Traveling with Spirits

by Miner, Valerie

  She continues down the hill, started by the expanded Moorty Internet Shop, which has taken over the storefront next door. Now what was there before? Oh, yes, the old telephone stalls. These days so many people have mobile phones. How much has changed in a few years.

  At Moorty internet, a banner reads, “Rent your DVDs here.” Peeking inside, she sees shelves of supplies for home computers. She’s wistful about her Tuesday afternoons eagerly waiting at the screen for messages from Beata and Tina. And Ashok.

  Dear Esteemed Dr. Murphy, he wrote to tell her about that Chicago trip, full of exuberance and adventure. But I am dashed at the thought of missing you. Dashed. Maybe she fell in love with him right then. After four years of marriage, she finds his combination of diffidence, chivalry and zeal just as beguiling.

  Radha Agarwal is busy at the cash register. Monica notices her brother Raj, now quite manly and handsome, helping a customer in a sleek new computer station.

  Radha glances up and waves happily, urging Monica to enter.

  “Later,” Monica mouths and she does hope to find time after having lunch with Brigid Walsh and collecting supplies.

  Lunch with Brigid Walsh at the Lhasa Café. Monica shakes her head. This year she’s enjoyed several lunches with Father Freitas—as well as his visit to Manda. Otherwise she’s been completely disconnected from Moorty Hospital. Her departure wasn’t as abrupt as Raul’s. She finished out her contract. The Walshes couldn’t object to the state of holy matrimony and Monica “following” her husband to Wisconsin. Still, there was an edge to their farewells. Monica knows that recently Kevin has scuppered at least two grants to the Back Country Project by registering protests about expertise and equipment.

  So when Monica received the pale jade linen envelope addressed to her in Brigid’s inimitable hand, she felt mildly panicked. The cryptic note did nothing to assuage her dread.

  Dear Dr. Murphy,

  When you next come to Moorty, I would be grateful if you would be my guest for lunch at the Lhasa Café. As Christian women, I believe we need to have a conversation. I hope all is well with you and your family.

  Regards,

  Brigid Walsh

  Conversation? To what end? Retribution? Forgiveness? Instruction?

  Monica thought about it for a week and wrote back that she would be pleased to join her on 7 December, if that suited.

  The All Purpose Stationers is still flourishing. Monica notices the same display of “holiday” cards in the window since July. “Why not?” Mr. Patna explained. Everyone is always happy to receive ‘Season’s Greetings,’ January, June, whenever. So many holidays.”

  Monica feels buoyant about being home in Moorty. Maybe next month when she and Sudha come here to meet Ashok’s train, the three of them can take a weekend holiday, eat at the old cafés, attend a performance at The Playhouse.

  Rabi stands in front of the South India Coffee House in a thin kurta and lunghi. The man must carry Kerala heat in his blood.

  “Namaste, Rabi.”

  He peers at her.

  Monica’s breath catches at the memory of her visits here with Sudha and their special table overlooking Lower Bazaar.

  “Namaste ji,” he says, perhaps recognizing her.

  Monica checks her watch and hurries along.

  Now, on a quieter street, at the far side of town, Monica breathes in the scent of Deodar cedars. She calls up the day she came across that group of boys pointing and laughing at the bright orange monkey swinging from an electrical wire to a high branch.

  Suddenly, Monica is gazing down a sharp slope at the small brick school.

  Her heart sank at the first sight of Walkerton’s broken windows and shabby grounds. Numbly she followed Vikram through the dilapidated corridors past a courtyard of sad trees and shrubs into a windowless anteroom.

  And then, the apparition of Sudha, lustrous in her deep purple silk sari.

  “Namaste, Dr. Murphy. Welcome to our school.”

  Now their little jeep was being pummeled by rocks, dirt and oh, no an avalanche of snow and boulders and the entire weight of earth itself.

