“Flora!” 

Her dad pulled her into his arms for a tight hug. This was unusual, to say the least. With her backpack in one hand, her cell phone in the other, she stood stiffly in his lengthy embrace.

“Hi Dad. Good to see you too.”

“Come in, come in,” he ushered with a flourish and a little bow.

Dropping her things onto the couch, she looked around. New lamps with turquoise and blue bases in a leaf pattern sat on the side tables and matching pillows adorned the couch. The apartment was remarkably cleaner than the last time she had been there. That was two months ago when the strong odors of Grandma Advika’s curry, her dad’s cologne and a myriad of other smells in the dirty flat were just too much for her. She stayed for all of an hour, most of the time spent in the bathroom sneezing and throwing up, waiting for her various meds to kick in and for her mother to pick her up, while her father paced in the hallway pendulum-swinging between apologies and irritation. 

“Well, what do you think? Is it passable?” He asked her now. “I got three high-tech air purifiers. The others are in the kitchen and your room.” 

Flora walked closer to the wall just beyond the couch to examine a painting that hadn’t been there before. It was very colorful, depicting an elephant, distinctly feminine, with four arms holding flowers and food and sitting cross-legged on a picnic blanket. The ornate blanket was on a hillside of grass with forest in the background and a sun in the sky, shooting out pink and blue rays of light. The elephant was joined by a little mouse, also holding a nut or pellet of food. 

“Ganesha,” said Flora, “Patron of the arts and sciences and the god of intellect and wisdom.”

“Yes, that’s right,” said her father.

“It’s good. Where’d you get it?”

“Oh, well, as a matter of fact—”

There was a fumbling of a key in the front door. Flora and her father turned to see a young Indian woman entering. She was beautiful, her dark hair framing her oval face. She held a grocery bag.

“Hi. I got the bread, Sai. You must be Flora.” 

The woman’s smile lit up her face.

“I’m Geetha,” she said.

“Hi.” 

Flora looked at father questioningly. He wore a broad, almost mischievous smile.

“Geetha is the artist who painted that Ganesha. She’s also—my fiancé.”

“Your what?”

“I’m early, aren’t I?” Geetha grimaced looking at Flora’s father.

“It’s okay,” he said, “I wanted to tell you before she got here, Flora, but it doesn’t matter. I—it’s important to me that the two of you get to know one another. Do you want to unpack or settle in. I’m just finishing up dinner. I thought the three of us could eat together. It’s almost ready.”

Dinner was surreal. Her dad had done well. It was all food she could eat, chicken and steamed vegetables and the French bread Geetha had brought. Her father complimented Flora on her appearance, her grades, her way with words. He laughed and joked. His eyes danced, especially looking at Geetha. She hadn’t seen him this way since—she wasn’t sure she’d ever seen him this happy. 

Geetha was a doctor of dermatology, having recently transferred to the hospital where Flora’s dad was an administrator. In her spare time, evidently, Geetha painted, did yoga and Pilates, was training for a half-marathon and was learning to play the sitar. Like Sai, she had been born in the U.S. to Indian immigrants who instilled their culture, while she took on the way of American society around her. 

“I was a misfit for a long time,” she told Flora, “but then I realized I could be a part of both worlds and create my own. Sai has had similar experiences.”

“That’s right,” he said.

They beamed at one another. 

Flora fidgeted uncomfortably. She tried not to but kept thinking about her mother. Had he ever looked at her that way? 

“Tell us about you, Flora,” said Geetha, “What are you into these days?”

She didn’t know what to say. It certainly wasn’t going to be, “Oh, the boy across the street.” 

“Flora has read probably every book in the local library since she’s stuck inside most of the time. Best read sixteen-year-old you’ll ever meet.”

“I’m researching for new remedies,” she told them, “something new or something we missed, so I can spend more time outside.” 

“Really?” Her dad said.

“Have you discovered anything yet?” Geetha asked.

“No. Not yet. I’ve tried most leukotrienes, but maybe new ones are being developed. I’ve done some immunotherapy. But there’s got to be some I haven’t tried. I don’t know about the smell issue.”

