Invisible Lives

by Anjali Banerjee

  Eighteen

  When I get home, the house feels different—older and creakier, wiser and darker. Nick drove me in silence, a mountain of ice between us. A lump grows in my throat as I watch him drive away. The knowing slips back into me and curls up in the corner of my mind.

  This house is no longer the innocent abode of my mother and me. We both have secrets. The images of Ma and Mr. Basu hide in the corners. And I see the shadow of Nick. His kiss lingers on my lips, a ghost.

  On the couch, the cats dream their secret dreams. I won’t sleep so easily. I’ll toss and throw the covers into a Kama Sutra tangle. But I fall into a dreamless slumber.

  Sunday evening, Ma is home, reading the newspaper and sipping tea at the dining table. The setting sun reveals streaks of gold in her graying hair. She’s in her usual kurta and slippers, yet she looks not like my mother but like a woman with an invisible life.

  “How was your weekend?” she asks. Out-of-focus baubles of happiness play in her mind.

  “Fine. The usual.” I avoid her gaze. I didn’t tell her about my visit with Nick and his family. She doesn’t know that I can be as wild as she is. As deceptive.

  “You watched some movies last night, nah?” She opens the afternoon newspaper.

  “Yes, a movie, Ma. It was about a woman who pretended to be a virgin but who was actually sleeping with some guy she worked with.”

  “Why on earth would she pretend? Was she married?” Ma peruses the Life & Arts section.

  “She had been married once and had been deeply in love, in fact. She even had a child, who still missed the father, and, well, when the child found out—”

  “Sounds like the woman had quite a lot of fun.” Ma’s lips curl into a little secret smile. Why haven’t I noticed that smile before? Or perhaps I have, but I didn’t understand its true meaning.

  “Actually, the man was taking advantage of her. She was lonely and unsure of herself.”

  “Sounds like a strange movie.” She gives me a sharp look.

  “How was your weekend, Ma? How was Sonia’s?”

  Ma pretends to read, but I notice that a clothing ad takes up the whole page. “Lovely—the same as usual.”

  “How’s her arthritis? Her hands?”

  “Oh, paining her, paining her as usual.” Ma looks up at me, and the bright baubles come into focus. “Everyone is so thrilled for you. They’re all saying how happy they are that Ravi Ganguli has shown such interest, which is of course not at all surprising.”

  “Not at all.” I scrape my chair back and go to my room.

  Nineteen

  Monday morning, the shop looks different—brighter, awash with ancestral secrets hidden in the folds of a million saris. The erotic rush of Nick still simmers in my subconscious. Do you believe in love at first sight?

  I remember Nick’s face as he dropped me off and waited for me to go inside my house. I peered past the curtain and saw him standing there. He stayed there a minute before getting into his car and leaving.

  I worked up my nerve to confront Mr. Basu, but he’s out with the flu. After his wild night seducing my mother!

  No matter. Today I visit Chelsea’s sister, Lillian. She lives in a modest, blue Cape Cod–style split-level in northeast Seattle. The house is newly painted, and a few large Japanese maples stand in the manicured front yard.

  She invites me into her living room, furnished sparsely in soft, pastel colors. Her hair is coiffed, her white blouse and tan slacks perfectly laundered and pressed. An errant, straight hair falls over her forehead. She gives me a brave, weary smile and directs me to a couch. And there, on the carpet, sitting cross-legged and playing with Legos, is the boy I saw in her mind. In person, he’s smaller, maybe only four years old. His hair looks finer, like strands of golden silk from a sari.

  “This is Jeremy,” she says.

  “He’s beautiful. Hi, Jeremy!”

  He doesn’t reply, doesn’t look up even when the briefcase slips from my hand and lands with a thud. I quickly pick it up.

  “How do you like your new house?” I ask him.

  “He won’t talk to you,” Lillian says.

  He rocks gently back and forth, intent on the intricate fortress he’s building from black and blue Lego pieces.

  “That’s a cool house, Jeremy,” I say.

  No answer.

  “He’s not very social,” Lillian says.

