by Sonali Dev
Artists who were blind from birth, artists who had lost their sight and transferred their need to create to another medium: sculpture, weaving, pottery, metalwork, yarn work. There was an entire slew of associations of visually impaired artists, of books by artists who created art without sight. She downloaded as many as she could find, soaking up the words, taking them in, letting them churn. And churn. And churn.
There was also a tactile art program near Monterey.
Before Trisha could think about it, she had typed an email to Jane Liu, one of the artists at the program, asking for more information. Even before Nisha woke up, Jane responded and invited Trisha to come down for a visit to the facility.
Now all Trisha had to do was find a gap in her schedule so she could drive there.
FOR FOUR DAYS Trisha worked fourteen-hour days, only returning home to bring her sister food and collapse into restless sleep. Four days that she didn’t see DJ. It felt like months, or maybe like moments. She no longer had any sense of time or place when she thought about him—which was all the damn time. He had emailed Nisha a few times regarding decisions about food for the fund-raiser and had copied Trisha on the emails: “Would it be all right to top the crab kachoris with date chutney foam, so the hors d’oeuvre could be circulated without a mess? Should the chicken be served over a bed of pulav or plated individually in bowls?”
She read his emails over and over again. His slightly formal tone, his attention to detail, his utter competence at his job, all that he was seemed to jump up from his words, and she felt like a teenager walking around school trying to catch a glimpse of her crush.
This morning she had turned on the coffee machine without filling it with water. The stink of burnt grounds had been horrid. Thankfully, Nisha wasn’t throwing up anymore.
Last night Trisha had put lasagna in the oven and turned on the timer for an hour, without turning the oven on. In the end she’d had to run down to Curried Dreams and pick up dinner.
Then there was the craving. Consuming. Incessant. Brutal. The flavors from the tasting were a wild, live thing inside her. She wasn’t able to taste one damn thing she put in her mouth. When she had stopped at the restaurant, Ashi had given her some chicken kababs in a mint chutney. They had tasted like coming home. Even before Ashna told her who had made them, she had known. After that she had found herself at the restaurant again this morning. Ashi had given her all the kababs she had left over and Trisha had pulled over to the side of the road and eaten them in her car, chewing at them slowly, reverently, desperately stretching out the pleasure of his flavors.
It had only intensified her craving for everything about him that the taste of his food invoked. The strength that poured from him in waves, the steadiness, the gentle humor, the merciless challenge of things she had always accepted without question.
On the extreme upside, Nisha’s pregnancy was progressing without incident. Neel was scheduled to come home in four days, and Yash and their parents a day before that. DJ had kept his promise and everyone seemed entirely oblivious that Nisha had not left Trisha’s condo for ten days.
“Yum.” Nisha dunked a tall spoon into the bowl of mint chocolate chip Trisha had brought her and sucked it up as though it were the best thing she’d ever tasted. “So, genius sister of mine, have you come up with how you’re going to keep me hidden here for one more week?”
Trisha dipped her own spoon into the ice cream and took a nibble. It tasted like toothpaste. “Maybe we’ll tell everyone that you have a communicable disease, like tuberculosis, and you’re quarantined by the CDC. And I’ve been inoculated, so I’m the only one who can take care of you.”
Nisha gulped down the ice cream. “Actually, that’s the best idea you’ve come up with thus far.”
“You haven’t come up with any. So quit judging.” Trisha put down her spoon.
Her sister raised her usually impeccably shaped eyebrow—it had grown out a little and didn’t look quite as imperious without its perfectly threaded arch. “Speaking of tuberculosis. Are you sick?”
Trisha made a face. “I don’t have TB, thank you very much.”
“You have something,” her sister mumbled around a mouthful of ice cream. “I think you just nibbled. I’ve never seen you nibble anything in your life.”
“I did not nibble.” She had nibbled.
What she really wanted to nibble on was a perfectly flaky papad with chicken and saffron, with someone telling her about how a lazy spice took time to surface.
