Invisible Lives (6 page)

“H
ow are your parents?” I say in the car on the way back to the shop.

“My ma’s great, taking singing and yoga classes.” Mitra drives with unusual caution, staying in her lane.

“Your dad?”

“What about him? He’s a jerk.” Her eyes brighten, and she blinks rapidly.

“I saw him. I think he may be ill.”

She sniffs and turns up the radio to a blaring volume.

I turn it down again. “Talk to me, girl. Don’t keep this from me.”

“I didn’t want to tell you, because, you know.” Her fingers grip the steering wheel, and she slams on the brake, nearly running a red light. Speckles of rain hit the windshield.

“Because my father died? That was a long time ago, Mitra.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” At the green light, she turns left around the lake, not waiting for oncoming traffic. An angry motorist beeps his horn and gives Mitra the finger. She gives him the finger back.

“You haven’t seen him lately, have you?” I say as she parks at the curb in front of the shop. “Not in four years.”

She shakes her head, her hands still gripping the steering wheel. “I talk to Mom. My sister’s staying there now.”

“Why can’t you go and see him?”

She turns to me, her face an open wound. “Don’t you remember? He disowned me. I told him I wasn’t going to medical school, that I was going to teach dance and perform full-time, that I was going to try to make it as an artist, and you know what he said? He said he didn’t have a daughter anymore. He wouldn’t talk to me, return my calls. Nothing!”

I hug her, her strong, wiry body rigid with anger. “Mitra, he can’t help it. He’s just who he is. He loves you. He loves your dancing. I saw it in his eyes. I felt it.”

“No, you don’t know. In Indian families love is conditional, Lakshmi. Kids have been ostracized, kicked out of families, totally disowned for all kinds of reasons.”

“I know, but you have to be brave. You have to trust.”

Tears run down her face now, and her nose is red. “I should’ve expected what I got. That he would hate me.”

“He doesn’t hate you. I think he’s…sad. I think he misses you. I think he wants to put all this aside—”

“Oh, stop it! How can you possibly know that, Lakshmi? You’re not there. He doesn’t want to talk to me ever again. To him, I don’t exist.”

I give her a squeeze, then open the door. “I’m sorry, Mitra. Remember, family is the most important thing. I’m sure he knows that. Why don’t you invite him to your next performance? The one at the Studio Theater? I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to come.”

“No, he won’t.”

“Think about it. Please.”

She sighs but says nothing.

When I get out of the car, she screeches away, leaving a trail of white exhaust in her wake. But the image of the yellow costume remains, and I know what I have to do. I go inside to find a similar fabric, and then I pull Mitra’s measurements from our files and put a call in to the seamstress.

The rest of the afternoon, I can’t concentrate. My mind whirls with images from the minds of my friends and customers, and at home that evening, Ma chatters about our upcoming trip to India, and I nod and murmur at all the right moments.

At supper, she presses a hand to my forehead. “You’re flushed. Do you have a fever?” I deny it, say I had a long day.

“You mustn’t be sick in India, Bibu, makes your face look blotchy and pasty.”

“I’m fine, Ma.” Just heavy with the weight of my friends’ problems.

“You must eat only good foods before we go, and not all the time the coffee in the mornings.”

“I love coffee, Ma.”

“We must take only the best saris for you—”

“We have plenty of saris.”

“And not all the time doing the Jane Fonda–type aerobics and walking everywhere. You’ll become too thin.”

“Jane Fonda is so eighties, Ma. I love walking to work.”

“Then eat more sweets and pastries and such to balance it out.” She goes on about my teeth, about my speech patterns. “Try to have a bit of Bengali accent, nah? Then he’ll know you have not completely lost the language.”

I rub Ma’s arm. “You know I haven’t. You know I love you more than anything.”

She touches my cheek. “I know, Bibu. Your father is gazing upon us from the heavens and smiling. Finally, smiling. I can feel his happiness.”

“Yes, Ma.”

After supper, I find a new email message from Ravi Ganguli:

He includes a photograph of himself in a Seattle Mariners T-shirt and jeans, his hair tousled, arms around two other men, one blond, the other red-haired. They’re young, maybe twenty, laughing, their faces flushed, a field of grass and pine trees stretching behind them. A strip of ocean glints in the background. Ravi’s lean face is open and accessible. Handsome. A man I want to know. His Indianness remains an unchanging, timeless glow emanating from him. And yet, he fits in smoothly in the American scene. I want to be there in that picture, in the past with him.

