Haunting Jasmine Read Online Free PDF

asking price. Where are you?
    I hadn’t told him about my trip. Let him wonder, for once. How gullible I was, sitting up on clear summer nights, waiting for him, believing he simply had to work late.
    I type quickly. I never wanted to move. You drove me out of my home. No way will I accept a dollar below the asking price.
    I delete the message before sending, sit back, and take several deep breaths. I hope the buyers don’t rip out my flower garden or remove the stones in my walkway. But I have to let go of the condo. I’ve got no choice.
    “You all right?” Dad asks from the doorway. “We’re having supper.” He swirls the whiskey in his glass. He is always swirling or twirling something—if not whiskey, then a fork or a straw or an unlit cigar.
    “I’m fine.” I sign off and follow him into the dining room. We sit at the long oak table, the table my parents have owned since my earliest memories—the table at which I sat through countless meals, where I refused to eat liver and instead fed our cat, Willow, under the table. She died of old age, or maybe the liver killed her.
    There is an empty chair next to me, the chair in which Rob used to sit when we came to dinner. Now the space is bare, his green bamboo place mat gone. Ma has laid out the rest of the settings and the good silver cutlery. She is neat, reining in the centrifugal force of my father’s messiness. I know without looking that if I open any drawer in the house, its contents will be arranged in compartments, letters held together with rubber bands. I know my mother still keeps the blinds drawn on sunny days, to prevent bleaching of the hardwood floor. Unlike me, she never allows leftovers to accumulate in the back of the refrigerator.
    Seated at the head of the table, Dad swirls the ice in his tumbler of whiskey. “Good to have you home. Your sister has some—”
    “I thought I heard Jasmine’s voice.” Gita emerges from the kitchen, her hair still damp from her shower, a plate of basmati rice in hand. I stand, hugging her, avoiding the plate of rice. In her designer pantsuit and colorful jewelry samplers, she is a walking advertisement for her Seattle boutique. Her angular face could grace the cover of Vogue .
    “How’s Dilip?” I ask her. “Is he—?”
    “Business trip,” Gita says quickly, smiling, as if she’s hiding a secret. “He’ll be back tomorrow. If he’s not, I’m leaving him.”
    Mom gasps. “Gita! What about, you know?”
    Gita holds up her hand. “Wait, Ma! When I’m ready, I’ll tell her.”
    “Tell me what?” I say.
    “Sit down and relax first.” Gita smiles a bit too brightly, motioning me back into my chair. I can’t get comfortable. The wood is hard and cold.
    “Jasmine looks tired, doesn’t she?” Ma says. Translation: Jasmine works too much. She needs to spend more time with her family. My mother often speaks sideways, to my sister, when she means to admonish me instead.
    Gita sits across from us. “So Jasmine, how are you holding up? What’s going on with that jerk? Is everything all settled or is Robert still being an asshole?”
    Ma gasps. “Gita! Watch your language.”
    Gita rolls her eyes. “Okay, is he still being a shithead? You must be so glad to be free of him.”
    Ma frowns.
    I smile, although my heart is splintering. “I’m free. I’m doing… great.” Gita means well, but she has no idea what it’s like to pack your husband’s belongings into boxes, to find reminders of him left behind—a dry cleaning receipt, a grocery list scrawled in his slanted handwriting, half a bottle of his favorite wine.
    Mom lets out an audible breath. “Come, let’s eat! We’re all hungry.”
    Gita has conjured a spread of fragrant mango chutney, fish curry, and aloo gobi , my favorite. Of all the Bengali dishes she has mastered, I most relish the curried potato and cauliflower. The complex scent swirls through the air in a medley of coriander, garlic, ginger, onion, green chiles, and turmeric.