The Sleepwalker's Guide to Dancing: A Novel (39 page)

“I think it’s time for you to go back to Seattle,” her father said.

She squeezed the napkin into a damp ball.

“Your patients,” she said.

There was a moment, a snap between them, and then a long corridor of silence with Thomas’s stricken face at one end of it. Amina put the crumpled napkin on the counter.

“I’m calling Dr. George tomorrow.” She took a quick breath and exhaled. “You are going in to see him, and whomever else you need to see. If you don’t, I will go and tell the board at Presbyterian what is going on myself.”

Then she walked out of the kitchen, through the porch, and out the screen door to the garden, to where Akhil’s jacket still lay in a clump, pill bugs racing through its ruined folds.

CHAPTER 2

A
t least he was right about Kamala’s resilience. As the next morning dragged itself over the Sandias, sky gray and faded as an old nightgown, as Thomas headed to work and Amina sat groggily in the kitchen, Kamala rose, cracked a coconut in the kitchen sink, and shrugged off any questions with a steaming batch of hoppers and chutney. Afterward, she cleaned the dishes, organized her spice cabinet, and pickled a batch of limes.

“You want tea?” she asked.

“Sure,” Amina said. She was exhausted. Her dreams had been full of shouting. She waited until the chai was brewed and in front of her to say, “He’s going to go see a doctor.”

“What?”

“Dad. We talked this morning.”
Talked
was putting a fine point on what amounted to a curt nod from her father, but Amina leaned across the counter, trying to project some measure of confidence. “He’s going this week.”

Kamala rummaged around the fridge, pulling out a voodoo-doll-sized piece of ginger. “What for?”

“Did you want to sit down for a second?”

“Ginger chutney!”

“Well, so … there was an
incident
in the ER.” Amina was getting to hate that word, its false officiousness like something a middle school principal could rectify. She cleared her throat. “Apparently Dad thought Derrick Hanson was alive when they brought him in and tried to save him.”

“So?”

“He wasn’t. Alive.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. So he’s being watched now by the hospital board. And now with this … I just think he needs to go to the doctor. To see if there’s something, you know, really wrong.”

“You think there is?”

“I don’t know. I wonder if it’s depression or something.”

“Pish! Thomas doesn’t get depressed.”

“Everyone gets depressed, Ma,” Amina said, her face warming. “And it can definitely affect your perceptions.”

Kamala stopped cutting. When she turned around, her face was anxious and tired, as if all the morning work had just taken its toll. “What if something is wrong with him?”

She was so small, Kamala. In the daily onslaught of opinions and accusations, Amina almost never noticed it, but now, in the kitchen, she saw again how slight her mother could look in certain lights.

“Or maybe he’s being tempted by bad spirits,” Kamala continued, so softly and thoughtfully that it took a few seconds for Amina to understand what she was saying.

“Ma, stop.”

“It happens! Mort Hinley says people like your father are susceptible to all kind of devilry—doctors
especially
. All this playing-God business makes them think—”

“Please. I’m begging you.”

“But what if he’s the one letting them in? All they need is one crack”—Kamala daggered a finger into the air—“and they will infest
an entire soul! Heads go spinning! I’ve seen it myself on the
Oprah
. Fine, don’t believe me, what do I care? You have your depression-shmession theories, I have mine!”

Amina rubbed her skull. “He’s going to see Dr. George tomorrow. I thought we could go with him.”

“Oh.”

“What?”

Kamala smiled over her shoulder. “Sure. If you’d like.”

“It’s not a date, Ma.”

“Yes, of course.” The phone rang, and Kamala dried her hands on her apron, pulling it from the cradle. “Hello?”

Amina let her forehead drop onto the countertop, liking the way the cool shushed her mind. Devilry? Was that even a word?

“She’s busy right now,” Kamala said. “She’ll call you back.”

“Wait, me? I’m right here. Who is it?”

Kamala held the phone out with a pinched face. “American.”

Amina took the phone from her mother.

“Hello?”

“Amina?”

