When I finally sat down with my laptop and secured a wireless connection, forty-eight hours had passed since Joe had reported his news that he and Lucy were to divorce. In my in-box were four e-mails from Lucas. Short, fact-seeking ones: Are you wearing your passport and money belt? Have any pickpockets approached you? Then the wedding questions: Have you thought about the caterer? Will you invite your cousins?
I logged on to Facebook and made a funny discovery. The friends I had made just hours ago had already sent me friend requests. I accepted them, and then scrolled through their photos. They had already posted pictures, some that included me. It appeared that Jolie from Boulder was a chronic poster. When she posted, she tagged me, so her photos ended up on my wall. I wondered what Joe would think of these group photos, including me, cupping a glass of Chianti, scrunched in face-to-face with my new friends. “She’s more outgoing than I remember,” I imagined Joe saying. “Look at how social she is. Not nearly the introvert I remember.”
I positioned my fingers over the keyboard and gave it a try. “Joe, I am so sorry to hear that your marriage is breaking up. I’m sure it’s not easy on you and the kids. I’m here, if there is anything I can do.”
It was a lame message and I knew it. I deleted it, and tried again. “Joe, Hearing your news has made me very sad for you. Mostly because I know how much you value family. I’m sure you fought hard to keep your beautiful one together. If there is anything I can do, please let me know.”
Too sterile, too clichéd. Delete. I swirled my glass of red and sipped and sipped and thought it through. From your heart, Missy.
I lay back against my pillow and imagined it were Joe’s heart beating in my chest, felt his hurt, his despair. I tried again.
Joe: I don’t know what to say. I haven’t seen you in fifteen years. I only knew you when you were young. But back then I thought of you as invincible. You were the guy who would scale mountains, who would save children from burning buildings, who would lay down his life for a larger cause. When we became friends on Facebook a few years ago, it came as no surprise to me that you chose a career as a marine and were married with three children. I never expected anything less from you. The thought of you being a dad is the best, because is there anyone out there who would be a better one? When I knew you, you were this guy who believed in everyone and wanted to help anyone in need. A big, strong softie. So hearing your news that something in your life has caught a snag makes me ache for you, your kids, your wife. I’m sure it’s a steep fall. But I’m sure you’ll handle it. And your family will be stronger for it. I wish there was a way I could help. I’m thinking about you. Missy.
This was my truth. At least there was that. I sent it, and then I stared at Joe’s photo. And then I cried for him because I would rather he be married and happy than unmarried and unhappy.
And then I responded to Lucas, and while I tried to inject emotion into my messages, they came out as brief and impassive as his own: “Yes, I’m fine. No, I haven’t contracted a stomach bug. Yes, I’m using my Lysol wipes on the remotes and door handles. No, I don’t plan to invite my distant cousins. I miss you.” I hit “Send” and then did the same with Lucas as I had done with Joe: I stared at his photo and waited for something to come and when nothing did, I simply rationalized that my relationship with Lucas wasn’t an emotional one, but a practical, adult connection. A dry rock in a world of rushing water.
As the days followed, I snapped photos and posted them. In place of words, I provided images: pergolas of grapes, trellises of Provence roses, walkways flanked in rosemary, beautifully crumbling architecture the color of poached salmon. I posted them to Facebook and indulged in my wandering.
Cooking school exceeded my every expectation. The immersion program meant that we lived, cooked, and ate as the Tuscans did. In the mornings we ventured to the farmers’ markets, seeking out the local produce: zucchini, eggplants, pears. We purchased fresh fish from the fishermen, cheese from the cheesemongers. Back at the villa, we walked the aisles of the organic herb gardens, snipping and placing into baskets what we would need for the next meal. After lunch, we rested and then met again in the afternoon to walk through the medieval walled towns, to visit a baroque monastery, to marvel at the spires of great churches. We explored Florence and Lucca, lingered in cafés, ordered cappuccinos. I ate real pistachio gelato, every day.
At night, exhausted, I took stock. Here I was in Tuscany, cooking, making friends, posting on Facebook. I had flown on an airplane. I had survived and even enjoyed a detour to Sicily, a potentially dangerous city I’d loved exploring. I had visited the projects.
I had been brave. By my standards, certainly, I had been brave.
And yet, as I negotiated the cooking and tours that made up my day, I thought of three things, in nearly perfect rotation, a Ferris wheel of contemplation. First I thought of Lucas, and whether our sameness meant that we’d stay on track or if it foretold of us careening off the rails. Then I chewed on my feelings about Joe, whether it was normal to harbor love for him because he was my first, and therefore would always be special to me, or if my affection forecasted doom, a lifetime of pining over a guy I’d never have. Was I just indulging in a fantasy, a sad-girl’s version of What Might Have Been? Joe and I hadn’t seen each other in fifteen years. What gave me any indication that he would be interested in me, after all this time? And my third thought was of Reina, and what she had said about the kids, their needs. I had money. I was—or liked to think I was—a generous, big-hearted girl, overflowing with philanthropic spirit. If there was something I could do to help, would I? Could I?
