Of Stillness and Storm

by Michele Phoenix

  I’d been minding my own business in the downstairs lounge, curled up in one of the more comfortable chairs in a hostel furnished more for practicality than luxury. I looked up from the copy of Pride and Prejudice I’d taken from the lost-and-found shelf.

  “Adam and Eve—fact or fable?”

  Sam stood there, smiling. He lowered himself into the chair across from mine with a muffled groan. He caught my raised eyebrows. “Took the black slope with the Norwegians and they decided to go off course. Big mistake.”

  I winced. “The kind that ends wrapped around a tree?”

  “The kind that ends with one ski pointing downhill and the other pointing toward the summit. So … fact or fable?”

  “Adam and Eve?” I asked. He nodded, his expression expectant. “And you actually expect me to have an educated response?”

  Another nod. I laughed and dropped my head onto the backrest of my chair to stare at the ceiling and think. I found myself doing that a lot when I was talking with Sam.

  When I looked back at him, he was still watching me. “That depends. Serpent and apple—fact or fable?”

  I’d grown accustomed to the flutters his smiles elicited, but I still wasn’t sure I liked them. “You can’t answer a question with a question,” he said.

  “Sure I can.”

  “I want to know what you think.”

  “Why?”

  “I have to have a reason?”

  “It seems to me you always do.”

  “Really.”

  “Why do you part your hair on the left?”

  “Cowlicks.”

  “Why do you wear so much khaki?”

  “To simplify mixing and matching.”

  “Why did you move your mattress onto the floor?”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “I’ve got sources.”

  “Because I don’t want to get too comfortable,” he said, smirking.

  “See? Reasons.”

  Sparring was a communication style to Sam. Sullivan suspected it was a flirting style too. But when we’d gone a couple rounds about biblical figures and theological sticking points, we tended to settle into less lofty conversations.

  “So tell me something I don’t know about you,” he said. He leveled his best Sam-stare at me—casual, interested, and analytical. Part of me missed the high grounds of our theoretical sparring. They felt safer than the personal questions.

  “You can’t just throw out that broad of a net and expect me to know how to answer.”

  “Good point. So tell me what you think I should know about you.”

  Vulnerability fluttered again. “Why?”

  “Because I want to know.”

  “Why?”

  “You realize the ‘why stage’ happens during the Terrible Twos, right?”

  I glanced out the window that faced the street and focused my attention on the mountaintops in the distance. Sam sat across from me, elbows on his knees, leaning forward. I wasn’t sure why his interest felt so daunting or why my defenses went up when he delved too deep.

  Sullivan had called me on it after witnessing a particularly reluctant exchange. “Your hard-to-get routine could land you in never-gotten purgatory, Chickadee.” I’d responded with vigor, asserting that being “gotten” was not the only means to a meaningful life. She’d looked at me askance. “Listen, when the lady doth protest too much, it makes me wonder what’s behind the resistance.”

  “I’m not resisting.”

  Raised eyebrow. “Really?”

  Sam’s eyes were still on me when I turned back to him, his curiosity and trademark energy evident in his gaze. He’d been nothing but genuine since his arrival at Sternensee, but there was something about his interest, as flattering as it felt, that flashed memories across my mind—like slides on a shadowed screen. Juvenile laughter. Whispered dreams. Unspoken emotions. Flames. Embers. Ashes. They warned and whimpered from the past.

  But Sam lived in the present—in a clear, unshadowed Now—and I wouldn’t let my ghosts deprive me of this challenging unknown. I squared my shoulders and looked Sam straight in the eyes. “I stole money from my mom’s Mary Kay drawer.”

  He looked confused. “You stole from your mom’s—”

  “She sold Mary Kay products and kept the money she made in her desk drawer between trips to the bank, and when she and my dad cut off my allowance for three weeks because I said a bad word, I stole money from the drawer to see a movie with my friends.”

  A smile deepened the creases around Sam’s eyes. “You stole from your mom to see a movie?”