I send a wistful reply asking if he’s ever ridden the elevator up the Space Needle to Seattle’s highest lookout, whether he likes the ferry, the fish-throwers in Pike Place Market. I sign the note,
With anticipation, Lakshmi Sen.

There’s a note from Pooja, giving the time and place of her wedding rehearsal next weekend. I nearly forgot!
Maybe I should marry Asha Rao’s driver instead,
she jokes, adding a smiley face to her message. She signs,
Your cold-footed friend, Pooja.

I send her a pep talk and take the golden ring and Nick Dunbar’s business card from my purse. I have a crazy idea. I flip open my cell phone and punch in his number. My heartbeat picks up. At nine o’clock, I’ll probably get his answering service, but I’m surprised when his deep, male voice comes on the line. “Dunbar Limousine.”

“Is this Mr. Dunbar?” Of course it is. No mistaking that voice.

“That’s me. Can I help you?”

“This is Lakshmi, from the sari shop. Remember me? You fixed our sink?” My voice trembles oddly.

“Hey, Lakshmi, what can I do for you?” I hear a radio or television in the background, people cheering on a sports channel. “Did you find out who lost the ring?”

“No, not yet! Um, I’d like to hire you, actually. If you have a little free time with all the driving you’re doing for Asha Rao.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“I want to surprise a friend. I want you to drive her in style—her and me, actually—to a very special event.”

“T
his small golden kurta will be perfect for your baby girl!” I tell a new mother the next day at work. She’s holding a pudgy, rosy-cheeked toddler on her hip. Cotton-puffs of pure bliss float from the child as she plays with her mother’s long braid.

“For Diwali celebration, it’s not too bright? Not too heavy?” The mother runs the fabric between her fingers.

“Very soft, perfect for a baby’s skin,” I say. “And not too bright for Diwali.” The Indian festival of lights, to celebrate the New Year, is always a spectacular winter event, complete with parties, dances, and recitals.

Ma comes at me in a breathless jog. “Asha just called. You must take the fabric samples to her on the set today. She hasn’t time to come to the shop. They’re filming in a house in Queen Anne. Have you gathered the fabrics? She wants only silk!”

“I had all kinds of fabric ready,” I say.

“Only silk.”

The baby giggles, pulling her mother’s hair.

“I’ll have to take your car,” I say. “I walked again today.”

“No need. Asha’s sending a car.” Ma glances at her watch. “Work quickly.”

“She’s sending a car?” I glance down at my brown, frumpy shirt, at my baggy jeans.

“It’s already on the way.”

“Here, Ma. Can you help with this Diwali costume?” I hand her the golden kurta.

“Oh, what a lovely child!” Ma exclaims.

I duck away, tuck back a few strands of stray hair. I don’t even have time to apply lipstick. I have time only to stuff a variety of fabric samples into a large, flat briefcase before Nick strides in wearing a dark gray suit over an open-collared white shirt, his longish blond hair slicked back and damp, as if he’s just washed it. The
knowing
spirals away, deflating like an unlucky balloon.

All eyes turn—maybe the customers expect Asha Rao, but then I realize it’s not Asha they’re looking at but Nick. Is he the one stealing the
knowing
? Even the baby gives him a dimply, toothless smile.

“Lakshmi, are you ready to go?” Ma asks in an anxious voice.

“The car’s right outside,” Nick says in a smooth, professional tone.

I stuff the last of the fabrics into the briefcase, grab my jacket, and follow him out to the car. He drove a white limousine today, not black, and he opens the passenger-side door for me.

“I’m sitting beside you?” I ask.

“Easier to talk,” he says.

I hesitate, then slide into the front seat next to him. I put the briefcase on the seat between us, and yet Nick’s presence takes up the whole car.

He reaches over to pull the shoulder belt across my lap, his arm barely brushing my breast, and in that instant, time stops. Then he clicks the seat belt into place, sits back in the driver’s seat, and pulls smoothly into the road.

“So you keeping the big pickup a secret from your friend Pooka?” he asks.

“Pooja,” I say. “I don’t want her to know, so don’t say anything.”

“My lips are sealed.”

“Thanks so much for doing this—and for giving me a discount.”

“Hey—I don’t do this just for the money.” He switches on the radio and whistles softly to “I Can See Clearly Now.” He has perfect pitch.

