by Diane Barnes
The next day, when she caught us spying again, she wasn’t as amused. “What I do is a business. It is serious. There is no room for little girls spying. How can I get you to stop?”
Neesha and I looked at each other and grinned. “Tell us our fortunes,” we said in unison. Until that day, Ajee had always refused, saying we had to wait until we were older.
Neesha went first. Ajee instructed her to hand over her bracelet. It was made of thick white rope, and I had one that matched on my wrist. We had bought them the previous summer on Cape Cod. With some effort, Neesha removed the bracelet and handed it to Ajee.
Ajee immediately dropped it. “Sometimes it is better not to know the future.”
“You promised,” Neesha said.
Ajee cleared her throat. “Very well.” She picked up the bracelet and closed her eyes. “You will like this,” she said, opening her eyes. “The handsome boy will kiss you before summer ends.”
The handsome boy was Josh Levine, the neighborhood cutie. I had to admit, I hoped Ajee was wrong. I didn’t want Josh kissing Neesha. I wanted him to kiss me.
Ajee closed her eyes again. She opened them a few moments later, and she looked as serious as I had ever seen her. “You will move away before the start of high school, and you will not return again until you are an adult with children of your own. Yes, you and your family will own this very house.”
I felt my heart racing. High school was just a year away. Neesha couldn’t move. She was my best friend.
Neesha looked at me and shook her head. “She’s just trying to scare us.”
Ajee reached for Neesha’s hand and held it for several seconds. “I am sorry, dear one, but it is what I see.”
Neesha popped up from the seat. “Your turn, Gina.” She looked pointedly at her grandmother. “Be truthful.”
I sat, and Ajee instructed me to give her my bracelet. I pulled it from my wrist and handed it to her. She spun it around her index finger and closed her eyes. “You will visit Italy before high school starts.” She was quiet for a second and then frowned. “You will break your arm before school starts again.”
“Ajee!” Neesha screamed.
“I am only telling you what I see.” Ajee opened her eyes. I must have looked scared because she reached for my hand. “Bella,” because of my dark hair and eyes and olive complexion, she thought I looked more Italian than American and often addressed me by the Italian word for “beautiful.” “Do not worry. I will tell you the name of your husband. You will like that, yes?”
I nodded enthusiastically, sure she was going to say Josh Levine. Who cared if Neesha got to kiss him? I was going to marry him. Mrs. Josh Levine. Gina Levine.
Ajee looked right into my eyes. “Ethan.”
Ethan? Confused, I pulled my hand from hers. “I don’t know anyone named Ethan.”
“You will not meet him for many years. You will get tired of waiting. You will doubt that he will come, but he will. You must wait. You must wait for Ethan.”
Within days of Ajee making those predictions, Josh Levine kissed Neesha, and I fell off my bicycle and broke my arm. Still, I might have ignored her instructions to wait for Ethan if not for what happened Labor Day weekend. To celebrate getting my cast off, I went to the beach with the Patels. Neesha, her brother Sanjit, and I were playing in the waves most of the day while Ajee and Dr. Patel were rooted in beach chairs reading. In the late afternoon, Ajee walked down to the water and called for us. “I want you to get out of the water now,” she said. “I have a very bad feeling.”
Sanjit splashed her and swam away. Neesha followed. I stood on the shoreline with her. “Come, Bella. It is not safe.” At the same time, Neesha and Sanjit called for me to come back in the water.
“Sorry, Ajee,” I said. I turned and started walking to them. In front of me a father lifted his small daughter onto his shoulders and she dove off. I took several steps to the right to avoid them. The water I was walking through became eerily still. I took another step, but this time when I tried to put my foot down, I could no longer touch the bottom. I turned back to look at the shore and realized I was out much deeper than I thought, much deeper than I was comfortable with. I had somehow been carried out beyond Neesha and Sanjit. I tried to swim toward the shore, but felt myself getting pulled farther and farther away. I moved my arms as fast as possible. I kicked my legs as hard as I could. It made no difference. Instead of going forward I was being pulled backward. The people on the beach got smaller. My arms and legs became heavy. I no longer had the strength to move them. I gasped to catch my breath and could taste salt water filling my mouth. My heart, which had been beating frantically, seemed to stop as I felt myself sinking beneath the surface. Everything got black and quiet.
