Haunting Jasmine (16 page)
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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 at 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.
“My ex-husband asked me to give up my home to him and his new girlfriend—”
“Ouch—that bites. Your ex is a dipstick.”
An expression from the past. But I like it. “Should I have said yes? I mean, am I selfish for trying to hold on to that place, or at least get the amount I deserve from the sale?” I’m talking half to myself, but Connor is listening intently.
“I’m sorry you’re losing a home that meant so much to you,” he says gently.
Suddenly I can hardly breathe. The tears are rising all over again. “And my sister is getting married. I spent all day with her and my mother, shopping for wedding saris.”
“A wedding. Wow. Sad occasion.”
I wipe my damp eyes. “I know weddings are supposed to be joyful, but I’m divorced. I guess I’m sad.”
“It’s okay to be sad. I’ve had many sad moments of my own.”
“Oh? Were you married?”
“Once, a long time ago. Seems like another life.”
“What happened? Were you divorced?”
He frowns briefly. “She passed away.” His tone is tight, final.
“I’m sorry.”
He nods slightly, and I decide not to press. I pretend to pick lint off my shirt. “I’m a wreck. I must look awful.”
“No, you’re beautiful.” Somehow, when he says this, I feel beautiful, too. “I’ve been looking forward to seeing you all week.”
“I wasn’t sure you would come.” My fingers are trembling, my heart racing. My body is embarking on a journey of its own. I clasp my hands together in front of me. “I should go upstairs and change—”
“I don’t want to let you out of my sight.”
I blush. “Um, okay. What do you want to do?”
He rubs his finger across his eyebrow, his trademark move when he’s stumped or thinking. “How about a tour of the house? This place is historic. Drafts and all. Then I could make you dinner.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to.”
“Okay, a tour.” I try to remember what Auntie told me about the house, over the years, in bits and pieces. “Originally, I think this place belonged to the Walker Timber Company. But that was a century ago.”
He presses his large hand to the ornate banister. “The elegant construction, it’s—”
“Queen Anne style. The Walker family sold the place in the early nineteen hundreds, I think, when the timber industry went downhill. The house passed through maybe two other owners—I’m not sure—before my aunt and uncle bought it thirty years ago. They renovated the rooms together. My uncle died nearly a decade ago. Heart attack.”
“I’m sorry—your aunt must miss him.”
Uncle Sanjoy’s kind, round face pops into my mind—his paunch, his perpetually watery eyes. “I miss him, too. He was kind to her. The bookstore was her dream. He was in business. They didn’t actually live in this house together. They had a place a few blocks away. She moved in here after he died.”
“She never remarried?”
I shake my head.
“She must be lonely.”
“She has customers and friends and my parents and Tony. But now she’s getting older, and she’s not well. She went to India for a heart operation.”
“You must be worried about her.”
“I am, but she just called to tell me she’s okay.” I exhale with relief. “There’s something else she’s not telling me. I can only hope she comes back safe and sound. She loves this old dusty bookstore.”
“I don’t blame her. The place has charm.”
Charm. Maybe it does, a little. “Um, come with me. I’ll show you the rest of the house.”
I lead him through the rooms, pointing out the old fireplaces, wallpaper, the wainscoting, showing him the different sections of the bookstore.
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