Invisible Lives (7 page)

“I didn’t realize!”

“Shooting a film is all about preparation,” Asha says. “One must be patient, but I haven’t an ounce of patience left in my bones.”

“Of course, that’s understandable.”

“Is it? And they give us the most bland food—this salmon pâté and Northwest chocolates. And biscuits. I need some spice, something to sting the tongue! Ugh, what a bore.”

“I could see about arranging—”

“Nah, nah. This is not your concern.”

I start to gather up the samples, and I realize that Asha could dismiss them all with the wave of her magic hand. She could order a feast for a hundred people, then send it to the garbage with a sneer, and nobody would complain.

I know that these silks will work, but she doesn’t believe me, and really, my
knowing
is not what she wants. Asha is beautiful, talented, and slivers of honesty and generosity glimmer inside her, but she lacks…sensitivity. She looks at people and sees nothing but the reflection of herself. She doesn’t see the real Ella, hidden behind her competence, trapped inside the gray business suit. Ella admires Asha with a deep, respectful reverence. And Asha has no idea. She will keep yelling at Ella, abusing her, and she will never know.

Frustration rises inside me. Ella helps Asha move from the couch to her wheelchair, then pushes her out of the room without a word, leaving me to gather up my fabric samples. I’m muttering angrily to myself when I notice Nick standing in the doorway.

“How long have you been here?” I ask.

“Long enough.” There’s a smile in his eyes. “Come on, I’ll take you back to the shop.”

For once, I’m grateful for the lack of
knowing
when I’m around Nick. I can hide in a blissfully quiet room of my own.

In the car, I throw the briefcase onto the seat, lean back, and close my eyes. The limousine is a lullaby.

“Have a good visit?” he asks, pulling out into traffic.

“I didn’t realize how difficult it can be to work for Asha.”

“She’s demanding,” he says, driving down through a dense neighborhood of Victorians and Craftsman-style bungalows. “But don’t let it get to you.”

“I put together all these samples, and she dismissed the whole lot. She asked for silk and then acted as if she didn’t!”

“That’s Asha. She changes with any shift in the wind,” Nick says. “Hell, she’s dismissed all her assistants when she doesn’t like them.”

“She does?” I cast him a worried look. “What about Ella?”

“She’d fire her in a heartbeat.”

“Poor Ella. She really admires Asha.”

“I admire you. I’d like to see you again.”

I’m flaming red. “That won’t be possible. I told you—I’m going to India.”

“Maybe you don’t have to go all that way.”

I cross my arms over my chest. This man is annoying, and far too forward. When we get back, I thank him quickly and dash back into the store, my legs trembling. The
knowing
rushes back into me, but I find I’m longing for the comfort of Nick’s soundproof limousine.

T
he next morning, I kneel before the vibrant painting of Goddess Lakshmi mounted on my bedroom wall. A graceful woman with golden skin, four hands, and a beatific smile, she wears a gold-embroidered red sari and stands on a blooming lotus flower. Her all-knowing eyes observe every moment of my life and of Ma’s life too.

Ma prays to the Hindu deities in a private way, at an altar in her room, but she doesn’t know that I talk to Lakshmi, or
mata,
the mother goddess of prosperity, wealth, purity, and generosity. I ask mata for inner strength, for a sense of purpose, and renewed energy infuses me.

At work, I’m grateful for this extra fortification when a deeply troubled woman wanders into the shop. She’s wearing mauve lipstick, khaki slacks, and a black wool sweater, her sculpted features delicate and narrow.

“Are you looking for a sari?” I ask her.

Breaths of blue emptiness rush from her, revealing a new, half-empty bungalow, forlorn windows gazing in at her loneliness. Her past flits through the shadows—another house, bigger. A husband, a garden, friends on the patio.

“Are you Lakshmi?” she asks. Her eyes look familiar, the way she sighs when she gazes off to the left, the way her hair falls perfect and straight, like a wall.

“Do I know you?” I ask.

“My sister, Chelsea, owns the shop next door.”

“Oh, you’re Chelsea’s sister! Lillian, right? How can I help you?”

“She said you would give me a good deal,” she says in a voice as soft as lace. “I need curtains for my new house.”

Curtains, of course. So the windows won’t watch her with such pity. “I can help. You want sari fabric.” In America, saris have many uses. I lead her to the reams of fabric on shelves by the counter. “We have all types of silk and cotton patterns. Most are mass produced in the mills, and some are custom woven.”

“There are so many! I don’t know which to choose. I hear you’re really good at helping people find the right—”

“For you, maybe yellow roses, translucent, to let in the light.”

She runs her fingers along the silk. “I love this. I think it will go well with my couch.”

“Take a sample home, and if you like it, come back.”