  My smile matched his. “It was Beaches—well worth the guilt.”

  “Shame on you.”

  “Now tell me a secret about you.”

  “Hey, I never asked for a secret.”

  But Sam was a storyteller, and the invitation to recount the tales of his youth led him down trails both entertaining and crystallizing in the weeks we spent together. I realized as he unveiled them one after another that the integrity that defined him was a purposeful pursuit, and though his history was typical in so many ways, his dreams were the stuff of trailblazing legends.

  Part of life at Sternensee was sharing daily chores, and when Sam and I were assigned to do dinner dishes together, neither of us contested it. As Sam pushed racks of plates and cutlery in and out of an industrial dishwasher and I washed pots and pans in a deep, stainless steel sink, we let our conversations skip naturally from topic to topic.

  “So what are you going to do when you graduate?” Sam asked during one of our last evenings doing dishes together.

  “With a degree in communications? I’m thinking I’ll be doing more of this for a while.” I held up my sudsy hands. “Then I’ll move up the corporate ladder to short-order cook. Or maybe I can drive a school bus if I play my cards right.”

  Sam stopped in the act of drying a dinner plate and leaned a hip against the counter. “What’s the dream?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “I honestly don’t know.” I pushed back a strand of hair with my wrist. “I love to write but … I don’t know.”

  Sam stepped closer. “What’s the dream?” he repeated, drawing out the word like it gave it more significance.

  “What’s yours?”

  “This technique again?”

  “If it ain’t broke …”

  “To make a difference,” he answered. I could tell from his tone that he’d given it some thought.

  “But what’s the dream?” I parroted.

  He acknowledged my imitation with a nod and got back to drying plates. “To be a pioneer,” he said after a few moments of silence. “Do something unconventional. Stray a little from the traveled path.”

  “There’s probably a reason why that path is traveled.”

  “Or it may be because no one dared to be unconventional before.”

  I’d never been much of a risk taker. I found a comfort in predictability that Sam probably wouldn’t understand. “Honestly, when I think about the future, I don’t have a driving ambition. You know—that one thing I need to do or I’ll never be satisfied.”

  “So writing is … ?”

  “Something I enjoy. I’m not sure I can make it into a career, though.”

  “And when you were growing up? What about then?”

  I hesitated. “Seriously?” I asked, playing for time. He nodded, and I knew my answer to this query would open the door to a more intimate conversation. I paused long enough to make sure I’d be okay with that.

  “If this is too personal—”

  “No,” I said, interrupting him. “It’s fine.” Mere weeks before, I might not have verbalized an honest answer to this question. I may not have acknowledged it even to myself. But there was something about Sam—the steadiness of his friendship and the openness of his interest—that made me able to recognize and speak it. “To be truthful,” I said, still hoping he was safe, “all I’ve ever pictured myself being as an adult is a mom. Just … a mom.”

 
“Just a mom? No husband.”

  “Of course a husband.” I rolled my eyes and saw him flash a grin.

  “You can do better,” he said. There was no judgment in his expression. Just certainty.

  “Than being a wife and mother?”

  “You can be that and more. I tend to view my future as a ‘both-and’ scenario.”

  “Except that I don’t know, right now, what that ‘and’ might be.”

  He nodded. “I think it comes to us when we need it to. Not a moment before.” He shrugged. “But what do I know? I’m still waiting for my marching orders.”

  I nodded. Both-and. If Sam believed it to be true, I figured it was a concept I needed to consider.

  “You realize you’ll soon be living in the shadow of my educational achievements,” Sullivan said after her essay on New Testament antiheroes earned a higher grade than mine.

  “You realize theology isn’t a competitive sport,” I answered, a bit miffed that my relationship with Sam was having such a detrimental effect on my grades. The truth was that he’d become a distraction. At some point in the weeks we’d spent together, this undefined relationship had become a jeopardizing thing—to my studies, my concentration, and my equilibrium.

