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might mean destruction. As soon as I could, I would take Dayita into my room, prolong the nursing. I would hear them, of course, Anju and Sunil. Halted, formal sentences, mostly about Dayita. In a few minutes, silence. There’s no silence like married silence, its undertowof reproach. When I brought Dayita back, they reached for her with panicked fingers, as though they’d been drowning.

    The family (can I call us that?) has finished its picnic lunch. Crisp parotas stuffed with spicy potatoes, a bowl of emerald coriander chutney. (In this one way, at least, I am helpful.) He lies back, a newspaper protecting his face. From the sun, from us. Dayita has fallen asleep, her head wedged into his armpit. His body looks relaxed, almost happy.
    We speak softly, so we will not disturb them. It is a conversation I’ve been starting all week.
    “You’ve got to go back to college, Anju,” I say. “You’re well enough now. Didn’t you tell me that the new classes are starting in a few days?”
    “I don’t think I’m ready,” Anju says. Caught in her mouth, the words are mutinous pebbles. Anju, who never stuttered as a child. I don’t blame her. You drop your life and watch it roll away, growing like a monstrous ball of mud. It seems impossible that you’ll ever run fast enough to catch it again.
    If I show sympathy, our talk will end as it always does, in tears. So I say, “You’re as ready as you’ll ever be. At least while I’m here you won’t have to worry about the cooking and cleaning—”
    Anju cuts me off, her face furious and knotted. “I didn’t invite you here to be a maid in my house. And, anyway, you’re going to be here a long time.”
    She hates it when I speak of returning to India. But can’t she see that I must? Can’t she see the way we’re living now—a giant hand squeezing us together, something getting ready to burst?
    “Silly girl!” I say. “I love taking care of people, you knowthat. And don’t worry about college—you’ll do beautifully. You always did before.”
    “I’ll go to college if you promise to go, too,” says Anju.
    The air is a black sphere around me, impossible to breathe. No, it’s a vast whiteness that wants me to lose myself in it. Anju’s words gleam intermittently through it. Dangerous, unthinkable spangles. “You’ve got to stand on your feet, take care of Dayita—”
    She doesn’t understand. There’s too much of the past in my blood still, like a sickness I have to sweat out before I can take on the future.
    Sunil sits up so suddenly, it’s clear he hasn’t been asleep at all. Dayita, jerked awake, begins to wail. “It’s getting cold.” His words are scissors. Snip, snap. “Time to head back.”

    Some time soon, tonight or tomorrow, in bed, they’re going to have a conversation. There will be frowns, tears, defiance, accusation. All very softly, because the walls are thin. Because the fictions of courtesy are still important to us.
    This is how it will go.
    He: She’s here on a visitor’s visa. She can’t go to school.
    She: She can change her visa—people do, all the time.
    He: She’s got to go back in six months. That was the deal.
    She: Who made that deal? Not me.
    He: She can’t keep staying with us.
    She: Why not?
    He: (Silence)
    She: Very well. I’ll find her a room. She’ll be able to get a student job, and then, once she gets her degree—
    He: Let her go back to India, Anju. We’ve got our life, she’sgot hers. You can help her from here, if you like. Send her money.
    She: (Silence)
    He: Can’t you understand?
    She: How can you talk about money, like she’s a beggar? She’s my sister, my best friend. I need her here. Can’t you understand?
    He: (Silence)
    She: (Silence)
    He: (Silence)
    She: (Silence)
    Two turned backs, like escarpments. Anger runs from one to the other, a mouse on scrabbled feet, gnawing. In my frozen bed Dayita whimpers, rubbing her feverish eyes.
    None of us will sleep this night.

    The sun teeters