I tried to sell exactly fourteen novels, and not one has been published, but I still hold out hope.” Through the window, he gazes in wistful yearning at slick raincoats passing in glistening sheets of yellow and blue, as if they are unattainable mirages.

  “You’re persistent. That’s good. I hear you have to hold out a long time in the publishing business.”

  “I’ve worked in bookstores for a long time, but your aunt’s place is the best. I wouldn’t be anywhere else. But I’m waiting for my big break.” His voice is full of unfulfilled dreams.

  “You could fly to New York and pester a publisher until they accept your manuscript just to get rid of you.” I grin, surprised at my own spectacular advice.

  “They might report me to the police as a stalker.”

  “Then stick to the old adage: trust in your talent and never give up.”

  His face brightens. “I like that one better. You need to do the same.”

  “I can’t trust myself. I chose my ex-husband, after all. I fell for his charm and didn’t see what was behind it.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve been through it. Not divorce, but heart-break. Same thing, right? You feel like you’re wandering in a daze.”

  After Robert left, the world swooped past me while I plodded along, heavy as stone, barely surviving each day. “I went crazy at first, when my husband moved out. I drove away from the gas station with the pump still attached to the tank; I forgot my coffee cup on top of the car, even accidentally wore two different shoes to work.”

  Tony tears off a sticky piece of cinnamon bun, shoves it in his mouth, and talks while chewing. “How different were the two shoes? Were they, like, one red shoe and one white shoe? A pump and a flat? Come on, be specific.”

  I laugh, nearly snorting my coffee out my nose. “Two black shoes that looked similar, but one had a strap on the front and the other didn’t.”

  “So it was an honest mistake.”

  I nod. “But other mistakes were just . . . klutzy. I forgot to pay the energy bill. I got home one night and the power was out.”

  “Give yourself a break. You loved the guy, what’s-his-name.”

  “Robert.” It comforts me to know that Tony finds the name forgettable.

  “Whatever. You wanted to believe the best about him. I know what that’s like. I fell in love once. Head over heels.”

  “Wait, I thought you were the king of No Strings.”

  He hangs his head, then looks up at me with a sheepish grin. “This one had strings all over it. I would’ve thrown everything away for love, that one time. My mind was mush.” He presses a finger to his forehead. I can’t tell whether he’s pointing to illustrate his words or pretending to shoot himself in the head.

  “What happened?”

  He drops his hand to the table, plays with the wooden coffee stirring stick. “I wasn’t the one who ended it. I fell in love, and then he cut all the strings, and there wasn’t a damned thing I could do.” He points the stirring stick at me. “That was when I went crazy. I ran down the street in my underwear, chasing his black Mercedes.”

  My jaw drops open. “You did what?”

  “Middle of the city, morning commute traffic. Everyone got a good look at my Calvin Klein undies. Or were they Ralph Lauren? I don’t remember, but who cares? They were briefs, not boxers.”

  “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought I would ever do anything like that, but I was desperate. We do crazy things when we’re desperate.”

  “Yes, we do.” Like fall for a rugged but gentle doctor when you’re still getting over your ex-husband. But I’m smiling a little as I imagine Tony, with his coiffed hair, running down the street in his designer underpants.

  “I wish I could fall in love again,” he says wistfully. “If you don’t want Connor, can I have him?”

  “You bum!”

  “Okay, I’ll wait until you’re done with him. First, you have to let him ravish you. You’re already different, since you met him. More relaxed, more . . . in your element. And you’re not sneezing.”

  I press a finger to the bridge of my nose. My sinuses are clear. “I haven’t taken an allergy pill since—I don’t know when.”

  He points his stirring stick at me again. “Since Dr. Hunt kissed you. See what I mean? There you go.”

  Chapter 29

  Back at the bookstore, I glance at my face in the restroom mirror downstairs. My cheeks are flushed. My eyes are no longer so puffy, and my hair looks darker. Fewer gray strands sprout at my temples.

  “Maybe it’s the kiss,” I say to my reflection. “Or maybe it’s because I’m reading Winnie the Pooh again. Go figure.”

