Traveling with Spirits

by Miner, Valerie

  “Monica, God took your mother. You weren’t ready for her to go. But God was. And maybe your mother was, too?”

  “Admit,” she repeats to keep afloat in the wreckage of blame and remorse.

  “Admit,” he advises, “in the sense of acknowledge. Yet also in the sense of ‘let in, give access, allow to pass.’ ”

  “Forgive myself?” she flares.

  “Admit, first, that you are human.”

  “Of course I know I’m human. A failed human. If I had understood Dad’s longing, I could have talked to him. And Jeanne, I’m a doctor and I can’t stop her drinking. Then Mom, the person I loved most, I failed to save her, too.”

  “Monica, doctors do help people. But do you ever save them?”

  “Certainly not,” she snaps.

  “And those people you failed, you didn’t put yourself on the list.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I suspect the place you’ve truly failed is in loving yourself.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  He waits.

  She starts to cry. “I’m so flawed. There’s so much I’ve done wrong.”

  “How are you responsible for your father’s departure, Jeanne’s drinking or your mother’s death? Does it hurt more to think that perhaps that you couldn’t prevent the losses?”

  She’s had enough. What’s the exit line? Buttoning her sweater, she runs her hands over her cold arms. Time to go.

  “Monica, you have many fine qualities. But your humility could use some work.”

  “What is my penance, Father? Will you absolve me and give me penance?” Although she doesn’t believe in sacraments, she’s superstitious about simply leaving.

  “What do you think your penance should be?”

  Her knees hurt from the kneeler. She can’t think of an answer.

  He leans his head toward the grill, as if to hear if she’s still breathing.

  “Are you cold in there?” she asks.

  “Not particularly. What kind of atonement would you like to make?”

  “A rosary?”

  He’s quiet.

  “Two rosaries?” she tries. Maybe they’ve upped the ante since she was a kid.

  “Monica, do say the rosary if you’re inclined, but I’d like to ask you something.”

  Nervously, she tuches her head to the grill to catch his words.

  “This week, only for one week, I want you to do a kindness for yourself each day. Can you do that?”

  She refuses to cry. Quickly, she says, “Yes, thank you, Father.”

  *****

  The lake is another world during the short January day. Frozen to the center. Still. Skeletal branches of black trees chatter. A few birds peck through the snow over the dead grass. How do they survive? Strollers are bundled in parkas and face masks.

  Beata’s solution is to stride vigorously and Monica works to keep up with her friend’s long legs.

  “Lucky with this sun,” Beata says. “Sun on the snow. All this brightness.”

  “So you’re converting to winter?”

  “I’m accepting winter. I’m admitting winter.”

  Admit. Monica smiles tightly.

  “Friend, I owe you an apology,” Beata says. “When I tried to drag you over to my parish, it was so wrong.”

  “I should have told you earlier.”

  “You weren’t ready.” She waits for Monica to respond and when she doesn’t, softens her voice. “I’m here when you want to talk.”

  “I have questions. But at Holy Spirit people talk about morality and ethics. I sort of traded those concepts for politics at the U. I wanted to be a good political person. Righteous. Progressive.”

  “You are.”

  “I want more. I want to work in a place with people who share my values.”

  “Don’t we all?”

  “Lake Clinic has some fine people, but it isn’t the practice where I can contribute how I need to.”

  “Now you have Father Tom, the study group, others at Holy Spirit.”

  They’re passing the docking area where all the row boats are tied for the season.

  “I’ve found comfort in the past few months, but I can’t buy the whole program. The Church’s stand on contraception, on condoms in the midst of an HIV/AIDS crisis.”

  “Many of us disagree with that. Catholics for Choice: I recently joined this group to lobby for women priests.”

  “How do you accept the contradictions?”

  She’s staring at the small hills: Dakota burial mounds they were taught in school. A young man jogs by, followed by a golden lab.

  “Things will change,” Beata says. “The Church is a social institution and people are contradictory. Rome has to adapt. You need faith.”

  “That’s what Father Daniel says.”

  “How often do you guys write?” Beata quickens her pace.

  Monica catches up. “You seem bothered.”

  “Bothered,” Beata repeats stiffly. Wind gusts around the lake. She pulls her hat down. “Why do you say that?”

  “Your voice, whenever I mention him.”

  “You mention him a lot.”

  She’s hurt by the tone. “We’re not having a romance or anything.”

  “It’s a little odd. A doctor and a priest. He must be a busy man yet he regularly emails a stranger on the other side of the earth.”

  “Small world,” she repeats his farewell at the retreat. “He’s become a kind of spiritual mentor. I thought you’d be pleased.”

  “I’d be pleased if you found someone closer to home. Pretty soon, you’ll be headed off to India!”

  “Oh, sure!” She laughs. “He challenges my dogged questions. And after all, maybe I’m incapable of faith. Doctors look for symptoms, evidence. Faith is the opposite.”

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

  “Perhaps that works for you, Beata, but it’s not in my nature.”

  “Humility,” she bursts out, “that’s what’s not in your nature.”

