“Seeing you and Missy—how she looks at you, how you look at her. Kind of makes me jealous. Kind of makes me wish things were different.”
I stood up, hopped a foot over, fell into the chair. “I thought all this is what you were sick of.”
“I think I made a mistake,” she said, standing, coming to the arm of my chair, leaning into me.
“Lucy,” I said, getting up, hopping toward the table, holding on to the wall, wishing I hadn’t removed my prosthetic. “You left us. We’ve been legally separated for over a year. We signed divorce papers.”
“We could reverse it,” she said, walking toward me. I was pretty much helpless, leaning there. With her hands against the wall on both sides of my face, she leaned in and kissed me. I felt her lips before I turned, ducked under her arm, sprung to the chair. Reached for the silicone sleeve, my damn prosthetic, snapped it into place. “Goddamn, Lucy, what’s gotten into you?”
“I want you,” she said. “That’s all. I just want to be with you.”
“Are you sure?” I asked. “Or am I just looking good from a distance? Because nothing’s changed, Lucy. I’m still wounded, still have PTSD. I’m still a marine, still the guy who deployed when you wanted me to stay. What’s changed?”
“Nothing’s changed,” she admitted. “It’s just hard seeing you with someone else, okay?”
“That ‘someone else’ is taking care of our daughter at the moment. Don’t you think this is a bit inappropriate, given that?”
Lucy’s face turned to stone. “Perhaps,” she said. “But let’s be real, it’s Game Over for me. You know Missy and Kate are bonding. You know Missy is a better mother than me.”
With that, Lucy grabbed her purse and walked toward the door.
“Are you going to say goodbye to Olivia and Jake?” I asked, pointing upstairs.
“Tell them I got called back to work,” she said. “They’ll understand that. Work comes first. You taught them that, right Joe?”
CHAPTER SIXTY
The good thing about hitting rock bottom is that there’s only one way up. My father’s words whispered through my brain. I sat up, wiped my eyes with the bottom of my shirt. I had an idea.
With my pathetic flashlight, with squinted, straining eyes, I pulled Reina back up the rutted road toward the school.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“You’ll see.”
I led her around to the work shed. Once inside, I lit the kerosene lantern I had seen Mrs. Pundari light a few days before when she and I had come to the shed for extra mattresses.
Looking up at the corrugated metal roof, Reina asked, “What’s in here?”
“A motorcycle, I believe.”
In the back corner, obscured by cobwebs, was a little Suzuki 125.
“Whoa, wait!” Reina said, digging her nails into my wrist.
I looked at her. “Help me,” I begged.
Reina and I pushed and pulled furniture and boxes out of the way, unearthing the bike. I had ridden a motorcycle exactly one time in my life, when I had gone on a camping trip with my schmuck of an ex-boyfriend, Jason. He had given me a perfunctory lesson on how to start and shift, and then had taken off without me. When my bike stalled and I was all alone, I had no choice but to persist in executing the steps he had taught me until the bike roared to life.
Now, I placed my hands on the handlebars, swept up the kickstand, and lunged forward with the bike. We brought it toward the kerosene lamp and inspected it. It had a key in it, which was good. The gas tank was empty. That was bad—but only a temporary setback: in a red container we found some fuel, and emptied it into the chamber.
I sat on the bike, squeezed the clutch with my left hand, and clicked it into neutral. I flicked on the headlights, and then found the button I believed to be the ignition. I turned the key, held on to the left brake, and then pushed the button. It sputtered and then died. I looked at Reina. I primed the pump and then tried again, and this time it revved to life, momentarily, before it died. I gave it some throttle and it roared, but then gave out again.
“Come on!” I hollered at it, trying again, wiping at my stinging tears. This time it bucked under me, and kept running. I looked at Reina and smiled. “Hop on.”
The two of us burst into tears, laughing at the same time.