As time went on, it was this third thought that came to dominate. I was a First World girl with no problems on any measurable scale. But Reina had presented me with Third World problems—real needs that could be met, voids that could be filled, gaps that could be lessened. Nag, nag, nag. The thoughts slipped in, even when I’d rather they hadn’t. When I was opening my mouth for toasted crostini topped with caviar. When I was swirling a Barbaresco as red as liquefied ruby. When I was stretched out, ready for sleep, on pressed linens and pillowy down. To have so much—and now to find almost no joy in it. Now that I knew how little others had. My version of survivor’s guilt: abundance guilt.
A week into it, as I was lying in my bed, I pulled out my phone and texted Reina.
Just a random thought: If you had your druthers and were able to stick with a project start to finish, what would it be? A school for girls in India?
I hit “Send” and closed my eyes, trying to visualize an entire town of girls who were being denied the chance to read.
That would be an amazing thing, Reina wrote back. Why? Have you hooked up with a billionaire?
Smile. What if I had enough to get us started?
Reina: Are you for real?
Real? Imposter, mimic, pretender? I don’t know who I am, but I’m trying to figure that out.
Reina: If you’re serious, then we should meet in New Delhi. So you can see the conditions. So you can see what I’m talking about.
Me: Just like that? Just fly from Florence to New Delhi?
Reina: You’ll need a visa from the Indian embassy. We should be able to get that within twenty-four hours.
On the night I was packing to leave Tuscany, I sent Joe another message. “I hope everything is okay for you and the kids. Thinking about you. Leaving Italy, on my way to India.”
He responded before I had even finished reading other messages.
“What, what, what?”
“If I could explain, I would. But it’s kind of a wild hunch I’m following. Will keep you updated.” I sent the message and wondered who the hell I was, sounding like Indiana Jones, chasing after the Holy Grail. What would Joe think of me now? Quiet Missy Fletcher, on her way to India?
What did I think of myself: The girl who could barely save herself was now dreaming of rescuing an entire school of them?
/>
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Feeling strong and confident, entirely different from the Missy Fletcher of old, I boarded a plane en route to India with only a Xanax, rather than my stronger sedative. I scooted into the open seat near the window. Missy Fletcher—looking out an airplane window. Check! Missy Fletcher—awake and lucid. Check!
Once under way, I practiced my breathing, I listened to my music, I visualized the girls in India. I ate my dinner. I even watched a movie. I remained calm for a good six hours.
And then, with at least five hours more to go, the restlessness battling against the fatigue and my sheer incredulity concerning what I now considered a foolhardy decision, I began to panic. With my lungs constricting and my throat swelling, I reached for the Xanax, popped two, and guzzled some water. What was I doing? Really, what did I think I was doing? My heart hammered and my brain churned, processing the fact that I was on my way to a developing country where anything could happen. Lucas had been right all along. I had no business detouring to India.
Hours later, the flight attendant alerted us of our impending descent. Whether I had fallen asleep or was just numbly drunk, catatonic, and paralyzed from the Xanax, I couldn’t tell. I just knew I was foggy and had managed to soak my shirt collar with drool. I drank more water, chewed on gum, and slapped my cheeks. When the flight attendant announced our safe arrival into New Delhi, Indira Gandhi International Airport, I unclicked my belt and readied my bags for departure. Luckily, lucidity wasn’t required to carry me through my next steps. I simply followed the hordes of passengers to customs. Once I was cleared through customs, I followed the crowds to baggage claim, and after that, was spilled out into the hustle and bustle of the modern airport, where there were shops and restaurants. The juxtaposition of grand Indian sculptures and paintings, only feet away from a Starbucks.
Gradually I emerged from my haze. Outside in the suffocating heat I watched swarms of tourists hurry to Fiat taxis and motorized rickshaws. Others slid into gargantuan black sedans. Travelers were greeted by their loved ones. I funneled into the transportation line and waited my turn for a taxi. Reina had instructed me to take a taxi to the hotel. “It’s right down the street from the airport,” she’d assured me. When I was first in line, the taxi driver popped out of his seat and hoisted my suitcase into the trunk. He had a thick head of black pomaded hair and a bristly mustache. He wore short sleeves, slacks, and flip-flops. He signaled to the backseat, where I slid in comfortably.
“Hello,” he said. “How are you, miss?” His English was impeccable.
He told me about himself. His name was Raj. He was born in Calcutta but moved to New Delhi a few years back, hoping for better job prospects. He couldn’t complain, he said. A year ago he was a rickshaw driver. Working as a taxi driver was an even better job.
“Are you married with children?” I asked, congratulating myself for being so social.
When Raj told me he was, and that he had daughters, I asked if they went to school.
“No, no.” He shook his head.