  She steps back, stung.

  Beata takes her hand. Her red leather glove over Monica’s blue polar tech mittens. “Monica, I love you. But you’re so demanding—of the universe, of yourself.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  *****

  Monica waits at an outside table, preparing herself for Beata’s objections. On this sweltering August night, they’d be better off inside the air-conditioned bistro. But she needs to contain the imminent explosion. Beata’s last phone call was angry and distraught.

  She wants a glass of chilled white wine. She might have several glasses tonight. For the moment, she needs to stick with ice water and slow breaths.

  Cars zip by. Several lumbering trucks groan and wheeze. The exhaust is irritating. All this will aggravate Beata’s mood. Should they move inside?

  “Hi there!” Beata bends down, hugging Monica. “Nice to return to the old hang out.”

  She kisses Beata’s moist cheek.

  Monica recalls that frigid January night when they talked about work and family here, when Beata tried to lure her to the Lutsen retreat. She remembers the bad art. And how Beata was turning heads then in her splendid coat, as she is now, in her close-fitting yellow cotton dress. “Good to see you.”

  Beata orders a Sangiovese. “Red wine is good for the heart, right?”

  “A certain amount, yes.”

  She can’t hold back any longer. “A medical mission in the foothills of Northern India?!”

  “Sorry I couldn’t find a warmer place for you to visit.” She gulps the water, glances at the traffic. “But Pondicherry
Mission is full and Moorty badly needs staff.”

  “Why did I ever bring you to that retreat? Why didn’t you become a nice domestic Buddhist? That Mary woman was pretty impressive.”

  Actually, Beata did bring her back to church. First the retreat. Then those books, Thomas Merton and John Henry Newman being the most important. Beata sharing her doubts about papal doctrine. Beata’s example of tranquility.

  “Who says I’m not a Buddhist?”

  Beata shakes her head. “I support any decision you make.”

  She’s not persuaded.

  “But I have to ask the hard, obvious, almost patronizing question.”

  “No, I’m not running away.” Monica faces her directly. “You implied that on the phone. I do need to leave for a while, but I’m not running away.”

  As the waiter takes their drink orders, she resolves to lighten up, maintain her convictions and embrace Beata’s concerns.

  “But India! How will you deal with the restrictions of a Catholic hospital there? We’re not talking progressive Catholic like our parishes. As you know, you’ll be facing women who need to limit their pregnancies. And…”

  “Yes.” She has practiced the answer. “Still there are many contributions to make. People suffer enormously from eye and gastrointestinal diseases. Besides, didn’t we have this conversation before? Didn’t you vote for contradictions?”

  They order dinner. A brief détente.

  “After years of reconciling triage with good health care at Lake Clinic, I do know something about ambiguity.”

  Beata’s eyes are red. “But there are Catholic Worker Projects all over the US—hospices and so forth.”

  “And far more people in India without medical care.”

  “What about the dangers? Bombings? Kidnappings?”

  “Dear, dear friend, I know you’re worried. But I’ve thought it all out. I’ll take whatever faith I have with me. That and, I hope, your prayers.”

  “Certainly,” her voice is hoarse.

  “You do think I’m crazy.”

  “In the most admirable way,” she digs into her purse for a tissue.

  That knock-off Prada bag is always neat—comb, make-up kit, velvet pouch for her rosary, slim red wallet. Monica knows there’s also a picture of her family. And a photo of Beata and herself at Eric’s cabin.

  They hold hands until the puzzled waiter appears with two seafood salads.

  Monica takes a deep breath. “Will you write to me?”

  “Every week,” Beata smiles faintly, “until I come check on you in person.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  March-April, 2002, Moorty

  Stepping off the train at Moorty, Monica is astonished by the cool sunshine. A world away from Father Daniel’s mission in Pondicherry, where temperatures have already hit forty degrees Celsius. What an inspiring visit, but she’s grateful to return to the bracing air of the foothills.

  The thin porters are soon out of sight, carrying luggage and small gifts from Pondicherry to Moorty Mission. What a crystal spring day. Right, this week is Holi. Ten days ago, when Monica left for the seminar in Tamil Nadu, she trudged through icy slush to the Moorty Station. Now that’s all melted. Distant mountains are still snow-covered, but here in town flowers are budding, trees filling out.

  “Ah, Moorty,” Father Daniel’s colleagues swooned. “You’re lucky to be going home to Moorty.”

  Home, she muses, before beginning her hike to the hospital. Has Gita recovered from the relapse? Someone would have contacted her if she had a downturn. Surely.

  The walk feels both familiar and different. She waves to Rabi, who stands, arms akimbo, outside the coffee shop.

  He squints, waves back.

  The Playhouse is advertizing a sitar concert on huge blue and yellow posters. Moorty Heaven. It’s so temperate these next few months when much of the country bakes or boils or in the case of Tamil Nadu, sizzles.

  *****

  “Monica dear, please take more tea,” Father Daniel smiled curiously that last evening. The others had returned to the hospital or their quarters.

