ANNASOPHIA
An unfamiliar car sits in the driveway. The social worker to finalize Alexandra’s home visit, I assume. My stomach clenches. I smack the garage remote. Dammit, she should’ve called. Given me a chance to talk to Magnus and Anastaysa first.
Yells and laughs from the pool carry over the garage door’s whine. The din sounds so normal, I rein in my impatience. An image floods my brain. Magnus and Anastaysa in the pool, Benazir serving the social worker drinks.
Which is what I want to do. Sit by the pool. Sip a cool drink. Enjoy the kids’ fun. Let my mind drift. Suck up my sense of loss. Paint Alexandra’s escape from us as logical and healing.
Riiight. BPD’s so healing. I yank the key from the ignition, push open the car door, and take a second to steady myself on feet stiff as snowshoes. The daily bandaging of my cuneiform makes walking possible. The physical pain’s nothing compared to losing my mind.
Adjust your ’tude. Shoulders squared, I march through the kitchen to meet ... my mind blanks on the name Rachel gave me.
Benazir, seated alone under a sun-umbrella, waves and calls Magnus’s name.
He screams, “Watch, Mamá.”
Benazir approaches with a smile. “Magnus blackmailed Satish into one game—two hours ago. Satish is having car troubles. He had to rent a car. I don’t know the whole story, but playing is excellent therapy. Anastaysa is inside writing me a new short story.”
The car troubles should interest me, but I don’t want to talk about Satish. “How can I thank you for taking such an interest in her writing?”
“Thank me? I love her writing. Also, I think it moderates her hormones.”
“Maybe she should write twenty-four-seven.”
Benazir laughs. “Come, sit down. You look ready to collapse.”
She clucks and coos, guiding me toward a chaise and pouring a glass of pink liquid from a carafe on ice. “Anastaysa helped make this rose lassi. It is wonderfully refreshing.”
*****
“Satish will make a wonderful father.”
Is there a cartoon bubble over my head? The sudden shift in poolside chit-chat about the Frisbee action catches me off-guard. I fight the impulse to look away from Benazir’s sunglasses. Dark, incoming clouds make our shades unnecessary—except for self-protection. Feeling her knife-like gaze, I sit up straighter in the chaise.
A split second. That’s all I get to find the right tone. More than a split second and I’ll confirm her growing suspicions. The tension escalates, settling in the small of my back. An invisible, mental stopwatch ticks away, and my self-imposed deadline expires.
I focus on the water and reply. “He will make a wonderful father.”
“Of course he must get married to give me grandchildren.” Benazir swivels her head back to the pool. Satish and Magnus and Maggie yip and splash through the water like starving sharks. Without facing me, she asks, “Do you know any eligible Indian women?”
“Um, don’t think so.” Eyes hot, I reject pointing out I’ve not seen Satish for two years.
“No one?” Benazir purses her lips.
I scramble for the right words to remind her a few other worries have distracted me recently from matchmaking. “Maybe ... a couple of nurses. I’ll find out if they’re single.”
“No, no, no.” Her laugh is wry. “I’ve not yet exhausted my list at home. Hundreds of beautiful, well-educated girls from good Indian families still remain excellent candidates. ”
“One of our cardiologists is from—”
“I swear he is making me an old woman.”
Beneath her last statement, lurks a hint of sadness that slams into my solar plexus. “Benazir. I am so sorry,” I blurt. “Keeping up with Magnus and Anastaysa, giving me on-going pep talks about Alexandra, cooking—”
“Go, Magnus!” Her cheer cuts off my rambling.
“Watch me, Mamá.” Magnus leaps out of the water, waving the Frisbee overhead.
“My hero.” I rush to the edge of the pool. As soon as I put Magnus down for his afternoon nap, I’ll apologize to Benazir. Thank her for her amazing generosity. Release her from any sense of obligation to come to the house any more.
Magnus, Anastaysa, and I will survive.
Fat drops of rain match the mood I’m in. The Frisbee players take no notice. A stiff breeze raises whitecaps in the pool. Rain falls on the just and the unjust. I make a megaphone with my hands.
“This is your lifeguard speaking. Out of the pool.”
Benazir, using her hands over her head as a makeshift umbrella, appears at my side. “Come, Satish. We should go home. I think I left the kitchen window open.”
The two males groan but scramble up the steps behind Molly. She braces her feet and shakes water everywhere. They laugh, grab towels, slap each other’s fannies, and trot to the pool house. Benazir and I hurry toward the kitchen. Toe-walking beside me is Maverick’s ghost. His silence flogs my shallowness for relegating him to a deep memory-hole.
Rain slides down the back of my shirt. Cold. Not as cold as the pre-dawn scene that changed my life. Not as cold as Maverick. Yet Benazir and I sat there exchanging opinions about Satish as a prospective father. Maverick will never experience love. Marriage. Fatherhood.
Anastaysa slams open the back door and hands Benazir a towel. “Let’s go to my room. I have a great robe you can wear till your sari dries.”
Benazir pats her hair, neck, and arms. “Thank you, darling girl, but Satish and I should go home. I am running the risk of becoming a pest—”
Anastaysa squeals and tugs on Benazir’s arm. “No way. Tell her, Mamá. We can’t get along without you.”
Water drips into my eyes and down my back. A second before I succumb to the impulse to rip the towel away from Benazir, she hands it to me, saying, “We can share.”
Share what? Satish?
Oooh, yes.
Share Anastaysa?
Over my ...
My daughter’s shining eyes crush my lungs. Full-blown jealousy, my latest character flaw, whacks me upside the head with the force of a dead-on Frisbee. Result? Brain-lash. Not unlike what I felt finding Maverick in bed with Alexandra.
“Mamá?”
The concern in Anastaysa’s voice soothes my prefrontal lobe and reorganizes my thinking cells. I brush her cheek and smile, letting it grow to include Benazir.
“You’re right,” I say, “We can’t do without Mrs. Patel. So, tonight, let’s you and me fix dinner for a change.”
“Thank you,” Benazir says, “but perhaps another night.”
“I insist. Tonight. Please.” I hold her gaze.