“I’ll try, but I don’t get a lot of time to myself.” An image of a boy hurtles toward me. He’s creamy skinned, his fine hair the color of sunset, his delicate features long and narrow. He might be eight years old, or younger. His frame is slight, vulnerable, like a sand sculpture. He builds an invisible wall around himself, a buffer to keep out blaring voices, blinding colors with jagged edges. Nothing will penetrate his ramparts, an army of imaginary soldiers protecting him. He sits cross-legged, rocking back and forth, and Lillian’s insides squeeze with despair.

“What’s his name?” I ask her.

Startled, she steps back. “Who?”

“Your son—what’s his name? Chelsea told me you have a son.”

Her face softens. “Jeremy. He’s difficult, and…I’ve had a hard time getting through to him lately.” Her mind closes, desperation extinguishing the image of the boy.

How can I help her? An odd feeling comes to me, as if an invisible hook is pulling me out of the store, to Lillian’s house. “Let me come to your place,” I say. “I’ll bring some samples.”

“Really, it’s not necessary.”

“I insist. I can measure your windows. I know someone who can sew the curtains for you.”

“I don’t know, I—”

“It will be no problem for me. Really.”

“All right. How about next week?”

I nod and take down her address. As she leaves, I wonder what I’m getting myself into.

I spend the rest of the day working on Asha’s account and gathering fabric samples for Lillian. Just after noon, Mitra’s special Kathak costume arrives by UPS from the seamstress. It’s exactly what I envisioned. I call Mitra, and she arrives just before closing. I take her into the office and unfold the costume for her. The yellow shimmers, the paisley pattern just as I pictured it.

Mitra’s mouth opens in awe. “The costume—where did you get this pattern?” Tears slip down her cheeks. “This is exactly what I wore—”

“When you were little, on the beach, with your father.”

“But a much smaller version. How did you know? Can you see such things so clearly?”

“It was fuzzy at first, but I had a feeling. The images, they just came to me.”

“Oh, Lakshmi. But why?”

“Will you wear this to the dance performance? I know it will bring you good luck.”

“How do you know? How can it possibly?” Her hope spreads across the yellow Banarasi silk, sinking into the long choli shirt, slipping into the folds of the ghaghara, the flared skirt.

“Please trust me, Mitra. You have to invite your father. Will you promise? Before it’s too late.”

“Oh, Lakshmi.” She bursts into tears and wraps me in a tight, desperate hug.

N
ear closing time, Nick and Asha show up at the shop with a woman who can only be Asha’s sister. She has Asha’s eyes, but her body is slim, and her beauty lies in her smooth movements as she adjusts the strap of her handbag over her shoulder. She’s understated, dressed in jeans and a white blouse. Asha introduces her as Chitra, but the name dissolves and I’m aware only of Nick, who’s decked out in a perfect black suit today. Now I know why Pooja thinks he’s
cute.
A heavenly tailor must’ve measured every inch of muscle, and now the fabric drapes over his limbs in harmony with his stride. He gives me a slight, professional nod, the glint in his eye betraying our secret.

I barely register Asha in her navy blue sari, her face made up, her luminous eyes rimmed with kohl. Enormous gold earrings dangle from her ears.

“We must clothe Chitra for the wedding,” Asha announces. “Look at these jeans she’s always wearing!”

A flash of
knowing
makes a last-ditch attempt to warn me. Ravi Ganguli appears like a watery mirage, handsome and polished.
Don’t do it,
he says, and then the
knowing
spins away.

Don’t do what?

“Nick, take me to the jewelry, will you?” Asha says in a theatrical voice. “I must have only the best gold. I’m having some family heirlooms brought from Mumbai, but I must have more bangles.”

“Sanjay!” Ma screeches at Mr. Basu. “Show her only the good bangles, not the costume fashion jewelry you always show, nah?”

Mr. Basu reddens. “We have many fine bangles from Orissa,” he tells Asha.

“Vijay will come one day soon,” Asha says. “We must find a perfect kurta for him.”

“Bring him anytime,” Ma says, doing the sideways head nod.

Pooja waits on Chitra while Ma glides around, working the room. A strange buzzing fills my ears.

Nick glances at me and I quiver, inflating into a delicate balloon while he wheels Asha to the glass case of gold jewelry. “I meant to tell you, Bibu,” Ma whispers in my ear. “Ravi’s parents called this morning, after you left.” Her words blast me back to reality.

“That’s lovely, Ma. What did they say?”

“They’ve consulted the astrologer, and the auspicious date for you and Ravi may fall sooner than six months from now! That is, if you and Ravi get on.”

“That’s wonderful, Ma!” a part of me says. Another part of me is watching Asha and Nick.