  “Oh. That’s okay. I’m not a huge talker either.” Disturbed, I sit on the couch and cross my legs, hoist the briefcase onto the coffee table. A wall of red bricks rises from Jeremy’s mind. He’s spent his life building that wall, brick by brick, against the unbearable chaos of life outside. He’ll do anything to keep that frightening world at bay.

  “I see you’re still moving in.” I point at the stack of boxes sitting unopened in the corner.

  “I’m so busy with Jeremy,” she says. “He’s still getting used to the layout of the rooms, the noise. Too much traffic here. He doesn’t like the sound of motorcycles. My husband got the house after our divorce. I couldn’t afford to keep it.”

  “I’m sorry.” A cacophony of disjointed images rushes at me—her wedding to a muscular jock, his bewilderment when their son didn’t start talking. The slow decay of the marriage. She’s put up two pictures of her son on a shelf near the TV.

  She sits across from me in an armchair and rubs the palms of her hands together. Her fingernails are bitten to the quick.

  I put the briefcase on the table, glance at the large, blank windows overlooking a fenced yard with a swing set.

  “You’ll want to let the light in,” I say. “And go with a soft color. I brought some samples you can hold up to the window, if you like.”

  “Thank you so much for coming,” she says. “Can I get you some tea? I’ve got some Earl Grey steeping.”

  “Very kind of you. I’ll have a cup.”

  While she’s in the kitchen, I kneel next to Jeremy and watch him building his dream structure. His mind is still a wall, the world outside like a dense mass of unlabeled wires.

  “Jeremy, you’re going to be all right here,” I tell him. He has shut me out, but I catch a glimpse through a crack in the bricks. Inside him lies a heavenly room in smooth blue. Breaths of cartoon cloud blow across that sky.

  Lillian returns with tea. “He could read at two, you know. He did arithmetic at three. But no conversations. He didn’t say his own name.”

  “An unusually bright child.”

  “That’s what I thought. To me, he is brilliant. But not to the doctors. He doesn’t respond appropriately in social situations, so…you’ll have to excuse him if he does anything unusual.”

  “What’s appropriate?” I say. “It’s all relative.”

  “We have him in two special programs. I should say, I have him in the programs.” Her fingers tremble, and her cup clatters noisily onto the saucer.

  Still Jeremy doesn’t look up.

  “You’re very busy and tired,” I say. “I hope you’re not doing all this alone, taking care of him.”

  “Oh, no. I have a support group, my mother, my sister, friends. But still—”

  “Jeremy’s father?”

  “He didn’t want to have much to do with us when he realized he couldn’t play catch or roughhouse without making Jeremy scream—”

  “Lillian—I have a good feeling. You’re strong, and—”

  That’s when the motorcycle roars by, the engine noise reverberating through the house. Jeremy covers his ears and lets out a pure animal screech. The sound terrifies me, and it goes on and on, not stopping as he rocks back and forth, screaming and screaming.

  I put my tea on the coffee table. I should leave—I don’t belong in this family moment. But I can’t go.

  Lillian takes Jeremy’s hand and whisks him down the hall, into another room, slamming the door. I’m in the empty living room alone, the Legos strewn across the carpet. I pace, my fingers curled into fists. Why am I here? Why did I feel compelled to brin
g the shop to Lillian’s house if I can’t help?

  The screaming waxes and wanes, and I hear Lillian’s voice in between, soothing in a practiced, weary way. Damn her husband, damn fate, I’m thinking. A beautiful boy, so sensitive, thrown into life without a buffer to help him make sense of the world.

  I grab my samples and stuff them back into the briefcase, and then I see it. The sky-blue cotton sari with puffs of candy-cotton cloud. How did that get into the briefcase? I tiptoe down the hall and knock on the bedroom door.

  The screaming has died down to a rhythmic moaning. “Come in,” Lillian says. “I’m so sorry about this. Usually our neighbor with the motorcycle has left for work by now.”

  “I’m sorry for intruding.” I step into the semidarkness.

  Jeremy’s room isn’t what he wants. It’s pale green with a yellow border. His comforter is green too.

  “Blue,” I say. “He needs a blue room. Blue like the sky.”

  She gives me a curious look. “How did you know about the sky-room?”

