Traveling with Spirits

by Miner, Valerie

  Monica retires early. Everyone understands; they are so damn understanding without understanding a thing.

  Dusk when she enters the flat. She sits in dimness, gazing at Sudha’s favorite view of those treacherous mountains. She is literally surrounded by danger and threat. She always was. Birds sing evening songs, calling her to another sleepless night.

  The phone’s ringing crackles through the flat.

  “Monica?”

  “Beata!”

  The dam breaks. Sorrow and pain and anguish and guilt race through her exhausted body.

  Silence on the other end. Maybe she’s hung up. Maybe she’s abandoned her too.

  “I’m sorry,” Monica manages. “This is an expensive call just to hear someone weep futilely.”

  “Not futilely,” she says with familiar tenderness. “And this is what money is for.”

  Suddenly she’s angry, flailing at her friend. “Tell me, Beata. How can God do this? Why is it that everyone I love leaves? Why?”

  Beata is quiet, or rather engaging, Monica imagines, in “active listening.” She can feel her bloody Christian concern all the way from St. Paul.

  Monica moans. The flat is dark. Birds are silent. The mountains invisible.

  “Not everyone,” Beata says finally.

  Monica sighs.

  “You have me,” Beata says softly.

  Friendship, Monica corrects herself, not Christian concern.

  “You have Ashok.”

  “I know. I know. I should get on with life.” She regrets the brusqueness, can’t help it. “Get prepared to slam into another brick wall.”

  “Have you talked with Father Freitas about this?” Beata tries. “Or Father Daniel?”

  “They’ve both been so kind. Father Daniel invited me down to Pondicherry. And Father Freitas is full of good counsel.” She’s not being ironic, although she can’t accept his support. “He offered to say a memorial Mass.”

  “That might be healing.”

  “Oh, Beata,” she erupts, regretting it immediately and unable to stop herself. “What’s the point? Sudha wouldn’t even be there in spirit. She’s too busy communing with the other 1080 particles in the universe.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Sorry, I’m so sorry, dear friend. I should go. I’m exhausted. Making no sense. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  “I’ll call in a couple of days, OK? Saturday or Sunday?”

  “I’m so tired, Beata. So tired.”

  Monica forces herself to brush her teeth. (Did she say good-bye to Beata? Did she hang up the phone?) Her body feels so extraneous now. What is she doing with it?

  The sheets are cool and as soon as she turns out the light, heartache engulfs her. Dear Sudha, I miss you. Dear Sudha, I am so sorry.

  Giant rocks and dirt pummeled the jeep.

  Where was Sudha?

  Immense boulders and no, an avalanche of rocks and now the earth itself.

  She bolted from the car for her.

  Shankar’s grip was too strong.

  “Nothing,” he said. “Nothing you can do.”

  Mea Culpa. Mea maxima culpa.

  The landslide went on and on. Oh, what a horrendous sight, the wash of rocks and splintered trees and it was too deep. She couldn’t see the car. She could feel Sudha’s terror. Oh, God—

  Mean and merciful dawn comes once again. The irritating chirpers return. At least she’s liberated from her bed. No more pretense of sleep until tonight.

  Morning sky is streaked with pink clouds which remind her of the weeping cherries at home. Monica used to enjoy the lingering sunrise in Moorty. But not today, perhaps never again. Nevermore. Are there ravens in Moorty? Never-ever-ever more.

  The room is full when she arrives for breakfast.

  “Good morning,” she manages.

  They’re all a bit wary. Is she imagining this? Why does she assume she’s the center of attention?

  “Did you sleep?” asks Raul, his own eyes circled in darkness.

  “Did you?” She resists his concern. How can he show her such kindness, such forgiveness?

  “A little better,” he says, “I took a pill.”

  “Not a bad idea.” Kevin says to her. “You have to sleep.”

  Of course, she thinks; otherwise we’ll be useless to the hospital.

  “Dr. Murphy, have you considered a short leave?” Father asks.

  “I’ve just had a vaca--,” she stops herself.

  “Father Daniel emailed, suggesting you might want to do a brief retreat in—”

  “Thank you, no. Thanks to everyone for your concern. But I’ll be fine. I’m feeling better every morning,” she lies.

  THIRTY-SIX

  June, 2002, Moorty

  On Sunday afternoon, Raul suggests a walk. This is the last thing she wants. Yet how can she refuse him?

  The last few days have passed in a stupor. A walk. Air. It will be good for both of them.

  They wind up at a bench looking out toward the mountains, holding hands, crying.

  Gently, she pulls away, relieved not to be touching, not to be touched.

  He glances at her, seems to understand. “This was your bench. Yours and Sudha’s.” His voice is trancelike.

  She’s surprised.

  “She showed me, the week before you set off. She was so excited, you know. She told me you two used to sit here dreaming of the peaks together.”

  Together.

  His tone grows sober. “We must go on.” He pauses, holding back tears. “She would want us to go on. We need faith. In our work. In God.”

  “Faith!” she rasps. “Where do you find faith? After losing her. And your father?” She wonders if she’s losing her own faith permanently. If so, how genuine was her conversion? Her commitment? Will the real Monica please stand?

  “Besides faith,” he asks her faintly, “what else is there?”

  “Sleep,” she says desolately, “That would be a start.”

  *****

  Monica notices the blue vellum envelope on the postal tray. Clearly Beata’s letter would have been written before the avalanche. There are a couple of other pieces: a card from Eric, probably a sympathy note. Some Global Priority thingee from Chicago. She checks her watch. Four p.m. She can still do another hour’s work. She should check on Aruna in the ward and gauge the tightness of her cast. But truly, she’s overcome with exhaustion. Kevin has told her to take the whole day “for herself.” A quaint expression, as if she might pop down to the spa for her regular pedicure. Instead, she walks down to her all too silent flat.

  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 1080 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.