“Something’s definitely wrong. Is it your imaginary boyfriend? The one you used to steal food from Ashi for?”
She should’ve known that the sister gossip machine would be active and well. “Harry and I broke up. I think.”
He had texted her thanking her for the food and she had finally told him that he could get it any time he wanted from Curried Dreams.
“You think you broke up?”
“I wasn’t really sure if we were together or not, okay?” Trisha poked the spoon back in the ice cream and then put it back down on the tray with a clang.
“This isn’t about Harry at all, is it?”
Trisha didn’t answer.
“First . . .” Nisha licked her spoon before pointing it at Trisha’s face. “If you don’t know whether you have feelings for someone or not that means you don’t have feelings for them.”
Well, she knew that now.
She wished she didn’t. Because these feelings, God, these feelings. Why had she never seen how fortunate she’d been to never have them?
Nisha laughed. “Stop sulking. It was bound to happen. It happens to everybody. Instead of sulking, you should do something about it.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You haven’t been sleeping, you haven’t been eating, you look like you’re pacing even when you’re sitting still. This is me, Trisha. Talk to me.”
“There’s nothing to talk about. Work just sucks right now.” That was a blatant lie. Work was spectacular. The research study was giving them the exact results they had expected, which never, ever happened. The only thing at work not going well was Emma’s refusal to get surgery. But Trisha hoped her trip to Monterey today would generate some solutions on how to fix that.
Nisha set her spoon into the empty ice-cream cup and sank back against the pillows. “Fine. But listen, no one can see what’s going on inside you if you don’t show it.”
How could anyone not see what she was feeling? It felt like it was bursting out of her skin. “You saw it,” she said, immensely grateful that Nisha hadn’t asked for details.
“Sweetheart, of course I did. You’re my Shasha. Listen, you know you’re not like anyone else, right? If you want someone to see what’s inside you, you have to put yourself out there. The rest of the world is not programmed to decode you. You’re adorable and all, but no one can see that if you keep scaring everyone away.”
What she wanted right now was to scare Nisha away. She scowled.
To no avail. “Trust yourself,” her big sister said kindly. “You know how you’re fearless with your work? Well, work isn’t the only thing that requires you to be badass. Sometimes life does too. Letting people know you is scary. Especially for us. We don’t do well with trusting outsiders.” She paused, and a world of silent shared fears passed between them. “But when something feels right, you have to have the courage to let it happen, to tell people how you feel. Even when someone’s broken your trust before.” It was the most forgiving thing Nisha had ever said about what Trisha had allowed Julia to do.
The idea of telling anyone—least of all DJ—how she was feeling about DJ bloated the bubble of panic in her chest. But the thought also strangely relieved the pressure, just the tiniest bit.
Trisha picked up the tray and got off the bed. “You need anything else?”
Nisha shook her head and studied her like a mother hen.
When Trisha put the bowl in the dishwasher and went back into the bedroom, her si
ster continued to watch her, arms crossed across her still-flat belly.
“I need to go to Monterey today to check out a tactile art program for a case. I’m on call this evening. I’ll be back before then. Will you be okay? I’ll leave you a sandwich for lunch and I’ll bring dinner from Ashi?”
“Of course.” Nisha slid back under the sheets. “Is ‘tactile art’ a euphemism for a booty call?”
“Shut up! I’d never leave you alone for a booty call. Also, ew!”
Nisha laughed. “One of these days, Trisha, one of these days.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
The drive to Monterey was one of Trisha’s favorites. The Rajes owned a beach house in Carmel-by-the-Sea. Growing up, Ma had insisted on the family getting away for weekends at least once a month. That time spent lying on the white sand, catching the blue-gray surf, breathing the salt-laden air, and having family friends come up for house parties had been a needed respite in their madly hectic lives.
It was a place Trisha associated with everyone letting their proverbial hair down. Yash in shorts, Nisha and Ashi in T-shirts. Vansh, in . . . what he always wore. He was the only one in the family who didn’t feel the need to dress as though he were ready for a TV appearance all the time.