  “I—”

  “The only words he says often are ‘sky room.’ When he looks up at the sky. How did you know that?”

  “I didn’t. He looks like a boy who enjoys a clear day.”

  He’s still moaning, rocking back and forth on the bed.

  “Jeremy, I have a present for you,” I say. “I know it was your birthday recently. You got some presents from your aunt Chelsea and other people, and I have one for you today.”

  Lillian gives me a questioning look.

  I place the sari gently on the bed in front of Jeremy. The moaning instantly stops, and he stares at the sari as if watching a fantastic, private circus. He’s quiet and still, floating away in his sky-room.

  Twenty

  Tuesday morning, Mr. Basu is still out sick. I wonder if he caught a chill in Vancouver. While I’m unfurling new saris, a disheveled woman bursts into the shop, her thoughts like tiny wild animals darting into shadows. She’s wearing jeans and a Seattle T-shirt underneath a windbreaker, and she’s carrying a suitcase, her long, black hair a windswept mess.

  “Ms. Lakshmi?” She runs over to me, the suitcase banging against her leg. Her voice drops to a whisper. “You told me I could talk to you whenever I need help. I need to talk to you right away.”

  “Sita! I hardly recognized you! Are you all right? Where’s your mother?”

  A runaway look lives in her eyes. “Ma’s at home. I’ve left.”

  “You’ve left?” I drop my voice to a whisper.

  “Everything I own. Everything I need is here.” She glances at the suitcase.

  “Come, we can walk to Cedarlake Café.” I give Ma the signal that I’m taking a break and hurry Sita to the café. The smells of scones and freshly brewed coffee fill the air, and a thin strain of Bob Dylan croons in the background. Marcus winks at me, but I’m in no mood to flirt. We order drinks—Sita tea and me a double latte—and sit at a couch away from the window.

  “What’s going on, Sita?” I ask. “Did you fight with your parents?”

  Marcus glances over with curiosity.

  Sita grips the teacup as if it might fly away. Her thoughts scream out in a jumble of nerves. “My bedroom at home, you know, has a silk bedspread and photos of all my cousins on the dresser.”

  “Sita—”

  “The wedding is…was to be in Mumbai.” Her fingers tremble so much that the liquid sloshes from the cup. “Please don’t tell anyone. Don’t tell my parents. I’m twenty-three. I’m not a minor.”

  “Tell them what? Are you in…trouble?”

  She bites her lip. Why can’t I see into her mind? Has Nick’s influence spilled over into my everyday life?

  Her glance flits around the room. She’s in flux, her thoughts shifting in currents. “I’ve decided not to marry Kishor. My parents won’t listen.”

  “You’re nervous about the wedding.”

  “When I think of living with him in India, I feel sick.” She stares out the window at a vision out of reach.

  “Sita.” I try to take her hand, but it’s securely fastened to the teacup. “Don’t you want a huge wedding? Your parents will worry about you. Families have fights, but they always reconcile. Maybe you just need a little time.”

  “I’ve had all the time in the world.” Her thoughts gather and she sits straighter, taking a deep breath. “Don’t you see? I never wanted to marry him. I’ve done what I was supposed to do all my life. I can’t go back.” Tears spill from her eyes. “But where do I go?”

  “Sita—it’s okay.” I put my arms around her, feel her body trembling. “What about going back to your parents for now?”

  I’ve done what I was supposed to do all my life.

  She draws away. “You don’t understand. They want this match more than anything. I need a place to go for a while.”

  I sit back, overwhelmed. She’s just turned on to a highway with no signs, and I can’t show her the way. “Look, why don’t we try to talk to your parents—”

  “I can’t go back, not now.”

  “Okay, look. We’ll figure out something. I’ll be right back. Stay here.”

  I run next door, take Ma into the back room, and explain the situation. For now, her episode with Mr. Basu recedes. Surely with her own clandestine activities, she’ll understand Sita.

  Ma’s lips purse into a tight line, and her face goes hard. “Does she think she can just run off?”

  “She wants to pursue her own dreams.” There, where did that come from?

  “Her poor mother must be in shock,” Ma says. “And her father—I can’t even begin to imagine.”

