What Lies Between Us (27 page)

And then someday this will happen: a woman will come. A woman with light skin and hair like the two of them, and then the three of them will be together. I can see her, the green-eyed siren woman, her silver tail transmuted to human legs by some dangerous-won magic. She will entice him away from me with her eyes and her supple skin, her breasts and her sex. She will erase every memory of us, every promise he has made, every kiss on my skin. The mark on my face that was his to kiss burns like a wound.

The worst of it, the thing that tastes like broken glass, is that in time she will become the mother. She will cajole my child and spoil her. She will be affectionate and entertaining. She will be the good mother. I can see them hand in hand. People seeing them will bend over Bodhi to say, “What a lovely mama you have.” To the water-woman, they will say, “What a beautiful daughter you have.”

After a time it will be the truth. It will be as simple as a mother, a father, and a child, that holy trinity. Somewhere far in the distance, there will be a ghost wearing my skin.

*   *   *

In my worst moments I know this is what will happen, but not yet, not yet, not yet. There is still time to fight, still time to reclaim my place. Daniel calls and invites me to the house. I go with my heart in my mouth, but his mother opens the door and pulls me into her arms and then Bodhi comes toddling up, yelling in delight, and latches onto me. The old father grins at us from the living room. I pick up my daughter, kiss and cuddle her. I can come anytime, they say. They are only here so I can rest a bit, regain myself. We eat dinner together. Daniel is at the studio. I will come every day. When I say goodbye, she clings to me, won't let me go. They have to pull her away. My heart is cracking asunder, but also there is some deep knowledge that they are right. I do need some time. Just to pull the pieces of myself together, just long enough for this dizziness and fog to lift. I walk to the car and feel a sort of peace. The dusk sky above is drenched in late golden light; the giant blowsy scarlet roses in the neighbor's yard are swaying. The wind is pulling petals off them like a lover's clothing and flinging them about. My hair unravels like one more set of petals. I let the evening dance around me and my blood slows its relentless race.

*   *   *

I wake up and the day stretches before me. There is time now. For myself. Precious time and freedom. What can I do?
Anything
. A quick leap of joy in my pulse. I drive across the long, low-slung bridge into the city, that familiar skyline sparking in the sunshine. I cross the familiar streets to my old haunt, the dahlia garden. I had forgotten what it meant to be among these mad, bursting blossoms.

I use my expired volunteer card to enter, and there are the flowers like old and beloved friends. I sink fingers into the dirt, hold it in my hands, this holy fragrant soil. I pull off dead leaves and check for parasites. The flowers around me nod in time to the breeze, whisper among themselves.

I realize they talk to each other all the time, a long and quiet conversation. I have just never been allowed to hear it before. I bend closer to listen. I can't make out what they are saying, but I can hear my name. I take a huge red flower in my palms. It is as wide as my two cupped hands. I bend my face to it. The petals pull at me like the furred, furrowed legs of insects, deep inward toward the hidden heart, a loving grip. It is like sipping magenta, like tasting crimson. I let the flower bounce away. I promise myself that I will be better, that I will love Daniel more. I will pull myself together and make it all work. I will make Bodhi a life. I will be that other thing: a good mother. The flowers, they make it possible to imagine this.

*   *   *

It is a good day. They've let me have my baby for an afternoon. We are in my living room on the couch. I have bought stargazer lilies and their perfume tints the room, a small threaded offering of golden pollen dripping down onto the green vase. Her small, curved feet nestle in my lap. She reaches up and spins the globe that has always rested on the side table. She says, “Mama.” Her finger lands exactly as I have taught her on the island, a green speck of land in that mass of blue water.

I say, “Do you want to go there?” I have shown her pictures of the island. Pictures of myself at her age, in front of that old white house, held by my mother and flanked by my father, who stands behind us, his hands held behind his back. I've shown her pictures of temples and lotus flowers and school kids in white uniforms. All the beautiful parts. She nods, big eyed and serious.

