“I can fix it, ma’am,” Nick says, shifting his gaze to my mother.
“Thank you,” Ma breathes, and then her gaze dismisses him. “We’ll pay you appropriately.”
I’m thrown back to India, where Ma renders rickshaw drivers invisible with a wave of her hand.
Nick puts the toolbox on the toilet seat, whips off his jacket, and rolls up his sleeves to reveal muscular arms with a hint of blue tattoos beginning above both elbows. Tattoos? What kind of man is this?
Mr. Basu brings a pile of towels and we mop the floor.
Nick gets down on his back on a towel, easing himself into the cabinet.
The phone rings shrilly, drilling through my ears.
“I’ll get it.” Ma waves an arm at Mr. Basu, and they both disappear into the shop.
“Do you always fix plumbing wherever you go?” I ask Nick.
“If the pipes break,” he says in a muffled voice. “Hand me that screwdriver.”
I kneel and peer into the cabinet. As he messes with the pipes, his sleeves ride up his arms, revealing muscles and more of the tattoos—one barbed wire, the other a dream catcher.
Did the tattoos hurt? Did he show off to his girlfriend? He must lift weights with those muscular arms.
Translucent suds of emotion fizz in the air, but they’re not coming from Nick.
They’re coming from me!
What’s going on? What does this mean? I’ve never seen bubbles like this. For a crazy moment, I’m sure he can see the pink foam surrounding me.
“Pass me that wrench,” he says. “Ms. Sen?”
“Oh, sorry!” I fumble in the toolbox.
“That one on the left.”
I hand him the wrench.
He finishes screwing something on and the water stops flowing from the pipe, just like that. He slides out of the cabinet and stands, looking bigger than he did when he walked in.
“You’re really good at fixing things,” I say.
“I fix whatever breaks at my parents’ place all the time,” Nick says. “My dad’s not the greatest with tools.”
“Even our handyman takes hours, and he doesn’t seem to know what he’s doing. Not that you’re a handyman. That’s not what I meant.”
“No problem. I found this in the pipe.” He hands me a golden ring, untarnished and glinting in the light. For an awkward moment, it feels as if he’s proposing to me.
I bring the ring close to my face. A few stray bubbles float by. “Wow—looks like pure gold. I wonder who lost this.”
“Could be a wedding ring.” He peers closer, the scent of his metallic aftershave in my nose.
“Initials J.T. in English. I can’t read this part, see? Words engraved into the inside. Looks like Sanskrit! Maybe it’s my mother’s, or she knows whose it is.”
“I love a good mystery.” Nick grins as he presses a business card into my hand. “Let me know what you find out.”
“Why? Do you want to keep the ring?”
“Finders keepers?” Now he’s smiling.
“I suppose you’re right. You found the ring.”
But I can’t help thinking he gave me the card for another reason. Nick Dunbar, Dunbar Limousine Service. With a telephone number. I glance into his eyes, catching a glimpse of promise. He sees past the glasses, past the baggy shirt and my severe hairstyle.
“Thanks for fixing the…pipe,” I call after him as he leaves.
Seven
After Asha and Nick leave, the bubbles pop, but I’m not back to normal. I’ve entered an unmapped territory with unknown suds lurking in the shadows. I’m spent, shaky, disoriented.
The knowing returns gradually, but why did it leave again? Is the goddess testing me?
“Oh, what shall we do?” Mr. Basu presses his hands to his cheeks. “So much more work! Fittings and stitchings—”
“Hush, Sanjay. This is all good!” Ma rushes around straightening saris, smoothing kameezes. “We’ll take it one step at a time. We must order more jewelry.”
I remember the ring. “Ma, I want to show you something.”
In the office, I show her the ring.
“Where did you find this?” Her face goes hard.
“Nick found it in the pipe under the sink.”
“Ah, the driver,” Ma says dismissively.
“Is it yours? The initials are J.T.”
Her lips form a tight line. A hint of anger touches her eyes and is gone. “I know nothing about this. You can throw it away.”
