Hope…the word that Chang talked so much about. He left Nick with a final thought. “Your natural hope has to be swallowed by new divine hope.”
The man held a wealth of peace, and the week with Chang had opened Nick’s heart. Joy resonated from the echoes of Chang’s laugh and his outlook on life. He’d said that joy could coexist with all the other emotions he was feeling because it was a truth above his other states of mind. Grief, anger and sorrow and a lighter emotion like happiness could all coexist under joy. Nick had learned to allow himself to grieve his current lot in life, and when it swelled too heavy and the flame of hope grew dim, he forced the eyes of his heart back to God’s truth.
Nick pondered this mystery as he attempted a short walk alone. He was headed to the small grocery store on the corner, only two blocks from his apartment complex, but it seemed like miles in the darkness, the sounds of traffic and pedestrians and a light breeze swirling about him.
Today, circumstances demanded happiness. His former coworker Ali and Ali’s wife, Astî, had fought for six months to make Ibrahim an official part of their family. The adoption of the young boy from Turkey turned out to be anything but simple. Nick had hoped, after the massive earthquake and the unfortunate reality of thousands of orphans, the process would be streamlined. But governmental bureaucracy and human corruption almost prevented the adoption from happening. Maggie had been instrumental in making it work when she’d marched her five-foot frame into the Minister of Health’s office in Istanbul on behalf of Ali and Astî, promising she would not leave without his stamp of approval. Maggie had threatened to strip bare naked and sit in the man’s waiting room until she was heard. Nick was sure she was kidding but had to smile at the image and her tenacity.
This was the day Nick would see Ibrahim again. Ali and Astî had brought him to the US three days ago, and today they would stop by Nick’s apartment for a visit. Images of the frightened young boy with the femur fracture floated across the screen of Nick’s mind—his beautiful face, his large adolescent ears and front teeth that he was growing into. And his voice…that sweet, sweet voice…always polite, always inquisitive. It was no wonder that Ali had fallen in love with the boy. Ali said that when he told Astî the boy’s story—how he lost his parents and sister in the earthquake—she had suggested adoption before Ali could get the words out of his mouth.
And then there were the miracles. Ibrahim had told Ali of his visions of the man in white wandering through the children’s ward bringing comfort and peace. The man called Jesus told Ibrahim to lay his hands on a girl with a severe head injury and she fully recovered. Ibrahim’s own leg healed in record time.
Chang’s words reverberated in Nick’s mind. “God’s promises seem to be woven into our lives, but they come in glimpses. Somehow we see only the flickering of how life is supposed to be—like a far-off glow of a warm fire as we stumble through the darkness…a hope we can barely name.”
And so it was with the miracles—hard to talk about and harder to explain. After their experience in Turkey, Maggie reminded them all that children often usher in miracles because of their unhindered faith and innocence.
The sun must have reappeared through the clouds because the afternoon rays warmed his face as he made his way down the sidewalk. He turned his chin toward the sun. If he was going to have company, he could at least offer them snacks and drinks. Besides, he wanted to visit with Ali and his family before he left for Singapore with Maggie.
Nick’s heart pounded in his chest, reminding him how much he hated to fly. In two days he would spend twenty-one hours on a plane. He had always wanted to visit Singapore; it seemed like one of those exotic places like Thailand that was a must-see. Now he would finally get there but not be able to see it. At least he would be with Maggie, and she would guide him.
Nick slowly made his way down the sidewalk. He stubbornly refused to use his white cane. Someone bumped his right shoulder and spun him around. Damn. He’d set his internal GPS toward the market, but now his world whirled. He instinctively extended his arms and accidentally touched someone. “I’m so sorry,” he murmured, but there was no response. He hoped the person was not offended. A car horn blew to his left, and he turned away to his right, running directly into someone else.
A forceful hand pushed him back. “Hey, watch it, jackass. Why don’t you go have another drink?”
The man shouted more obscenities. Nick wished he was deaf as well as blind.
