Traveling with Spirits (38 page)

  The cat-footed waiter pads up behind her. “May I show you our pastry tray?” 

  She wants to say, you can show me a stiff glass of single malt. But Sudha’s parents don’t drink. And, as always, she’s aware she could turn into Jeanne.

  “By all means,” answers Santosh, who has relaxed. Eyes bruised with grief, he is nevertheless becoming the classic, generous Indian host.

  Each of the others orders a pastry; Monica isn’t hungry.

  Bracelets chiming, Rajul points to the tray. “Come dear. How about the berries? Healthy, beautiful berries? They’re so tasty this time of year. Sudha told me you had ‘an appetite for life.’ She talked about those cooking classes. You know she was very proud to make us
pasta primavera
on her last visit to Bandra.”

  “The vegetables were perfectly
al dente
,” Santosh smiles for the first time. “Delicious, indeed.
Pasta primavera
from our little mountain eccentric. A wonder.”

  Overwhelmed by longing for Sudha, undone by Rajul’s reference to the “last visit,” she feels tears stinging her eyes. Monica tells herself that crying is self-indulgent in the presence of Sudha’s parents and lover. Their pain is so large and deep. Yet she does carry something they do not bear. She is responsible for her friend’s death. She planned the trip, paid for it secretly without telling Sudha. With privileged American presumptuousness and reckless spontaneity, she risked her dear friend’s life. And lost it.

  “I’m so sorry,” she suddenly confesses to Rajul and Santosh. “It’s my fault. The trip was my idea. If only--.” She is sobbing. “I’m sorry. So unutterably sorry.”

  Raul bows his head.

  Santosh studies his plate.

  Rajul gazes at her, then takes her hand. “No, please listen. Sudha was not a follower. She cherished you as a spirited companion. She rang us the night before your journey, of course. She was thrilled beyond excitement.”

  Santosh intercedes, a catch in his voice. “I tried to tell her. I know those mountains from my brother who did war duty there. I said, ‘Go later in the season. The rains are treacherous.’ Sudha never listened. My fault. If only I had been a stricter father.”

  Monica hardly hears his words.

  “No. No. No!” Rajul declares. “No one’s fault. Sudha was Sudha. Our Sudha always traveled the furthest. Yes, Meena is in Australia and Naren flies back and forth from Toronto and Leeds. But our Sudha always had her eyes in the stars. She ventured farthest in her imagination. And now she is at rest in her beloved mountains.”

 
“But you ‘recovered;’ you came back to India,” Monica said.

  “Not to Bombay. In some senses I am as distant from my parents as Meena and Naren. At least they live in large, cosmopolitan cities. My father, especially, doesn’t know what to make of this daughter, the country recluse.”

  That night in Sangla, Monica knew their friendship would go on and on.

  “Our Sudha treasured you both. Monica and you, Dr. Sanchez…”

  “Raul, please.”

  “We look forward to welcoming you to Bombay. A beautiful city. Especially in January and February.”

  Politely, they nod.

  Monica knows her assent is more than courtesy. She is bound to Sudha’s parents, Sudha’s spirit.

THIRTY-FIVE

June, 2002, Moorty

  Birds chatter outside the window. It’s safe to open her eyes now. One more sleepless dark has passed. Rising, she finds the room surprisingly chilly for summer.

  Another night reliving the accident. Revising it.

  Ignoring Shankar.

  Reaching into the jeep and yanking Sudha to safety.

  Yelling, hurry, hurry, forget your stupid purse, hurry, hurry.

  Always the same image. Sudha can’t hear her. Can’t see her. The curtain drops.

  Shankar pinning Monica against the mountainside shouting, No you cannot move. The jeep disappeared. The earth shifted.

  As she boils water for tea, Monica thinks how she has talked it through time and again with Ashok. Why? She asks him: why couldn’t I help her? And he says it was too late. It happened too fast.

  Is Sudha in Heaven? Sister Mary Thomas said only good Christians went to Heaven. Monica remembers coming home from the first grade crying because the Cohen family next door weren’t going to Heaven. “Whatever makes you say that?” Mom consoled. “God has room for every good person.”

