Invisible Lives

by Anjali Banerjee

“Thanks for agreeing to do this,” I tell him. I run my hands along the smooth vinyl seat. “I can hardly wait to see Pooja’s face. She has a bit of a crush on you, but don’t tell her I told you that. She’s getting married.”

  “Which one is Pooja again?” He glances at me in the rearview mirror.

  “You don’t remember her? The pretty young thing with the frizzy hair? Really slim? Don’t flirt with her, though. She’s engaged.”

  “Oh, her. She’s a nice kid. Now, if you had a crush on me…”

  I let out a tiny, nervous laugh. “Why would I—I mean, why would you care?” Am I flirting? Playing coy with this driver? What has come over me?

  “All I’m saying is I would pay attention.” He turns away from the lake, the limo climbing along a narrow street lined with ornamental pear trees and pastel bungalows.

  “Oh. I see.” A creeping heat travels from my cheeks to my ears. I make a point of wiping the condensation on the window. Why can’t I think of a better comeback?

  Nick clears his throat. “Is she going to one of those arranged marriages?” His voice slides across the seat and rests on my shoulders.

  “Semi-arranged.”

  “Does she love the guy?”

  “If she doesn’t now, she will.”

  “Hell of a way to go.” He turns up the radio a half degree. A Billie Holiday melody, “My Old Flame,” slinks from the speakers.

  “You make it sound like she’s getting killed. She’s completely excited.” I arrange my sari, which suddenly goes tight around my thighs. “If you met Dipak, you’d like him.”

  “How well does she know him?”

  “Since they were children. She wants to marry him, and everyone’s very happy for her. We’re celebrating. You sure you know the way?” I lean forward so he can hear me, and I catch a whiff of his metallic aftershave.

  “Trust me. I always know the way.”

  I sit back, feeling oddly comforted.

  He does know exactly where to find Pooja’s place, a modern green apartment building sandwiched between two others. A few scrawny magnolia trees struggle up in the bathroom-size yards, where the sod has been hastily unrolled between stretches of concrete. There’s a faint odor of sulfur in the air, as if a septic tank is leaking somewhere. Traffic noise foams up in the distance.

  Nick parks in the guest lot, and in a second he’s opening my door. My arm brushes his as I hold up my sari and walk to the front door. I ring the bell for Pooja’s apartment and wait.

  And wait.

  Nick’s standing next to the limo, hands in his pants pockets. He never taps a foot or glances at his watch. A good quality in a driver. Patience.

  I have only a thimble of patience.

  Finally, thumping footsteps come down the stairs and Pooja opens the door. I suck in a breath.

  She’s a kleptomaniac’s dream. In her shiny, red silk sari, gold jewels, and precious gems, she’s a gleaming vision with frizzy hair. A jewelry shop hung its entire inventory from her limbs. And yet beneath the fancy garb, she’s a delicate dewdrop.

  “Oh, Lakshmi,” she whispers, “you look lovely.” Her voice trembles. Intricate patterns of henna cover her hands and climb across her forehead.

  “No, you’re the lovely one, Pooja! You’re an absolute…you’re beautiful.” I give her a hug, as best I can with all the metal and stones in the way. Her body shakes a bit, and her skin is warmer than usual.

  “Do you think so?” She glances past me at the limousine, at Nick standing there like a broad-shouldered statue, and she covers her mouth. “What have you done, Lakshmi? Oh, you got a limo for me. Are you serious? Why did you go and do that?” She’s grinning, pinpoints of color springing up in her cheeks.

  “For you—so we can arrive in style.” I take her arm.

  “Ma and Baba will be there! Oh, I can’t wait to show them!”

  “Are you ready?”

  “Oh, you shouldn’t have done it, shouldn’t have.” Her eyes are watery. She slings her handbag over her shoulder and takes my hand in a tight grip. Her fingers are cool. “Let’s go, Lakshmi. I have to get out of here.” She takes a deep breath, and I take her to the car.

  Nick opens the door for us, and Pooja assesses him before getting into the backseat. “He’s a cutie,” she whispers to me, a hint of longing in her voice. I put a finger to my lips, hoping that Nick didn’t hear.

  He pulls out easily and threads back through town toward the highway.

  “Do you know where the temple is?” I ask.

  “I know the way everywhere,” Nick says.

  Arrogant, I’m thinking as I sit back.

  “Oh, Lakshmi—I haven’t slept a wink and my armpits are itching,” Pooja says. Her fingers are slender tendrils clinging to the armrest.

  “I’m sure all brides go through this. You’ll be fine. It’s only a rehearsal.”

  Her black eyes implore me. “Are you certain? Do you see it? I mean, my future? Do you see Dipak and me happy together? Is that the kind of thing you can see?”

  Nick glances in the mirror, his brows furrowing.

  I nod and lie, because at the moment, I see nothing but bubbles. “You’re blissful, sitting at a bay window with lovely views, and you’ll have the most beautiful children.” I see nothing but the backseat and the triangle of road ahead.