I came to lying on the beach while the lifeguard pumped my chest. A crowd with worried expressions peered over her shoulder down at me. Someone nearby was crying. I coughed, and water spurted out of my mouth. The lifeguard stopped pounding. She sank from her knees to her butt and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. The crowd clapped.
“You got caught in a riptide. I pulled you out,” the lifeguard said.
“Thank you,” I murmured.
“Swim out of a rip current. Parallel to the shore. Never against it.” She seemed to be addressing the entire crowd.
“You’re okay now,” Dr. Patel said. I hadn’t noticed he was kneeling to my right. “But you scared us.” Behind him, Sanjit, with tears streaming down his face, held Neesha’s hand. Her usually dark face was white. Next to them, Ajee repeatedly tapped her bare foot on the sand. “I warned you. Why didn’t you listen?” she mumbled. She came and sat next to me, taking my hand into hers. “You girls have to listen. I know things.”
“We will. From now on,” I promised, knowing I would never speak truer words.
Chapter 3
Neesha and I spent most of eighth grade trying to figure out how Ajee knew the things she did. We’d sit at the kitchen table pretending to do our homework while we studied her cooking at the stove. She hummed a lot. We’d follow her into the living room and watch her while she watched television. She’d scream at the characters on General Hospital, telling them they were stupid. We volunteered to go to the grocery store with her. She ate a bag of Doritos as she shopped and always discarded the empty bag before getting to the cash register. Her breath would smell like nacho cheese, and her fingers would be covered with orange powder that would inevitably get smeared on the money she gave to the cashier, but she never got caught. As closely as we scrutinized her, we found nothing that explained how she could see the things she did. When we asked her, she would only shrug.
While we believed in her powers wholeheartedly, as each day of eighth grade passed with no word that the Patels would be moving or I would visit Italy, we let ourselves believe that Ajee could sometimes get it wrong. On the last day of the school year we believed we were in the clear and that Neesha would be attending Westham High with me that fall. We planned to celebrate the beginning of summer vacation with a trip to the Westham Creamery. Ajee promised she would take us there after dinner, and Neesha and I were planning to split the Gut Wrencher, a monstrous six-scoop ice cream sundae with three different kinds of toppings. I had just finished dinner and was in the backyard playing badminton with my mother. I was camped under the birdie, waiting for it to come down, when out of the corner of my eye, I saw Neesha racing into our backyard. I figured she was there to collect me for our trip to the creamery. I hit the birdie back at my mother, but she didn’t return it because she was looking at Neesha. “What’s wrong?” she asked. That’s when I noticed Neesha’s bloodshot eyes and the tears streaming down her face.
Neesha tried to speak, but she couldn’t catch her breath. My mother put her arm around Neesha and walked her to the picnic table to sit down. “Calm down, honey,” she said.
The only other time I had seen Neesha cry was when her mother died, so I was certain something horrible had happened to Ajee, Dr. Patel, or maybe even
Sanjit. I stayed glued to my spot by the badminton net because I didn’t want my suspicions confirmed. Like by staying where I was, I could somehow change what had happened.
“Gina, run inside and get Neesha a drink of water and some tissues,” my mom instructed.
I took my time inside the house. When I returned several minutes later, my mother was hugging Neesha, who was no longer crying. “Here,” I said, handing Neesha the glass and tissues.
She looked up at me. “Ajee was right,” she said. “We’re moving to Texas. My dad is going to be the chief neurologist at a hospital there.”
I looked at my mother, who nodded with a somber expression.
“When?”
Neesha blew her nose before answering. “The end of July.”
