Of Stillness and Storm

by Michele Phoenix

  She gave me a searching look. “Taking it out on you, is he?”

  “Taking … ?”

  “The change,” she said. “The newness of all this.” She laughed a little as we looked out at the mud pit the school called a soccer field. There was a butcher stand just a few feet from it where two goats appeared to be following the game, while another, cut in quarters, lay exposed to the elements on a small wooden countertop. Electrical cables and phone wires hung in huge, tangled clumps from straining utility poles on the far side of the pitch where stray dogs fought over the contents of a discarded plastic bag.

  “Newness is a bit of an understatement,” I said.

  Ryan headed the ball toward the goal and kicked the ground when it bounced off the crossbar. A couple teammates yelled encouragement, which he dismissed with a wave of his hand. “He’s certainly competitive,” Eveline said.

  I looked at her and weighed the benefits of honesty. “He’s angry.”

  “With good reason.” She smiled.

  “Did Steven struggle too? When you first came.”

  Eveline pursed her lips, then shook her head. “No. No, I don’t recall anything out of the ordinary. Forgive me for making it sound so simplistic, but some people just find it easier to adjust to change.”

  I thought about Sam. And I thought about me.

  “Steven took it all in stride. Monsoon season. The food. This mud puddle they play on. But I’ve seen others who haven’t fared as well.”

  Ryan ran by in hot pursuit of the other team’s top scorer. He didn’t look at me or acknowledge our cheer when he stole the ball away.

  “He’ll come around,” Eveline said, sensing my discouragement. “This kind of transition requires a sort of—elasticity. The ability to bend and stretch.”

  My smile felt cynical. “And if a parent doesn’t have it either?”

  “It can be an acquired trait.”

  I gave her words some thought. Acquired implied pursued. And pursued implied wanted. “If one’s heart is in it,” I said.

  “Yes.” She nodded. “The heart needs to come first.”

  My laptop was on the dining room table. I unplugged its power cord from the wall and headed back upstairs with it. Might as well be productive as I waited for the wash to finish so I could hang Ryan’s jersey out to dry.

  I installed myself on the roof. The air was thick with pollution even at this hour. Nyall Harrington had told me that breathing in Kathmandu was like smoking a pack of cigarettes a day. As a doctor, he made it a point to get Steven and Eveline out of the city once a month for a long weekend, if only to give their lungs a reprieve from the toxic cloud that hovered over the capital. Ryan and I hadn’t left once—not for any kind of extended time—and I wondered what damage had already been done and if our lungs would recover if we ever left this place.

  I went through the usual clicks on the laptop and found a message waiting for me. I hesitated, but only briefly.

  well, ren, you’ve always been a bit of a mystery, but you threw me for a loop with this one. kathmandu? i get the husband and i get the kid (pictures please), but the third world thing is a mind twister.

  it’s strange, this reconnecting. i haven’t seen you in—how many years? but it’s like i hear you when you write. or i imagine i do. i’m having some trouble distinguishing between memory and reality. that’s the thing with cyber reunions.

  quick picture of my life. i’m single. spent a few years not single, then decided i function better solo. hurt less people that way too. my art is going strong. it actually took a bit of a breather for a while, but … well, it’s happening again. feels like a dam has burst sometimes. remember the koi pond at old man riley’s place? (most ridiculous thing i ever saw.) when the police showed up with a front loader and told him the retaining wall he’d built to redirect the stream was on the neighbor’s property? by the time he’d finished screaming bloody murder, half the neighborhood had turned up to watch the festivities. and when that front loader dug into that wall … that’s what the art thing has felt like. a furious flow. note the alliteration. it feels … invigorating. if you look on my facebook wall, you’ll see some of my stuff. i’ll send you more pics if you’d like to see them.

  your turn—enough about me. how in the H-E-double-hockey-sticks did you and your husband end up in nepal? geez, ren. every time i ask a question, a hundred more slam me. sequence seems boring, but we have to start somewhere, right? what i really want to know is how you’ve changed. who you are now. but that can come later. we’ve got nothing but time. sorta. that’s another thing i don’t know. do you have the time? or even the inclination? i guess that’s a better place to start. no hurry … i’m not going anywhere.

  I read the message again. Then another time. The cadence of his words. The quirks of his train of thought. With every sentence he wrote, I remembered more of him.

  The washer began to drain. Ryan would be up in a handful of hours and his uniform would be clean. At that moment, it didn’t seem to matter.

  Aidan—I love that you still call me “Ren” …

  Your question makes it sound so simple. “Tell me how you ended up in Nepal.” Really? Then you tell me how you became a painter. There are no quick answers. No easy ones either. The “how” that brought our family to Kathmandu would take volumes to explain. The term “journey” is cliché, but it’s the only one that really applies here.

  Nepal was a surprise. Ryan had just turned six when my husband became convinced—just convinced—that the next logical step for our family would be to raise enough funds to leave the US and move to Kathmandu. It took us awhile to sort it all out. A few more volumes needed there … We’ve been here for a little over two years of an initial four-year term. Sam wants there to be more after this one, but … I’m taking it a day at a time. Sometimes an hour at a time.