Nick gingerly took two steps forward. It felt like he was nearing the edge of a cliff. His heart was pounding and his lungs sucked air as if he were endangered. His fingers touched a surface. Yes, brick. Nick was relieved; he’d made it to the building. He slowed his breathing as Chang had taught and fixed his mind on resetting his internal compass.
* * *
Back at home, Nick sat in the recliner in the living room still trying to catch his breath. Was he getting that out of shape or was it anxiety creeping in? He was glad to be back in his sanctuary. A kind woman, probably young by the tone of her voice and her cotton-candy-scented perfume, had rescued Nick from his death grip on the brick wall. She escorted him into the store, helped him buy what he needed, and walked with him back to his apartment. He offered to tip her, but she only giggled and left without even telling him her name. He’d met his share of kind people since losing his sight.
A knock on his door startled Nick. He heard a key inserted into the lock, then the swish of the door opening. It was Buck. Nick had given his friend a key—and Buck was always welcome. After all, he had helped Nick survive both Guatemala and Turkey, and now he was helping Nick survive his blindness.
“Hey, bud, you in here?”
“Hey, Buck,” Nick called from his chair.
“You mind if I turn on a light for the living?” Buck chuckled.
“Just doing my bit to slow global warming,” Nick retorted. He sometimes forgot that his apartment was in the same darkness that he lived in. He heard Buck walk past him and open the drapes.
“Ali and Astî and the kids should be right behind me. I saw them parking their car.” As the words left his mouth, there was another knock at the door, and Buck hooted, “Ali…Astî…come on in.”
Nick could hear Ali’s voice and the chatter of children. Ali and Astî had been kind to him—always inviting him to their house or taking him on errands. Ali went with him to all his doctor appointments.
“Selamünaleyküm, may God’s peace be upon you,” Ali said.
“Aleykümselam, peace be upon you,” both Buck and Nick said back.
Nick felt Astî take hold of his hands and kiss him on each cheek. She smelled of jasmine.
“Hi, Astî,” he said warmly.
“Hello, Dr. Hart.”
He had given up trying to break either of them of their formality.
“This is a great day,” he said.
“Yes indeed, Dr. Hart,” Astî said.
Expectant silence overtook the room.
After a moment, Nick spoke, “Well? Where is that handsome boy?” He held out his hands.
He heard Ali say something in Turkish. Then he felt small hands on his knee. He reached for them and took them into his own hands.
“Selamünaleyküm,” Nick said to the child.
“Peace be upon you, Dr. Hart,” the tender young boy said.
His voice instantly transported Nick back to the operating room at King’s Hospital. The beautiful child with the big ears lay on the operating table with a broken leg, speaking with the same sweet voice. Tears overflowed Nick’s eyes.
“Hello, Ibrahim. Wow, you are speaking English now!”
“Yes, Dr. Hart, but I’m not so good.”
“I think you never sounded better, Ibrahim.”
Nick reached for the boy and brought him up close for a hug. He felt Ibrahim wrap his arms around his neck and squeeze tightly. He let the embrace go deep.
When they both needed a breath, he set the boy on his knees and patted his head. Ibrahim’s hair
had grown out, but he still had oversized ears. Nick could sense the boy staring at him and wondered if the white clouds in his own eyes scared Ibrahim.
“How was your trip back to Turkey?” Nick asked Ali.
“Wonderful, Dr. Hart,” Ali replied. “We are so grateful for Ms. Maggie’s help to bring Ibrahim home.”
“I have something for you, Ibrahim,” Nick said reaching beside his recliner and grabbing a large package that Astî had helped him wrap a few weeks earlier. He felt Ibrahim take the present.
“Go ahead, son, you may open it,” Ali encouraged.
Ibrahim tore off the wrapping and squealed with delight over the limited-edition World Cup soccer ball. Then he hugged Nick around the neck.
“Thank you, Dr. Hart.”