  Still, she wakes at night panicking for Sudha, pulling her quickly from the car. Just another minute—half-minute—and she will be fine. Another 15 seconds.

  “Sudha!” She must be calling out loud because Ashok takes her in his arms and rocks her. Lately the nightmares are less frequent. And in daylight, she usually can focus her thoughts. Saying farewell to Walkerton now, she recalls that crisp dawn in Losar.

  “Bliss!” Sudha had declared. “The mountains. The sun. Fresh, hot chapattis. My dearest friend, I don’t think I’ve ever been happier!”

  She will bring Sudha Badami to this curious lunch.

  The Lhasa Café is unchanged: the same rudimentary furnishings and Tibetan weavings on the walls as on the night of Ashok’s astonishing proposal. Sudha was with her that night, too.

  Brigid is seated by a sunny window. In this light, Monica can distinguish lines under her eyes, creases in that lovely porcelain skin.

  She stands in greeting.

  Monica is once again amazed by the woman’s height. There’s always been something about her demeanor, especially her deference toward Kevin, which makes Brigid appear shorter than she is. This afternoon her green eyes are as piercing as ever.

  “Monica, welcome back.” She extends both palms.

  “Brigid.” She squeezes her hands. Of course they are on a first name basis, released from hospital hierarchy. “Great to see you.” Monica is abashed that she means this.

  Brigid lights up. “Yes, I feel the same. Let’s sit. You’re looking well. How are your husband and daughter?”

  “Fine, thanks.” Does she know Ashok is still teaching in Wisconsin? “Sudha is three now. And full of beans.”

  Brigid folds her hands

  “She cherishes the Christening cup you sent.”

  “I’m pleased,” Brigid blushes. “I still have mine from Aunt Maeve.”

  Monica omits the detail that Sudha has never been baptized. She hopes Brigid won’t ask about the ceremony.

  They drift into silent contemplation of the menu until the waiter appears.

  “May I have the house special?” Monica wonders what the woman wants from her.

  “I’ll order from the Indian part of the menu,” Brigid says. “May I have the biryani and a side order of brinjal?”

  “Baingan,” Sudha had instructed. “Not brinjal. You want to learn Hindi not Rajtalk.”

  Monica sighs. This wasn’t the kind of company she needed from Sudha. Still, why does she expect her friend to be any less contentious in death. She smiles to herself.

  “Did I mispronounce something?” Brigid asks. “I do that, sometimes. After all these years.”

  “Sorry I was … (Well, why not tell the truth?) … having a memory of Sudha Badami teaching me to cook eggplant.” She would not say baingan and embarrass Brigid.

  “Eggplant? Yes, that’s the odd word Americans use. We say aubergine.”

  Monica tilts her head. “How are the good Sisters Catherine, Melba and Eleanor?”

  “Very well. Each went home at a separate time to Kerala for a fortnight last spring and returned most fortified. They did ask me to give you their warmest regards.”

  Monica’s eyes fill. How kind—and discreetly helpful—each nun was. “So how is…your husband keeping?”

  “Fine, thank you. Dr. Walsh is in good health. We like all the new staff, Dr. Raina and Dr. Rai and Dr. Sen. It’s now the largely Indian crew it should be.”

  The waiter serves a bottle of mineral water.

  Pouring Monica a glass, Brigid says, “You must be wondering why I invited you to lunch after, well, after such a lon
g interlude.”

  “Yes,” Monica sips the water nervously. Ridiculous to feel anxious.

  “As you know, Father Freitas is my confessor.”

  Monica’s eyes widen. She should have prepared for deep water.

  “Which has complications—your confessor being your colleague—and blessings. One of the latter is that he knows so much about my daily life—and the lives of those around me, and those formerly around.”

  Monica feels a brief reprieve when the fragrant biryani is served.

  After a few bites, Brigid resumes, “And I felt contrite about, well, about the way I treated you at the clinic. I’m afraid I was overly critical. Frankly, somewhat jealous.”

