Free Invisible Lives by Anjali Banerjee Page A

traffic.
    “I didn’t realize how difficult it can be to work for Asha.”
    “She’s demanding,” he says, driving down through a dense neighborhood of Victorians and Craftsman-style bungalows. “But don’t let it get to you.”
    “I put together all these samples, and she dismissed the whole lot. She asked for silk and then acted as if she didn’t!”
    “That’s Asha. She changes with any shift in the wind,” Nick says. “Hell, she’s dismissed all her assistants when she doesn’t like them.”
    “She does?” I cast him a worried look. “What about Ella?”
    “She’d fire her in a heartbeat.”
    “Poor Ella. She really admires Asha.”
    “I admire you. I’d like to see you again.”
    I’m flaming red. “That won’t be possible. I told you—I’m going to India.”
    “Maybe you don’t have to go all that way.”
    I cross my arms over my chest. This man is annoying, and far too forward. When we get back, I thank him quickly and dash back into the store, my legs trembling. The knowing rushes back into me, but I find I’m longing for the comfort of Nick’s soundproof limousine.

Ten
    T he next morning, I kneel before the vibrant painting of Goddess Lakshmi mounted on my bedroom wall. A graceful woman with golden skin, four hands, and a beatific smile, she wears a gold-embroidered red sari and stands on a blooming lotus flower. Her all-knowing eyes observe every moment of my life and of Ma’s life too.
    Ma prays to the Hindu deities in a private way, at an altar in her room, but she doesn’t know that I talk to Lakshmi, or mata, the mother goddess of prosperity, wealth, purity, and generosity. I ask mata for inner strength, for a sense of purpose, and renewed energy infuses me.
    At work, I’m grateful for this extra fortification when a deeply troubled woman wanders into the shop. She’s wearing mauve lipstick, khaki slacks, and a black wool sweater, her sculpted features delicate and narrow.
    “Are you looking for a sari?” I ask her.
    Breaths of blue emptiness rush from her, revealing a new, half-empty bungalow, forlorn windows gazing in at her loneliness. Her past flits through the shadows—another house, bigger. A husband, a garden, friends on the patio.
    “Are you Lakshmi?” she asks. Her eyes look familiar, the way she sighs when she gazes off to the left, the way her hair falls perfect and straight, like a wall.
    “Do I know you?” I ask.
    “My sister, Chelsea, owns the shop next door.”
    “Oh, you’re Chelsea’s sister! Lillian, right? How can I help you?”
    “She said you would give me a good deal,” she says in a voice as soft as lace. “I need curtains for my new house.”
    Curtains, of course. So the windows won’t watch her with such pity. “I can help. You want sari fabric.” In America, saris have many uses. I lead her to the reams of fabric on shelves by the counter. “We have all types of silk and cotton patterns. Most are mass produced in the mills, and some are custom woven.”
    “There are so many! I don’t know which to choose. I hear you’re really good at helping people find the right—”
    “For you, maybe yellow roses, translucent, to let in the light.”
    She runs her fingers along the silk. “I love this. I think it will go well with my couch.”
    “Take a sample home, and if you like it, come back.”
    “I’ll try, but I don’t get a lot of time to myself.” An image of a boy hurtles toward me. He’s creamy skinned, his fine hair the color of sunset, his delicate features long and narrow. He might be eight years old, or younger. His frame is slight, vulnerable, like a sand sculpture. He builds an invisible wall around himself, a buffer to keep out blaring voices, blinding colors with jagged edges. Nothing will penetrate his ramparts, an army of imaginary soldiers protecting him. He sits cross-legged, rocking back and forth, and Lillian’s insides squeeze with despair.
    “What’s his name?” I ask her.
    Startled, she steps back.