“I never learned to whistle,” I say. Where did that come from?

“I’ve heard you humming in the store,” Nick says.

“Me, humming?” I blush. “I guess I’ve been too busy to notice.”

“Have you always worked there?”

“Not always—after my father died, my mother couldn’t bear to stay at her job. That was twenty years ago. So she opened the shop.”

“You were just a kid.”

“Yeah—I hung around the shop after school. My parents had both been teaching at South Cascade University. My father was a scholar, an editor of sacred Sanskrit texts. My mother has a master’s in design. Baba left us some money, and so she started the business by herself. She’s always been somewhat adventurous, trying new things. She took flute lessons for a while, then rappelling, if you can believe it.”

Why am I divulging so much? Maybe the lull of the car, Nick’s casual driving style, the warmth and comfort of the air are functioning like a truth serum to get me to talk.

“Cool lady, your mom,” he says. “I’m sorry about your dad. Looks as though you’re doing pretty well for yourself now.”

“We’re doing great,” I lie. “But I haven’t always worked at the shop. I took time off to get my business degree at the UW, and I even worked in New York for three years.”

“What brought you back?”

Ma’s business was faltering. Sean and I broke up.
“I missed my friends.” That much is true. “Now I own half the store.” I’ve already given far too much information to this driver. “So have you always driven a limousine?”

“Drove professionally for a while. Raced, gave it up while the money was good.”

“You raced? Isn’t that dangerous? Like a big adrenaline rush or death wish or something?”

“A bit of both. I got to know where all the best tracks are, where you can get your car driving sideways along a wall.”

“I can’t imagine driving sideways.” I shiver. “I’d be afraid of flipping over.”

“You feel the fear, and you go with the rush. But…I got older. I’m thirty-three now, an old man.” He laughs.

“Do you do this all day, every day? Driving people like Asha Rao? Celebrities and such?”

“Hell no. There’s more to life. Good food, sleep, a good workout. Baseball, football. Sex.”

I bite my lip and pretend to look out the window, at the freeway rushing by, Seattle high-rises growing closer. “Tell me about your tattoos,” I say quickly, to change the subject. “Where did you get them?”

“Oh, you noticed them, eh? Osaka. I was on liberty, a long time ago. Can’t you tell? My hair is long. Guys who had to wear their hair short always rebel and grow it long when they get out.”

He’d look great in a uniform. Good in a suit, in jeans. He’s a driver, I remind myself. Like rickshawallas or family chauffeurs. He’s not even Indian.

“Why would you want to permanently deface your skin?” I ask. “Tattoos never come off, you know.”

“Yeah, I thought about that. What if I’m a different person ten years from now? Lucky I didn’t put a girlfriend’s name on my arm.”

I clear my throat. “So you have a girlfriend?” I ask politely.

“On and off. Her name is Liz. My mom keeps pushing me to tie the knot, but I’m not quite ready for that.”

A memory stings me—of Sean saying exactly the same thing.
Not quite ready to tie the knot.
“So you have family around here?”

“My parents are still in Port Westwood, out near Port Gamble, Port Townsend, that area. They’re retired, traveling all the time. Mother was a teacher, and a master gardener! My father’s a businessman. Started Dunbar Limousine. I’m the eldest. I have two brothers and a sister. Youngest brother’s a lawyer, sister’s a teacher. My other brother and I run the business.”

“It must be nice to have such a large immediate family,” I say wistfully. “I’ve always wished for a sister or a brother, to take some of the burden off me. I feel such a tremendous responsibility to my mother, you know? She’s lonely, and she puts all her energy into this man she found for me—”

“What man?” Nick gives me a sharp look as he exits the freeway in downtown Seattle.

“He’s in India. We’re going there in two weeks so I can meet him. We were planning to stay a while, but now that Asha has hired us, we’re going for only a week. Can you imagine, going all the way around the world for only a week? I have a lot to do before we leave, and Pooja and Mr. Basu will have to hold down the fort while we’re gone.”

“Why do you have to go to India to meet a man? No men good enough for you here?” He’s joking, but he sounds half-serious.

“I’ve gone out with a lot of different men,” I say. “I guess I’m looking to settle down too. With the right guy.”

The car climbs the hill into Queen Anne. “How will you know if he’s the right one?”

I fall silent. That’s a good question. Will pretty Valentine’s Day hearts pop out of me? Out of Ravi? “Our parents matched us up using bio-data from our portfolios.”

