Queen of Dreams by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni

need-less way. And failed. Sometimes she wonders if those words were one reason why things broke down between Sonny and her. Was it because he’d grown accustomed to her not needing him that he couldn’t come through when she finally did require help?
    Act like a grown-up! she thinks angrily. Take responsibility for your own mess.
    But she allows herself this much: those words were the reason why, on that night when Sonny let her down so completely, she didn’t go to her mother.
    “You were just too pigheaded,” accuses Belle (who knows only a fraction of what happened). “You just wanted to prove to her that you could make it on your own.”
    Rakhi doesn’t know how to explain, even to her best friend, that what she was really trying to prove was that she loved her mother with the purest love.
    Rakhi finishes up the phone conversation by informing her mother that she didn’t want to disturb her. “Belle made me,” she says.
    “Damn right I did,” Belle calls out, loud enough to make sure Rakhi’s mother hears. “Rikki’s in her usual denial mode, but I know an emergency when I see one.”
    Outside the new store, two workmen have unpacked a large Java sign in a jubilant, ominous orange.
    “I know this isn’t exactly a dream, Mrs. Gupta—though it is kind of a nightmare,” Belle is saying into the mouthpiece, which she has grabbed from Rakhi. “But I felt you’d know what to do.”
    Rakhi didn’t allow her mother to accompany her to the divorce proceedings, though she offered. She didn’t tell her about the bitter custody battles. Afterward, she shared only the barest details of the settlement with her. Her mother probably doesn’t realize what losing the business would mean for Rakhi, what greater losses it could lead to.
    There’s a long silence, all of them waiting for something, though it’s not clear what that is. When her mother speaks, her voice startles Rakhi. “It is a situation, isn’t it,” she says. (Her mother prefers not to use the word problem. )
    “It sure is,” Belle says. “And we’re counting on you to give us the right advice.”
    Rakhi glares at her and grabs the receiver back.
    “You must act fast,” her mother says, “before they expect you to. They’re going to try to steal your customers, lure them with deals you can’t beat. You can succeed only if you do something different. Create a special attraction, something that means more to people than money.”
    Belle, who has her ear glued to the outside of the receiver, bobs her head up and down in emphatic agreement.
    “What do you mean? What kind of attraction?” Rakhi asks, but her mother is silent.
    “Maybe she’ll come in and interpret dreams for us!” Belle whispers. “We could take out an ad in the Berkeley Voice —”
    Rakhi puts her hand over the mouthpiece and gives Belle her stop-it-right-now look.
    Belle sighs. “I guess it wouldn’t be proper to ask her to prostitute her genius for commercial purposes. Even if it does mean saving the life of her daughter and, more importantly, her daughter’s best friend. I bet she’s never taken a penny for all the wonderful things she does for people—”
    Belle’s probably right. Rakhi doesn’t think her mother charges a fee for what she does. But she suspects that grateful clients give her thank-you gifts, including money. How else had she managed to keep the household running smoothly all those times when Rakhi’s father was laid off? Rakhi has seen the jewelry—her mother has a whole drawer full of it, though she never wears any. They’re mostly trinkets, but it wouldn’t surprise Rakhi if there were expensive items there as well. For a whole year when she was in high school, a box of fresh produce was left outside their door every Sunday. Rakhi never saw who delivered it. Once her mother received a state-of-the-art food processor in the mail; once she was sent a $500 Neiman Marcus gift card (she gave it to Rakhi); and once when Rakhi was little, she