  When I step out of the bathroom, I glimpse a little boy wandering into the children’s book room, his mess of hair like a pile of wet straw. Perched on his nose is an enormous pair of glasses that make his eyes appear unnaturally big. He bends his head forward, nearly resting his chin on his chest, as if the weight of the glasses is all too much for his head. On his back, an enormous blue, lumpy backpack protrudes like a grotesque growth. He’s in a miniature gray suit jacket, plaid sweater underneath, with a red tie tucked inside, jeans, and brown penny loafers. He stares at the floor, his hand gripping the straps of his backpack.

  “May I help you?” I ask him. “Are you looking for a book?”

  He nods, still staring at the floor.

  He does not like to hunt or hurt, he does not play in sand or dirt. . . .

  Dr. Seuss, speaking in my head. Must be a memory rising to the surface. “Do you want adventure, to escape to another world?” I ask the boy.

  The boy nods, his face lighting up.

  The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe falls sideways on one of the shelves right at the boy’s eye level. He picks up the book, looks at the picture on the cover, and smiles.

  I kneel in front of him. “It’s a wonderful story, and we have many more.”

  He smiles, and I see how much courage he gathered to come here. I see how the world appears to him—large and noisy and scary. He is afraid to look anyone in the eye. He’s so shy, he crosses to the other side of the street as soon as someone appears in the distance, walking toward him. He doesn’t ask for things. He goes without, so he won’t have to talk to anyone.

  “You can take the book,” I say. What am I doing? I’m not helping Auntie’s profits.

  He smiles as if I’ve handed him a million dollars. He rummages in his pocket, pulls out a wallet.

  I push his hand away. “This one is on me.”

  “Really?” His smile widens.

  “Hold on to your cash.”

  He is bursting with happiness as he heads for the door, a bounce in his step. His gaze angles a little upward now, not down toward the floor.

  In this moment, I don’t want to be anywhere else, doing anything else, even when a young w
oman wanders into the parlor, crying, and stands in front of the Grief and Recovery shelf.

  “Are you all right?” I ask. “Did you lose someone?”

  “How can you know that?”

  Good question. “I just figured. You look sad.”

  Tears slip from the corners of her eyes. She holds a paperback, Surviving Pet Loss. She wipes her cheeks, her lips trembling. “I’m Olivia.”

  “Jasmine. The book you’re holding—”

  “Pets this, pets that. He wasn’t my pet. He was my muse, my soul mate. I don’t know what I’ll do without him.” Her voice shakes. She needs something, anything to grasp on to. “I remember every detail. He used to wake me with a paw on my cheek. So gentle. He curled up in my lap and rested his chin on my wrist. He was the most magnificent, fluffy tabby. He used to squint up at me with such love and trust.” She sniffs, breaks into sobs.

  “You came to the right place.” My voice is thick with emotion.

  “Sometimes it’s nearly impossible to go on.” Olivia presses her hand to her chest. A tear hovers on her eyelash, catching the light. “When I remember he’s gone, my sweet little fur boy, it’s like someone is dropping a house on my heart. But nobody understands, because he wasn’t human.”

  “I’m so sorry. You’ll always miss him, but there will be hope.” I want to tell her I understand loss. The death of dreams, of shared daily habits, of comfort.

  “Thank you,” she says. “I hope you’re right.”

  My gaze is drawn to the shelves. A book glows in a direct shaft of sunlight. Just as the mango book was illuminated when Professor Avery came in. Only I ignored the light then.

  I pull out the book, a tattered hardcover with a drawing of a ragged-eared cat on the front. I hand the book to her.

  “The Fur Person, by May Sarton,” she reads softly. “My Taz was a fur person, too. In his eyes, I saw the soul of a little old man.” She reads the first page. “This cat lived with her years ago. They’re both long dead now.”

  “But he was alive once, experiencing the world,” I say. “Now, through her words, he’s immortal.”

  “I wish Taz could have lived forever. His playmate, Molly, misses him. She’s a calico cat.” Olivia is quiet a moment. “Do you have animals?” She looks at me sharply, as if my answer will be the measure of my soul.