  It takes all her effort to dress.

 
“So if you don’t believe in Heaven, do you think you’ll be reincarnated?”

  “No, I’ll just vanish,” Sudha smiled. “Disappear into the universe. Recycled.”

  Monica stared at her, for this is exactly what she used to believe.

  “So will your body. We’ll mingle together for eternity. Your lovely blue eyes are made of the 10
80
particles that have been roving the universe for zillions of years. You just return those particles.”

  Monica shrugged.

  “I don’t mean to make light,” Sudha softened. “Your religion, I know how much it means to you. Does it bother you that I’m not going to Heaven?”

  “Yes,” she rejoined. “It’s your choice. But it will be lonelier without you.”

  What made Monica confident she was going to Heaven?

  It’s already a lot lonelier here without her. She moans, yearning for Sudha’s radiant smile, her quick repartee.

  Combing her knotted hair, she stares at the mirror, “How can God be so unfair?”

  “I will pray for you,” Father Freitas said. “And when you find the strength to offer your own prayers, God will hear them. Give yourself time. Give God time.”

  He’s a good man, but right now, it’s hard for her to believe in his prayers. Harder still to believe in her own.

  Forcing her steps toward the refectory, she knows she has to face them. She has to return to work. Eating is also a good idea. Not eating is more appealing. A quicker route to her dance with the 10
80
particles.

  Sister Catherine greets her at the door, sniffing into a white handkerchief.

  Monica squeezes the nun’s free hand.

  “May God rest your friend’s soul.”

  Monica nods to console the good woman.

  As she enters the dining room, Sister Eleanor reaches forward.

  The nun embraces her. She, too, is crying. Restrained Sister Eleanor.

  And now frigid Brigid. The spiteful epithet leaps to her mind in the midst of a consoling hug. Monica recoils at the touch, even as she hungers for warmth.

  The first day back at work passes in a fog. Grief hits at odd moments. While checking Ritu’s blood work. While walking to dinner. How can she cope with these sad, sympathetic people? How can she face Raul? When it’s her fault. She had boldly divined the trip, persuaded Sudha to come. Yes, her fault. Her most grievous fault. No matter what they say.

  Monica retires early. Everyone understands; they are so damn understanding without understanding a thing.

  Dusk when she enters the flat. She sits in dimness, gazing at Sudha’s favorite view of those treacherous mountains. She is literally surrounded by danger and threat. She always was. Birds sing evening songs, calling her to another sleepless night.

  The phone’s ringing crackles through the flat.

  “Monica?”

  “Beata!”

  The dam breaks. Sorrow and pain and anguish and guilt race through her exhausted body.

  Silence on the other end. Maybe she’s hung up. Maybe she’s abandoned her too.

  “I’m sorry,” Monica manages. “This is an expensive call just to hear someone weep futilely.”

  “Not futilely,” she says with familiar tenderness. “And this is what money is for.”

  Suddenly she’s angry, flailing at her friend. “Tell me, Beata. How can God do this? Why is it that everyone I love leaves? Why?”

  Beata is quiet, or rather engaging, Monica imagines, in “active listening.” She can feel her bloody Christian concern all the way from St. Paul.

  Monica moans. The flat is dark. Birds are silent. The mountains invisible.

  “Not everyone,” Beata says finally.

  Monica sighs.

   “You have me,” Beata says softly.

  Friendship, Monica corrects herself, not Christian concern.

  “You have Ashok.”

  “I know. I know. I should get on with life.” She regrets the brusqueness, can’t help it. “Get prepared to slam into another brick wall.”

  “Have you talked with Father Freitas about this?” Beata tries. “Or Father Daniel?”

  “They’ve both been so kind. Father Daniel invited me down to Pondicherry. And Father Freitas is full of good counsel.” She’s not being ironic, although she can’t accept his support. “He offered to say a memorial Mass.”

  “That might be healing.”