“Hmm,” said Geetha, “I’ll ask around to my colleagues. What’s your main motivation? To spend more time in nature? Or with people?”

Flora didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know this woman. So, she said nothing. 

“You know, I’m pretty tired. I thought I might hit the hay early. It was a nice dinner, Dad. Thank you.” 

She retreated to her room, took a shower to wash off the newness of it all, and—though she didn’t intend to—she did fall asleep early still trying to make sense of the day.

The next day, Geetha had to work at the hospitable. Flora was relieved. She and her dad put together a puzzle with a colorful depiction of a cityscape while watching Netflix and AppleTV. They read quietly together. He asked her about her studies, her opinions on recent events, but nothing personal. That’s the way it had always been. But today she became aware of it and wasn’t sure if she wanted him to ask more or not.

In the afternoon, they went down to the apartment complex’s pool. Flora had to be careful not to breathe through her nose on the way and was congested by the time they were back in the apartment, mostly on account of an acacia tree in the courtyard. But she liked being in the water, where there were no smells, especially in a saltwater pools like this one with a low chlorine level. This was something she could do more of. She swam laps, dipping under the water, until her limbs were limp and skin wrinkled. 

That evening Geetha joined them for dinner again. 

“I’m sorry about the bland food,” said Flora.

“It’s fine,” said Geetha, “it’s good, hearty food. Sai and I can go spicy other nights. I don’t feel like I’m missing out on anything.”

Flora’s mouth dropped open, and Geetha realized what she had just said, who she said it to. 

“I didn’t mean, I know you miss out on a lot. And it’s not fair. I didn’t mean to—”

Flora dabbed her mouth with her napkin and got up.

“It’s fine. I have some homework I need to do. I think I’ll just go to my room.”

She lay on her bed for a while. She knew she was being harder on Geetha than she needed to be. She couldn’t help it though. Geetha was seeking her approval, but Flora felt like punishing someone, anyone.

“I can’t do an entire life like this,” she said quietly to the ceiling. “I want flavor and half-marathons and yeah, time in nature. God, just to be able to go outside my house without migraines and my eyes frigging swelling shut. I want to learn more about Jake.” 

She let herself fall into self-pity until she fell asleep.

The next morning, waiting for her mother to pick her up, she paced in the living room, stopping to stare at the Ganesha painting. It really was a work of art, like you’d see in a museum. This bothered Flora. She didn’t want Geetha to be good at too many things. 

“I like Ganesha,” said Geetha behind her. 

Flora jumped. 

“Oh, you scared me.”

“Sorry.”

Geetha came and stood beside her. She was wearing an oversized robe, her hair disheveled. She still looked beautiful though. Damn it. Flora took a deep breath.

“It’s a really good painting,” she said.

“Thanks.” 

Side-by-side, they looked at the elephant god for a few moments.

“You know,” said Geetha, “Ganesha is also known as the remover of obstacles. He’s thought to bring good luck.”

Flora valued kindness too much. She needed to apologize, but what came out of her mouth surprised her.

“There’s this boy. Across the street from my mom’s house. He—sees me, I think. When no one else has, I mean, no one my age. Even if it doesn’t go anywhere, I just want to be able to spend time with him.”

Geetha nods. 

“See the mouse with Ganesha?” She pointed at the painting. “Some say he represents desire. Early Hindus sometimes saw him as destructive. He was depicted as a rat, like those that caused the plague and sickness and death before we had medicine. I don’t see him that way. Desire isn’t destructive. It’s natural. I see him as more of a companion for the elephant. They help each other. ‘Cause we’re never alone, even though we feel like we are a lot of times. The mouse, for example, can take paths the elephant can’t, in small, unexplored places. I think sometimes to remove obstacles means taking new paths that no one else has taken. It can just be hard to see them sometimes. And scary to crawl through an unknown space.”

“Hmm.” Flora took in the painting a moment longer before turning to Geetha. 

“This, you—are going to take some getting used to. But,” she grinned, “it’s nice to see my dad happy.”

Geetha smiled back. She handed Flora a postcard from her pocket. It was a print of Ganesha and the mouse.

“For luck,” said Geetha.

In Flora’s other hand, her phone vibrates with a text message. Her mother is outside.