She remembered when Ma had tried to throw one of his T-shirts away once. “It has a hole, beta!” Ma had said.
“Yes, but it also has dirt from Malawi on it and raindrops from Djibouti. Do you have any idea how rare rain in Djibouti is?”
Trisha’s own sanctuary from her family’s clothing issues was her scrubs.
Today, of course, with Nisha at home, Trisha was dressed in a “buttercup” pantsuit that her sister had declared “fresh and powerful without being threatening.” It was naturally a suit Nisha had picked out for her. Which could be said about pretty much all the clothing Trisha owned. Nisha was showing distinct signs of fashionista withdrawal lying in that bed. She did own the loveliest pajamas—all organic cotton cut to fit her body perfectly—and she still wore “a touch of tinted gloss” in bed. There was no way she would let Trisha leave the house in scrubs unless she was going into surgery.
“It’s offensive to meet a blind person dressed sloppily,” Nisha had said.
Trisha wasn’t sure if saying that in itself wasn’t offensive.
But Nisha knew about these things, because the suit actually made Trisha feel somewhat put together, after days of feeling like she was in pieces. As for the other thing Nisha had said—Trisha had spent the entire car ride hurtling miserably between the possibility and the preposterousness of the idea of herself with DJ Caine.
Just as Trisha got on Highway 1, her sister called. “Don’t forget to pick up muffins from Tangent. I just called and Naomi said they’re open for only another hour. So do it now, on your way out.”
Tangent was a little café right outside Laguna Grande, just a few miles from the beach house. It was one of those cute wooden shacks that was so eclectic you forgot where you were when you entered it. It could easily have been Hawaii, South Africa, Brazil, anywhere in the world.
A stop at Tangent had always signaled being near the end of their drive, and they were all addicted, rather pathetically, to those muffins and that coffee. The fact that Trisha had totally forgotten about it today ratcheted up all her restlessness.
She assured Nisha that she would not come home without the bounty of their favorite muffins and took the exit that led to the quaint little café. The first thing she saw when she pulled into the dirt parking lot was a hot-pink Volkswagen Beetle.
Her heart did a hard little kick start, the spasm almost painful in the charged blast it radiated through her body. She had clearly and certifiably lost her mind, because he wasn’t the only person in California who drove a hot-pink bug.
She took a deep breath and walked inside.
And there he was, the first person she saw. DJ Caine. Trisha pulled her jacket tighter around herself. He was laughing at something Naomi had said. And to see him like this, relaxed, restored, after their last meeting, made relief rush through her. The white-haired model-turned-baker had owned the café for a good thirty years. She had always been a beautiful woman, but today she looked stunning in a fitted black tank top and jeans, her long lean yoga-instructor muscles standing out under her glowing skin. DJ was looking at her as though she were a goddess—which she was.
“Trisha!” she said as recognition lit up her eyes. “How’s my favorite Raje girl?” She gave Trisha a quick hug.
“Nisha is great,” Trisha said dryly, making Naomi grin even wider.
“And the love of my life? Is he running for president yet?”
That would be Yash all the damn time. “He’s fine, too. You know Yash, he dreams only of serving California and Californians.” HRH would be so proud of her right now.
“Dr. Raje.” DJ came out from behind the glass display case arranged with luscious fruit-filled pastries. He wore dark jeans and white chef’s robes that made his hazel eyes look more green than brown. They reflected all the shock she was feeling at finding him here. Trisha’s heart zapped another ruthless blast of electricity through her body.
“You two know each other!” Naomi said with some surprise, then smacked her forehead daintily. “Of course you do. Through Ashna. And of course you’re doing work for the family, DJ. You did tell me about the fund-raiser.” She seemed incredibly familiar with him.
As if Trisha’s insides weren’t already mired in all sorts of quivery sensations, a stab of envy sliced through her and she wrapped her arms around herself. “And you two know each other,” she repeated stupidly.