  Monica listens carefully as she eats.

  “While I still maintain my views about the importance of missionary work, offering baptism to babies and instruction to adults ...”

  Oh, no, please, please, Monica thinks.

  “... I have come to respect what you’re doing at the Backcountry Project. You reach people we can’t.”

  “Thank you, Brigid,” Monica says, nervously searching for a change of subject.

  “I think Dr. Walsh understands the importance of remote outreach better now. A little better.”

  Monica doesn’t ask why he’s sabotaged their grants.

  “However, between us, I don’t think he’ll ever forgive Dr. Sanchez for stealing Cook from the Mission.” She smiles mischievously.

  Monica knows she’s supposed to laugh, but she’s overwhelmed by sudden intimacies and confidences. She smiles faintly. She does look forward to reporting to Raul tonight that the lunch with Brigid Walsh was quite worthwhile.

  “And so,” she reaches into her purse for a jade linen envelope. “I would like to make a contribution.”

  Monica takes a long drink of water. “Why thank you.”

  “A monthly donation will follow. I wanted to present this first envelope in person, so you would understand the context.”

  “How generous,” Monica responds. “Everyone will be most grateful.”

  “I would be grateful if you kept the source of the donation anonymous. The money is my own, naturally. From a small trust fund. Dr. Walsh doesn’t need to know.”

  How Monica has longed to hear such words from Brigid.

  “You may make up an imaginary donor, if that’s easier for you.” Brigid looks into her eyes. “This is between us.”

  “Of course.”

  “Between us and Our Lord.”

  FORTY

  February, 2007, Manda

  Ashok laughs, chasing Sudha around a chair in the sitting room of their modest, comfortable flat which still smells of fresh paint and sawdust.

  Monica sips tea, watching contentedly.

  “Oooooomph,” Ashok exhales, sinking into the couch beside her.

  Sudha tugs at her father’s stockinged feet. “More, Daddy, more.”

  “Not just now, my sweet. Daddy needs to rest.” Ashok grins. “Perhaps you could play with dolly for a while.”

  “OK, if you promise to be Monkey again. Promise?”

  “On Jakhu’s temple. I vow Monkey will return.”

  He wraps his arms around Sudha and Monica snuggles in close.

  Sudha skips away with her doll.

  “Life is as it should be,” he sighs, “Home. Monkey. Children. Dolly.”

  “Oh,” Monica sits up. “You want a dolly for yourself?”

  “Cheeky girl!” he kisses her nose.

  “Or more monkeys?” she grins to forestall the inevitable conversation. Children, he had said, children. One is enough for her. She can’t imagine loving another child the way she cherishes Sudha. Besides, she’s forty-two.

  “Sudha, Sudha,” Rabindra calls from the garden. The child darts out the door.

  She takes a deep breath. “Children, I know we talked about two children, darling, but Sudha has a big personality. And I’m not sure…”

  “No, hold on!” Ashok assumes that maddeningly professional bearing and cadence. “I suggest that we first settle the small matter of the seven thousand mile distance between us.”

  Odd, how they’ve exchanged lives.

  Odd and wonderful how he’s devoted to Beata and James and she’s been welcomed into Ashok’s family. Manju visits often. Ashok’s brothers are always inviting Sudha and herself down to Delhi for a long weekend. At first she anticipated their objections about marrying a white American from a Christian family. Ashok had assured her that they were all brought up in a secular, cosmopolitan home. In fact, Monica feels that she belongs with the Nairs in a way she never fitted with the Murphys. Here she doesn’t stick out as an intellectual and professional. With Manju and the brothers and their wives, she can converse unselfconsciously about books and theatre and film and politics.

  “Let’s not think about the miles,” she says. “We have you here for a whole year. Our family is together. You’re finishing the book. I have useful work at the new clinic.”

  “OK, we will postpone, but not abandon, this discussion. I agree that a little enjoyment is in order. But then we must get serious about our future.”

