Waiting For Ethan (15 page)

F
or most of the drive to Westham, Neesha has been talking nonstop. As soon as I turn on to Towering Heights Lane, though, she stops speaking. As we make our way up the hill, she studies each side of the road. When I pull into my parents' driveway, she races out of the car to the edge of the street and stands with her hands on her hips, staring at her old home. We are here on a reconnaissance mission today because Neesha wants to find the perfect spot for Ajee's remains.

Neesha's eyes fill with tears as she studies the house she lived in until she was fourteen. We both stand silently looking at the house. I wonder if Neesha's thinking about her mother. It was a warm April day much like today when the ambulance took her away for the last time. “It looked better green,” she finally says. One of the first things the Murphys did when they moved in was paint the house white.

“What happened to the maple?” She points to the barren spot near the left side of the house where the leafy tree used to stand.

“It fell during a storm junior year. Tore a hole through the roof.”

“My mom loved that tree,” Neesha says. “We used to collect the bright red leaves every fall and press them between wax paper.”

An image of Mrs. Patel, Neesha, and me gathering leaves under the tree pops into my head. The sky above was bright blue, and the air had that crispness it only has in fall. Sanjit appeared from the back of the house and tossed acorns at Neesha and me when he thought Mrs. Patel wasn't looking. Then suddenly she had the garden hose in her hand, and she was spraying water in her son's direction. “Apologize or I'll soak you,” she threatened. Stunned, Sanjit muttered, “Sorry,” and slinked away toward the backyard.

 

The Murphys never use their garage. Today neither car is in the driveway so I tell Neesha we can explore their yard. Hesitantly, she crosses the street, and I follow. She immediately heads to the rosebush on the right side of the house. “This is it,” she says quietly. We hear a car. Both of our heads turn to the street, but it's not the Murphys. “Let's get out of here,” she says.

We head back to my house, and I enter my parents' code on the keypad outside the garage. Neesha and I squeeze around my mother's car and up the stairs to the door that leads inside. I open it and step into the family room, but Neesha freezes in the doorway. “It's like a wormhole to my childhood,” she says as she enters. She walks through the family room to the kitchen, and I follow. She runs her hand across the counter. “I think of your mom every time I make macaroni,” she says.

On Sundays, Neesha and I helped my mother prepare an afternoon meal. More often than not, it was homemade pasta. I'd get bored rolling out the dough, but Neesha never grew tired of it. She and my mom would stand side by side at the kitchen counter laughing while taking turns cranking the handle of the pasta maker. I'd retreat to the couch in the living room, where I'd read a book while my dad slept in his recliner with the TV tuned to a sporting event. If I dared to change the channel, he'd start awake. “I'm watching that.”

“Gina,” my mom would call from the kitchen. “You need to learn how to do this.”

“Does she still refuse to buy boxed spaghetti and jarred sauce?” Neesha asks.

“Of course!”

Neesha pulls a chair away from the table, the seat we used to refer to as hers, and plops down in it. “I miss it here,” she says. For a moment I think she's talking about my parents' kitchen. “I've always hated Texas. Ajee hated it, too. That's another reason she wanted her ashes spread here.”

I sit in the chair next to her. “You loved Texas. That's why you didn't want to go to school here.”

Neesha fingers the collar of her fuchsia sweater. “Gina, I didn't get into BC.”

I freeze. “What?”

“I didn't get accepted,” she says.

My eyes go to the phone on the wall. It's the exact phone I was on when Neesha told me she'd decided not to go to Boston College. I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. “You told me you wanted to stay in Texas with your high school friends.”

She looks down at the table. “I was embarrassed.”

“I don't understand. We were best friends. We told each other everything.”

“I was really mad you got accepted and I didn't.” She spins her chair so she is facing me. “I hated you for it.”

“You hated me?” My voice cracks.

“I guess I was jealous.” Neesha spins away from me, puts her elbows on the table, and buries her face in her hands. “You were living the life I wanted, in a house in Westham, with a mother who took care of you and a father who adored you. Then you got accepted to the school that more than anything I wanted to go to. I was stuck in Texas with a father who was never home and a grandmother who . . .” Neesha stops, looks up at the ceiling, and then turns to face me again. “Ajee didn't save any little boys there, Gina. Most people just thought she was crazy, and Sanjit and I were known as the crazy woman's grandchildren.”