I could taste the hot dog I had for dinner bubbling back up in my mouth. “But what about high school? We’re supposed to be in the same classes.”
“I know,” Neesha said. She was crying again, and I could feel my eyes watering up, as well.
“I’m sorry, girls.” My mom gave us each a small smile. No one said anything else. The only sound in our backyard was the crickets chirping.
A few minutes later, the jingling of keys broke up the silence as Ajee burst around the corner. When she saw us at the picnic table with our tear-streaked faces, she came to a screeching halt and smacked the palm of her hand against her forehead. “You are still crying,” she shouted, looking at Neesha. “If you do not stop soon, the tracks of your tears will carve deep grooves into your face. You will be fourteen years old, and you will be as wrinkled as me.”
I could feel my mother stiffen next to me. “This is hard on the girls.”
Ajee waved her hand in the air to dismiss my mother’s comment. “Nonsense. Leaving everyone and everything I knew in India. That was hard.”
My mother exhaled loudly. I imagined she was counting silently. Usually when she lost patience with me, she counted out loud.
Ajee turned to me. “Are you ready for some ice cream?”
My stomach hurt. “I’m not really hungry.”
Ajee sat down on the picnic bench next to me. “I tried to prepare you girls for this last summer.” She patted my knee. “People come into your life. People leave your life. It is the way it is, Bella. By the time you are my age, you will be used to it.”
My mother stood. “You girls can write each other and talk on the phone, and Neesha, you’re welcome to come back and visit us anytime.”
“I will,” Neesha said. She sounded like she meant it, but I knew it wouldn’t happen because Ajee’s last prediction for Neesha was that she wouldn’t return until she was an adult with children of her own.
I looked at Ajee. She stood. “I am getting ice cream. Who is coming with?”
The Patels left for Texas on July 30, the hottest day of the summer. My parents and I stood at the end of our driveway and waved good-bye as their blue Cadillac rolled down Towering Heights Lane. Ajee was riding shotgun, and she gave a thumbs-up as the car passed. Behind her, Neesha extended her arm out the open back window like she was reaching for me. Sanjit stuck out his tongue and then gave a quick wave in the back windshield. Dr. Patel tapped the horn two times, and seconds later the car was out of sight.
The next few days I moped around the house. My mother volunteered to take me shopping, to the beach, or to the movies, but I refused, content to stay in my room in my pajamas all day. Finally, one August evening, my parents burst into my room with big smiles on their faces. My father fanned three envelopes in front of me. “Guess what these are?”
“Tickets to Italy,” I answered.
He looked accusingly at my mother. “I didn’t say a thing, Dominick,” she said.
“Ajee told me I’d be visiting Italy before high school,” I responded.
“Well, get packing,” my father said. “We leave in three days.”
When we returned from Italy, five letters from Neesha were waiting for me. Through the first three years of high school we corresponded regularly and talked on the phone at least once a month. Senior year we promised each other we’d both go to Boston College and be roommates. We mailed our applications on the same exact day, and for the next few months our letters to each other were mostly about how we would be reunited soon. In March when I received my acceptance letter, I called Neesha.
“I got in,” I shouted.
My enthusiasm was met by silence and then a clearing of the throat. “Me, too, Gina, but I’ve decided I want to go to school in Texas to be near my high school friends.”
“Wait, what?”
“I don’t want to move away from my friends again. It was hard enough the first time.”
“You’d rather be with your Texas friends than me?” Even as I asked the question, I knew there was no way it could be true.
“Yeah, I guess that’s what I’ve decided,” she said.
It felt as if she had swung a wrecking ball through my heart. We were both silent. “Sorry, Gina,” Neesha finally said. “But I’m a Texas girl now.”
After that, our letters and phone calls became fewer and farther between, and then one day they just stopped. Through the years, I often thought about picking up the phone and calling her. A few times I’d even start to dial, but then I’d remember how she chose her Texas friends over me and I’d put down the phone.