  Pooja lets go of my hand, fumbles in her purse, and produces a miniature bottle with a Glenlivet label. Whisky! But Pooja doesn’t drink. A mere sip of wine makes her tipsy. “I need to calm my nerves,” she says and takes a swig.

  “Pooja! You can’t drink before your rehearsal,” I whisper.

  “Just a shot to fortify me.” Her cheeks are flushed.

  “You okay back there?” Nick glances in the mirror again.

  “I’m not feeling well, so nervous.” Pooja takes another gulp of whisky. “Is this normal, Lakshmi? Tell me.”

  Nick glances in the mirror again.

  “This will be your second happiest day,” I say. “I’m here for you. Hang in there. Once the ceremony begins, it’ll be just like riding a bike.”

  She gives me a pleading look. “Are you sure? You’ve never been married, have you?”

  “No, but I’ve helped many through the pre-wedding jitters.”

  “I can stop the car if you want to get out,” Nick says. “There’s a rest area in a few miles.”

  “I need more whisky.” Pooja stares forlornly at the nearly empty bottle.

  I snatch the bottle from her. “You need fresh air.”

  At the rest area, Nick helps Pooja out of the car. She takes a deep breath. “Okay, I’ll get some coffee then.” She totters away toward the coffee stand near the restrooms, the wind whipping her hair and jingling her bangles. She’s a walking jewelry store, drawing stares from passing truckers and travelers.

  I stand awkwardly next to the limo, the sari pressed against my legs. The closer I get to Nick, the more the bubble bath fizzes around me.

  “We have to get her straightened out before we reach the temple,” I say.

  “Maybe she’s not ready,” he says.

  I give him a sharp look. “Not ready for what?”

  “To get married.”

  “Of course she is. She has the jitters, that’s all.”

  “It’s more than jitters. She’s physically ill.”

  “She’ll be fine. It’s a big deal having all the family there waiting.” I set my jaw.

  “Why does she have to stick to your traditions?”

  “They’re not my traditions,” I say, and I realize that these half-arranged marriages feel alien to me as well. “They belong to our ancestors, to our culture.”

  “You don’t seem so traditional.”

  I glance toward Pooja, who is waiting in the coffee line, her arms crossed over her chest. She looks so forlorn and fragile that I want to grab her before the wind carries her away.

  “Okay, I’m not traditional. I grew up here. I’m an American,” I say. “So is Pooja. But she’s always been
very close to her parents. They’ve always expected her to marry.”

  “That doesn’t mean she should do it.”

  “Haven’t you heard of American brides getting nervous? Where do you think the term ‘cold feet’ comes from?”

  “She has more than cold feet. She’s a walking ice block.”

  “She’s a grown-up. Besides, she loves Dipak.”

  “How do you recognize true love?”

  “You have to see the two of them together. Then you would know! Why are you intruding, anyway? I hired you to drive me and Pooja to the rehearsal, not to break up her marriage!”

  Nick holds up his hands, palms forward. “Whoa—look, I hate to see someone get pushed into a marriage she doesn’t really want just to satisfy some family tradition. Love is the one thing in life that should not be compromised.”

  “Compromised! You think Pooja is compromising?” I’m seething now, but I muster my best smile as Pooja returns, sipping coffee. She looks marginally refreshed.

  We’re going to be twenty minutes late, not that time would matter so much in India, but it matters here, and the freeway’s slowly clogging with traffic.

  I lean back in the car, my fingers curling into fists. Please, let this day go smoothly.

  Pooja finishes her coffee, then gives me a woozy look. Her cheeks are pale. I touch her forehead. Her skin feels cool and damp.

  “Pooja, what is it?”

  “I took a sedative, a pill for anxiety, before—”

  “Before what? Before the whisky?”

  She nods. She’s turning into a regular addict overnight.

  “You should never mix alcohol and drugs!” I shout.

  Nick frowns into the mirror. “Everything okay?”

  “I’m so sorry, Lakshmi,” Pooja whispers. “It’s just that, you know, Dipak doesn’t understand how much I want to be a doctor. And I love San Francisco.”

  “I’ll turn around,” Nick says. “Take you home.”

  “No, you won’t!” I shout. “Just because she took a pill doesn’t mean she’s calling off the wedding. She’s not giving up so easily, are you, Pooja?”

  “Dipak wants to stay near his parents,” Pooja goes on. “I want to go to California. Oh, I don’t know…” Her voice trails off.

  “You don’t know?” I say incredulously. “Look, we’ll deliver you to your family, and you can talk to your parents, to Dipak.” Make sure she gets there, Ma said.

  “They won’t understand. I don’t want to go.”

  “She doesn’t want to go,” Nick says.

  “Nick!” I shout. “Look, Pooja. I didn’t realize you were so…worried about all this. Drink some water, and all will be well.”

  “There’s water in the pocket behind the seat,” Nick says. “To your left.”

  The spring water calms Pooja for now.

  “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.

  Fourteen

  “She’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.