“You didn't get into BC,” I repeat. “You lied to me.”

“Sorry.” She says it so quietly that I'm not even certain she said it.

“You knew how upset I was that you chose your Texas friends over me. I wrote you letters about it, and you just kept on letting me think that.” My voice and body shake with rage.

“I'm not proud of what I did. After, I was too ashamed to tell you so I avoided you.”

For almost twenty years I've been mad at her because she didn't go to BC with me like she promised. It never occurred to me that she didn't get accepted. I'm suddenly very hot. I take off my jacket and put it on the back of the chair. I roll up my sleeves and look at Neesha. She attempts a laugh. “Are you about to challenge me to fight?” she asks.

I really would like to slap her. “Why did you lie to me?”

“Why does it matter now?” she snaps.

“Why? Because we didn't talk for almost twenty years. And things in my life weren't as great as you think. All my friends got married and had children, and I was sitting around waiting for a guy named Ethan, and you're the only one who could possibly understand why, and I couldn't even talk to you about it.”

I grab my keys from the table and race outside. I look over at Neesha's old house. The girl I thought was my best friend had hated me. I climb into my car and drive away, intending to go around the block. I end up on Cooper's street. I slow down as I pass his house. A minivan is parked in his driveway. A minivan? Is he dating a soccer mom? Damn. His front door swings open, and a dark-haired woman steps outside. My heart races. What if Cooper sees me stalking him? I press my foot on the gas and navigate back to my parents'. Neesha is sitting outside on the stairs. I park on the street but don't get out of the car. She slowly rises and cuts across the lawn. She climbs into the passenger seat. “The woman came home and saw me sitting here.” She points to the Murphys'. Mrs. Murphy's car is now in the driveway. “She watched me for a moment and then raced inside.”

As she speaks, I drive down the hill and head back to my apartment. Neesha turns the radio on. A few minutes later, my cell phone rings, cutting off the music. “There's a Hispanic woman sitting on our front steps.” My mother's panic-stricken voice blasts out of the stereo speakers.

I glance at Neesha. We both laugh.

“Gina, why are you laughing? I think we're being robbed. I just called the police.”

“Mom, I just left your house. It's not being robbed.”

“Well, who is the Hispanic girl on the stairs?”

“It was an Indian woman.”

My mother sighs. “I don't understand.”

I shake my head and look at Neesha. “Hi, Mrs. Rossi,” Neesha shouts into the speaker. “It's Neesha Patel. I'm in town visiting.”

“Oh my,” my mother says. “Neesha, how lovely to hear your voice.”

“You, too, Mrs. Rossi.”

“Gina sent me a picture of your family. Beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

“I wish I could be there to see you, dear. Promise me you'll come back.”

“I promise, Mrs. Rossi.”

We say good-bye to my mother. A police car driving in the opposite direction zooms by us. After a split second of silence, Neesha and I break into hysterical laughter. I am so out of control that I have to pull over to the side of the road. After we compose ourselves, Neesha reaches over and touches my arm. “This is what I missed most. Laughing with you about the stupidest stuff. I'm sorry, Gina. I really am.”

“I'm sorry, too,” I say. “I shouldn't have given up so easily. I should have kept trying to contact you.” I try to hug her, but my seat belt restrains me, preventing me from reaching her. We laugh again. “I missed talking to you. So many times I thought, I really wish I could tell Neesha about this,” I say. “You were the one person who understood me best. I could always be myself, and no matter what dumb thing I did or said, I knew you wouldn't judge me.”

T
he sound of Neesha's voice from the living room wakes me early Sunday. “I miss you, Jayda,” she says. “I'll be home tomorrow afternoon.” A few seconds later, she laughs. “Kisses for AJ, and be good for Daddy.”

I pick up my phone from the nightstand, but I have no messages. I want to pull the covers over my head and go back to sleep. Even though Neesha is visiting, the weekend has sucked. I haven't heard from Ethan since we left the Chinese restaurant Friday night, and I can't say I blame him. If he told me someone had predicted he would marry a woman named Gina, I'd think he was nuts. Then there was Miss Minivan at Cooper's house. I wish I had never driven by. Oh God, why am I thinking about Cooper?