Nick sensed the boy staring at him again and figured he really was frightened by the frosted eyes. Then he felt Ibrahim touch his face and run his fingers over his brow.
Ali approached, watchful of the boy. “Son, be careful,” Ali said.
“Dr. Hart,” Ibrahim said, “that is not supposed to be there.”
Nick didn’t understand. “What is not supposed to be where?” he asked.
“Those clouds don’t belong in your eyes. I saw you in…that place.”
Nick could tell the boy was struggling to find the English words.
“It was beautiful. Your eyes were as clear as the water,” Ibrahim said. He laid his tiny hands over Nick’s eyes.
Searing pain stabbed them. Nick jerked his head back. He thought Ibrahim had accidentally poked his eyeballs because each globe burned as though it had been marked by a hot branding iron. The agonizing pain made his head spin. He covered his eyes with his hands and held his head. He thought he was going to pass out.
CHAPTER 8
GRANDMAMA
“Hello, Grandmama,” Wright said and bent down, kissing the woman on the cheek. She smelled of roses as she always did, as long as he could remember. “You are looking well.”
She gave a genteel laugh. “For a ninety-five-year-old woman, I suppose you’re right.”
“Happy birthday.” He handed her a single yellow Michelangelo rose, the bud starting to open.
Her face brightened with a smile and she put the rose to her nose, inhaling the intense lemony fragrance. “It’s beautiful, my dear. Bless your heart.” She paused to savor the aroma of the flower. “You know these are my favorite.”
“Yes, Grandmama. I grow them in my gardens in Singapore just for you.” He bent and gave her another kiss on the cheek. He could give her so much more, but he learned long ago that she would give it away. She had everything she needed in her quaint little home in Calcutta. “I also got you these when I was in Paris last week.”
He handed her a wooden box of Comptoir du Cacao, chocolates, some of the finest and tastiest in the world. “I had them put plenty of the praline truffles in for you.”
“You are trying to fatten an old woman.” She laughed, accepting the box and setting it on the lamp table beside her. She would probably give the box of treats to the next delivery boy, who would have no idea as he gorged himself how expensive they were. But it didn’t matter.
“You are such a sweet boy, Mowgli. Now sit and keep this old woman company.” She patted the seat next to her on the old velvet couch. “And have a cup of tea.”
He smiled at her and sat close. How he adored her. She was the only person in his life who still called him by his childhood nickname. He loved it. Even with wrinkles and gray hair, she reminded him so much of his mother. Royalty is the same in every country: poised, dignified, and articulate—her posture and her mind as sharp as the queen’s. She lifted a small bell from the table where she had set the chocolates and gently rang it.
Grandmama’s one luxury in life appeared from around the door as though he had been waiting there the entire time. Wright had no idea of the age of the Indian man who had been her butler for as long as he could remember and who had seemed old back then.
“We will have tea now, Baxter.”
“Yes, madam,” he said, bowed and shuffled off.
“How long can you stay, dear?”
“Grandmama, I’m afraid I can only stay for tea. I have a polo match at the club this afternoon. Then I must return to Singapore tonight for work.”
“Yes, of course.” She smiled at him, seeming to search him with her eyes.
His time was the real gift to her, and Wright wished there were more of it to give. He sighed and looked at the worn Persian rug.
“Did you fly over this morning?” she asked.
“Yes, Grandmama. We brought the jet over. I wish you would let me take you for a ride. We can fly to wherever you have always wanted to go.”
She hooted. “I can’t even imagine.”
Baxter carried in a tray with a tea set and a small plate of biscuits. She waited for the man to perform his duty and pour them both a cup, adding one lump of sugar and a splash of cream to each. “Baxter, can you imagine me jetting around the world?” She laughed and brushed the air with her hand, sweeping the idea away.
“No, madam.”
Baxter carefully handed them the teacups, then hobbled from the room. Sadness swept over Wright as he listened to his Grandmama sip her tea. He knew that one of these days he would have to say good-bye to her. Worst of all, it would mean that he was alone.