“Throw it away! But Ma, it’s gold, and it has this etching too—”
“I don’t know about any etching.”
But I’m sure she does. She’s distracted the rest of the morning, putting saris on the wrong shelves, walking away from customers halfway through conversations.
At lunchtime, Mitra shows up in her VW Bug to take me to the Cosmos Café for lunch. A long-haired, dark-skinned Kathak dancer, she exudes compact efficiency, but her wild streak hovers close to the surface, in the silver stud through her nose, in her carefree driving style. I’ve known her for nine years, and she has always been reckless. And she has always loved Kathak, her one thread of connection to her Indian culture. Katha means “story,” and traditional Kathak dance always weaves a tale in elaborate, precise movements as old as time, as delicate as butterfly wings. Her feet move so quickly, tap-tapping the stage, enormous silver bells called ghunghrus clanging on her ankles.
“You’ll get us both killed,” I scream as she cuts across two lanes of traffic.
She ignores me as usual. “You look flushed. Are you sick? I hope you’re not catching the cold that’s going around—”
“Look at the road, not at me!”
“Or maybe that sixth sense of yours went into hyper-drive?”
I tell her about Ravi Ganguli, Asha Rao, the ring in the drainpipe. “And the weird thing was, the knowing disappeared.”
“Are you reading me now?”
“I’m not a two-bit fortune-teller, Mitra. I can’t read you at will.”
The car swerves to the left, then back into her lane. Mitra parks in the lot behind the café, the car sprawled at an angle across two spaces. “Your ma must know about the ring,” she says. “Can’t you read her mind and find out—”
“There are limits to what I see,” I say. “I’ve never seen all the way into her. She thinks I have heightened intuition, and that’s all.”
“There’s some sordid family secret in that ring, I’m telling you.”
“We don’t have any family secrets.”
“Everyone does.” Mitra frowns, and her mind wanders away to a backyard patio near the beach, where a small girl dances in a tiny yellow silk Kathak costume, her black hair flying. The skirt flares out at the bottom, and she looks like miniature sunshine when she spins. Her heart is so full that her happiness spills onto the beach and makes the seashells smile.
A tall man watches from a lawn chair. He smiles and claps, proud of his young daughter. Soft water laps the shore, and a seagull cries, following in the wake of a ferry steaming ashore in West Seattle. Every time the girl bangs her feet on the patio, the bells on her ankles clanging in metallic song, the man encourages her, so she dances faster and faster.
Then a phantom hand reaches from the sea and sucks the man into the surf, and I’m plummeting back to reality, Mitra tugging my sleeve. “Earth to Lakshmi! You were off in la-la land.”
“Did you ever own a yellow Kathak costume with paisley on it when you were a little girl?”
An invisible veil covers her eyes. “I don’t remember. Did you have some kind of vision?”
“I just caught a glimpse of someone. I thought she might’ve been you.”
“What else did you see?”
“You were on the beach.” Instinct tells me not to mention the man, probably her father. I know she hasn’t spoken to him in four years, since she refused to study medicine or marry the man he chose for her.
“We lived near Alki beach.” She drums her finge
rs on the steering wheel. “I’ve always loved it there. I could watch the ferries come in. That’s all you saw?”
“That’s all.”
“But why now? Did you reach into my head and pull out my memories or something?”
“You know I can’t control what I see. You seemed very happy there. You were dancing.”
“What else are you seeing now? What am I thinking?”
“You’re craving a hot fudge sundae with bananas and whipped cream.”
She laughs. “But my waistline will have to make do with a Greek salad, dressing on the side.”
We go inside to meet Nisha. The café caters to an eclectic Northwest crowd, some in suits, others in sandals and flannel shirts. A group of wiry bicyclists gathers at a corner table, their tight spandex outfits outlining every body part. The acidic scent of coffee clings to the air, and the walls are covered with Native Northwest art—carved wooden orcas, a Haida ceremonial mask, a hazy watercolor image of Mount Rainier rising above the Puget Sound.
