“She’s an adult. She can make her own decisions. It’s not as if she’s been kidnapped.”
Ma is silent a moment. “Let me know if you hear from her.”
“I’m sure Sanchita will call home when she’s ready.” I hang up, unsettled. I picture Sanchita’s children—their pudgy fingers, round faces, luminous eyes. She can’t have actually left them. She has everything she could ever want, including a perfect career. Isn’t it good enough for her? Did she run off with a lover? If her perfect life hasn’t made her happy, what hope is there for the rest of us?
She probably went out for a jog. She’ll arrive home none the worse for wear, and everyone will have worried for nothing.
But on my way up the stairs, a crumpled page flutters across the landing. A sheet torn or lost. I pick up the paper; it comes from a book titled
How to Leave Everything Behind and Forge a New Identity.
Chapter 21
I leave the page on the table in the foyer, bundle up, lock the store, and head for the beach. Morning sunlight peers through a slash in the clouds. The more I inhale the salty air, the stronger I feel. The wet rooftops perspire in the sudden warmth, giving off sheets of steam.
In the sand, I stop to pick up shells and stones. Their pastel colors, the intricate ridges on the pink cockleshells, comfort me. There is order in the natural world, patterns that calm the mind. I’ve forgotten my cell phone, and I haven’t turned on my netbook.
I worry about Auntie Ruma. I worry about Sanchita’s children. She has to come back. Finding that page was a coincidence.
Why would she disappear, leave behind the people she loves? Do Robert and Sanchita have similar DNA, a trait that allows someone to hurt another person, to sever all ties? We, the jilted, the spurned, are left behind to pick up the pieces, to make a life from what remains.
Halfway down the beach, I spot a graceful heron standing on a rock, motionless. As I watch, my breath taking flight in soft clouds of steam, the beauty of this moment hits me. I am alive, right now, right here, sharing the earth with this heron.
When I return to the store, Tony is in the office, tapping away at the computer keyboard. His fingers fly at top speed. His hair sticks up in a new do, smelling of watermelon spray. “Okay, look. Here’s his biography. The senior Dr. Connor Hunt. Not much on Wikipedia about him. He must have been pretty secretive. But there’s a picture of him dancing with some villagers in Nigeria—look at that.”
I peer at the fuzzy black-and-white photograph. “I hardly recognize him in that weird headdress.” But he’s got a body to die for, all lean muscle and broad shoulders. I can’t believe I’m reacting this way to a man who passed away a long time ago.
“He went native.” Tony sits back and crosses his arms over his chest. “No details about how he died, except that it was in Africa. His memoir was popular when it came out, but all editions are out of print now.”
“I’ll save our copy for Connor Junior,” I say. “For when he comes back. He’ll probably realize he left it behind and he’ll be in first thing today.”
I collapse into a chair. I feel suddenly worn out. I tell Tony about Sanchita and the page I found.
“It was a sign from the spirits,” he says. “She’s gone for good.”
“That’s crazy,” I say.
“Maybe.” He taps the keyboard and pulls up a new window. “Or a sign for you. You’re supposed to forget the past and move on, eh?”
“Sorry, I have the memory of an elephant.”
All morning, I find I’m watching for the younger Connor, a habit that annoys me. I did this with Robert—watched for him late into the night.
Just before eleven o’clock, Mohan steps into the foyer, holding Vishnu’s hand. The little boy’s eyes are dark ringed, as if he’s been crying. Mohan’s in a silk suit, hair slicked back, his black Mercedes stopped at the curb, the engine still running. Two dark figures wait inside—perhaps a babysitter and the toddler, Durga.
“Mohan, come in!” I say. “Is Sanchita back?”
He shakes his head, motions toward his son. “His mom is on a short trip,” he says extra loudly. “She’ll be right back.”
I nod knowingly. “How can I help you?”
“Your aunt said you would be running story time while she’s gone.”
“Story time?”
Tony comes up behind me. “You read to the kids.”
“Read?” I say. “I’m no good with kids.”
“She’ll do it,” Tony says.
Mohan’s shoulders relax. “Thank you so much. Vishnu likes to listen to stories. I’ll be back to get him after my morning surgery.”
Before I can ask any more questions, Mohan rushes out to the car, jumps inside, and screeches away. I’m standing in the foyer with a tiny boy—a complete stranger. What does one do with children? Vishnu gazes up at me with obvious skepticism. I’m not used to being scrutinized by a small person who has such a wise face.
“All right, it’s just you and me, kid,” I tell him. But parents start bringing more children, one by one, until seven little ones have arrived. They’re milling about in the parlor. My heartbeat kicks up.
“What are we supposed to read?” I whisper to Vishnu. “I’m supposed to tell a story, right? You’ve done this before?”
He nods solemnly.
“I thought as much.”
I lead him into the children’s room and peruse the vast collection of books. I’m unsure where to begin.
“Beatrix Potter?” I say.
He nods.
“Mr. White. E. B. White?”
He nods again. “Sometimes Auntie Chatterji does the rabbit ears.” He points to a box under the table.
“What do you mean?”
“She puts on a costume and hops around.”
“Hops around?” There is no way I’m hopping around.
“And she wears the bunny tail.”
Even less chance of that.
“She makes funny noises like a pig or a dog.”
I laugh. “I’m going to read and that’s it, okay?”
He nods and sighs.
I carry a few books into the parlor. The kids are restless, giggling and chatting, sitting in rows on the carpet with their parents. The sea of faces makes my heart pound. My hands grow clammy. Suddenly I’m seized with stage fright. But I stand up front, by the ceramic fireplace.
The room falls quiet.
“I’m here to take over for my aunt, just for today.”