She climbed on behind me and clung to my waist. I gunned the engine, put it in first gear, and released the clutch gently. We began to move forward. The bike’s headlights were hardly an improvement to my sad flashlight. Even so, we found the road and cruised along in only second gear, as we strained to see the few feet in front of us.
“Look out!” Reina shouted, pinching my sides.
Too late to brake, I saw what she saw: a scrawny cow sauntering across the road. I swerved and missed him by a few inches. After that, I took to honking my horn every minute or so.
After a time, the blackness that circumscribed us, the drone of the bike, the cool and crisp air, the confetti of stars in the sky all enveloped me like a hug. The terror I had suffered at first was gone. The adrenaline that had fueled us to this point receded. Now, even though I had yet to reach Kate, I felt as though I were being transported toward her, as though I were floating her way, somehow both leaving and entering at the same time. I would save her. I knew who I was and I knew where I was—exactly on the line that separated safety from risk. I had a toe on each side. If Kate was in danger, I would save her. I would risk life and limb to rescue her.
“I can see civilization,” Reina said, digging her chin into my shoulder.
Once the outskirts of town emerged from darkness, we were able to see streets populated with a scattering of homes. We veered right at the stop sign and then left at the next one. Aneeta’s house was the fourth on the left, down a narrow dirt road. I stopped the bike, killed the engine, and we climbed off.
“Now what?” I said. “It’s after midnight. Do I just go up to the door and ask if Kate and Aneeta are smoking ancient herbs?”
“Yeah, you do that.” Reina rolled her eyes.
“There’s no way to do this without looking like I’m checking in.”
“You are checking in, and Aneeta’s parents won’t think a thing about it. They’re parents, too.”
I opened my eyes wide, reminding her that I wasn’t a parent.
“Well,” she said. “You’re acting like a parent.”
“Fair enough.”
I worked through my options as we walked up to Aneeta’s family’s house. Hello, Shri and Aadesh! We were just out for a drive. Thought we’d check in. Thought I’d talk briefly with Kate about the Just Say No campaign we were subjected to as kids. Or maybe I’d speak with Shri and Aadesh alone, tell them about Kate’s issues at school this year, how peer pressure to fit in had led her to some at-risk behavior.
I’d come to no decision before we found ourselves standing at the door. Reina knocked. Shri opened the door, wrapped in a blanket, seemingly half asleep.
An awkward silence.
“Forgive me,” I said. “I just wanted to check in. Do you mind if I go see Kate?”
“Of course,” Shri said. “But she’s not in Aneeta’s room.”
I swallowed hard. Here it was, the news that Kate and Aneeta were unsupervised, smoking dope, or worse, with boys, in a club . . .
“Where are they?” I asked.
“On the roof,” Shri said. “With Aneeta’s father. They’re waiting for the eclipse.”
“Oh yeah, the eclipse,” I said, having totally forgotten about that detail.
Shri led us through the house, a modest two-room structure. I noted the efficient use of space, how every table or countertop was fitted with shelves underneath. We passed through the kitchen—a space the size of a walk-in closet, with pots stacked carefully atop the one-burner stove—and exited through the back door. Shri pointed to a l
adder, secured against the side of the house.
“You check it out,” Reina whispered.
Quietly, I climbed the ladder. When I reached the top rung, I stopped. Above me I saw a wonderland of purple-black sky dotted with an explosion of pink stars, and on the tin rooftop before me, I saw Kate and Aneeta sprawled on their bellies on a picnic blanket, absorbed in a game of Scrabble under a flashlight’s beam. Kate’s smile bloomed in the darkness—so natural, so at ease, so the opposite of the anxiety-ridden girl who’d almost made a bad decision in middle school. Aadesh was absorbed, too—kneeling on a pad, his eye pressed against the telescope. I beheld a palette of beauty—the visual, the sensual, the ephemeral. A girl, her friend, her friend’s father. The limitless sky in all its splendor. Peace and joy on a tin rooftop.