We find Nisha at a table by the window, her sculpted chin turned toward the expansive view of the lake. Even as the clouds promise more rain, parents are out pushing jogging strollers, Rollerblading, or simply walking. Nisha looks as if she does all three. Everything about her is slim and healthy, studied and planned, even the way she smoothes her blue power suit and sips her wine.
Two years ago, she returned to India for a perfect arranged marriage, and now she and her husband live in a mansion in North Seattle. They’re blissfully happy, and beneath her manicured demeanor, she has a heart the size of the universe. She’s a successful banker who donates to nearly every nonprofit in the city. She convinced me to give several saris for charity fund-raisers.
We bring her up to speed and order our salads. I produce the ring, much admired around the table.
“Must be a sign,” Nisha says. “Your marriage will come soon.”
“I wish I could read the inscription,” I say.
“It’s something cryptic, a big secret.” Mitra waves down the waiter, and we place our orders. “Terribly exciting,” she goes on.
“You’re such a drama queen,” Nisha says. “Always seeing something big and dramatic in everyday happenings. The ring slipped off someone’s finger and fell down the sink, that’s all.” She turns her water glass between her hands in a distracted way.
Mitra snorts. “Who got up grouchy today? You and that husband of yours need a vacation. Drive down to Portland for a romantic weekend. You’re always working!”
“I guess I’m cranky,” Nisha says. “I’ve been working long hours, and Rakesh made partner at the firm. He doesn’t have much time for vacations, but…we’re planning a trip to Baja soon, if he can get away. He’s got a big case that might go to trial.”
The waiter brings our salads and soups, and we dig into our lunches. I am grateful for the distraction, but the knowing is hyperactive, and I catch a glimpse of Nisha running along a narrow alley in darkness, a green sari flapping around her, tears in her eyes. Then the image disappears. What could it mean?
I try to focus on the restaurant, on strangers absorbed in intimate conversations. A gaunt woman sits across from a man who gesticulates in animated movements. She’s wearing a woolen cap decorated with a golden broach, and her eyelashes and eyebrows are missing. Her skin has a pale, brittle appearance, but her eyes shine with life as her companion talks, and then Mitra returns to my thoughts unbidden. She’s the little girl again, dancing, only her father is much older and thinner, bent forward, and then Mitra grows older and suddenly I know what’s happening now, so many years later.
Mitra’s father is dying.
Eight
“How are your parents?” I say in the car on the way back to the shop.
“My ma’s great, taking singing and yoga classes.” Mitra drives with unusual caution, staying in her lane.
“Your dad?”
“What about him? He’s a jerk.” Her eyes brighten, and she blinks rapidly.
“I saw him. I think he may be ill.”
She sniffs and turns up the radio to a blaring volume.
I turn it down again. “Talk to me, girl. Don’t keep this from me.”
“I didn’t want to tell you, because, you know.” Her fingers grip the steering wheel, and she slams on the brake, nearly running a red light. Speckles of rain hit the windshield.
“Because my father died? That was a long time ago, Mitra.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.” At the green light, she turns left around the lake, not waiting for oncoming traffic. An angry motorist beeps his horn and gives Mitra the finger. She gives him the finger back.
“You haven’t seen him lately, have you?” I say as she parks at the curb in front of the shop. “Not in four years.”
She shakes her head, her hands still gripping the steering wheel. “I talk to Mom. My sister’s staying there now.”
“Why can’t you go and see him?”
She turns to me, her face an open wound. “Don’t you remember? He disowned me. I told him I wasn’t going to medical school, that I was going to teach dance and perform full-time, that I was going to try to make it as an artist, and you know what he said? He said he didn’t have a daughter anymore. He wouldn’t talk to me, return my calls. Nothing!”
I hug her, her strong, wiry body rigid with anger. “Mitra, he can’t help it. He’s just who he is. He loves you. He loves your dancing. I saw it in his eyes. I felt it.”