  “My theory,” Sullivan drawled, “is that all this pussyfootin’ around the true nature of your feelings is depleting the mental energy your studies require.”

  We were sitting in the bedroom we shared under the hostel’s eaves.

  “We’re not pussyfooting.” I stuffed my essay into a folder and tossed it on the bed next to me, unwilling to acknowledge my friend’s rightness. “We’re exploring.”

  Sullivan pulled a cardigan out of a drawer and shrugged into it, muttering under her breath. “You two are seriously testing my attention span.”

  “Are we moving too slow for your entertainment needs?”

  “You’re moving too slow—period. Time’s a tickin’ and I’m seeing no evidence that you’re ready to commit.” She sat at her desk and gave me her sorority sister stare.

  “Because we’re not.”

  “Well, what’s the holdup?” My hesitation was inconceivable to her.

  I shrugged. “I guess we’re being wise.”

  “Or you’re being scared. You’d sooner take on a black diamond slope blindfolded than speak honestly of your emotions.”

  “I’m not scared.”

  “Say that again with conviction.”

  I looked her straight in the eyes. “I’m not scared.” The words sounded hollow even to my ears.

  “I know I’m meddling, but I just need to ask …”

  “Sullivan …”

  “Are you attracted to the boy or not?”

  “I …” The directness of her question took me aback. “I don’t know.”

  She seemed unsatisfied with that. “You don’t want to know.” She leaned forward in her desk chair and pursed her lips. “What is it you’re afraid of?”

  Though I wanted to back away from the bluntness of her interrogation, I held my position. “Again—I’m not afraid.”

  “Tell me this, Chickadee,” she said after a beat. “When was the last time you really loved someone? In a romantic way, I mean.”

  “I’m not sure I—”

  “Gracious, you can be cagey. Have you ever loved someone or not?”

  I didn’t like the question. It grated over unmarked graves in fragile spaces of my past. I stared at my hands. “Maybe?” I cleared my throat. “Yes.”

  “And?”

  I shook my head. “It didn’t work out.”

  The cuckoo clock in the hallway outside our bedroom ticked in the silence, metronoming the parade of recollections and regrets marching through my mind.

  “Sam’s great,” I said after a few moments, sitting up straighter. “He’s …” I shook my head again, confused and frustrated. “He’s great. And … and yes, I think I like him.” My own laugh startled me. “Welcome to junior high,” I said.

  “Some things we don’t outgrow.”

  “Listen, if I had a list of ‘ideal husband’ traits, he’d probably check every item on it. And I do love being with him. I do. I’m just not sure how to categorize this … thing. Besides, the semester is short and we’re living in this bubble. Who knows if what we have could survive in the real world?”

  “So you’re playing it safe.”

  “So I’m playing it safe.”

  Sullivan moved to sit beside me on the edge of my bed. “Here’s what I know. If you are meant to share your heart in a til-death-do-us-part kind of way with a man who is likely debating some obscure piece of the Scriptures with a poor sap downstairs at this very moment, I’d hate to see you squander it for the sake of”—she mimed air quotes—“‘playing it safe.’”

  “But how can I be sure?” I whispered.

  She straightened. “Just so you know, I’m going to open the door and leave when I’m done saying what I’m going to say, because I’ve been holding on to this quote for a long time and I’m a big fan of dramatic exits.”

  I bit my lip to stifle a giggle. “Okay …”

  Sullivan stood and moved toward the door. “‘To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken.’”

  “Steel Magnolias?”

  “C.S. Lewis. Your hero. Chickadee, you can keep your heart safe or you can lay it on the line and mend it when it breaks. A heart unrisked is a heart unshared—and yours is too good to waste.”

