Traveling with Spirits (39 page)

  Monica settles into the creaky chair by the window with a cup of tea. Her eyes are caught by the embroidered throw pillow—bought at the
mela
with Sudha long ago. OK, get on with it, she can hear Sudha’s voice. Read your friend’s letter. Aren’t you curious?

Dear Monica,

  I guess you’ve been waiting for this. You often know things before they happen.

  She smiles, for she does know what’s coming although they haven’t discussed anything except the accident on the phone this week.

 
James reserved a table at a charming French Canadian restaurant. White tablecloths, candlelight, fresh roses. We had a superb meal. He ordered in French
naturellement
. I know I sound like a school girl and not the 47-year-old been-around-the-block woman I am. But there’s something about this man! By now you will have guessed. He brought a tiny package.

  Inside the lovely satin box was a gorgeous, I do mean gorgeous, blue sapphire ring. I asked him if I had mentioned how the Indian jewelers pronounce sa-fire.

  He laughed. “That’s how I knew you loved blue sa-fires.”

  And so, dear friend, I finally said “Yes.”

  Yes. Yes, Beata. Good for you.

  I’m hoping against hope that you’ll be able to be my Maid of Honor. We’re planning on October. I’ll understand if you can’t do it. Your work is so important. But I had to ask. Your presence would make everything perfect.

  Monica closes her eyes, imagining the power to make everything perfect.

  She should phone Beata to congratulate her. She should answer the other emails of concern that had come—one from Eric, two from Jill, none from Jeanne—during the last blurry fortnight. She’ll do that soon. Right now she needs to sip tea and re-enter the world she inhabited before her life collapsed.

  She needs to be alone; needs time to recover from the police investigations and physical examinations and tributes and commemorations. Opening her purse she finds the vial of pills she finally accepted from Raul.

  He’s made her promise to be careful.

  Still, it’s hard not to consider permanent departure.

  Her eyes fall on the Global Priority letter from Chicago. Chicago? Who does she know in Chicago? Something about last year’s taxes, maybe? Warily, she opens the envelope.

Dear Dr. Murphy,

  Let us begin with condolences. We here at the Chicago Mission House have just heard about your accident and your great loss. We know you are surrounded by loving people of faith. We join your colleagues there in praying for your peace of mind.

  The impetus for this letter began several months ago and its arrival unfortunately coincides with your recent tragedy. Please forgive us for intruding.

  We would like to invite you to return to the U.S. to help train medical personnel for our missions. As you know, it’s rare for an American doctor to work in an Indian mission as you do, but our doctors go all around the world. You have had such success that we wondered if you would share your expertise back home for a while. The contract would be for six months. It is renewable. However, if you prefer, you could return to your post at Moorty, where you are clearly valued.

  But she just got her visa.

  Is this Kevin’s way of expelling her?

 
Father Daniel and Father Freitas have praised your ideal combination of faith and skill, your understanding of local people and of medical advances.

  Skill? Kevin has had to step in for her at least three times this foggy week.

  Faith—in what?

  “Faith,” she told Beata, “is imaginary.”

  “Sometimes you have to be OK with not knowing.” 

  Oh, that infuriatingly patient voice.

  Faith and skill? Monica is back at the beginning of her preposterously naïve spiritual journey. Back to the doubt and grief that engulfed her after Mom’s death. And guilt. There’s so much she didn’t do. For Mom. For Sudha.

*****

  “How are you?” Ashok’s voice on the phone is kind, quiet.

  “I slept last night,” she reports grudgingly.

  “I’m relieved.”

  “Raul’s pills.”

  “But still.”

  She flares. “I can’t take pills for the rest of my life.”

  “You’ll get better.”

  “Time cures all?” she snaps. No, she’s not angry at him. She can’t quell or even predict this volcanic rage.

  “Monica dear, you know what I mean. I wish you would let me love you.”

  “I do.”

  “I don’t think you do. Your guard is up, far too high to let me in.”

  She will not weep. The effort silences her.

  “I want to hold you.”

  The news about Chicago spills out.

  “Wow!”

  “You’re the only one I’ve told, so—”

  “This is wonderful, Monica. We can go to America together.”

  “You’ve heard from Madison?”

  “No, but they’re making more promising noises. The appointment is with the provost now.”

  Promising, she wonders, promising to whom?

  “Monica?”

  “Yes.”

  “Monica, I love you.”

  “I love you, too, but…”

  “But what?”

  The nagging worry: “What if we only love each other in this place at this time?”

  Ashok is silent. Then, “Love isn’t like that,” he says fiercely. “Love transcends the temporal, the spatial.”

  “That’s right, we’re all part of the 10
80
particles recycling in the universe.”

  “I don’t mean that kind of transcendence.”

THIRTY-SEVEN

July, 2002, Moorty

  She opens the door to find Ashok standing outside her flat with a bouquet of roses. How amazing. Her heart pounds.

  He was just here last month.

  One horrendous month. Unbearable month. He’s completely surprised her. Is she happy? Thrilled? Everything is hard to read through the numbness of grief. But she can feel her heart pounding.

  Once inside the flat, he draws her to him tightly.

  She holds on, sobbing.

  “Yes,” he says. “Yes. Cry as long as you need.”

  That evening they walk down the mountain to Lhasa Café, the Tibetan restaurant on the edge of town.

  “It’s lovely to see you,” she beams. “I didn’t know how much I needed to be held. You were very patient this afternoon. So kind.”

  “I only wish I could have returned sooner.” He watches her uneasily.