“No, you don’t know. In Indian families love is conditional, Lakshmi. Kids have been ostracized, kicked out of families, totally disowned for all kinds of reasons.”
“I know, but you have to be brave. You have to trust.”
Tears run down her face now, and her nose is red. “I should’ve expected what I got. That he would hate me.”
“He doesn’t hate you. I think he’s…sad. I think he misses you. I think he wants to put all this aside—”
“Oh, stop it! How can you possibly know that, Lakshmi? You’re not there. He doesn’t want to talk to me ever again. To him, I don’t exist.”
I give her a squeeze, then open the door. “I’m sorry, Mitra. Remember, family is the most important thing. I’m sure he knows that. Why don’t you invite him to your next performance? The one at the Studio Theater? I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to come.”
“No, he won’t.”
“Think about it. Please.”
She sighs but says nothing.
When I get out of the car, she screeches away, leaving a trail of white exhaust in her wake. But the image of the yellow costume remains, and I know what I have to do. I go inside to find a similar fabric, and then I pull Mitra’s measurements from our files and put a call in to the seamstress.
The rest of the afternoon, I can’t concentrate. My mind whirls with images from the minds of my friends and customers, and at home that evening, Ma chatters about our upcoming trip to India, and I nod and murmur at all the right moments.
At supper, she presses a hand to my forehead. “You’re flushed. Do you have a fever?” I deny it, say I had a long day.
“You mustn’t be sick in India, Bibu, makes your face look blotchy and pasty.”
“I’m fine, Ma.” Just heavy with the weight of my friends’ problems.
“You must eat only good foods before we go, and not all the time the coffee in the mornings.”
“I love coffee, Ma.”
“We must take only the best saris for you—”
“We have plenty of saris.”
“And not all the time doing the Jane Fonda–type aerobics and walking everywhere. You’ll become too thin.”
“Jane Fonda is so eighties, Ma. I love walking to work.”
“Then eat more sweets and pastries and such to balance it out.” She goes on about my teeth, about my speech patterns. “Try to have a bit of Bengali accent, nah? Then he’ll know you have not completely lost the language.”
I rub Ma’s arm. “You know I haven’t.
You know I love you more than anything.”
She touches my cheek. “I know, Bibu. Your father is gazing upon us from the heavens and smiling. Finally, smiling. I can feel his happiness.”
“Yes, Ma.”
After supper, I find a new email message from Ravi Ganguli:
Dear Lakshmi,
I look forward to returning to Seattle. I studied as an exchange student at the University of Washington for one year, and I grew to love the Pacific Northwest. It will be an honor to see the city sights again, but this time with you. Although we haven’t met, I feel as though I know you. I enclose a snap taken at Discovery Park.
Yours with affection,
Ravi
He includes a photograph of himself in a Seattle Mariners T-shirt and jeans, his hair tousled, arms around two other men, one blond, the other red-haired. They’re young, maybe twenty, laughing, their faces flushed, a field of grass and pine trees stretching behind them. A strip of ocean glints in the background. Ravi’s lean face is open and accessible. Handsome. A man I want to know. His Indianness remains an unchanging, timeless glow emanating from him. And yet, he fits in smoothly in the American scene. I want to be there in that picture, in the past with him.
I send a wistful reply asking if he’s ever ridden the elevator up the Space Needle to Seattle’s highest lookout, whether he likes the ferry, the fish-throwers in Pike Place Market. I sign the note, With anticipation, Lakshmi Sen.
There’s a note from Pooja, giving the time and place of her wedding rehearsal next weekend. I nearly forgot! Maybe I should marry Asha Rao’s driver instead, she jokes, adding a smiley face to her message. She signs, Your cold-footed friend, Pooja.
I send her a pep talk and take the golden ring and Nick Dunbar’s business card from my purse. I have a crazy idea. I flip open my cell phone and punch in his number. My heartbeat picks up. At nine o’clock, I’ll probably get his answering service, but I’m surprised when his deep, male voice comes on the line. “Dunbar Limousine.”
Invisible Lives Page 5
