will.”
The car swerves to the left, then back into her lane. Mitra parks in the lot behind the café, the car sprawled at an angle across two spaces. “Your ma must know about the ring,” she says. “Can’t you read her mind and find out—”
“There are limits to what I see,” I say. “I’ve never seen all the way into her. She thinks I have heightened intuition, and that’s all.”
“There’s some sordid family secret in that ring, I’m telling you.”
“We don’t have any family secrets.”
“Everyone does.” Mitra frowns, and her mind wanders away to a backyard patio near the beach, where a small girl dances in a tiny yellow silk Kathak costume, her black hair flying. The skirt flares out at the bottom, and she looks like miniature sunshine when she spins. Her heart is so full that her happiness spills onto the beach and makes the seashells smile.
A tall man watches from a lawn chair. He smiles and claps, proud of his young daughter. Soft water laps the shore, and a seagull cries, following in the wake of a ferry steaming ashore in West Seattle. Every time the girl bangs her feet on the patio, the bells on her ankles clanging in metallic song, the man encourages her, so she dances faster and faster.
Then a phantom hand reaches from the sea and sucks the man into the surf, and I’m plummeting back to reality, Mitra tugging my sleeve. “Earth to Lakshmi! You were off in la-la land.”
“Did you ever own a yellow Kathak costume with paisley on it when you were a little girl?”
An invisible veil covers her eyes. “I don’t remember. Did you have some kind of vision?”
“I just caught a glimpse of someone. I thought she might’ve been you.”
“What else did you see?”
“You were on the beach.” Instinct tells me not to mention the man, probably her father. I know she hasn’t spoken to him in four years, since she refused to study medicine or marry the man he chose for her.
“We lived near Alki beach.” She drums her fingers on the steering wheel. “I’ve always loved it there. I could watch the ferries come in. That’s all you saw?”
“That’s all.”
“But why now? Did you reach into my head and pull out my memories or something?”
“You know I can’t control what I see. You seemed very happy there. You were dancing.”
“What else are you seeing now? What am I thinking?”
“You’re craving a hot fudge sundae with bananas and whipped cream.”
She laughs. “But my waistline will have to make do with a Greek salad, dressing on the side.”
We go inside to meet Nisha. The café caters to an eclectic Northwest crowd, some in suits, others in sandals and flannel shirts. A group of wiry bicyclists gathers at a corner table, their tight spandex outfits outlining every body part. The acidic scent of coffee clings to the air, and the walls are covered with Native Northwest art—carved wooden orcas, a Haida ceremonial mask, a hazy watercolor image of Mount Rainier rising above the Puget Sound.
We find Nisha at a table by the window, her sculpted chin turned toward the expansive view of the lake. Even as the clouds promise more rain, parents are out pushing jogging strollers, Rollerblading, or simply walking. Nisha looks as if she does all three. Everything about her is slim and healthy, studied and planned, even the way she smoothes her blue power suit and sips her wine.
Two years ago, she returned to India for a perfect arranged marriage, and now she and her husband live in a mansion in North Seattle. They’re blissfully happy, and beneath her manicured demeanor, she has a heart the size of the universe. She’s a successful banker who donates to nearly every nonprofit in the city. She convinced me to give several saris for charity fund-raisers.
We bring her up to speed and order our salads. I produce the ring, much admired around the table.
“Must be a sign,” Nisha says. “Your marriage will come soon.”
“I wish I could read the inscription,” I
The car swerves to the left, then back into her lane. Mitra parks in the lot behind the café, the car sprawled at an angle across two spaces. “Your ma must know about the ring,” she says. “Can’t you read her mind and find out—”
“There are limits to what I see,” I say. “I’ve never seen all the way into her. She thinks I have heightened intuition, and that’s all.”
“There’s some sordid family secret in that ring, I’m telling you.”
“We don’t have any family secrets.”
“Everyone does.” Mitra frowns, and her mind wanders away to a backyard patio near the beach, where a small girl dances in a tiny yellow silk Kathak costume, her black hair flying. The skirt flares out at the bottom, and she looks like miniature sunshine when she spins. Her heart is so full that her happiness spills onto the beach and makes the seashells smile.
A tall man watches from a lawn chair. He smiles and claps, proud of his young daughter. Soft water laps the shore, and a seagull cries, following in the wake of a ferry steaming ashore in West Seattle. Every time the girl bangs her feet on the patio, the bells on her ankles clanging in metallic song, the man encourages her, so she dances faster and faster.
Then a phantom hand reaches from the sea and sucks the man into the surf, and I’m plummeting back to reality, Mitra tugging my sleeve. “Earth to Lakshmi! You were off in la-la land.”
“Did you ever own a yellow Kathak costume with paisley on it when you were a little girl?”
An invisible veil covers her eyes. “I don’t remember. Did you have some kind of vision?”
“I just caught a glimpse of someone. I thought she might’ve been you.”
“What else did you see?”
“You were on the beach.” Instinct tells me not to mention the man, probably her father. I know she hasn’t spoken to him in four years, since she refused to study medicine or marry the man he chose for her.
“We lived near Alki beach.” She drums her fingers on the steering wheel. “I’ve always loved it there. I could watch the ferries come in. That’s all you saw?”
“That’s all.”
“But why now? Did you reach into my head and pull out my memories or something?”
“You know I can’t control what I see. You seemed very happy there. You were dancing.”
“What else are you seeing now? What am I thinking?”
“You’re craving a hot fudge sundae with bananas and whipped cream.”
She laughs. “But my waistline will have to make do with a Greek salad, dressing on the side.”
We go inside to meet Nisha. The café caters to an eclectic Northwest crowd, some in suits, others in sandals and flannel shirts. A group of wiry bicyclists gathers at a corner table, their tight spandex outfits outlining every body part. The acidic scent of coffee clings to the air, and the walls are covered with Native Northwest art—carved wooden orcas, a Haida ceremonial mask, a hazy watercolor image of Mount Rainier rising above the Puget Sound.
We find Nisha at a table by the window, her sculpted chin turned toward the expansive view of the lake. Even as the clouds promise more rain, parents are out pushing jogging strollers, Rollerblading, or simply walking. Nisha looks as if she does all three. Everything about her is slim and healthy, studied and planned, even the way she smoothes her blue power suit and sips her wine.
Two years ago, she returned to India for a perfect arranged marriage, and now she and her husband live in a mansion in North Seattle. They’re blissfully happy, and beneath her manicured demeanor, she has a heart the size of the universe. She’s a successful banker who donates to nearly every nonprofit in the city. She convinced me to give several saris for charity fund-raisers.
We bring her up to speed and order our salads. I produce the ring, much admired around the table.
“Must be a sign,” Nisha says. “Your marriage will come soon.”
“I wish I could read the inscription,” I
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