  This journey unfolded in unexpected ways. I’ve found that’s the nature of life-travel: imagine the best, plan for the safest, and brace for the jarring “otherness” you couldn’t have predicted. Otherness—disappointment or mystery? It’s all in your mind-set, Sam would say. His perspective’s the architect, and I tend to be its victim.

  I glanced back over what I’d written and took a deep breath to still the quickening in my spirit. He’d always had this effect on me—an adrenaline rush, word-fueled and art-expressed. It had begun again as I’d read Aidan’s first message, his return into my life inspiring literary risk and verbal rediscovery.

  Aidan, it’s … good … to reconnect with you. Weak word. I know you understand. You talked about Old Man Riley’s bursting dam and what you’ve been doing with your art. It feels like an apt description of this communication with you too. I haven’t written much since I’ve been here. Not fun stuff, anyway. Too much of my life is wrapped up in grading the words of others. But these e-mails? (Messages? Not clear on the Facebook terminology.) These feel like my own “bursting dam” … and I’ve only written to you—what—three times? I find myself wanting to start on those missing volumes, not one message at a time, but in the “fierce flow” you described.

  You asked too many questions. I’m sorry I couldn’t answer them all—or any of them thoroughly enough. But it’s going on 4:30 a.m. here and Ryan will be up in less than three hours, so I’ll leave this first draft untouched, though I’d love to go back and edit.

  Are you well? Are you happy? Basic question: What do you do for a living, assuming art still isn’t a money-maker? Start there … or anywhere. I want to know.

  Not sure how to sign off. Deep breath. Trust. Click send.

  I let my hand linger on my laptop’s warm surface. Indistinct emotions swirled in my mind. I wanted to explore them—I feared what I would find. So I hung Ryan’s clothes out to dry and took the laptop downstairs to charge while the electricity was still on. And then I headed back to bed.

  four

  MAY 1997

  Sam and I took the chairlift to the top of the mountain again on the day after graduation a
nd hopped off in a place transformed by spring’s arrival. The winter’s snow had melted and a wooden platform now spanned the “landing pad” that became a muddy mess by midafternoon every day, when the sun had warmed it long enough to thaw it.

  While hardcore hikers went off in the direction of paths that projected from this point into the ridges and pastures revealed by May’s milder temperatures, Sam and I wandered straight up from the lift to an outcropping that gave us a broad and unimpeded view of the Sternensee valley.

  I’d known this moment was coming. In part because of the subtle crescendo of touch and topics that had led us to this point, and in part because of the imminent end of our time at Christschule. Though I’d been hesitant at first, Sam’s persistence had proven the consistency of his intentions. I was ready for us to finally have it out—braced, for sure, but ready.

  We talked about the graduation “ceremony” that had happened just the day before, its pale imitation of pomp and circumstance laughable but sincere. We talked about what we’d learned and how we’d grown. We talked about the weather when other topics ran out, while the hardest conversation we’d likely ever had loomed, inescapable, at the end of every silence.

  Sam chewed on the stem of a weed and I said something about his Farmer Sam look. He informed me that he considered the comparison a compliment.

  “I’ll introduce you to my farmer friends when you come see me in Wyoming,” he said.

  “I’m seeing you in Wyoming?”

  He turned toward me and removed the stem from his mouth, a gesture that meant business. “You ready for this?”

  “That depends entirely on what ‘this’ is.”

  “Us.”

  My eyes tunnel-visioned onto his face. “Oh. That ‘this.’”

  “Sullivan has talked about it. The rest of the school has talked about it. Dr. Peters took me aside and asked me about it a couple days ago, but you and I still haven’t broached the subject, so …”

  “So now’s a good time.”

  He nodded and a smile deepened the laugh lines around his eyes. Though I’d known this moment would have to come before two different planes took us to two different lives in two different regions of a vast continent, I was surprised by the tension I felt gathering in my chest.

  Sam looked at me the way he usually did, with appreciation, curiosity, and enjoyment. That direct gaze that had drawn me in on the night of his arrival held no hesitation. Sam wasn’t the type to ask for permission. Not to chart his own intellectual course, not to question traditional convictions, and certainly not to speak his mind. Though the greatest decisions in my life had most often been motivated by discontent or deadlines, in Sam’s, they had been the fruit of passionate exploration and rational analysis. So while he undoubtedly approached this conversation with a well-pondered certainty, I approached it with a dubious curiosity … and enough nerves that I thought of sitting on my hands to hide their shaking.

  “I didn’t come to Austria with the intention of meeting someone like you,” Sam said.

  “But Sullivan came with the specific intention of meeting someone like you. You’ve been a tremendous disappointment.”

  “Lauren.”

  I rubbed my face and let out a sigh. “Bear with me. I’m not very good at this kind of thing.”

  He chuckled and let the silence stretch a little. Just enough to leave me wishing he’d speak. When he did, his voice had the academic tone he used for serious discourse, and I braced myself for the answer I’d have to give when his exposition was over.