“I am so happy I can barely contain myself. This was all meant to happen. I have never been more hopeful in my life.”

“Ma—” I take her warm hand, see the brightness of tears in her eyes, and my heart turns upside down.

Asha summons her sister to the saris.

This is my forte, finding saris, only the
knowing
has taken leave again. Then a boy walks in looking overwhelmed, wallet in hand. Ma motions to me to help him, to keep him out of Asha’s hair. She hasn’t closed the shop today.

The boy says his name is Anu. “I’ve been saving up for two years, but I have no idea what my mother will like for her birthday. She wants a sari. She keeps hinting! But when my sister buys her saris, she always hates them and yells.” Beneath a map of acne, a handsome face is waiting to emerge.

“No problem, I can help you. It’s always difficult for a boy to buy his first sari.” I try to smile. I have to pretend I know what I’m doing.

“Thank you, Ms. Lakshmi—I’ve heard all about you. And I…have only two hundred dollars. I’m so worried. If my ma doesn’t like a gift, we never hear the end of it. She even threw a sari out on the street last year! It was a gift from my sister. She cried.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Two hundred dollars limits his options, and I see no images to guide me. “Tell me more about your mother,” I say, glancing at Nick. His back is to me, and Asha’s poring over the jewelry.

“She’s a software engineer,” Anu says. “She likes to cook and play rummy, and she quit smoking three years ago. Now she swims at the local pool. She wears goggles. She has a temper…”

As he speaks, my fingers move along the shelves, resting on one sari, then another.

“Lakshmi, come and see which saris are best for Chitra!” Ma shouts.

“I’ll be there soon, Ma!” I don’t want the boy to spend all his hard-earned money. I choose an attractive midnight blue georgette sari. “Will this work for your mother, Anu?”

“It’s so cool, Ms. Lakshmi. My mother likes blue.”

“It’s within your budget, and you’ll have a little money left over.” I’m not sure I’m giving him the perfect sari for his mother, but I’ve done my best. I ring him up and watch him leave, a bounce in his step.

Then I run over to Chitra, who stands nearly a head taller than Asha. “Horizontal stripes,” I say. “Maybe silver and dark.”
So Chitra won’t look so tall.
No, no! I can’t make decisions based on a woman’s appearance. The
knowing
doesn’t work that way, but there I am, pulling out saris with busy, striped patterns.

Nick is watching. The silent driver, always in the background.

Chitra frowns, her thin lips forming an upside-down half moon. Perhaps she needs translucent, slimming chiffon to make her resemble a fairy princess. My fingers touch the chiffon, then move to more stripes.

“Lakshmi, are you all right?” Ma asks.

“I’m fine, just trying to decide on the right pattern for the sister of the bride.”

“Lakshmi’s well known for her ability to predict which sari will bring good fortune,” Asha tells her sister.

Chitra narrows her gaze. “A legend, are you? Like a fortune-teller?”

“Not exactly,” I say.

“She has the eye,” Ma says.

Not anymore. My fingers move from one fabric to another, my heart beating faster. The chiffon—ethereal. No, too lightweight. I grab the striped sari and hand it to Chitra, but already her eyes glitter with hostility. She gives Asha a triumphant look. “There, I told you this
Mystic Elegance
would charge you far too much for nothing. This Lakshmi can’t read your mind. She has no idea—”

“I didn’t say I could read minds,” I say.

Nick gives me a curious look.

“She’s nothing but a fraud,” Chitra says. “Wants me to look exactly like a…zebra!” She holds up the sari in front of the mirror, and to my horror, I realize she’s right. She would resemble a cross between a zebra and a giraffe in that sari. A dry lump rises in my throat. My limbs feel weak.

Ma leans against the counter, breathing shallowly. Asha taps a finger to her chin. Outside, a horn blares insistently.

Asha turns to Nick. “Is that your car alarm?”

“I’m on it.” He’s already heading out, and as the door closes behind him, images flood into me in a crazy zoo of color and sound. Asha’s worrying that her fiancé won’t return from India on time for the wedding. Ma has a sparkling secret up her sleeve, and Pooja wonders whether her wedding feast will be vegetarian. I freeze at the counter, my fingers curled into fists. Now I know for certain. Nick obscures the
knowing.
But how?

The insistent blare of the horn stops abruptly, and silence sneaks into the shop. I know how to help Chitra, but I don’t have much time.

I grab the chiffon sari.

“I meant to pick this one,” I say.

The shop holds its breath, not a molecule of fabric daring to move. I stuff the zebra sari onto the shelf, out of view.

Chitra holds the chiffon up in the mirror, and she’s transformed into a mythical creature of beauty.

Asha breaks out in a delighted smile. “Absolutely perfect. We could never find a better sari!”