Chapter 2: The Shower's Witness
The water was too hot.
Priya stood under the scalding stream, her skin turning a angry, blotchy pink.She barely felt it. The heat was a distant echo compared to the memory burning through her nerves: the press of him against her, the firm grip on her hips, the slow, deliberate sway. The bathroom was thick with steam, fogging the glass door until the world outside was just a blur of cream-colored tile and damp towels.
She’d scrubbed her hands raw already. The floral-scented soap lathered, rinsed, and lathered again, but the feeling didn’t wash away. It wasn’t a stain on her skin; it was a vibration in her bones.A low, humming awareness she hadn't felt in twenty years. She braced her hands against the slick tiles, head bowed, letting the water drum against the back of her neck. It pounded like a second heart, or maybe like the frantic beep of the monitor she was trying to drown out.Dance with me, Ma.She squeezed her eyes shut. The voice was inside her head now, playing on a loop under the rush of water. It wasn’t her son’s voice in that moment.It was something else.Something knowing. Something that had seen the cracked foundation of her marriage and decided to lean on it.
A shiver racked her, despite the heat.She turned the knob, gasping as the water went icy. The shock was a relief.It was punishment and clarity. She stood there, teeth chattering, until her skin tightened into gooseflesh and her nipples hardened into painful points.Normal sensations. Human reactions to cold.They were clean, simple feelings.She shut the water off. The silence was immediate, ringing, broken only by the drip from the showerhead and the heavy patter of water falling from her body to the plastic base.She stood there, dripping, for a long minute.Naked. Exposed.Alone.
Wrapping herself in a towel felt like putting on armor that didn’t fit.The terrycloth was rough, comforting in its plainness. She wiped a clear circle on the fogged mirror.The woman who looked back was a stranger. Her hair, plastered dark and sleek to her skull, made her look younger, more severe. Her eyes were hollow, the tiredness deep enough to fall into. But there was a flush on her cheeks that wasn’t just from the heat.A nervous energy in the set of her jaw. She leaned closer, looking for a mark, some physical evidence of the transgression.There was nothing. Just her face, older than she remembered, wearing a confusion she couldn’t smooth away.
A soft thud from elsewhere in the house made her jump.Her heart hammered against her ribs. He’d said he’d stay at the hospital.He’d said he’d call.
She pulled on her old cotton nightdress, the faded blue one Vikram said made her look frumpy. The fabric was soft, familiar.A uniform from her old life. She combed her hair, the familiar tug and pull a small, ordinary ritual that grounded her.
She opened the bathroom door, and the cooler air of the hallway hit her damp skin.The house was quiet, but not empty. She could feel it.A shift in the atmosphere, a current running beneath the silence. She padded barefoot down the hall, the tiles cool under her feet.
The living room was shadowy, lit only by the streetlamp filtering through the blinds. Rohan was there, standing by the large window, looking out at the dark street.He’d changed out of his hospital clothes. He wore dark jeans and a simple grey t-shirt that clung to the lean muscles of his back. He turned, and in the dim light, his face was all angles and shadows.
“You’re back,” Priya said, her voice barely above a whisper.“Is he—”
“Stable. No change.” Rohan’s voice was calm, matter-of-fact.He took a step toward her. “I told the night nurse to call if anything shifted. I needed to check on you.”
“I’m fine,” she said automatically, the lie brittle.
“You’re not.” He said it with the same gentle certainty he’d used at the hospital. He came closer, stopping just outside her personal space. She could smell the faint scent of hospital antiseptic on him, layered with something else—his own smell, clean and sharp. “You’re trembling.”
She hadn’t even realized she was.She clutched the folds of her nightdress. “I’m cold.”
“Here.” He moved past her, into the kitchen. She heard the clink of a cup, the rush of the tap, the metallic hum of the microwave.He returned with a mug of steaming milk. He’d added a pinch of turmeric and cardamom, the way she liked it. The way she’d made it for him when he was a boy with nightmares. “Drink this.”
She took the mug, her fingers brushing his.The contact was brief, electric. She focused on the heat seeping into her palms.“Thank you.”
He didn’t move away. He watched her take a sip, his gaze unwavering. The silence stretched, filled with everything that wasn’t being said.“What happened today…” Priya started, then stopped. The words wouldn’t form.“Was necessary,” Rohan finished quietly. He reached out, not touching her, but tucking a damp strand of hair behind her ear.His fingers were warm. “You’ve been sleepwalking for twenty years, Ma.Someone had to wake you up.”
His touch was a brand. She flinched back. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” he asked, his hand dropping.His expression was open, almost innocent.“Care about you?See you? He never did.All those years, you were just the furniture. The reliable, silent thing in the corner.It’s killing you. I can see it.”
“He’s your father,” she breathed, the protest weak.
“He’s a man who had a treasure and left it locked in a dark room,” Rohan said, his voice dropping to an intense, intimate register. “I’m not going to do that.”
He took the mug from her shaking hands and set it on the side table.Then, slowly, deliberately, he took both of her hands in his. His thumbs stroked her knuckles, a soothing, relentless rhythm.“You feel that? That’s alive.That’s real.The pulse in your wrist. The warmth.” He lifted her hands, pressing her palms briefly to his own cheeks.His skin was smooth, warm. “See?”
She was caught, hypnotized by the tenderness, by the sheer blasphemy of it. She pulled her hands back as if burned, cradling them to her chest.
Rohan just smiled, a slow, heartbreakingly beautiful smile that held no boyishness in it. “We’ll go slow.But we’re going to start living.Tomorrow. No more hiding in this house.”
“What are you talking about?” Her voice was a frayed thread.
“You’ll see.” He leaned in, close enough that she could feel his breath on her damp cheek. He didn’t kiss her.He just inhaled, deeply, as if breathing her in. “Get some sleep.You’ll need your strength.”
He turned and walked down the hall to his room. The click of his door closing was the period at the end of a sentence she hadn’t agreed to write.
Priya stood in the silent living room, the taste of spiced milk on her tongue, the ghost of his hands on hers, and the terrifying, exhilarating sense that the ground had just fallen away from beneath her feet.She was falling. And for the first time in her life, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to grab hold of something, or just let herself drop.