This was it: the ultimate boon. The step in the hero’s journey that represented the goal of the quest, the reason the hero took the journey to begin with. Kate’s heart had found a soft landing. She had experienced her revelation. She had felt friendship at its sweetest.
I edged my way down the ladder before any of them had had a chance to detect me.
“Everything okay?” Reina asked.
“Everything is great,” I said, and then I turned to Shri. “I’m not Kate’s mom, you know. But on this trip, she’s like my daughter. She’s my responsibility. And the simple fact is, I just had a panic attack and felt like I needed to see her. I hope you understand.”
“I do,” she said. Her voice was soft.
“Don’t tell her I was here?”
“Mom is the word.”
“Mum,” Reina corrected. “Mum’s the word.”
“Mum and Mom,” I said.
“They go hand in hand,” Shri assured me.
“Let’s vamoose!” Reina said, hopping on the back of the bike. We absconded into the blackness, with Reina’s arms wrapped tightly around my waist, her head resting on my shoulder. A safe distance from Aneeta’s family’s house, I laughed out loud, let loose a giant whoop.
I had found my ultimate boon, too.
Reina and I drove home beneath the light from the penumbral moon. Though a shadow obscured us, I never felt so entirely bathed in light.
After we returned the bike to the shed, I told Reina I needed to send a quick text. By the glow of the kerosene lamp, I texted Lucy:
Kate is perfect. Still awake in middle of the night with Aneeta and her family, watching the lunar eclipse. She’ll fill you in tomorrow. You have an amazing daughter. Thank you for sharing her with me.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
By the fifth week, a metamorphosis had undeniably begun. The old walls had been demolished and hauled away; the frameworks that encased the building were removed. The chrysalis had begun to disintegrate; a beautiful butterfly had begun to emerge. Roof tiles were laid. Painters rolled on coats of fresh white paint. Shutters were hung. The earth was smoothed, new dirt poured around the foundation, plants welcomed into rich soil. Inside, rows and rows of bunk beds were built, crisp linens delivered. A modern kitchen came into being, bearing no remnants of the old: stoves with ovens, refrigerators. Deep drawers; high, secure cupboards.
Reina and Kate and I would leave in four days. Direction and control would be conveyed to Ms. Chopra, the woman hired to manage the school and the orphanage. A board of directors was already in place. Teachers had been hired. Caregivers, too, to help out Mrs. Pundari. Ms. Chopra would report to One by One, whose local NGO had partnered with us to provide local administration of our operation. Accountings would be filed monthly. The start-up money I’d donated to the project was spent, plus some. It was the greatest purchase of my life. The One by One Foundation grant would supply enough funds for the next year, and was willing to provide more, contingent on our success. Mrs. Longworth stood behind the scenes of this windfall.
On one of our last nights, I sat on the edge of Kate’s bed. She handed me a thick packet of paper. “I want you to read my hero’s journey,” she said.
“I can’t wait to read it,” I said. “Should I save it for the plane trip, or read it now?”
“The plane trip, definitely.”
I studied the sheet atop the story. It was a map of the seventeen stages of the monomyth. Next to each stage, Kate had written chicken-scratch notes, indicating with a large check mark that she had covered that step. I’d been with her through them all, from entering the belly of the whale, down the road of trials, amid the fear of temptation, and now her desire torn between not wanting to leave and the wrenching pull to go home.
But there was one step—Meeting with the Goddess—I asked her about. “We didn’t really meet with any goddesses,” I said. “Did you just make her up?”
“Well,” Kate said, turning a little pink, “it didn’t have to be an actual supernatural goddess. The step actually involves experiencing all-powerful, all-encompassing unconditional love.”
“Oh, cool,” I said. “So did you use Aneeta as your goddess?”
“The type of love an infant experiences from her mother,” she clarified.
“So probably not Aneeta.”
Kate scooted near me. “Silly, I chose you.”
Of course I knew about maternal love. I’d heard and read about a mother’s aching devotion to her children all my life. But nothing had prepared me for the reverberations that rolled through me in this moment. I pulled Kate in for a hug to ground myself against the trembling.