“Your mother would be very proud of you,” she said, interrupting his thoughts. She reached to her table and pulled over one of two pictures she kept nearby—one of him when he was about twelve and the other that he loved as well. It was a framed photo of his mother on his parents’ wedding day, her elegance frozen in time. Grandmama took a small hanky stuffed in her sleeve and fondly wiped the frame.
His mother was only eighteen when she married his father. In the photo, she stood bejeweled in the customary Indian wedding headdress and gown. The diamond-and-ruby necklace and headpiece matched her earrings and bracelet. A veil highlighted the jewels with red and cream colors, and her smoky eyeshadow and red lipstick made her complexion glow with beauty. He had the same picture on his desk in Singapore, and her gems stored in his safe. The more he stared at the picture, the more it seemed his mother was about to speak, as if she were going to glance at him with her enchanting hazel eyes and smile and tell him how much she loved him.
His grandmother tenderly touched the image of his mother and took his arm. “You have your mother’s eyes.” She reminded him of this every time he visited, as if he didn’t know he had inherited his mother’s eyes and her beautiful long dark hair. Grandmama put the picture back in its place and took another sip of tea.
She did not mention Wright’s father, nor would he. Wright had fleeting memories of his mother and father fighting. It was a sore point. His mother would use Grandmama’s words against his father when she was angry. How could an Indian princess fall in love with an Englishman? That’s what Grandmama had told her, because she had arranged a marriage to a proper Indian man of royal blood. The Englishman wasn’t even of British royalty.
His grandmother picked up the other photo. It was of Wright as a boy wearing a stained yellow tank top trimmed with blue piping. His skinny twelve-year-old arms glowed brown from the sun, and his oversized safari hat, tied under his chin with a black string, covered his ears. He smiled with his mother’s golden eyes and held a bouquet of white daisies that he had picked from the field.
“My little Mowgli,” Grandmama said and held the picture to her heart. She reached for his arm again. “How I love my little Mowgli.”
* * *
Two minutes were left in the match, and Wright’s team was up by one. If his opponent scored, the match would go into sudden death. The world’s best polo player drove the ball forward with his mallet, ahead of Wright. José Libre of Argentina may have been the best in the world, but so was Wright’s mount, Smoothie. The best and oldest Thoroughbred bloodline pumped through his powerful black-and-white horse. Wright named the horse for his exceptionally smooth
gallop, but it was his heart, speed and agility that gave him the recognition as a world-class polo pony.
Wright’s brain registered the cheer of the crowd over the thunder of the horses’ hooves hitting the turf. Smoothie’s mouth gaped open, and his nostrils flared, straining against the bit, as he chased his rival. The horse’s massive chest rose and fell under Wright’s saddle. Every muscle of the steed’s shoulders and legs flexed in the rhythmic gallop. Wright had to do less steering and more holding on—the horse knew what to do.
The horse seemed as eager to capture the coveted Ezra Cup as Wright. After all, the Ezra trophy was the first and oldest polo prize—the World Cup of the sport of kings. Playing the match at the Calcutta Polo Club, where polo was thought to be born, made the prize that much sweeter.
Both Wright and his horse were tired, but he coaxed another ounce of power from the beast as they thundered down the field at top speed. Halfway down the three-hundred-yard field, Smoothie caught up to José Libre, known to the world as Poncho, and matched his horse’s gallop stride for stride.
“You’re slowing down in your old age, Poncho,” Wright yelled. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Poncho grit his teeth and bear down on the horse’s neck, urging it forward.
“You might as well go share champagne with the ladies, mate, and let me score,” Poncho yelled back, gaining a neck’s length.
Polo started as a war game two thousand years ago, and little had changed.
The man’s mallet knocked the ball forward as his left elbow stabbed at Wright’s side. At thirty miles an hour, the horses bumped down the field. Wright used his stick hand to fend off the assault and edge Poncho off the ball.
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