Invisible Lives (9 page)

“Drive faster, Nick,” I say. “We have to get to the temple. She’ll feel better with her family.”

Nick exits the freeway in Bellevue and heads uptown. My shoulders relax. I half believed he wouldn’t take Pooja to the temple. “Talk to Dipak,” I tell her.

Pooja presses the back of her hand to her forehead.

Nick pulls up to the curb in front of the Hindu temple, a modern construction with vaulted ceilings and cedar siding. If it weren’t for the colorful, stained-glass windows depicting Hindu deities, you would hardly know it was a temple.

A group of well-dressed family members congregates on the steps. Pooja slides down in the seat, grips the armrest. “I can’t face Dipak. I can’t—”

“Come on, Pooja. Promise you’ll talk to him about going to San Francisco. Let him know how important this is to you, please!” I tell her. I am annoyed. We are so late! I don’t want to go out there, don’t want to fall into this impending disaster.

“Okay, I have nothing to lose.” She sucks in a deep breath, exhales through her nose.

Nick rushes around to open her door, and she steps out, a glittering vision in the sunlight.

Immediately, the gaggle of relatives flies down the steps to gather around her.
Where have you been? You look beautiful. You came in a limo!

The crowd parts, falls into a hush, and there’s Dipak, broad-shouldered and regal in his off-white kurta pajama threaded with gold, his wavy hair oiled back. He descends the steps, his square jaw firm, and I hold my breath, not daring to hope. He and Pooja gaze at each other for a long moment, and a sparkle of possibility hovers between them. Then he scoops Pooja into his arms and carries her up the steps, across the threshold and into the temple.

“S
he’ll be okay, and I don’t want to go in there,” I say. I am too aggravated.

“Look, I’m sorry I made you late for the rehearsal,” Nick says.

“Oh, it wasn’t your fault. Pooja just needed a little cajoling.”

“I can take you home if you want. Or I can drive to Port Gamble, out on the peninsula. Great view of the Hood Canal. You can see right across the water. Ever been there?”

“I don’t get away from the shop too much these days.”

“There’s a lot to see here, Lakshmi.”

“Fine. Let’s go then.” What do I have to lose? I sit back, glad for the soft lullaby of the car engine as Nick drives back over the Tacoma Narrows Bridge and up past Gig Harbor along the Olympic Peninsula, fir and pine trees rising dense on both sides of the highway. We’re heading farther from the city, away from the noise. I’m grateful for the quiet expanse of road and the jagged mountain peaks rising in the west. The slanting winter sunlight stretches down to the southwest, lending an orange-yellow hue to the dimming sky.

Nick takes off his sunglasses. How can such a stubborn, annoying man have eyes of such soft, caring blue?

Soon the road narrows, and the occasional neighborhoods give way to quaint farmhouses surrounded by meadows and thickets. The road curves around past a park. A wooden sign reads Welcome to Port Gamble and ends in a tiny New England–style town of manicured lawns, turn-of-the-century mansions, and, only a block to the west, the glinting ocean.

Nick parks on the main street, Rainier Avenue, lined with towering maples and elms. We’ve driven back in time, unrolling the years to the late 1800s.

A spark of enthusiasm flares inside me. How long has it been since I’ve driven somewhere new on a whim? “This is a storybook town!” I exclaim. “There’s a spa, and didn’t we pass a bookstore in that red house? Dauntless Bookstore? A museum! And a general store.”

“This was an old mill town, still operating until a decade ago,” Nick says. “None of these historic homes can be upgraded—they’re landmarks. My parents live near here, in Port Westwood. I grew up there. Maybe I’ll show you sometime.” He takes off his jacket and hands it to me across the seat. “Here, put this on. It’s chilly out there.”

Around my shoulders, his jacket feels heavy and warm as we stroll along the sidewalk. “I didn’t expect to be out here today,” I say.

“Sometimes things don’t go according to plan,” Nick says.

“Yeah, right. Are you charging me extra for this side trip?”

“It’s on me.” Nick follows me into a fragrant boutique called the Rugosa Rose. He’s right next to me as I sniff soaps and thumb through greeting cards, the wooden floor creaking beneath our feet. The bubbles burst out of me and float around the store.

“You’re like my sister,” he says. “You both like soap.”

“We have a wedding package special,” the girl behind the counter says. “Got everything you need from lotions to massage oils.” Half her hair is pink, half black, and she’s wearing a scarf around her waist, over tight jeans and T-shirt.

“Thanks, but there’s no wedding going on here,” I say.

“Massage oil sounds like fun.” Nick picks up the package in question, gives me a wink.

I stomp out, my ears ablaze. “What was that about?”

“Have a little fun, Lakshmi.” He takes my hand. “When was the last time you enjoyed your day without work?” His fingers are warm and firm, his hand big and comforting.

