Far From Home

by Lorelie Brown

  Maybe that was the real reason why she pulled away. She’s fine with me as a sexual creature. It’s fitting me into her life that’s more difficult. She doesn’t trust me.

  By dawn, when Pari crawls out of bed and shuts the bathroom door behind her with a quiet snick of the latch, I’ve talked myself out of apologizing.

  Life is easier if you just blast full steam ahead. Plus she doesn’t seem the least bit disturbed by our return to distance.

  I’m only hurting myself. Like a toddler allowed to scream herself hoarse. Great. Just great. It’s like the smack-dab combining of all my issues: a craving to be noticed and an abhorrence of feeling superfluous.

  I still keep my eyes smashed shut when she comes out of the bathroom. It’s only when she passes me and stands before her dresser that I open my eyes, and then only a slit. She’s wearing panties that are full coverage but made of incredibly thin material in a tan color that’s five or six shades lighter than her beautiful dark skin.

  She tosses her hair back over her shoulder and drops a slip over her head.

  I slam my eyes shut before she turns. I keep my breathing soft and just a bit snuffly. With my eyes closed, the pieces of me are invisible. I don’t know where I end and the dark begins.

  Pari walks by me slowly. I think she touches my shoulder, but it’s so light I can hardly be sure. I know that she skims a lock of my hair through two fingers, though. The tug at my scalp is a quiet kiss.

  I should open my eyes. I should reach for her bare thigh, waiting right in front of my face.

  I don’t. If she pulls away again, the sadness will reach inside me and wrench apart pieces.

  “Friends” is good enough. Friendship is all I know how to offer, anyway. I’m too needy and broken to be worth all the rest. It’s best if I keep my distance.

  So I tell myself as Pari disappears back into the bathroom and the attached dressing room. When she emerges, she’s flawlessly dressed in a sheath with Jackie O. styling. She’s even swept her hair into a heavy chignon at her neck. All she needs is a pillbox hat, and she’d be a million miles above me.

  As opposed to the few hundred thousand miles she’s above me now.

  I decide I’ll be cutesy for tonight, for meeting her and her mother at the dress shop, since there’s no way I could compete in class. I’ll find something simple and as flattering as possible, and I’ll be friendly, and that’s all we’ll need. We’ll put my embarrassing little tantrum behind us.

  Pari is right. We don’t need anything messy between us. If I’m starting to experience something similar to lust, it’s probably just a later phase in my recovery, and if I’m patient, I’ll start to feel it with someone else.

  I hope.

  I leave work at noon and go to the gym. I only do an hour on the treadmill. I mostly use the gym for the shower. I blow-dry my hair. I used to wear it even longer than my shoulders, but my illness caused massive breakage. That’s what happens when you only give your body a fraction of the nutrients it needs. It’s grown a lot since I’ve entered recovery though. I think I’m going to let it keep growing as far as I can manage. A symbol of my health.

  I wear it down around my shoulders. My outfit is carefully picked out: shorts that are probably shorter than they need to be and a nautical, striped top with a boatneck that shows off how I’ve skipped a bra. I am every inch the California surfer girl. My uniform is my armor.

  By the time I pull up to the bridal salon, I almost believe myself.

  Niharika and Pari are in a dressing room that hardly seems like it will be big enough for all of us and piles of tulle. Pari wears a white satin robe, and if she isn’t naked beneath it, she’s at least really damn close. As she sits in a little cushioned chair, she crosses her legs. The robe slides open to reveal a thigh that is soft in both skin and shape.

  I smile, and Pari smiles, and I hope that maybe she already knows how silly I feel about my behavior and pouting over the last week. Niharika kisses my cheek and gives me a hug.

  “So prompt,” she says. “In this traffic, that’s a talent.”

  “I’ve just learned to leave plenty of time and hide nearby if I get there too early.” She thinks I’m kidding. I’m not. This time I only spent ten minutes in my car, sending all my Sims off to work.

  “Is your mother on her way?”

  I glance between Niharika and Pari. “She’s not coming.”

  “Why not?”

