Haunting Jasmine (5 page)
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.
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.”
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.
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