  “Thank you,” she obeyed and poured half a cup.

  “I’d like to discuss something.”

  “Yes, Father?” Had she done something wrong? Was Mission House disappointed? Did Kevin file a negative report? Was this whole assignment to Tamil Nadu a gentle thank you and farewell? She searched Father’s kind, dark eyes.

  “About the nature of vocation,” he began.

  “Vocation,” she repeated, alarmed, as if to stay on track.

  “I’ve watched a number of doctors and nurses from Europe and the Americas over the years.”

  She drained her cup, noticing he hadn’t touched his, and as Father loved tea, she grew worried.

  “You have a strong vocation and you’re an excellent doctor. We all learned from your seminars this week. Everyone admired your generous, modest spirit.”

  Relieved, she now teased, “But not my equanimity.”

  “I do remember your question from the retreat.” He grinned. “And I suspect you need to keep searching for that answer.”

  “Yes, Father?” She waited.

  “I don’t mean to interfere, but sometimes I worry that, well…”

  “Please continue, as my spiritual advisor.”

  “Advisor is too strong. Perhaps a spiritual friend to a wise woman. But yes, I shall continue. I do worry that you don’t realize you have a right to be happy.”

  She waited.

  “That’s it. See, you don’t even perceive this as a matter of consequence. You are so busy thinking of others—about your patients, colleagues, Ashok’s academic dreams, your sister, your dear, departed mother, your friend Beata—a lovely woman. I wonder where Monica is in all that? Do you understand?”

  “I guess so. I don’t think about my happiness much. Sorry.”

  “No, no, no!” His voice pitched higher. “This is not about apologizing.”

  “Of course, sorry,” she looked at him, catching his laughter.

  “Now, Monica, just be aware. Be open to happiness as it comes.”

  *****

  Mr. Sood fusses with his papers at the news stand. He’s wearing the same clean, ironed lunghi and kurta he wore all winter. “Namaste, ji, you were out of station?”

  “Namaste, Mr. Sood. I was in Chennai and Pondicherry for ten days.”

  “Ah, very hot. Very hot. One day I would like to see the beaches.”

  “Lovely white sands,” she nods, paying for her usual papers.

  “You’ve returned in time for Holi!” he declares. “Good fun.”

  “Yes, spring seems to be blooming all over.”

  “Wait until you see the daffodils on the road between Billington’s Hotel and the hospital. Oh, my, such yellows. Like the sun. Welcome home, Dr. Murphy.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Sood; it’s good to be back.”

  Home, the idea pleases her. Unnerves her. She’s not Indian, as the immigration authorities in Delhi remind her with regular visa appraisals. She doesn’t want to presume an intimacy she hasn’t earned. Did Annie Besant feel at home? Foster? Orwell? Kipling? Does she want to be Indian? In some besotted way, she does. How much of that is wanting not to be American?

  The carnations are bursting in red and white by the Anglican church where she and Ashok enjoyed the Bach concert that snowy day.

  Home. She is returning to a useful job. Perhaps that’s the best one can expect. She thought she belonged in her family. Now they’ve drifted off or died or dismissed her. She thought she belonged at Lake Clinic before the personalities became unbearable. She belongs to Moorty, at least for now.

  Passing Billington’s
, she spots Mr. Sood’s miraculous daffodils. Do news vendors in Minneapolis talk about daffodils? The question is—does she talk to news vendors in Minneapolis? She pays for The New York Times online. The difference is that she, herself, is more open in this new place.

  Is this the happiness Father Daniel proposed? She is happy learning so much—about Mughal architecture; Tagore’s poetry and music; Ray’s films; the exquisitely varied landscapes. OK, people can be abrupt in crowds. She’s not partial to the large Delhi and Chennai middle classes with their imposing houses and BMWs. But each day here brings a new surprise, which she cherishes, as she does the breakfast mango or papaya. Papaya for breakfast, no better definition of heaven.

  A momentary feeling—that’s not what Father Daniel is talking about—rather he urged a practice of happiness. First comes the openness, he advised. Then, maybe a habit. No small challenge from her spiritual friend.

  It’s tea time as she reaches Moorty Mission and she’s ready for chai. The grounds have transformed. She sees patches of muddy earth where snow mounted ten days ago. She’s never noticed the peeling paint on the south side near the refectory.

  Angry voices.

  Reluctantly proceeding, she hears Raul shouting at Kevin about evangelizing.

  Kevin is outraged about Raul’s latest Manda trip.

  “Welcome home!” calls Sister Catherine, seated alone at the table.

  “Thank you, Sister. I see attendance at tea is sparse today.”

  “Yes, Dr. Sanchez is packing for Manda. Mrs. Walsh has a touch of flu.”

  “Sorry to hear she’s ill.” Monica sits, winded after the long walk. Has she grown out of shape in ten days of Tamil Nadu cars and rickshaws?

  “Namaste, ji,” Cook appears with a tray of tea and biscuits.

  “Dhanyavad, Cook.”

  He bows. “The porter left your luggage at the residence.”