  The waiter looks so much like Norbu, their young friend from Spiti, she has trouble concentrating on the menu.

  “I can only stay the night.” His words are gentle, somehow weighty. “I, I wanted to see you for several reasons.”

  Her heart races. Another change. Whatever it is, she’s not ready for it.

  “I have news.”

  “Yes,” she asks cautiously.

  “The Madison job.” He clasps and unclasps his hands. “They sent the formal offer.”

  “Terrific. What a wonderful opportunity.” Someone is saying this; meanwhile, she feels as if a lead weight has dropped on her head.

 
“If he loves you, he’ll find a use. He could investigate indigenous healing arts. Philosophy of medicine…”

  “What’s wrong?” He takes her hand.

  “I’ll miss you.” Her eyes fill. No, she will not cry, will not mar his big opportunity.

  He shakes his head. “Not necessarily.” The smile is diffident, nervous.

  She’s gazing out the window. Dark already.

  “Monica?”

  “Sorry, I got distracted.”

  “I wanted to say something else, or rather to ask.” He studies her face.

  She looks deep into his brown eyes, finding edgy apprehension, hope.

  “I wish we had a fancy table cloth, music in the background, but—.” He takes her cold hand. “I would hope we might marry and return to your beloved Midwest together.”

  She’s crying and laughing. Shocked. Elated. Scared. Of course she expected this some time. She stares at him with love and amazement.

  But not now. Not yet.

  How good it would be to live near Beata again. And maybe the proximity to and distance from Jeanne—a state away—would allow her to reconnect with her sister. What a relief it would be to return to a country so easy to navigate. To work in a clinic with a full inventory of medical supplies. Or she could take the Chicago job, commute to Madison on the weekends. Oh, to be liberated from the melodrama of Dr. and Mrs. Walsh and the pagan babies.

  “Monica?” Ashok asks with that characteristic mix of irritation and concern. “Are you OK, Monica? I know this is an awful time in your life. I understand.”

  “I’m OK, Ashok. It’s just that all this is somewhat…startling.”

  He drops his head. “I just got the letter and ran for the train. I, I’m so insensitive. You’re still in shock from the landslide from losing dear Sudha. You look better, but still—”

  She dries her eyes on a paper napkin.

  “All I ask is that you think about it. Will you at least promise to do that?”

  “I promise.”

*****

  Monica takes in the tense silence as she arrives for dinner.

  Cook places food on the side table and heads bow in preparation for Father to offer the grace. Monica is distracted from her prayers by Ashok’s proposal, by the palpable hostility in the room.

  Something has shifted in recent days, like a season changing. Perhaps the monsoons are making them all edgier. Tonight’s conversation is louder now, more about work, unusually charged.

  Before. Will she always live a life parsed by “before” and “after?”

  “Thank you, too, for our dear colleagues,” Father continues with the grace, clearly trying to lighten the mood.

  Monica is not ready to let go of Sudha. She tries to concentrate on the present—caring for her patients, praying for serenity, even writing to Jeanne. She ardently wants her sister back. Yesterday, reading Rajul’s note inviting her once again to Bombay, Monica sobbed for twenty minutes. Sudha was going to take her home next year; she’d promised a stroll along Marine Drive and a hike up Malabar Hill.

  “Amen,” says Father Freitas. He smiles at Monica.

  She thinks about his advice to go to Chicago, to take a leave of absence here. She’ll always be welcome back. Leave of absence. She thinks of her father. Of Ashok.

  Raul is saying something about condoms. His voice has become jittery since Sudha’s death. He’s lost the little elasticity he ever had.

  Reluctantly, she tunes in, mid-conversation. How did they get to this subject so early in the meal?

  “As you know,” Kevin says, “Since the doctrine of the Immaculate Conception was declared in the 19th century, the Church has held human life begins at conception.”

  “That doctrine was conveniently divined to propagate the faith when the Church was losing millions to the potato famine.” Raul’s left hand tightens into a fist.

  “Thank you for your historical interpretation. Our charge here is not to theorize about dogma, but to humbly follow it.” Kevin pushes his half-eaten meal aside.

  “Who says you have a right to let your conscience dictate someone else’s health, someone’s life, someone’s survival?” Raul is quavering.

  “Conscience is part of my medical expertise,” Kevin shakes his head sorrowfully. “Doctors have applied ethics to medicine since Hippocrates.”

  “How ethical is it to restrict condoms during a pandemic? Within eight years, India will have one the highest rates of HIV in the world.”

   “Please, please!” Kevin holds up his hand.

  The debate is clearly over. Monica waits for pronouncements.

  “We have an excellent HIV/AIDS education program organized by Dr. Murphy. We do outreach to the schools and with all our patients at the clinic.”

  “I agree with Raul.” She can’t help herself. “The prevention work goes only so far.”

  Sister Eleanor appears at the door. “There is an emergency arrival. Another motor accident. Three people. One is bleeding very badly.”

  The Walshes rush out first. Father Freitas follows at a measured pace.

  Raul turns to her and places a hand on her arm. His voice is urgent. “I know Sudha must have talked to you about joining us.”

  She nods, incapable of anything else. The emergency returns her own accident back to the wide screen.

  “I don’t want to pressure you,” he hesitates. “Then again, we feel I must.”

  She waits.
We. Sudha and Raul.

  “Now more than ever,” he urges, “we need you. I can’t continue otherwise. There is too much, too much. Please.” He studies her face. “Promise to think about it.”

  He’s heartbroken, Monica sees, desperate.

  “I promise to think about it,” she whispers.