Maybe it is possible. Maybe one day she and I and Daniel will be there, in the land of my birth. Sitting at a table with Amma, eating and laughing while the ceiling fan far above stirs the thick air. I think about being surrounded by my first language, about dipping my fingers into food made by old women. I think of the smash of a river against my stomach, the slipping under to let the current take me while downstream women beat clothes on rocks and work suds into the folds, about the riotous calling of birds in the morning, about the sudden heat of the day saturating everything, making the sweat stand and glide on skin. Bodhi and Daniel. They would love it.

The thought blooms through me, makes my skin crackle in a sort of excitement. Yes, why not? I could show them this place I came from. It would be homecoming.

I fold the idea carefully away into a drawer in my mind to be taken out when the time is right. Now I read
Alice in Wonderland
to her. Both of us reveling in the tiny bottles, the unreliable cakes that swell or shrink Alice from giant to ant-sized and back. I remember being small and reading these stories, feeling the uncertain and fluid parameters of my child's body. I read her the exploits of the Queen of Hearts screaming for blood, shouting for heads to roll, issuing commandments that change the very color of the roses.

The power to have the flowers painted a color you desire, this is a mother's tyranny over the child. The white roses dripping red, the red roses dripping white. I feel her body vibrate next to mine. I wonder if she feels the same recognition I do. I hug her to me, inhale deeply; this is the scent of the sacred. She is my greatest treasure. I know this on days when I am not pulled under by despair or rage.

*   *   *

On a day in May, I pick her up and we take the subway to the ferry pier. It is a place populated by seabirds, gulls, strange small squat birds with jauntily hat-like feathers. By the ocean's frothy edge she reaches into the bag into which I have collected the heels of loaves. I hold her as she opens her palm and a whirl of squawking birds are drawn to us as if by magnetism. There is a sudden loudness when before there had been quiet gray water, wispy clouds. Thrilled, she wants to be put down into the center, where she throws her arms up into the frenzy of winged creatures. Now there is a greater gathering of wings and beating of feathers. She runs back to nestle between my legs and we watch the small, flighted dinosaurs with their balanced tails and cruel beaks peck and squabble over our offering. I kiss the tender curve of her flower-soft cheek. This perfect, small person belongs to me.

The sea smashes below us. The tourists come to lean over the railing and exclaim at the span of the bridge arcing overhead. They turn to face the weakened sun. It is hidden behind such billowed and racing clouds that it looks like the full moon. They pose for pictures with their arms about each other. They smile and gawk; they look out into the mist and point out Alcatraz, beyond that Marin, the magic hills of Sausalito. They are right, the beauty of this place is astounding.

I gather my child closer to me. We go home spent, her hand in mine, holding tight. The skin of her palm against mine. The heat of it, the tenderness of it, I could not have imagined before I was a mother.

 

Twenty-three

His mother calls. We chat sometimes. About Bodhi mostly, but this time I can tell she's trying to tell me something. She hedges for a while and then says, “You should call Daniel. You know he misses you, right?”

A silence. My pulse thumping. “Really?”

“Yes, child. I know my son. He loves you. He goes around here like a zombie. He barely eats or sleeps. The universal signs of a broken heart. You need to be together.”

“But … he's the one who left.”

“Couples go through these little things all the time. But you're married. You should be together. It's the best thing for the baby too. Call him.”

*   *   *

Hope runs through me. Is it possible? My life, can I get it all back? Can it be as it was? All of my lost paradise? Perhaps! Why not?

I pace through the house rehearsing conversations, hoping, praying, begging whatever invisible deities rule over reuniting broken lovers, promising them my fealty and anything else they demand. If I have him back, they can have all my treasure.

I gather myself and call him. He picks up immediately. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing. I just wanted to…”

“What?”

“Say hi.”

“Okay.” Strained exasperation I can hear over the line.

I plunge in. “Listen, would you like to come for dinner?”

“What?” Incredulity in his voice.

“There's no reason we shouldn't have a friendly dinner.”

A pause. I picture him contemplating this, running a hand through that tawny mop.

He says, “What's this about?”

“Nothing … I've just been thinking. There's no reason for us to be unpleasant, is there? What if you just came for dinner tomorrow? No big deal.”