Chapter 4
2012
Sunday morning, the day after my parents left for Florida, I awake at 6:45 and lie in bed staring at the ceiling and listening to the constant drip from the bathroom sink. I have asked my landlord to repair it ten times, and each time he has told me he will stop by. I even tried to fix it myself, but only succeeded in making it worse. I bet when I meet Ethan, he will hear it dripping, and without me even asking, he will retrieve the toolbox he keeps in the trunk of his car and fix it.
At 7:15 I give up trying to fall back to sleep and get out of bed. Usually on Sunday mornings my mother’s phone call wakes me from a dead sleep at 8:15. “Gina, just calling to see if you would like to go to Mass with me and Dad?”
I have said yes only once, but that one time was enough to make her hopeful enough to keep calling every week. Today, I am thinking that I would like to go to church with my parents. I’d even be willing to put up with my mother’s critique of my clothing. “That sweater is too baggy, and your slacks are at least one size too big,” she’d say, shaking her head. “I don’t understand why you spend so much time working out and then hide your beautiful figure underneath clothing that swims on you.” She’d give me a few minutes’ reprieve before starting in on my hair. “Women your age shouldn’t wear their hair so long, and why do you straighten it? People pay good money for curls like yours.” Then she would mutter to herself in Italian, and the only words I’d be able to make out would be “That daughter of mine. What am I going to do with her?”
Yes, at 7:30 in the morning I am already so bored that I would be willing to put up with all that today, but of course I can’t. My parents are somewhere on Interstate 95 heading south toward sunny, warm Florida, orphaning me in cold, gray New England for the next four months.
By 7:45 I have flipped through every channel on TV without finding anything that interests me. I hate Sundays in the winter. They are endless. When I finally meet Ethan, I imagine he will wake up before me and sneak down to the convenience store for the paper. Then he’ll walk around the corner to the bakery for fresh blueberry muffins and piping hot coffee. We’ll sit at the kitchen table for the better part of the morning, him reading the articles out loud, his voice distinguished like a prominent newscaster.
By 9:30 I’m showered, dressed, and going stir-crazy. I think about going to the ten o’clock Mass here in Clayton but quickly reject the idea. I never feel more alone than I do in a crowded church where I am surrounded by families. I don’t care what “Dear Abby” says. Church is no place to meet someone. I swear, I am always the only single person there.
The last time I went to church by myself was
about three months ago. Father Moynihan was celebrating Mass. His voice is soft and monotonous, making it very hard to pay attention. The baby with the couple next to me started crying. I turned to look and noticed the mother and father appeared to be at least ten years younger than I was. A few rows ahead, a teenage boy repeatedly poked his sister, who was probably about twelve. The mother shot the boy a harsh look. I guessed she was my age. My heart pounded faster. When it came time to give the sign of peace, I turned around to shake hands with the people behind me, and a pregnant woman much younger than me extended her arm. I felt my heart miss a beat. To my right, a woman my age with tween girls offered me her hand. I felt a tightness in my chest. By the time the parishioners were lining up for communion, I had confirmed that all the parents with infants and toddlers were much younger than me and all the mothers and fathers with teenage kids were my age. I was running out of time. I tried to take a deep breath, but a sharp pain ripped through my upper left side. I could feel my heart jumping in my chest and sweat dripping down my back. The woman next to me tapped me on the shoulder. I hadn’t noticed it was our row’s turn to line up for communion. I leaned back in the pew to let her pass. She stared at me with wide, open eyes. “Are you okay?” she asked.
I nodded, but when the row was empty, I fled to the side aisle and out the back door. Convinced I was having a heart attack, I drove straight to the emergency room. I told the man at the registration desk I was having chest pains. He rushed me into the examining room, where a heavyset blond nurse took my vitals. My heart rate raced to nearly two hundred beats per minute. The doctor gave me medication to slow it down. After, he told me that I had experienced a panic attack. I haven’t been back to church since.