  “I like certainty,” he said. It was a thesis statement. I braced for what would come next. “I can’t remember a time, even as a kid, when I didn’t have this sense that there was something extraordinary waiting for me. Around the next corner. I’ve predicated my life on this … I don’t know … on this expectancy. Like I’ve been waiting for it—whatever it is—to present itself to me. So I came to Austria wondering if this is the place where I’ll get my marching orders. If this is where God will say ‘Do this!’ and I’ll finally understand what all this has been leading up to. And yes, I’ve learned a lot, but instead of a ‘Do this!’ to set me off in a direction I’m sure of, I got … well … you.”

  I felt myself frown. “I’m sorry to be a letdown.”

  “No!” he said hurriedly. “No—that’s not what I’m saying.”

  I tried to still the voices whispering disquiet in my spirit.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, urgency and sincerity in his eyes. “This isn’t supposed to be this hard.” He took a deep breath and frowned in concentration. “I’m just going to go on, okay?” When I nodded, he did. “This—this friendship completely took me by surprise. I’ve got to admit that I’ve always prided myself in being able to skirt the usual pitfalls of places like Christschule, the attachments that distract from the real purpose of being here. Then I met you—that first night when Sullivan was so determined to serve me Ovomaltine—and I … I felt something.”

  I laughed at that. “The Great Intellect himself admitting to feeling something?”

  He laughed too. It was one of the defining traits of this relationship and perhaps the first thing that had drawn us to each other. “If anything has ever made me doubt my intellect, it’s this!”

  “Ouch.”

  He put up his hands to mitigate the sting of what he’d said. “In the sense that I’ve always been able to think my way to a conclusion, but … not in this case.” He paused and I realized I desperately wanted him to take my hand. “Not in our case.”

  I bit my lip. “Please go on.”

  He smiled at that. I smiled back. “I didn’t want this to turn into anything else,” he said, staring out. He shifted so he could face me. “I’m not saying I was right. It’s just that I’ve seen too many people with huge potential to make a difference lose track of their goals when they met someone they cared for. I don’t want to be that guy. I want my relationships to support who God made me to be—what he made me to want—not distract from it.”

  “And what have you concluded about this—about you and me?”

  “That’s the problem,” he said, shaking his head. “I haven’t concluded anything yet. And …”

  “And time’s a tickin’,” I said, imitating Sullivan. I realized that this was more than a relationship-defining conversation for Sam. It was a vision-comparing necessity.

  He hesitated. The man whose behaviors and words were the embodiment of conviction stumbled a little—just enough for me to grasp the enormity of this moment for him. “I know you love God. I’ve seen it in the way you love others, and I’ve heard it in the way you pray. The commonsense insight you bring to topics I tend to overthink is … refreshing.”

  “Refreshing, huh?”

  He smiled. “It’s good for me to see things from a different angle.”

  “That’s me. The different-angle girl. Your commonsense alternative to Sullivan’s different-planet girl.”

  “Indeed.”

  I smiled. “So … about this ‘us’ business …”

  I loved the way he chuckled. As intransigent as he was about theology and responsibility, there was something about his laughter that attested to a lighter side—a less unyielding side.

  He leaned back and focused on the clouds for a moment. “This is—hard.”

  I tried to tamp down a stirring insecurity. “What do you need to know?”

  He sighed. “Okay. Here it is. Before I can talk about anything else, before I can talk about us, I need to be sure of you. Of the reality of your faith.”

  Something that felt like indignation overtook my insecurity. As sincere as his expression was, his words sounded like doubt to me. Doubt about the authenticity of my faith or the strength of my commitment. I was a little miffed too. I’d wanted this conversation to be about how irresistible I was, and now it felt like an exam I needed to pass before we could proceed any further.

  “What are you asking exactly?”

  He must have seen a da
rkening in my expression. “Wait—I said that wrong.”

  “I’ve only known you a few months, but I’m pretty sure saying things wrong isn’t something you do.”

  “It is when I’m in completely uncharted territory.” He reached for my hand—finally—and held it firmly in both of his. “Forgive me. When things get confusing, I tend to run for the analytical high ground. It helps me keep things straight.”

  “It also makes a conversation about really personal things feel like a job interview.”

  “It’s not.” He squeezed my hand and I squeezed it back. Our gazes locked and spoke and restored trust. “Lauren—believe me. This is so much more than …” He frowned and shook his head. “Than an interview.” He brushed a stray tendril of hair from my face and I found solace in the gesture. “I’m doing this all wrong,” he said. “Can I back up for a minute?”

  I nodded. He closed his eyes and gathered his thoughts, then he began to speak again—softly and intensely, some of his concentration yielding to a more joyous recollection. He talked about the precise moments when pivotal realizations had dawned. Not just an acknowledgment of traits he liked in me, but a full appreciation of their value.

  Hope unfurled slowly in my mind.

  “I know we started out like sparring partners, but you’ve got to know how quickly that changed. Those debates were just an excuse for more time with you.”

  “You still wanted to win.”

  “But if it meant time alone with you, I didn’t mind losing as much.”

  “Keep talking.”

  He recalled the first time he’d noticed my sense of humor, the first time he’d heard me articulate an unusual spiritual truth, the first time he’d noticed my loyalty to relationships, the first time he’d wanted to hold my hand, and the first time he’d found the courage to reach for it.