There is a knock on my bedroom door. “You up, sleepyhead?” Neesha asks. I remember when she slept over when we were kids, she'd be up by six making pancakes with my mother. Now she bursts into my room without waiting for a response. “I called Patty Ryan. She's going to show us the house at eleven.”

“Did you tell Ashley you were looking at it?”

She grins. “I told him that in order to spread the ashes, I had to make an appointment with the Realtor for a tour. He told me not to get any ideas.”

“Do you want to move back?” I ask, getting out of bed.

“Absolutely. The problem is Ashley's job.” She shrugs. “But there is a Boston office.”

Patricia Ryan is waiting in the Murphys' driveway as we drive up Towering Heights Lane. Out of habit, I park at my parents'. “You know what you're doing?” Neesha asks.

I nod. We reviewed the plan several times on the drive over. When Patricia shows us the basement, I will distract her, and Neesha will slip out the side door and spread the ashes under the rosebush. No matter what, I can't let Patricia go outside.

Neesha and I cross the street. “Neesha Patel,” Patricia screams. “You are absolutely gorgeous!” They hug while I stand there awkwardly watching. “How wonderful to see you.” Patricia glances at me and touches my arm. “You, too, Gina.”

We follow Patricia up the walkway and wait while she opens the lockbox and then the front door. Neesha steps through the door frame and pauses. As she studies her surroundings, her eyes fill with tears. I put my arm around her. Slowly she walks up the stairs. “It looks the same but different,” she says. Patricia shrugs, but I know exactly what Neesha means. The bones of the house are the same, but the Murphys have made many cosmetic changes through the years. They took down the blue and gray wallpaper and painted the walls tan. They ripped up the dark blue shag carpet that was covering the hardwood floors and replaced the old avocado-color kitchen appliances with stainless-steel versions.

Neesha runs her hand over the granite breakfast bar that replaced the Formica one that was there when she lived here. “We had a lot of laughs sitting here,” she says.

I nod.

She turns to inspect the stove. The Murphys replaced the Patels' electric version with a gas five-burner. “Do you remember how my grandmother used to make us pudding after school in the winter?”

“Butterscotch.” I picture Ajee at the stove stirring and asking about our day. “You two got in trouble in Social Studies for passing notes today, yes?” She seemed to know everything we did and everything we were about to do.

Neesha reaches into her bag. For a moment I think she's going to pull out the urn. Instead she grabs her cell phone and begins snapping pictures. “The kitchen is gorgeous now,” she says. “Ashley will never believe it's the same room as the one in our photo albums.”

From the kitchen, Neesha walks down the hallway where the bedrooms are located. She turns into the first room on the left, which used to be hers. When Neesha lived here, there was a constant pile of clothes on the floor. Open books and notebooks were sprawled out on her unmade bed, and bureau drawers were never closed all the way. Today, there are two desks with clean surfaces and a wall of bookshelves. Neesha stands by the window and looks out. “Perfect view of your driveway,” she says. “When you were out, I used to watch for your mom's car to return and then run over.”

Next she enters the bedroom next to her old one, which was Ajee's. “I swear, she spent countless hours with her ear pressed against the wall when we were in my room,” Neesha says. “That's how she always knew what we were up to.”

I stop to consider this. Maybe Neesha's right. It's what my mother has implied all along: Ajee knew the things she did because she made it her business to listen to conversations and watch interactions that were no business of hers.

Patricia, who remained in the kitchen talking on her cell phone, joins us in the master bedroom. Neesha rocks back and forth as she glances around. “Never spent much time in here after Mom died,” she whispers.

“They redid the bathroom and added a walk-in closet,” Patricia explains, either not hearing or ignoring the emotion in Neesha's voice. Patricia opens a door, revealing a closet three feet wide with racks of clothing. I peek inside the bathroom and notice a Jacuzzi tub. Neesha laughs when she sees it. “That's something my dad never would have added.” Again she sends pictures to Ashley.

We are on our way downstairs when he responds. Neesha smiles as she reads his message and hands me the phone.
“I very much like this house,”
his text says.