  It’s such a blunt question. I squirm. “All this has been kind of short notice. She had a commitment she … couldn’t get out of.” My stomach squeezes. I can tell Niharika isn’t buying it.

  The truth is, I didn’t ask my mom to be here. When you find the perfect wedding dress, you’re supposed to cry, and your mom is supposed to cry too. I couldn’t bear to have Mom give it a score out of ten and hear her analyze the cost of the material versus the cost of the dress.

  “Amma, leave her be.” Pari is my knight in shining armor. Or in a dressing gown, at any rate. “Which of these dresses do you like best? Which should I try on first?”

  She’s distracting her mom for me, I can tell. I throw her my best appreciative smile. Once she has Niharika eyeball-deep in lace, she slides over to me. “There’s champagne if you want.”

  I shake off the calories with a fast no. “I didn’t eat lunch. I wouldn’t be able to drive home.”

  “Then how do you want to do this? I have the room next door reserved as well, if you like. But I thought it would be faster if we’re together.”

  I steel myself. This is just a dress. “Together is totally fine.”

  Pari is happy with my answer. I’m not exactly sure why, but her shoulders seem a little looser.

  “Are you looking for anything in particular?”

  “Whatever makes her happy.” Pari jerks her head toward her mom. “She’s been dreaming of this day longer than I have. How about you?”

  I shrug. “Not exactly? I want to look good. But I’m not the type who’s plotted and planned for my wedding day.”

  It’s part of how I can do this without feeling particularly freaked out about the whole idea. Marriage as an institution is fine, though it seems like there could be room for improvement. But I’d never imagined giving up enough of myself and my life to make it the right thing to do. Maybe this kind of halfway marriage is perfect for me.

  I hold the hem of my shirt. “Is your mom going to be okay if I strip? I’m not wearing much but panties under here.”

  I’m mean. I’m a tease. Because I adore the heat that flares in Pari’s eyes. She doesn’t take her gaze off me as she calls to her mom. “Amma, Rachel is going to get ready to try dresses on. She’s not dressed, so don’t turn around.”

  Niharika waves a hand. She’s on her knees, inspecting beautiful crystals on the hem of a dress. “Amaam, it’s fine. No lusting though! You have time for that later. Do you think this could be redone in red?”

  “Anything can happen if I pay enough money,” Pari answers, but she’s still not looking away from me.

  I pull my loose blouse over my head. So much for my resolution to behave. She’s breaking that no-lusting rule too. Without a word, without a touch, I know she is.

  I’m breathing in a way that’s different. As if even the air in my lungs knows it’s wanted. She’s hungry for me.

  I know it’s the wrong thing to do, but if she’s going to be good and I’m going to be nice and make friends again, I still want to know that I can make her burn.

  I need to know it.

  I don’t want to look at that part of myself too closely. It might break open other boxes that I’m not ready for.

  Instead I grab the robe that’s waiting for me on the back of the door. I put it on before I shuck off my shorts, and then I tie it firmly shut.

  “How cute,” I say, rubbing the pink Mrs. embroidered on the lapel.

  “I have one too.”

  “I see that.” We’re grinning at each other like foolish little girls. If this were real, this i
s a moment where we’d kiss.

  I’m relieved when the door opens. We get two salespeople. One is a blonde, the other a Latina with such a wide, friendly smile that I secretly hope she’ll be my assistant. I get the short blonde who introduces herself as Nicole, though. She seems nice enough, and when I don’t have the magazine pages or internet printouts she seems to expect, she asks me a few questions about my personal style.

  I come up blank when she gets to questions about the venue, though. “Pari, sweetheart? Tell her about where we’re getting married?”

  “We’ve rented the San Sebastian Wave Club. Decorations are classic with lots of influence from my homeland.”

  Both salesgirls nod. “I think we have just the thing,” Nicole says. She turns to me. “You’re about a six? I only ask because your party is on a short timeline, and it’s easiest if you can fit in a sample.”