Another pause and I can feel him sighing, releasing. He says, “Will you make pol sambol?”

I laugh, delighted. “Yes if you like, and also string hoppers and watalappam.”

“My god, what did I do to deserve this?”

“Nothing whatsoever. I've just decided to be magnanimous.”

“Okay, I need to talk to you anyway. Discuss a few things.”

The flamboyant bird of hope flapping its wings across my chest.

*   *   *

I clean the house until every surface gleams and shows me my own delighted face. I place Bodhi's toys in the empty spaces on the bookshelf where his books used to live. For hours I sweat in the kitchen like I used to do in those first breathtaking years when it was just us two. I chop vegetables, put the chicken in its bed of spices and coconut milk, let it soak into tenderness. I know what he loves.

What is an appropriate outfit to seduce back a husband? I throw off my sweatshirt and jeans and look at my body. I haven't looked at it in months, and lo and behold, sadness has carved the flesh off me. I'm thin as a model, all angles and elegance. So this is what is needed, I think, misery and loneliness, that's what they should sell as a post-baby diet. Nothing else works as well.

I pull piles of fabrics on the bed. I try on everything I own. Is it okay to wear my wedding dress? It's so beautiful. He bought it for me, loved the way the silver straps made my shoulders shine. Can I wear it? No, that would be too mad! I slip on a gray sheath that has always been just a bit too snug. It fits beautifully. I paint my eyes and my lips, and then he is at the door looking at me and his eyebrows rise and he says, “Wow…” and I am in heaven.

He walks in and we are awkward. Neither of us sure how this works. We sit and eat. He exclaims over the food, his fingers working through it. He says, “My god, I didn't realize how much I missed all this. It is incredible.” I open a bottle of red wine, like the blood of a gorgon. It used to be our favorite. He says, “No, really, I shouldn't.”

I say, “Suit yourself,” and pour my own fat goblet, and he must be surprised at my good mood because soon he takes a glass. He drinks, I drink. We finish a bottle. I pull out another.

*   *   *

It is magic, all of it. The way the wine pours, a crimson fire filling the bellies of the glasses we had gotten for our wedding, the way it roars down my throat. We settle on our couch. The one we bought together a lifetime ago. The closeness of him. The scent emanating from his skin. I know this man. It is easy because the thing we'd had had never gone away, not fully. Love, it was always there. Deep-down love. In a way that we
both
know. No one else can ever understand us like this. The depth of it, the pull of it—the old jokes, the shared years—bringing us ever closer, so that laughing, giggling, we make our way across the acres of the couch until our fingers are only inches apart and then he says, “My god.” The breath catches in his throat. I can see the pulse jumping in his jaw. The moment of decision has arrived and he is torn about whether to fall into this thing that is still there or not and I reach out and pull his head to mine and taste his lips.

Our bodies lock as if no time has passed, as if unknown to us, these bodies have been in communion the entire evening, waiting for this moment to fall against each other. I pull his hips into mine. Kissing and rolling, we fall heavily on the ground, gasp, laugh, and then are on each other.

His lips are in my hair, kissing the heavy strands, breathing in deeply, and I know he has missed me desperately. I know he has always loved me. He has never stopped. He is still mine. He will always be mine. My gray dress is lost somewhere. Kisses on bare skin, by the ear and the edge of my eye, where a tear dangles and his tongue shoots out and tastes it. His body against mine. The sweetest of homecomings.

*   *   *

After, we lie entangled. My head against the curve of his chest. My ear to his heart, so I can hear its frenzied thud slowing down. Our legs intertwined, so it feels like from below the waist we are one animal. These legs rising into two torsos, a many-limbed, one-bodied creature. He has come back to me. I want to get up and dance around the room. I want to jump up and sing, but I can't bear to pull myself away from his skin. There's so much to do. We have to make space for his things again. We have to hire a moving van. We have to go and pick up our girl. Even now she might be waiting for us to come for her. I force myself to breathe deeply. To savor this moment when all my dreams have again come true.