  She opened the door and stepped out of sight.

  three

  FEBRUARY, PRESENT DAY

  IT WAS A RARE THING FOR ME TO HAVE A MORNING AT HOME, but a bandh had erupted just after dawn, making my commute to the language school in Bhaktapur unsafe. These protests, some of them spontaneous and others well planned, were frequent occurrences in a country where there were few diplomatic means for people to be heard. From other expats in the city, I’d gleaned a bit of an understanding of this society that seemed to teeter on the brim of chaos. The side effects of decades of mismanagement and power grabs were intricately woven into every hardship and challenge that existed in Nepal—from its devalued currency to electricity shortages to the tenuous truce between Nepali castes and tribes.

  Sometimes the bandhs were about political matters. Other times they were protests about unjust verdicts, Maoist demands, and incompetent leadership. Like gunpowder sifting through the government’s hands just inches from an open flame, it seemed that the capital was perpetually on the brink of more protests that would send screaming, sign-carrying, and tire-burning crowds into the streets and squares of Kathmandu.

  Though Ryan had previously enjoyed the delayed start of classes on bandh days, an unpleasant meeting in Miss Moore’s classroom had changed that. We’d sat him down afterward and tried to get to the bottom of the problems we’d only just discovered.

  “Can you explain this?” Sam asked, holding up the report Ryan’s teacher had given us. It detailed unfinished homework, tardiness, and a disrespectful attitude.

  “Nope.” Long, wavy bangs nearly covered his eyes. He looked from Sam to me, no sign of remorse in his gaze.

  “What’s with the grades?” There was a muscle twitching in Sam’s jaw.

  Ryan looked down and flopped back in his chair, feigning calm, arms loosely crossed. “I got behind, I guess.”

  “Sit up straight, son.”

  “Sam …”

  “Lauren.” His tone was sharp. So was the look on his face. It ordered silence. “Sit up straight,” he said again, his words clipped.

  Ryan hesitated. Then he shifted to a more upright position in his chair. He glanced at me before looking down at his hands.

  “This has been going on for months and we’re just hearing about it now?”

  “You weren’t home.”

  I leaned in. “But I was. Ryan, I could have helped you if you’d told me you were struggling.”

  He smirked. “With math?”

  The conve
rsation had deteriorated from there. Sam had pushed for answers and Ryan had clammed up. I’d tried to emphasize responsibility, challenging Ryan with the promise of rewards, but Sam had opted for outlining consequences instead. “We’re not going to breathe down your neck every day, son. Either you shape up or we pull you out of soccer. Simple as that.”

  Ryan was on academic probation now—just one failing grade away from being held back a year—and bandh delays were no longer a break in schoolwork for him. They were an extra chance to finish his assignments before looming deadlines. I could feel his tension reaching me from the dining room as he polished the Renaissance paper due that day, procrastination once again fueling his frustration. I’d offered to proofread it for him. He’d refused. He always did, now.

  When Ryan’s school called to let us know that it was safe for the students to come in, he shoved his paper into his backpack and headed for the door.

  “You think you did a good job on it?” I asked as Ryan was tying his shoelaces.

  He shrugged, then slung his backpack over his shoulder and walked out without a word.

  It would be awhile longer before the road to Bhaktapur was open, and I busied myself while I waited for the call. The language school was about an hour out of the city, and though my job teaching English to Nepali students was technically part-time, it seemed to consume much of my days. The commute was tedious and the teaching uninspiring, but the work granted us visas to live in Nepal. It gave Sam the ability to work where his passions lay. I envied him the luxury.

  “Sam,” I’d begged soon after our arrival, “is there any other way? What if I apply to teach at Ryan’s school? Or another international school in the city?”

  “I’m not sure that would fit our ministry platform.”

  “This isn’t ministry—it’s a visa requirement.”

  “Bhaktapur needs a teacher, and the students there are all Nepali. Think of the inroads …”

  “But the commute—”

  “Nepali students, Lauren. The people group we came to reach.” I couldn’t fathom the depth of his love for these people.

  “I could bike to Ryan’s school in fifteen minutes if I taught there. They have a curriculum in place. They have textbooks. Their educational system is—”