My throat goes dry. He’s right. The needs of others clamor at me like babies, always crying for nurturing. And now, I feel the clean air moving through me, nourishing me, and the
knowing
lies dormant, giving me a break.

“Come on, I want to show you something.” He leads me up a grassy slope to an ancient cemetery, some of the marble headstones so old that the names and dates have worn off. On the hilltop, the wind is strong and smells of freshly cut grass, and the Pacific Ocean rushes away in stutters of white-capped waves. There’s a crazy openness here, a feeling that I could lift off and drift away.

“Buena Vista Cemetery,” Nick says. “Dates from the mid-1800s. First U.S. Navy Coxswain Gustave Englebrecht of the USS
Massachusetts
died in a skirmish with Haida raiders.”

“Wow, you remember all that?”

“I’ve been here a million times. Come up here to think. Englebrecht was the first U.S. Navy man killed in the Pacific.”

He shows me a burial plot surrounded by an iron fence, but without a headstone. “That’s where the town founder, Josiah Keller, is buried. Died in the 1860s, I think.”

My teeth are chattering now, but Nick’s hand still feels warm. I don’t want to let go. How silly is that? “This feels like the town that time forgot,” I say. I close my eyes and take in the rush of the wind, the distant voices of tourists sauntering through the graveyard, and I realize that there’s a bizarre peace in standing among the dead. The dead don’t have needs, their thoughts don’t assault me, and at this moment, Nick is the only buffer between me and the living.

“The Klallam people used to live here,” he says. “Until the mills came. I feel their ghosts here.”

“What happened to them?”

“They were asked to move. There was a treaty, but it wasn’t entirely fair to the Klallam people. The usual story of the white man taking over.” He’s still holding my hand as if it’s the most natural thing to do, although I barely know him.

Maybe he won’t be like Sean, who sometimes wouldn’t hold my hand in public, around people who knew his family. He never would’ve taken me to a cemetery to talk about the way the native people were treated. Never would’ve rallied to the defense of a confused girl like Pooja, either.

“Come on—let’s go. Your lips are blue,” Nick says.

Sean wouldn’t have cared if I was cold. He would’ve told me to slap on more lipstick.

When we get back to the car, I find I don’t want to leave just yet. “What about that tearoom across the street? Why don’t we get a coffee?”

“Are you allowed to fraternize with the help?” Nick gives me another half smile, and I’m blushing but hoping he can’t tell in this wind.

The tea room is small, intimate, and noisy, and we’re squished at a round corner table near a glass case full of cinnamon rolls and scones. “The smell in here—it’s heavenly,” I say.

“Reminds me of my mother’s baking,” Nick says.

The warm air thaws me while outside the wind whips up to a screech.

“So tell me about your guy in India,” Nick says over coffee. “Is this an arranged deal too?”

I look at Nick, at the rugged lines of his profile, the strong jaw. “Arranged marriages have been working in India for generations.”

“And young brides get burned and disfigured if they don’t pay enough dowry money to the man’s family,” he says. “I read about this stuff in the papers.”

The foam bubbles make a renewed appearance. I become hyperaware of Nick’s body beside me, the scent of his aftershave and an underlying masculine smell. A curious fluttering begins in the center of my belly.

“Bride burning still happens,” I say. “But not everywhere, and not in enlightened families.”

“This guy in India—is he enlightened then?”

“All I know is that he comes from a good family, has a good job, and he’s Bengali. He speaks my mother’s language—”

“What about your language, Lakshmi? Why does your mother’s language matter so much?”

“I suppose we are traditional in that way. Ma’s been waiting to tell our extended family that I’ve finally found the right guy. They keep pestering her about having an unmarried daughter.”

“Families don’t know everything,” he says. “Neither do mothers.”

“Mine do!”

His laughter has a bitter edge. “Wake up, there’s a world out there, and you gotta live in it. Not with your whole family.”

“Family is the most important thing in the world,” I say, and that’s when the room goes dark. The whir of the coffee machine stops abruptly, there’s a popping sound in a back room, and somebody says, “Oh, shit.”

“What’s going on?” I say, then notice that although the sun is setting, there are no lights anywhere on the street.

“The power’s out!” a woman says.

People are talking excitedly and in that instant, Nick moves close to me and his lips brush mine in the darkness. Or am I imagining things? I’m mesmerized, points of crazy electricity buzzing in my mind, short-circuiting every thread of thought. I can’t see a thing, and then Nick is lifting me to my feet, his arms on mine, taking my elbow. The smell of him is so close, the scent of his aftershave and an underlying scent all his own, a mixture of soap and evergreen.

“Come on, let’s get out of here.” His hand is on my waist as he steers me to the door and then back to the car.