It was Jamie Anderson. She knew it instantly, and then felt silly for knowing it, like she’d been caught waiting for him. She walked into the pantry, avoiding Kamala’s displeased look. “Yeah, it’s me.”

“Hey. Hi. It’s Jamie. Jamie Anderson. From Mesa—”

“Yeah, I know. Hi.”

“Hi.”

There was a long pause.

“Hello?” Amina asked.

“I’m really bad at the phone,” Jamie said. “Did you want to get dinner?”

“What?”

“I said I’m bad at—”

“No, I got that. Dinner?”

“Yes. Or, I mean, if you’re still around by then.”

“By when?”

“Tonight.”

“Oh,” Amina laughed. “Yeah, I’ll be here tonight.”

“No going out tonight!” Kamala shouted, throwing open the pantry door. “Nina Vigil wants to see your photos before she hires you. I told her we’d come!”

“What?”

“Quinceañera! Her granddaughter’s! I told her we’d bring by the Bukowsky photos this evening.” Kamala squinted at the phone. “Who is that?”

“A friend.” Amina shooed her mother from the pantry, shutting the door behind her. “Hello?”

“So … not tonight.”

“No, it’s fine. Maybe we can just grab a drink somewhere at nine?”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure I’ll need a drink by then,” Amina said, and he laughed.

“How about Jack’s Tavern? It’s on—”

“You think I don’t know where Jack’s is?” she teased.

“Oh. Right, of course.”

Amina hung up. Outside the pantry, her mother stood like a tiny sergeant, arms crossed over her chest. “Who was that?”

“Who is Nina Vigil?”

“The Vigil family up on Toad Road! You met them at the Bukowskys’! She saw you taking photos and asked me if you’d do her granddaughter’s—”

“Fine. How much?”

“What?”

“What is she paying me?”

“I told them you would do it for free.”

“You
what
?”

“And then they will pay you if they want to order any prints, same price as Jane.”

“I don’t work for free, Ma!”

“Oh,
pah
! What else are you doing? And besides, you can make it up to Jane by giving her the cut. Get her back on your good sides, right?” The worst part, Amina realized, was that Kamala was right, but admitting that was akin to negotiating with a terrorist. What would stop her the next time?

“You know, it would be helpful if you’d actually run these things by
me before you did them. It’s a good idea to tell the person doing the actual work.”

“I’m telling you now, silly. Don’t get all bent into shapes.”

“Fine,” Amina muttered. “But listen, I’m just shooting this as a favor because you already promised. No more after this.”

“Just the Campbells’,” Kamala agreed.

“Ma! Jesus!”

“No Jesus! It’s their anniversary. And hold on.” She went to her purse and opened her wallet, pulling out several twenty-dollar bills.

“What’s this?”

“Maybe go to the mall today and buy some clothes.”

“What?”

“So you don’t look like a man all the time.”

Amina shook her head and left the kitchen.

“Bright colors!” her mother called up after her. “Everyone likes bright colors!”

An hour later, Amina stood at a pay phone in a mall hallway, where poop and perfume and the grease from the food court formed the kind of atmosphere you might find in Jupiter’s red spot.

“That kid with the Afro?” Dimple was asking. “Paige’s brother?”

“Jamie, yeah.”

“Is it a date?”

“No.” Amina stared at the red Exit sign at the end of the hall. “He’s bald now. I mean, not bald, but he shaves his head in the summer.”

“That’s weird.”

“It isn’t really.”

“So first of all, stay away from pastels. They make you look chalky.”

“You never told me that.”

“You never asked. Okay, and then what shoes do you have out there?”

“My sneakers.”

“What else?”

“I was only going to be here for a week, remember?”

“So get some nicer shoes. Something a little more feminine.”

“Why does everyone think I dress like a man?”

“Like a sandal. Or a flat.”

“I just don’t like dresses. It’s not like I’m some transvestite.”

“Are you sure this isn’t a date? Because you sound nervous.”

“I haven’t talked to humans besides my parents in a week.” Amina heard a cough in the background, followed by Dimple’s quick shushing. “Who is that?”

“What? Oh, just Sajeev.”