  I flinch. Jesus. No one’s asked me that so flat out in … in forever. Not since I was sick, at the very least, and then it wasn’t done with much admiration. It was stunned shock at how small I could be and still fit in clothes for grown women.

  “Probably.” Maybe. Do I want to be a six? I used to be a zero. I thought I’d only gotten up to a four, but maybe I was buying tag-friendly clothing.

  Oh, fucking hell. I try to breathe as if this doesn’t bother me. I think it’s messing me up that I even am messed up. I want to be better than this, more healthy. But apparently I’m not if a simple question can send me into a tailspin.

  Pari puts a single, calm hand at the center of my back. She says nothing. I don’t need her to. My nerves surge with enough intensity that I let it carry me away. I fold inward, the better to know each fingertip of pressure along my spine.

  “And red,” Niharika adds. “We must have red. It’s for fertility.”

  Pari rolls her eyes, but only facing me, where her mother can’t see it. “We’re two women. Fertility is going to be difficult.”

  “You have double the fertility.” She nods decisively, as if this is how she’s come to grips with the concept of her daughter, the lesbian. “It’s good luck.”

  Pari’s smile is so warm. It’s what I first noticed about her. “Of course, Amma. There will be red.”

  “We have plenty of Indian customers,” the Latina says. Claudia is a little bit older and seems steadier. I still wish I’d gotten her as my primary helper. “I think you’ll be pleased with our selection.”

  Three hours later, Niharika isn’t anywhere near pleased. I’ve tried on a couple of dresses, but once it became clear that the real drama was between Pari and her mother, I backed off. I’ve been sitting on a chaise longue with my ankles tucked under my butt for the past hour. No one’s even noticing me anymore, and that’s fine.

  Pari has had on somewhere close to twenty gowns. Personally, I like her figure in the mermaid style, which shows off her narrow waist and clings to her ripe hips. Her mother has declared that too overtly sexual. Which, come to think of it, might be what I like. But Niharika hasn’t liked the princess dresses either, with their wide skirts and narrow, high cut bodices. Nor does she like the sheathe dresses or the A-lines.

  It all leaves her and Pari both faintly exasperated.

  Pari stands on the small dais in front of three mirrors. The full skirt of the princess style, complete with pickups that remind me of Belle from Beauty and the Beast, turns a little more slowly than she does, creating a whoosh of satin. She lifts her arms. “Please take this off me.”

  Both attendants hustle to her side. They strip the clips that have been adjusting the fit of the back and unlace her in moments. She steps down and wraps the robe around her shoulders before sitting next to her mother.

  “Amma, would you rather see me in a sari?”

  Niharika covers her face with her hands. “Am I that obvious? I promised myself that I wouldn’t push my choices on you. I’m trying so hard.”

  “I know you are.” Pari curls an arm around her mother’s shoulders and gives her a one-armed hug. She probably doesn’t realize how it’s her father’s gesture from when I saw them on Skype. “And you’re doing very well. You haven’t asked for the coconut ceremony even once.”

  I think my confusion must show, because Pari shakes her head at me and pulls a face. “I’ll wear one. They’re beautiful, and it would make you happy. It’s the least I can do considering how quickly you’ve come around, Amma.”

  I don’t want to cry, because it’s their moment. But man, am I a little jealous too. I have to look away as they hug and Niharika laughs with joy.

  “Maybe I can try a few more dresses?” I’m not especially wound up about trying dresses on, but what I intend to offer is a respite. A sort of time-out for the two of them. I don’t know how they can be that emotional without burning up. “A little red at the hem might be enough for mine?”

  Niharika claps. “Oh yes. That’s a wonderful idea. A touch is just right for you. We wouldn’t want you to abandon your culture either.”

  She’s so sweet. I turn to Nicole. “Can I try the next two?”

  The first she brings me is a full ball gown with a plunging neckline that I feel shows off the soft inside of my armpits. I don’t like it. I feel stupid for not liking it. I know there are women everywhere who’d be pleased with this dress and looking like I do in it.

  “It’s not right for you,” Niharika says.

  Pari stands beside the dais. She strokes the full skirt. “This is too heavy for you. You need something as light and airy as you are.”