“I love you, Missy,” Kate said.
I didn’t give those words easily. To Dad, to Joe. To my mother, once upon a time. But never had I felt more certain of who I was and how I felt: “I love you, too.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
JOE
Some might say each of us was born whole and perfect. They might contend that life chipped away at us day by day: the first time we were scolded for spilling milk, that deflating moment when we were called out at first base, the lingering betrayal when our best friend aligned with someone else.
Chip, chip.
Parts and pieces crumbled away when we gathered the courage to approach the prettiest girl in school, and she looked at us as though we were joking. We patched ourselves up, but fractures would always hold weak spots, so years later, when our wives blamed our children’s failings on us, when she looked at us as if she could have chosen better—a doctor, a lawyer, anyone but a marine—the fused bone cracked again.
Chip, chip.
These people might argue that the older we got, the bigger the falling chunks got. When we were ambushed by mortars, when our buddies died in our arms because our fingers couldn’t catch enough of their blood, when we sat with their widows and told them how their husbands never stopped fighting. When we came home to a wife who used to adore us but now looked at us like our time in Afghanistan was only a selfish sojourn of “me time,” like a guys’ weekend at the Bellagio, while she had been taking care of the real life of kids and the house and the bills.
Much of this was true. Anyone who had been to war—real war, or metaphorical war—knew that it required every piece of who we were. We were all in. We gave selflessly. We gave greedily, with no thought of what our giving did to the people left back home.
But just because we gave it our all, didn’t mean we were incapable of regeneration.
If we didn’t regenerate, if war robbed us blind, if life chipped away at our whole and perfect selves, then none of us would be standing now.
I’d come to look at it all differently. I now thought we were born, and our infancy was exactly that—a beginning, our first stage of existence. My genius daughter would tell me the prefix “in” meant just that: without, not. We were born without knowledge, without experience, without protection. As infants, we were not suited, not equipped, not prepared.
We were not born whole; we were born new, and each life experience coated us with another layer. These layers protected us like
armor, but they also covered us to the point where we no longer could feel. That was the balance: to open up to the experiences, to strategically place the layers, but to leave the heart open. The heart had to be sent into the front lines every day, naked, unarmed, willing to take fire. That was the only way to live. With risk. On the cusp of dying.
I’d also come to believe that many lives made up a life. Just like chapters make up a book, or seasons make up a year, or battles make up a war. I thought about my life with Lucy, and for all but the last of our years together, it was right and good. I wouldn’t go back in time and change a thing. She was the perfect wife for a guy who wanted nothing more than to defend his country and make his family proud. We shared that.
And the kids. They’re the reason for it all.
But now. A flip of the chapter, a change of seasons, a new battle. My oldest daughter at war with her self-esteem, and my high school sweetheart was the one navigating her through the land mines. I couldn’t have predicted that. I loved that I couldn’t have predicted that. I loved everything about it, especially Missy. I loved Missy. I love Missy Fletcher. I always had, in some sense—first in the sentimental “first love” sense and now, in the thirty-six-year-old man’s sense. Like I wanted to be with her more than I wanted to breathe.
She and Kate were scheduled to leave India tomorrow with a stopover in Paris. Missy wanted Kate to see the Louvre. If I hopped on a plane tonight, I could meet them there. Surprise them. Show them how much I love each of them. We could eat dinner in a little café, walk along the Seine, peer down the Champs-Élysées from atop the Arc de Triomphe.
I opened my laptop and searched for flights. A nonstop to de Gaulle leaving tonight at ten. I picked up my phone and called Ma.
“Of course I’ll watch Olivia and Jake,” she said. “That way I’ll be there when Kate gets home, anyway.”
I packed my suitcase and then headed to the school to pick up the kids. When we pulled into Friendly’s, the kids squealed. “Ice cream?”
The Light of Hidden Flowers Page 30