Once in the basement, Neesha gravitates immediately to the area where Ajee conducted her readings. Nothing of her reading parlor remains, however. Instead the walls are lined with shelves filled with boxes of tissue, toilet paper, soap, paper plates, and plastic cups. “Looks like someone shops in bulk,” Patricia says.

“Keep her distracted,” Neesha whispers. Then she wanders up the stairs that lead to the side door that opens to the yard.

Patricia takes a step to follow Neesha, but I stop her by calling her name. “Have you had a lot of interest in the house?”

“I'll be honest because, you know, we're old friends.” Patricia hesitates. “This is my first showing. The Murphys don't want an open house. Makes it hard.” She shrugs.

Patricia continues on toward the door. I pull on her arm, and she stumbles on the stairway. “Gina, what are you doing?”

“Sorry. I think, I think Neesha's talking to her husband. Let's give her some privacy.”

Patricia narrows her eyes. I wonder if she's remembering the time Neesha stole her dress from her gym locker so that she had to finish the school day in her sweaty shorts and T-shirt or some of the other tricks Neesha pulled on her. Now Patricia runs a hand through her hair. “Sure,” she finally says, spinning on the step and heading back down.

I glance out the door and spy Neesha by the rosebush with the urn in her hand. It seems so wrong to spread the ashes on the sly. I'm sure that's not what Ajee had in mind. We should have a ceremony or at the very least offer up a prayer. I want to run outside and stop Neesha.

Patricia interrupts me from my thoughts. “Do you think you'll buy anytime soon, Gina?”

I love my apartment, but how nice would it be if Ethan wanted to get a place with me? He can't live with Jack forever, after all. Maybe if he doesn't want to get married right away, we could just live together. How great would it be to come home to Brady and Ethan every night instead of an empty apartment? I imagine telling my parents I'm moving in with Ethan. I can see my mother's frown.
“He won't buy the cow if he's getting the milk for free, Gina.”
I think about what my father would say and make a mental note to ask Ethan if he plays golf the next time I speak with him.

“How are your parents?” Patricia asks. “Do you think they'll be selling anytime soon?”

“I doubt it.” I fear they will, though. Each year they stay in Florida longer, and I wouldn't be surprised if they decide to live there year-round.

Several minutes later Neesha comes back inside to find Patricia and me sitting at the breakfast bar. She catches my eye and shakes her head. “Thanks for showing me the house, Patricia,” she says. “Ashley and I are going to discuss it tonight.”

She sounds sincere, and I think she may be telling the truth.

Patricia hands Neesha her card, and we all head outside. We say good-bye to Patricia and head across the street. In the distance, a jogger crests the hill. Neesha and I turn to watch him. The runner calls my name. I bring my hand to my forehead to shade my eyes from the sun. He waves. As he gets closer, I realize it's Cooper. When he reaches us, he bends at the waist and hangs his head. Why anyone would voluntarily run up Towering Heights Lane is beyond me. Neesha tilts her head and studies him carefully.

When he finally catches his breath, he looks up and smiles. Beads of perspiration drip down his beet red face. He lifts his green shirt to wipe the sweat away, showing glimpses of his six-pack abs.

“He's hot!” Neesha mouths.

“So this is where you grew up?”

I nod. “I can't believe you ran up that hill.”

He pats his stomach. “Ate a lot of decadent food over the weekend.” I picture him sharing dessert with the soccer mom and her brood of kids. I bet Cooper is excellent with them. “Did you spread the ashes?” he asks.

“No,” Neesha says. “It seemed wrong to leave her by herself.” Cooper studies her with that squinty look I love so much. “I know, it sounds weird,” she says.

“Not at all,” Cooper answers. “I'm Cooper, by the way.”

“You're Cooper!” Neesha exclaims. He turns questioningly toward me. “Luci told me all about you. I'm Neesha.”

Why would Luci tell Neesha about Cooper?

“Don't believe anything Luci says,” Cooper answers.

Sweat is dripping off him onto the driveway. “Do you want to come in for some water?”

“No time,” he says. “Got some people waiting for me at home.” Miss Minivan and her kids. They're probably going on a picnic.

He waves and takes off down the hill. Neesha and I watch until he disappears from our view. “I think Ajee would like him for you,” she says. “Even if his name isn't Ethan.”