M
onday morning at the shop, I can’t dispel the feeling of Nick’s lips brushing mine. On the way home from Port Gamble, we chatted about superficial subjects, while the kiss hovered like a secret balloon between us. And what of Pooja? Ma said that she went through with the wedding rehearsal but wept while repeating her vows.

Today Pooja arrives at work in cotton shirt and jeans, surrounded by quiet contemplation. I want to ask all sorts of questions, and I finally corner her in the office as she’s coming out of the bathroom. “So spill, Pooja. What’s up?”

“I’ve been accepted to the University in San Francisco. I’m going.”

“Pooja, that’s fabulous. But what about Dipak?”

“We discussed everything—and oh, Lakshmi, he must really love me.” She breaks into a smile. “He’s going to join me when he finishes his studies here. We’ll be apart for only a few months.”

I rest my hands on her shoulders. “I knew all would work out for the best.” A soft cloud of promise floats up from her.

“What about you, Lakshmi? You went off with that cute driver—what did you two do? Did you, you know—”

“Pooja, it was nothing like that. I agreed to go to Nick’s sister’s birthday party Saturday night. I promised to help her try on saris.”

“Oh, you’ll have fun. He’s picking you up?”

I nod, dismissing my interlude with him as temporary insanity. This Saturday will be a job, all business. But the week shuffles by so slowly. Asha does not return, but she yells orders over the phone, keeping us busy. Ma prepares for her weekend playing bridge with her good friend, Sonia, in Kent. We’ll close the shop early Saturday, and she’ll spend the night at Sonia’s and return Sunday.

My Thursday lunch with Nisha and Mitra takes forever to arrive. Nisha’s in a soft black suit, her hair done up in a bun.

Decked out in a loud orange sweater and a tight black skirt, Mitra chews her salad with gusto. “Are you ready to meet Mr. Ravi?” she asks me.

“As ready as I’ll ever be.” I think of the brief messages I’ve traded with Ravi Ganguli all week. I’m getting to know him from a distance, email by email, photo by photo. He already feels like a friend.

“How’s the big Bollywood wedding coming along?” Nisha asks.

I stir my lemonade with a straw. “Asha’s demanding. I got to see her on the set. She wasn’t actually filming. They do a lot of waiting around, preparing the set, and there are way more people involved than I ever imagined.”

“I read in
Star
magazine that her marriage to Vijay was arranged,” Nisha said. “They’re deeply in love. She expounds upon the virtues of arranged marriages. See, they do work. Mine worked, and Asha’s happy. So I hope you’re not getting cold feet.”

“I don’t have cold feet!” I say. “Besides, Ravi and I haven’t actually met. I haven’t decided.”

Mitra pats my arm, her eyes shining with hope. “Lakshmi, I have to thank you. I took your advice and went to see my parents. It was really hard to talk to my father, but I was glad I went. He looked so fragile.” Her voice breaks, and I catch a glimpse of her father, who is made of wrinkled skin and bone in a white dhoti punjabi, the pants gently flaring at the ankles, his feet clad in brown chappals. After twenty-five years in America, he still looks as if he’s just stepped off the plane from India and hasn’t had time to iron his shirt.

“I’m proud of you, Mitra,” I say.

“I invited them to my dance performance,” she says. “My father said nothing, but my mother said she would try to convince him to come. There’s something in that costume you gave me, a magic that gave me strength to face him again, even if he disapproves of me. I don’t know how much longer he has, and, well…” She gazes into her olives and onions.

“He missed you, even if he doesn’t show it.” I take a bite of my veggie sandwich.

“I wish I could see my father more often,” Nisha says, moving the stir-fried vegetables around on her plate. “I miss my parents terribly. They may come for a visit soon, when the weather gets hot in Delhi.”

I see her running through the alley again, stopping at an apartment building and glancing up at a light in a window. Is this a memory of childhood? Was she playing a game? Hide-and-seek?

“How’s Rakesh?” I ask her. “What about your trip to Baja?”

“He’s on a business trip in San Diego. We postponed Baja to next month, maybe.”

“He’ll postpone forever if you don’t pin him down,” Mitra says. “Tell him you’ll get a divorce—”

“He’s a wonderful husband!” Nisha says. “I can’t imagine even considering a divorce. He gives me everything I ask for. He even cooks for me when he’s home, does the laundry, takes me out for dinner. He’s just terribly busy and I’m lonely. He’s so ambitious. I want him around more often. He’s a workaholic, always has been.”

“Then tell him,” Mitra says. “Tell him you need him at home.”

A watery image flows toward me. Nisha’s climbing the steps of the apartment building, her knuckles white as they grip the railing. Then the image vanishes, her mind locking itself away.