“What the hell is a bio-data portfolio?” Nick turns into an upscale residential district. “Is that like match.com?”

“Sort of—but we’re matched up based on several criteria such as education, age, background.”

“And that leads to true love.” Nick’s voice has a faint sour edge.

“I don’t know. It might,” I say curtly.

“We’re here.” He parks in front of a large, gray, pretentious, box-style home with ornate windows. Several trucks are parked along the curb, and a Seattle’s Best coffee cart is set up at the foot of the driveway.

I sit motionless, suddenly seized by unease. “This is a movie set?” I ask. There is no stage, no lighting system, only men and women in jeans and T-shirts milling about, carrying electronic equipment up and down the steps. A few other people stand around doing nothing.

“Most of the time it’s a waiting game,” Nick says. “They spend half the day just setting up the lighting. Come on, I’ll take you in.” He carries my briefcase and leads me upstairs into the house, and I nearly trip over several cords. Cameras are set up on wheels in the hallway, and a slim woman in a black suit is talking excitedly with a tall, handsome blond man with a heavily made-up face. He’s holding a script in his hands and listening to her intently.

There’s a vibrant sense of camaraderie and excitement here, as people mill about directing each other and adjusting lights on an ornate living room scene.

I feel insubstantial in the chaos, like a puff of floating dust.

“Who’s that blond man?” I whisper to Nick.

“He’s Asha’s leading man. They don’t get along too well—she’s down the hall, trying to stay away from him.”

“And she has to pretend she’s in love with him in the movie, right?”

Nick nods. “It’s a hoot to watch them. On the set, they’re in love, and off the set, they’re at each other’s throats.”

The true lives of movie stars, invisible when the camera is rolling.

I follow Nick down the hall to a room filled with an elaborate display of catered finger foods, sandwiches, and drinks. Asha’s sitting on a plush red couch, dressed in a white, revealing sari, the
choli
shirt so short that her entire midriff shows. She has her broken leg propped up on a stool. Her makeup adds a whole new layer to her face, a nearly clownlike, exaggerated flair. A diminutive woman with a severe hairstyle sits at a desk next to her.

“Blast these lines!” Asha shouts, holding her script. “How long do we have to wait to film again?”

“They’re still working on the lights in the sitting room,” the petite woman says with an English accent.

“Ah, Lakshmi!” Asha gives me a brilliant smile, glinting white teeth, and makes an expansive gesture. “Do sit down and put the samples here on the table. I haven’t much time.”

I turn to find Nick gone. Surprisingly, I feel adrift without him. The
knowing
floats back into me in faint images—Asha wanting to slap her leading man. Her English assistant wanting lunch.

Here’s my chance. I open the briefcase on the table. In my frumpy getup, I look plain next to Asha. Her assistant watches me in silence. There’s a lot of shouting and moving of heavy objects going on down the hall. I want to be there, watching and listening.

Asha thumbs through the fabric samples with a distracted air. “For my assistant Ella here, what do you recommend? Where are the chiffons?”

“You told me to bring only silk,” I say. “I chose our best patterns.”

The diminutive woman clears her throat.

“She might look good in this,” I say as I produce a thin, tightly woven off-white piece with a matte texture.

“Chiffon is slimming,” Asha says. “Try chiffon.”

“I brought only the silks,” I say again, my heart pounding. I unroll the fabrics on the table, on the carpet, and Asha examines them all, asking questions about the slimming effects of the colors, how they’ll go with other colors. Ella disappears and returns with tea, and a bearded man pops his head in. “About twenty minutes, Ms. Rao, okay?”

“You people are far too slow!” Asha waves a jewel-beringed hand, and the bangles on her wrist make a tinkling sound. The man disappears.

“I’m stuck here with a group of lazy imbeciles who accomplish nothing all day,” Asha says, rolling her eyes at me. “I’m sure you understand.”

I give her a weak smile. “So, the fabrics—”

“I like these, but I was rather hoping for the chiffons—”

“Those are for more casual occasions—”

“Well, I want to see them,” she says and laughs. “You’ll go back and gather some of the other materials.”

“Today? But—”

“I’ll come by your shop. I have to practice my lines now. We’ve spent far too much time on this, and besides, Vijay should be with me to select the fabric and put in his share of the work. I have to prepare for the scene in which my American lover introduces me to his family. Can you imagine, we’re preparing a whole day for this five-minute scene?”