The kids stare at me. A little red-haired boy says, “Where’s Auntie Chatterji?”
I’m in the spotlight. My throat goes dry. “She’ll be back soon. But not today. All right, then. Let’s begin.”
I open
The House at Pooh Corner
and begin to read. At first the children are quiet, but gradually, as my voice drones on, they start whispering. They fidget. They sigh. They cough.
I read faster and louder. A boy smacks his lips. Another one says, “I have to pee.”
A little girl shouts, “I want Auntie Chatterji!”
My heart twists.
Vishnu is watching me. His lips tremble. His eyes brighten with tears. I want to strangle Sanchita. I want to lift little Vishnu into my arms and comfort him.
“Wait,” I say. “Just a minute, okay? Everyone wait here.”
The room falls silent. Vishnu sniffs.
I slip into the children’s book room. My heart pounds. What am I supposed to do? I have to do something to keep Vishnu from bursting into tears. But what?
I’m good at making presentations to clients. I can stand in front of people and keep them interested. But I spout performance numbers; I use a pointer to highlight graphs and trends.
I need props. I rummage through the box and find a rooster’s comb, a silly donkey tail, rabbit ears, and a few hand puppets. What am I going to do with this stuff? I’ll figure it out.
I grab a few books off the shelf and drag the box into the parlor, where my audience members are sitting cross-legged and expectant on the carpet. I’ll have to improvise.
“All right,” I say, standing up front, “I’m going to try again.”
Vishnu sniffs. The boys fidget.
I open the silver anniversary edition of
Peter Rabbit
, take a deep breath, and begin to read
.
“ ‘Once upon a time there were four little Rabbits, and their names were—Flopsy, Mopsy, Cotton-tail, and Peter.’ ”
“I love this one!” a little girl shouts. Her blond curls bounce.
To my surprise, a warm feeling seeps through me. “ ‘They lived with their Mother in a sand-bank, underneath the root of a very big fir-tree.’ ”
My voice slides across the room, mesmerizing the children. This deceptively simple, seemingly benign story of an adventurous rabbit hides an underlying horror. The evil human, Mr. McGregor, captured Peter Rabbit’s father and killed him. Mrs. McGregor cooked him in a pie. Peter slips into McGregor’s garden, gorges on vegetables, and narrowly escapes his father’s sad fate.
As I read, I put on the costumes and act out the parts. Part of me watches from a distance. I should feel silly or humiliated, but the rabbit ears fit perfectly, and the more I act, the more the children laugh. I hop around the room. The kids roar with laughter. And Vishnu’s eyes change. They fill with the light of imagination. I’m someone new, someone I’ve never been, or perhaps someone I’ve always been.
Chapter 22
After story time, the parents come up to thank me. “They hardly ever sit still for that long,” one mother says. “You’re good at this.”
“I’ve had practice. I give presentations at work,” I say.
“I see.” She gives me a funny look.
The families file out, and finally only Vishnu remains, quietly reading in the children’s book room. Mohan shows up half an hour late. “Sorry—surgery went overtime.”
“Baba,” Vishnu says, tugging his hand, “she read
Peter Rabbit
. And it was fun!”
“Did she?” He smiles at me and mouths the words
thank you
before whisking Vishnu out to the car
.
I return the props and books to the children’s book room. My chest fills with an odd sense of accomplishment, although all I did was hop around and read to little kids. I didn’t snag the Hoffman account or perform any great feat of heroism.
“Lovely reading,” a watery voice says behind me. I turn to find an elderly woman in an old-fashioned dress and black hat standing in front of me, holding a fluffy white cat in her arms.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” I say. The scents of soil, clean air, and something sweet and floral waft into my nose.
“I’ve always been here.” She pets the purring cat in her arms. “My animals come with me. I love them all—dogs, cats, squirrels. I have four thousand acres preserved for the wildlife and of course my Herdwick sheep, all twenty-five thousand of them now.”
“Who are you?” She looks strangely familiar.
She pulls a biography off the shelf and shows me the picture on the back cover.
“Looks like a younger version of you,” I say.
“I would prefer to appear younger, but I grew old. Ah, well.”
“But you can’t be Beatrix Potter. Are you a relation, a descendant?”
“I am Beatrix.” She lets the cat down, and the fluffy white creature trots to the bookcase, rounds the corner, and is gone. I blink, not believing my eyes.
“This teasing has gone far enough,” I say. “Did Tony put you up to this?”
She takes my hand. Her fingers are warm and firm. “The children loved story time.”
I let go of her hand and step backward toward the door. “I’m glad they did. I had to make Vishnu smile. His mom will be back soon, and his life will go back to normal.”
“Life will never go back to normal. Not now that you’ve worn the bunny ears.” Beatrix smiles. Is she talking about me or Vishnu?
“Jasmine!” Tony is calling, coming down the hall. He pokes his head in the door. “There you are.” He pays no attention to the woman in the old-fashioned clothes. “Ruma’s on the phone!”
I turn back, but the woman is gone.
I rush out to take the call.
Auntie sounds distant but exuberant. “My dearest niece!”
“How are you? Where are you?” I carry the phone around the corner, into the hall, for a little privacy. “How is your heart? Have you seen the doctor?”
“Don’t worry about me. How is life in the bookstore? How do you like my lovely apartment?”
“Oh, Auntie. Why didn’t you tell me about the weird things that happen here?” I pace with the phone pressed to my ear. “Why didn’t you pay your bills?”
“Isn’t Tony helping? If not, I’ll speak to him. Hang on.” Over the phone, I hear the blare of horns and a man yelling in Bengali.
“Auntie, why did you think I was the only one who could take care of the store while you were away?”