The Story Hour by Thrity Umrigar Page A

to eat it when she sick. She funny like that. She good student, like me, but she hate doing farmwork. Even when Ma get the ’rthritis bad, Shilpa say no to help our dada. Say her clothes getting dirty. Shilpa love fashion clothes. Dada always to saying to her, ‘Beti, you a farmer daughter, not film star.’ But Shilpa not loving that life. She like to—”
    Lakshmi looked like she could go on for another half hour, and Maggie decided this was a good time to stop. “I’m afraid our time’s up,” she interrupted gently. “We can pick up again next week.” She glanced at the tiffin carrier that sat between them. “If you give me a minute, I’ll take the food out and return the boxes to you.”
    She swung open the door that led from the back porch into the main house and then quickly drew the curtain so that Lakshmi couldn’t see in. In the kitchen, she gasped as she saw the amount of food Lakshmi had brought. How did the woman manage to carry this load on two buses? And how many people did she think lived in this house? This food would last Sudhir and Maggie for days.
    She heard a sound and nearly jumped out of her skin. Lakshmi was standing behind her, looking around the house. Maggie shuddered, a feeling of violation running through her. In the five years she’d had her home office, no client had ever let himself or herself into the main house. On rare occasions, someone would need to use the bathroom, but that was as far as a client went. And here was Lakshmi standing in her kitchen, unaware that she’d just invaded Maggie’s private space.
    â€œWhat are you doing here? I said I’d be right back,” she snapped, not bothering to keep the annoyance out of her voice. But when she saw the look of incomprehension on Lakshmi’s face, the anger died down as abruptly as it had flared up.
    â€œI—I not allow here?”
    â€œWell, not usually,” Maggie stammered. She pointed toward the porch. “That’s my office, you see, and this, this is my home.” And in a rush of inspiration, she lied, “My husband doesn’t like clients in the house.”
    Lakshmi’s face lit up with understanding. “Like our apartment,” she cried. “It above the store. We no allow customer there.”
    â€œYes. Exactly.”
    There was an embarrassed silence, and then a voice inside Maggie said, Oh, what the hell. What the hell difference did it make that this poor woman was standing inside her kitchen? Her treatment of Lakshmi was going to be unorthodox, she already knew that, so why make a fuss over this innocent violation of her privacy? The walk that she’d taken around the hospital grounds with Lakshmi, the offer to treat her for free at her private practice rather than hook her up with a therapist in her hometown, the manner in which she’d bluffed Lakshmi’s husband into letting her come here, none of it conformed to anything she’d been taught in school. Since the very concept of therapy was unfamiliar to Lakshmi, how could she know what its unspoken rules were?
    Maggie emptied the last of the food into her bowls, rinsed out the tiffin carrier, and handed it to Lakshmi. “Many thanks,” she said, smiling. “It all looks delicious.”
    To her surprise, Lakshmi took Maggie’s right hand and held it up to her eyes. “Thank you, madam,” she said. “For helping me. I know you busy woman. God bless you.”
    Maggie squeezed Lakshmi’s hand. “You’re most welcome. Can you come back at the same time next week? And the name’s Maggie, not madam.”
    Lakshmi laughed. “Yes. Sorry. Maggie. Yes, next week. Bye.” She headed back to the porch.
    She was almost out the door when Maggie caught up with her.
    â€œWait,” Maggie said, jiggling her car keys. “I think I’ll run you down to the bus stop. It’ll save you a bit of a walk.”
    As