Only minutes later, Raj stopped in front of the Hotel Blu, where I had plans to meet Reina. At the desk, the clerk informed me that she had left me a message: that she was out but would be back by five o’clock. The elevator lifted me to the fourth floor, where I found my room, a small space with a bed, desk, and tiny kitchenette. Ceiling fans spun overhead. Behind the curtains was a balcony. I pulled the fabric to the side and opened the sliding glass door. Beyond me, seemingly to eternity, were people and housing and more people and more housing. How different was it to live in New Delhi, India, versus Old Town Alexandria, Virginia, I wondered? Was lonely lonely wherever one was? Could one be lonely in a crowded society such as this?
I eyed the bed, crawled under the sheets, and fell fast asleep.
Two hours later, a knock at my door sent me flying from my slumber. Reina! I ran to the door and swung it open. There she was—striking, beaming, firecracker of a twenty-eight-year-old Reina. We grinned goofily at each other and then hugged tightly.
“Nice hair,” she said, pointing to the windstorm on my head.
“You’re here,” I said dopily.
“I brought wine,” she said, holding up a bottle and two plastic cups. “To toast your first time in India.”
“It’s amazing,” I said.
“First things first,” Reina said, pouring wine into water glasses. “Tell me more about Joe. About Lucas.”
First I went to the sink and splashed water on my face. Then I popped the top on a cola from the refrigerator and downed it. Then I settled in and left my native tongue and switched over to the foreign language of love. With stilted starts, I searched for the words to explain that I wanted to love Lucas because he was my mirror and together we would build a nice life. With Lucas, I wouldn’t be alone. And then, the harder issue to further explain, that Joe was unforgotten, my unforgettable. The man who would always claim me because I had given myself to him and never asked for any part of me back.
We settled in and Reina proceeded to tell me what she had been up to. “I hooked up with a buddy of mine. He works for a charity called water.org whose mission is to provide safe drinking water and adequate sanitation facilities to Indian families.”
“The conditions don’t look so bad here,” I said, sipping from the wine, noting snobbishly that it was a far cry from the jewels I had been drinking in Tuscany.
“You’ll see,” Reina said. “Basically, India’s population is huge. The more people, the bigger strain on resources. Most of the water is contaminated because of agricultural runoff and sewage, of course. You’ll notice that there are very few toilets in India. I know my colleagues at UNICEF who work here have told me that over 20 percent of communicable diseases in India are somehow related to the unsafe water.”
“That is so far out of the realm of our lives in the US,” I said. “Can you imagine, not having clean water and toilets?”
“Missy,” she said bluntly. “About sixteen hundred people die every day from diarrhea.”
“Sixteen hundred?”
“Yeah,” Reina said. “As if eight jumbo jets carrying two hundred passengers apiece crashed, every day.”
I tried to fully absorb this horror, then finally had to add it to the list of this world’s atrocities so grievous they beggared comprehension.
“And,” Reina said, feigning mock cheer, “welcome to the land of the highest population of vulnerable children!”
“Vulnerable?” I asked.
“Orphaned, trafficked, diseased with AIDS.”
“How many?”
“Over thirty million.”
“How can that be?” I got up, crossed the room, and looked out at the people.
“We’re talking about a country of over one billion.”
“Aren’t children required to go to school?”
“There is a compulsory education law, but how do you get to the disenfranchised, to the children in the margins of society?”
“But . . .” I wanted to cry out. How could so many people—so many children—be living like this? And how could so many people turn a blind eye to it?
Reina offered a sad smile. “Right now, some children are able to attend parochial schools, but of course, that isn’t available to the poorest of children, and certainly isn’t enough for all in need. If we open a school, we’ll need to make it available to the poorest of children and we’ll need to teach English. The Indian people know that learning English is one of the surest paths for their children to get out of the slums.”
“How much would it cost?” I asked. “Have you crunched the numbers?”
“The costs would be related only to the start-up of the school. Once established, we would need to solicit donors. There are some schools supported by charitable foundations, like the Robert Duvall Children’s Fund. We would need to gain an alliance like that. We would need benefact
ors.”
“All right. What about the start-up?”
Reina pulled her mouth tight, looked at me with worried eyes. “Five hundred thousand?” She drew back. I realized she hadn’t a clue what I’d meant when I said I had money. There wasn’t a way for Reina to know whether I had a hundred thousand dollars or a hundred million dollars.
“Okay,” I said. “What would be our first steps?”
Reina paused, pursing her lips before speaking. “Missy, you’re being very cryptic. Do you have $500,000?”
I could. I might. I do. Uncertain as to how much I should protect of my privacy, I decided on full disclosure: “I could manage that,” I said.
The next day started early. Reina hired a driver and translator named Salim to navigate us through roads jammed with taxis, rickshaws, scooters, and bicycles as well as bony, gaunt sauntering cows and pedestrians with arms full, blazing purposefully toward their destinations. Once we left the city center, once we left the houses and apartment buildings, I saw what Reina was talking about. Out the car window, my first thought was that I was seeing a global-scale scattering of cardboard boxes covering the earth. But then I realized what I was viewing wasn’t the largest recycling plant on earth, it was housing. What I took to be cardboard boxes were rows and rows upon rows and rows of this society’s housing.
The Light of Hidden Flowers Page 19