“Just Sajeev?” Amina started to laugh but then stopped. “Wait a minute. Are you
dating
Sajeev?”

“Hold on a sec,” Dimple said,
clackclackclacking
across the gallery floor quickly, and then, from the sound of things, into the bathroom, where she whispered, “Yes.”

“What?”

“It’s not like it’s a big deal.”

“Not a big—are you fucking kidding me?
Sajeev Roy?
Your mother is going to hold an international press conference!”

“Shh! I’ve been trying not to think about that.” Dimple paused. “I really like him.”

“Really?”

“Is that so surprising?”

“Well … 
yes
.”

“I know.” Dimple sighed. “It’s totally fucking weird. Sometimes when he’s asleep I just stare at him and think,
What the hell is
he
doing in my bed?
But then when he wakes up and I don’t know … he’s
nice
to me. I feel like I don’t have to try so hard with him.”

“Huh,” Amina said, feeling a little nick of jealousy. “Wow.”

“Anyway, do me a favor and don’t tell the others. I just want to enjoy this without everyone, you know.”

“Planning an all-Albuquerque ticker-tape parade?”

Dimple laughed. “Exactly.”

Amina hung up a few moments later and headed back down the white corridor, a little disoriented. Dimple and Sajeev? Was that kind of oppositional attraction possible in anything other than a romantic comedy? She made her way through the food court with its faux hot-air-balloon landscape and back into Macy’s, where she skipped the
horrible dresses that had sent her to the pay phone in a panic and stopped at the first set of shirts. She pulled one up, frowning at its twinkly curviness. “Can I help you?” a hen-faced saleslady asked, smoothing her plump waist.

“I need to buy a shirt.”

The woman drew up short in surprise. She recovered quickly. “Is it for a formal event? Gala? Black-tie wedding?”

“No, just a regular old dinner.”

“Oh, great.” She smiled nervously in a way that put Amina at ease. “So let’s get out of the formalwear.”

Twenty paces and a few turns later, they were surrounded by decidedly less ball-worthy clothes. “Anything in particular you’re looking for? A tank top? A button-down?”

“I have no idea.”

“A color, maybe?”

“Something bright.”

“Gotcha.” She moved with surprising deftness for her girth, lifting and plucking shirts from the racks like they were ripe fruit. “You open to yellow?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Most people can’t wear it,” she said, lifting up a sunflower-yellow blouse. “But it’s great for your skin. And green?”

“No green.”

The woman motioned for Amina to follow her back to the dressing room, where she hung the blouses in a tidy row. “Anything else right now?”

“No, thanks. This is great.”

There were reasons that Amina didn’t like to shop, her too long, thin-in-odd-places torso among them. The fuchsia shirt hung on it like a sail. The blue button-down made her look like a high school lesbian. She pulled on the yellow tank top, gasped a little as she looked in the mirror. It worked. She looked healthy, glowing.

“You doing okay in there?”

Amina opened the dressing room door. The saleslady smiled.

“That’s really great.”

“You think?”

“Absolutely. It’s the right color and the right fit. Shows off your neck and arms.”

“Yellow isn’t weird?”

“Not a bit.”

Amina closed the door, turning her back to the mirror and trying to see what she’d look like to Jamie. Minutes later she stood at the register, flushed with an unusual amount of pleasure. Was it a purchase high? Minor-task accomplishment? She took the receipt and folded it.

“Thanks so, so much,” she gushed. “You’ve been really helpful. That was so, you know, easy.”

“Oh, sure.” The woman hesitated before handing her the bag with her shirt. “I’m Mindy.”

“Hey, Mindy, I’m Amina.”

“I know.”

Amina looked at her for a moment before the trapdoor in her brain released. “Holy shit.”

Mindy laughed a little, shifting nervously. Her fingers reached up to straighten her necklace, a small silver cross on a thin chain.

“Hi,” she said, and Amina tried to find some vestige of the girl who seduced Akhil with a joint and cleavage. Was it always this way? Did everyone from high school end up looking like weird facsimiles of other people’s parents?