“Yes! Andre—DJ’s old boss—is a dear friend. DJ was my savior every time Andre broke my heart when I visited Paris. Ashna told me he was here, so I had to have him come in and help with my pop-up in Carmel today.”
DJ smiled that smile he saved only for his work, and Trisha had to tighten her grip around herself.
“What can I get you? Other than two dozen blueberry muffins, that is,” Naomi asked, patting Trisha’s arm and pushing her into a chair.
“Thank you. I’ll take whatever the special for today is.”
“The special is a curried stew from the visiting chef.”
Every cell in Trisha’s body let out a ravenous moan. She nodded vigorously and felt like Oliver Twist holding out his bowl for more. Please, sir . . .
She was in so much trouble. So. Much. Trouble.
Her desperation did not improve when he brought her the stew, his big hands clasped around the white bowl.
It was magic stew. It tasted of everything. Every good thing Trisha had ever eaten, ever.
“Dear girl, when was the last time you ate?” Naomi asked, watching her inhale the stew in amused horror as she placed a bag of muffins next to her.
She mumbled something around the spoon.
DJ was watching her too. Was that a smile he was trying to suppress? A smile and food—was he trying to kill her?
Could she get a grip, please? All good sense was jumping out of her head and scattering about the floor with every sip of the stew. She was unraveling.
“I need to go out to the coops and check on the chickens. DJ, do you mind keeping the starving child company?” Naomi said, forcing Trisha to look up from her nearly empty bowl.
DJ opened his mouth as if to protest and threw a quick look at his watch, but in the end he smiled at Naomi. “Of course. Go tend to your chickens. I’ll hold down the fort.”
The way he said “fort,” as though there were no “r” in the word, made the hair up and down Trisha’s arms dance with awareness.
Was she drunk? Surely there was alcohol in this stew. Could she drive?
She took a sip of her iced coffee and it only made her more woozy. “Did you make this, too?” she asked without thinking.
That almost made him crack another smile. The dimple in his chin danced to life. He nodded and sank into a chair as she dived back into the Magic Stew. “I wasn’t expecting to see you
here. Are you on a minibreak?”
Trisha had no idea what a minibreak was but it sounded like something she wanted to do. Over and over again. With him murmuring the word. Minibreak. Mini Break. Mi Ni Break-ah in her ear.
What was wrong with her? It was like having another person inside her. A person she had no control over. This having-feelings-for-someone business was like being infected by a tapeworm.
She thought about telling him that she was on her way to visit the art institute to see how it could help Emma, but she had no idea what she would find there, and she didn’t want to raise his hopes until she knew for sure. The way hope for Emma blazed in his eyes had been her constant companion for days, tapping at her mind every time she tried to sleep. “Sort of,” she answered finally. “How’s Emma doing?”
He stiffened, the dark centers of his eyes sharpening with worry so intense it made her want to pull him close, promise him she’d make everything okay, wipe away the pain.
“It’s been twelve days.” It sounded like an accusation. “She seems to have decided to ignore that she’s sick. Maybe discharging her wasn’t such a great idea after all.”
The muscles down Trisha’s back tightened. Her hospital wasn’t a prison, but she didn’t have it in her to fight him today. “I think it needed to be done. I know my job.” If today went as she had planned, she’d get to take that worry away from his eyes. “As do you.” She looked at the Magic Stew. “This is . . . it’s . . . um . . .”
“Would you like some more?” he said, with a touch of impatience.
“It might kill me,” she wanted to say, but she nodded, channeling Oliver Twist again. Please, sir . . .
He brought her more.
“Thanks for staying,” she said as she started on the second bowl. “I mean . . . not that you stayed for me. I mean, I’m sure you wanted to spend time with Naomi.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Gah! Would he stop saying that? “You and Naomi—” the idiot who’d crawled inside her said; she was in a mood today.
“What is it with you wanting to pair me up with every woman you see within five feet of me?” He was in a mood today too.