  “Ma, she needs a place to go.”

  “I won’t have that girl under my roof.”

  “Just until things settle down—”

  “These things don’t settle down, Bibu. They only become worse.” A shadow falls over Ma’s happy thoughts.

  “She’s distraught, Ma. What about her feelings, about what she wants?”

  “I’m sure the family took all that into account, but by leaving this way she has disgraced her parents and left them in quite a fix. They’ve invited hundreds of guests to the wedding.”

  “What does the wedding matter if she doesn’t love the man?” I yell, then cover my mouth. “I didn’t mean to shout.”

  “I will not tolerate a runaway bride in my home. Do what you like, Bibu. There will be no Sita in our house.”

  “All right, Ma, I’ll figure out something else.”

  “The best you can do for her is take her home.” She lifts her sari and rushes back into the store.

  Fifteen minutes later, Mitra, Sita, and I are in Mitra’s car heading into town, Sita in the backseat. She leans against the headrest, and a great blanket of fatigue emanates from her mind.

  “You can sleep in my room, honey!” Mitra shouts. “I’ll take the couch!” The car careens over two lanes of traffic, and Sita jolts upright, suddenly alert.

  “Mitra, you’ll get us all killed,” I say, but my heart isn’t in it.

  We make it to her apartment intact. She still lives as if in a college dorm, the arrangement of furniture haphazard. Mitra leaves bras thrown over chairs, woven wool blankets draped over the back of the couch.

  “I sleep in on weekends,” Mitra announces, taking Sita’s suitcase to the bedroom. “And I snore through anything. So don’t worry about waking me up.”

  “You are too kind, Ms. Mehta,” Sita says.

  “Oh, call me Mitra!” She comes close to me and whispers, “My father is coming to my dance performance!”

  I smile and squeeze her arm.

  “Shouldn’t we call your parents, Sita?” I say. “Just to put their minds at ease?”

  “I don’t want to talk to them.” But she writes the number on a slip of paper and hands it to me, her fingers trembling.

  My heart pounds as I punch in the numbers.

  “Hallo?” a hollow male voice answers.

  “Mr. Dutta? This is Lakshmi Sen, from
the sari shop?”

  “Yes?”

  “I want you to know that your daughter, Sita, came to me, and she’s staying with my friend Mitra for a while—”

  “She is all right? I’ve been so worried! Where is she?”

  “She’s fine, a bit confused.” I glance at Sita and mouth the words, “Your father.” She nods and lets out a breath.

  Then I hear a scrambling, and her mother screeches on the line. “This is Mrs. Dutta. Who is this and what do you want?”

  I repeat what I told Sita’s father.

  “I don’t know of whom you speak,” Mrs. Dutta says in a cold voice.

  “Sita, your daughter.”

  “What daughter? I once had a daughter, but—”

  “Mrs. Dutta, she’s really upset.”

  “I don’t have a daughter. Don’t call here again.” Mrs. Dutta hangs up.

  Twenty-one

  I’m reeling when I return to the shop. I left Sita crying, while Mitra tried to comfort her with soothing words and tea. I have to pretend that all’s well. I have to hope that Mrs. Dutta is just having a bad day and that she’ll come around, but I have doubts.

  I don’t have a daughter.

  I’m hoping to hide in the office for a while, but as soon as I open the door, I know that Nick is here. Huge sparkling bubbles hover in the air. I swat them away, but oh, how he looks in a pressed black suit, and I’m instantly jealous of Asha, who gets to be with him all day.

  She’s brought a group of friends, and Ma and Pooja are beside themselves. They don’t even notice Nick pull me aside and whisper in my ear. “Lakshmi, I’ve missed you,” he says.

  “Nick, not here.” I look straight ahead, pretend to arrange some scarves.

  “Why not here?”

  I don’t have a daughter.

  “All right,” he says. “I just want you to know. I want to keep seeing you.”

  My face heats, and Ma glances my way. I deliberately drop a scarf and bend to pick it up, my face hidden by the rows of clothing. When I stand, I turn to face the shelves of saris along the wall. “Nick, don’t talk about this now.”