The Vibrant Years(2)
That didn’t mean, every once in a while, she wasn’t livid enough at her daughter-in-law to want to drown her in the neighborhood pool. This morning they’d had one of those fights, triggered by something so insignificant that halfway through you forgot what started it.
Well, an empty chai cup started it. Bindu had left the blameless thing on the coffee table, preoccupied as she was with the unexpected million dollars. Why on earth would anyone leave such an obscene sum to a woman whose life he’d almost destroyed? What had he possibly hoped to gain, other than digging up old pain and secrets? Ever since the money had shown up, Bindu had felt like she’d been hit by a truck, one filled with every shameful mistake of her youth.
Alisha had snapped at Bindu, in her passive-aggressive way, about not using a coaster, probably preoccupied with some new stunt her bully of a boss had pulled.
“It’s a table, Alisha! It doesn’t have feelings. And it’s ugly anyway,” Bindu snapped back.
The coffee table was a gift from Alisha’s mother. Which explained why it was ugly and why it needed so very much care. If Bindu had her way, she’d only ever buy furniture she could dance on, with heels!
Nonetheless, she shouldn’t have said it, and from that moment on things had snowballed out of control. Hurtful words were tossed about, fragile beads shattering one by one, until Bindu declared that she was going to the open house at the retirement community that Debbie Romano had been pestering Bindu to accompany her to.
Debbie lived a few houses down from the house Bindu shared with Alisha in Naples, Florida. For years Debbie had been Bindu’s walking buddy. They walked five miles daily, each committed to never missing a day.
Over the past year, Debbie, who was ten years older than Bindu, had turned repetitive in her conversation. Bindu responded by learning how to block out the parts she’d heard before. When you spent hours walking with someone, it might seem easy to confuse company with friendship, but Bindu didn’t have that problem. Defining relationships and responding to them with exactly what they needed was one of her greatest skills.
“Maybe it’s time for me to move out,” Bindu had said in the final throes of their nonsensical fight.
Alisha had made one of her laugh-groan-scoff sounds.
If not for that stupid sound, Bindu wouldn’t have said yes to Debbie, and Bindu wouldn’t be standing here in a red summer dress she’d bought online, with nowhere to wear it to.
Elegant brass letters on a gray stone wall proclaimed that they were at the clubhouse. SHADY PALMS—LUXURY LIVING FOR YOUR VIBRANT YEARS.
If you were going to put a bunch of old—sorry, she was supposed to say “older” now, even though that made no sense—people in one place, why would you call that place something as fake sunny as Shady Palms? Palms should never be anyone’s choice when seeking shade, especially if other options were available.
But they were here, so Bindu held her head high and walked through the arched entrance as regally as she could. Not easy with Debbie hiding behind her. If the outside of the clubhouse was impressive—all manicured landscaping and giant fountains—the inside was a veritable ode to showy elegance: a mullioned glass ceiling, mosaic marble floors, and an absurd profusion of indoor (still not shady) palms.
Bindu sent up a prayer of gratitude for her dress with its cute cold shoulders and gently flaring sleeves. As forms of self-soothing therapy went, Bindu had always believed that clothes, jewelry, and the perfect shade of lipstick were underrated. To say nothing of all the things a good hair day could fix in your soul. Thank heavens she’d touched up her hair color just yesterday.
These people did not look like they touched up their own grays with drugstore color. They looked like they’d been airdropped here, in chartered planes, straight from Beverly Hills. Bindu dragged Debbie to the circle of women gathered under the impressive crystal chandelier. Every one of them had blown-out hair, super-moisturized faces, and gold chains so delicate they were barely visible against the freckled crepe paper skin of their necks.
Eyes in all shades of blue and green and gold flickered Bindu’s way, then flickered away without so much as a hint of acknowledgment. She might as well have been invisible.
Then their eyes landed on Debbie’s blonde head, ducking behind Bindu. Smiles warmed every face. They introduced themselves to Debbie with enough enthusiasm that the contrast in their reactions landed on Bindu like a slap.
Maybe she was imagining it.
“Hello,” she said, trying to sound breezy, but her own accent sounded loud in her ears.
No one responded. The circle dragged Debbie in and closed up as Bindu stood outside it, taking in the wall of backs. The chill of the air-conditioning hit her exposed shoulders even as her skin turned clammy and hot. It was like menopause returning in a tidal wave. Had she used too much kohl to line her eyes? Was her lipstick too red? The sense of feeling all wrong tangled up her limbs. A girl from a lifetime ago, a girl Bindu had buried with a forgotten past, trembled back to life inside her. And her resurgence felt exactly like rage swallowed too long.
Escaping the turned backs, Bindu pushed past the oversize lead glass doors, slamming them hard enough that she heard some gasps behind her. Outside, the blast of heat and sound enveloped her but gave her no relief. A pool dropped into another pool by way of a waterfall and led up to a bar where swimsuited and sunglassed people laughed and chatted as though they had not a care in the world.