  “Oh, Beata,” she erupts, regretting it immediately and unable to stop herself. “What’s the point? Sudha wouldn’t even be there in spirit. She’s too busy communing with the other 10
80
particles in the universe.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Sorry, I’m so sorry, dear friend. I should go. I’m exhausted. Making no sense. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  “I’ll call in a couple of days, OK? Saturday or Sunday?”

  “I’m so tired, Beata. So tired.”

  Monica forces herself to brush her teeth. (Did she say good-bye to Beata? Did she hang up the phone?) Her body feels so extraneous now. What is she doing with it?

  The sheets are cool and as soon as she turns out the light, heartache engulfs her. Dear Sudha, I miss you. Dear Sudha, I am so sorry.

 
Giant rocks and dirt pummeled the jeep.

  Where was Sudha?

  Immense boulders and no, an avalanche of rocks and now the earth itself.

  She bolted from the car for her.

  Shankar’s grip was too strong.

  “Nothing,” he said. “Nothing you can do.”

 
Mea Culpa. Mea maxima culpa.

  The landslide went on and on. Oh, what a horrendous sight, the wash of rocks and splintered trees and it was too deep. She couldn’t see the car. She could feel Sudha’s terror. Oh, God—

  Mean and merciful dawn comes once again. The irritating chirpers return. At least she’s liberated from her bed. No more pretense of sleep until tonight.

  Morning sky is streaked with pink clouds which remind her of the weeping cherries at home. Monica used to enjoy the lingering sunrise in Moorty. But not today, perhaps never again. Nevermore. Are there ravens in Moorty? Never-ever-ever more.

  The room is full when she arrives for breakfast.

  “Good morning,” she manages.

  They’re all a bit wary. Is she imagining this? Why does she assume she’s the center of attention?

  “Did you sleep?” asks Raul, his own eyes circled in darkness.

  “Did you?” She resists his concern. How can he show her such kindness, such forgiveness?

  “A little better,” he says, “I took a pill.”

  “Not a bad idea.” Kevin says to her. “You have to sleep.”

  Of course, she thinks; otherwise we’ll be useless to the hospital.

  “Dr. Murphy, have you considered a short leave?” Father asks.

  “I’ve just had a vaca--,” she stops herself.

  “Father Daniel emailed, suggesting you might want to do a brief retreat in—”

  “Thank you, no. Thanks to everyone for your concern. But I’ll be fine. I’m feeling better every morning,” she lies.

THIRTY-SIX

June, 2002, Moorty

  On Sunday afternoon, Raul suggests a walk. This is the last thing she wants. Yet how can she refuse him?

  The last few days have passed in a stupor. A walk. Air. It will be good for both of them.

  They wind up at a bench looking out toward the mountains, holding hands, crying.

  Gently, she pulls away, relieved not to be touching, not to be touched.

  He glances at her, seems to understand. “This was your bench. Yours and Sudha’s.” His voice is trancelike.

  She’s surprised.

  “She showed me, the week before you set off. She was so excited, you know. She told me you two used to sit here dreaming of the peaks together.”

  Together.

  His tone grows sober. “We must go on.” He pauses, holding back tears. “She would want us to go on. We need faith. In our work. In God.”

  “Faith!” she rasps. “Where do you find faith? After losing her. And your father?” She wonders if she’s losing her own faith permanently. If so, how genuine was her conversion? Her commitment? Will the real Monica please stand?

  “Besides faith,” he asks her faintly, “what else is there?”

  “Sleep,” she says desolately, “That would be a start.”

*****

  Monica notices the blue vellum envelope on the postal tray. Clearly Beata’s letter would have been written before the avalanche. There are a couple of other pieces: a card from Eric, probably a sympathy note. Some Global Priority thingee from Chicago. She checks her watch. Four p.m. She can still do another hour’s work. She should check on Aruna in the ward and gauge the tightness of her cast. But truly, she’s overcome with exhaustion. Kevin has told her to take the whole day “for herself.” A quaint expression, as if she might pop down to the spa for her regular pedicure. Instead, she walks down to her all too silent flat.