  “I’m airy?” I like that. I don’t feel airy from the inside. I feel lost and unfocused. Airy makes me sound like a magical sprite. I’ll take it.

  Pari hums in agreement, then steps away to talk to Claudia. When she comes back, the dress that’s draped over her arms looks like barely more than a column of netting. It’s like she’s carrying a cloud.

  I lift my arms and the two assistants pull it over me. The straps are so skinny; I’ve had bra straps that were wider. The bodice skims over my torso, overlaid with the netting that makes up a narrow skirt and then pools out into a small train.

  I’m mesmerized by the me in the mirror. She’s beautiful. With her hair down over her shoulders and her fit body accentuated by the delicate dress, she’s the epitome of a beautiful bride.

  She’s me. I’m her.

  I’m not gross. I’m not hiding the unpleasant parts of me. I’m more than the sum of a couple parts that I don’t like. I forget the running tally of everything I’ve eaten for the past five days.

  I’m beautiful.

  The tears start instantly. I fist my hand in the light silk of the skirt.

  Niharika is crying too. I hear her sniffling behind me.

  Even Pari’s eyes are filled with a soft glow. Her smile wobbles. Her hand sneaks into mine, breaking my tight-fisted grip. The only thing softer than her fingers is the inside of my squishy, emotional chest.

  I’m laughing and crying all at once. I throw myself into Pari’s arms and let my head rest on her shoulder. She holds me while I freak out. It’s safe here in the shelter of her arms. I feel a soft brush of her lips over the top of my head. I cry a little more, things that aren’t related to the dress at all. I cry for the fact that I’m there without my mother. It’s like poison has been lanced from my veins.

  The whole time, Pari soothes me. She strokes the length of my back, which is nearly all bare from the wedding dress. Her fingertips tangle in the ends of my hair at my shoulders.

  I want more than that, but I can settle for it. I lift my lips to Pari’s ear. She smells like expensive perfume. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  “For what?”

  “The last week. You’re right. We don’t need to mess anything up.”

  “Two years is a long time. We need to stay friends.”

  Except the very act of how quietly we’re whispering and how near we hold our faces is almost too much for me. I don’t have deep connections with many people. At this point, it’s pretty m
uch only Nikki. But I swallow my feelings the way I swallow everything else.

  “Friends,” I agree.

  She kisses my cheek like a friend would. I hold tight to that feeling. This will be enough for me. I should count myself as happy that I have another friend in this world.

  Pari probably has women throwing themselves at her, anyway. I don’t want to compete with that. It’s safer to be her friend.

  Safer for my emotions, that is.

  We stop for dinner at an amazing vegan restaurant that’s only a block away from the beach. There’s a tailor above it and a reiki therapy center next door. The restaurant itself is only a walk-up window with an abbreviated menu above. The seats are all outdoors with mosaic-topped tables.

  “What’s good?” Pari asks.

  “I like the barbecue tofu sandwich. Oh, and the red burrito. Or the black-bean burger with mashed potatoes.”

  “You like a lot of food,” Niharika says. Her tone is approving, but I blush anyway. I do like a lot of food; that’s part of my problem.

  Pari skillfully deflects. “I think I’m going to get the best of both. The barbecue veggie burger.”

  “Try the chips,” I order her. “They’re made on site.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I have too many opinions about food. I order myself a tofu sandwich, and Niharika opts for avocado quesadillas.

  Once we’re sitting at a table with the order flag perched on the edge, I realize I’m on pins and needles. I don’t trust the détente that Pari and I have. I don’t trust that I can keep to it.

  “Tell me about work,” Niharika probes. She has the subtlety of an elephant after a peanut. “What studio do you work for?”

  “There’s no chance you’d have heard of it.” I fiddle with the paper from my straw. “We do all the vanity projects. Last month, we charged fifteen grand to make a music video for a kid from Miami who thinks he’s going to be the next Justin Bieber. Including peeing on things.”

  “That seems like a lot of money,” Niharika says, concerned for a stranger she’s never met.