  “Yes, of course.” She grins. “I’m so jazzed you invited Beata and James to visit this fall. Beata has only come once and James has never been to India.”

  “They’re great people.”

  “On another important matter—what’s this about you being Sudha’s monkey?”

  “Really, don’t ask,” he says.

  She laughs, realizing she’s giddy.

  “This seems to be your month for family,” he changes the topic. “Sudha’s birthday card from Jeanne.”

  “Let’s just hope she stays in AA more than a month this time.” Monica is caught between fear and self-righteousness. “Let’s just hope she doesn’t get in another car wreck.”

  “She’s trying, Monica, you have to give her that.”

  “Yes,” Monica agrees, wondering how her compassion and patience instantly evaporate when it comes to her sister.

  Ashok muses, “I keep thinking about that last sudden note from your father, with the Wyoming T-shirt for Sudha.”

  “It might fit her in a year or two.”

  “What matters is the contact, the gesture.”

  “Yes,” she admits, knowing that the estrangements in her family trouble Ashok. “But then Tim was always a bit of an apparition.”

  “Well, I don’t want to be Tim.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I don’t want to be the father who disappeared from Sudha’s life.”

  Monica feels the tears welling.

  *****

  Cook has worked for days preparing the feast for Father Freitas’ visit: aloo gobi, sag paneer, baingan bharta, chicken tikka and a special Goan curry. All morning the aromas waft through the clinic grounds.

  Monica finds herself unexpectedly nostalgic for Moorty hospital.

  “He’s here! He’s here! He’s here!” Sudha runs into her mother’s small office.

  Monica grins at the girl’s affection for the priest.

  She shuts her notebook and slips on a shawl.

  A small, graying man extricates himself from the van.

  “Namaste, Father,” Monica beams.

  “Namaste, my friend,” he hugs her.

  “Cook has prepared tea and your favorite biscuits.”

  “No, no,” he protests, in that familiar, high-pitched voice. “Just as I’m retrieving my youthful figure.”

  Monica laughs. “As a doctor, I always prescribe chocolate biscuits to aid travelers overcoming long, winding van journeys.”

  “It is rather a marathon ride as these thi
ngs go,” the priest concedes.

  “I’m glad it’s just the two of us for a moment,” Father says as they sit at the dining room table.

  “Raul is eager to see you. But he had an emergency surgery and Ashok will be back in ten minutes. They’ll all be here by the time Cook serves.”

  “We need a private moment. I have sad news.”

  About Sister Catherine or Sister Melba or Brigid or someone else from Moorty?

  “Our dear Father Daniel. He passed away yesterday.”

  “Oh,” she feels wind and spirit leave her. “No, oh no.”

  Father Freitas takes her hand.

  “I was making plans to visit,” she shakes her head. “If I had only known he was so ill.”

  “Quite sudden. Quite sudden. Fortunately, I was in Chennai for a conference.”

  She shudders with sobs.

  Father takes her other hand.

  “I got to say good-bye to him.”

  “Wonderful.” She tries to hold back the tears. “That’s wonderful for both of you.”

  “He asked after you several times.”

  Monica nods, her mouth pursed.

  “I tried to reach you but I couldn’t get a phone connection.”

  “Yes,” she says, “we’ve had problems with the new system.” She takes a long breath. Despite all the losses, she doesn’t seem to get any better at handling grief. Father Daniel has been a spiritual parent; she never imagined him leaving her. A selfish way to look at it—him leaving her.

  “He was worried.”

  “Worried?”

  “Worried that he had brought you to India and now your love for this country and your sense of duty are separating your dear family.”

  Monica sniffs.

  “He had no advice. That was his Buddhist-Catholic way. He did ask me to remind you that God wants us to be happy in this life.”

  Monica smiles. “So like Father Daniel. Pain is inevitable. Suffering is elective.”