“I’m fine, Sam. Just … just a little tired.”
Sam went upstairs as I sank onto the bottom step. I heard him stop outside Ryan’s room and knock, then try the doorknob. “Can you open the door?”
“I’m doing homework.”
I could almost feel Sam’s frustration pouring down the stairs to where I sat. I heard the hiss of his breath being released. “We’re going to talk about this, son. This behavior is not okay. Not in this home. So when your mother and I get back from Nagarkot, you’d better be prepared to tell me what’s going on. You hear me?” There was no sound from Ryan’s bedroom. “You hear me, Ryan?”
“Okay!” It was an exasperated agreement. But it ended a conversation whose continuation I dreaded.
When Sam tried to raise the topic of our son as we were getting ready for bed that night, I asked him if we could wait until Sunday evening to discuss it. I told him I needed the time to pray for guidance and shrank away from the guilt that followed my excuse. What I wanted was to go back and undo the myriad decisions and misguided actions that had brought our family to its knees. What I wanted was a life in which covenants were buoyed with freedom, not anchored to servitude. What I wanted was a way out.
I knew there was none.
The first boom of thunder shook the foundations of the city around three, just as I was zipping our suitcase shut. I didn’t want to go. I worried that something would happen to Aidan while I was out of touch or that he’d have another hard day and not be able to reach me. As far as I was from him, the Internet brought us closer, and the thought of being disconnected was a nearly physical ache.
But Sam wanted us to get away. He thought we needed the time alone, and in those moments when I was able to think straight, I acknowledged how right he was. He’d come home because of a “sense” that it was where he needed to be, probably hoping the surprise itself would spark some life into the listlessness of our relationship. But his homecoming had been a taxing thing—our conversations hampered by foreignness.
If Sam felt it too, he didn’t let on. As flagrant as the deterioration of our communication seemed to me, he appeared as calm and focused as he’d always been. Only his unexpected return spoke of a disquiet he hadn’t yet stated in so many words. I suspected he was hoping our time in the mountains would allow us to connect in an undistracted way. Part of me welcomed the effort and expense. The other resented it.
The greatest silver lining of our time away was entirely selfish. I’d researched Nagarkot online—a popular mountaintop town where classy hotels housed tourists in search of Himalayan sunrises. Sam had told me nothing about the arrangements he’d made, and though I knew he wanted our time together to be the highlight of the trip, the anticipation of taking a long, hot shower in a real hotel far surpassed togetherness in my mind. I packed my shaving gel, razor, and all those items I’d seldom used because our bathroom at home was so utilitarian and our warm water so limited.
I logged on a few minutes before Sam was due home. Aidan knew about my plans for the weekend, but I wanted to say good-bye before we left. There was a short note waiting for me.
insurance came through. funding granted. huge relief. and in the midst of all the wrangling, an impulse i couldn’t resist. it hijacked my best intentions of getting solid rest before monday’s scalpel. just a charcoal sketch with some watercolors slapped on … in case i run out of life before i get the chance to do it in oil. i think it’s called ‘if.’ and i think it articulates ‘this’: you and me and everything that entails.
my mom asked me yesterday how i’m keeping it together. i told her i’m not, a lot of the time. but when i am … i think it’s you.
’night, ren.
I opened the attachment and sat transfixed.
There were three sketches on the screen, each one a portion of the bench outside my parents’ house where Aidan and I had spoken on the eve of our graduation. Put together, they displayed the full width of the bench, shining white against a cushioning darkness. The outer pieces of the triptych had been colorized with watercolors. The center one was a smudged black-and-white. In the far left portion, the bench was barely visible where two bodies, only a narrow portion visible from thigh to chin, pressed close together, were locked in a kiss. In the central piece, the bench seemed abandoned, littered with fallen leaves and small branches. Its paint cracked and peeling. And in the third, the leaves and branches remained and two figures stood behind the bench. He faced front and she was turned toward him. His hand and hers were so close on the backrest that their fingers overlapped. The contrast of black-and-white in the three paintings was stunning. Aidan’s use of watercolor to lend depth to the pieces on each end was rich and meaningful.
I absorbed the visual representation of our journey and felt its warmth spreading from my chest into my limbs.
I’m so glad I logged on. Aidan … it’s stunning. I’m sorry it cost you sleep, but the result is breathtaking. Such a succinct and profound expression of who we’ve been. I think you should rename it “Still.” Thank you, thank you, thank you for painting it.
My bags are packed and we’ll be heading out in a few minutes, but I couldn’t leave without saying a quick good-bye. We’re leaving my laptop here, so unless the hotel has a public computer with Internet access … But you’ll never be far from my mind. You know that, right? You haven’t been since reconnection.
I’ll write again in a couple days, if not before. Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone …
I’d assumed that we’d take a taxi the forty kilometers from Kathmandu to Nagarkot, perhaps forgetting for a moment who I’d married. Instead we took a rickshaw to a downtown street corner, where we boarded an Ashok Leyland bus and got on our way, winding through fields and villages as we left the pollution of Kathmandu behind.
The bus was made to seat twenty-four, but by the time we began our ascent into the mountain, standing passengers had filled the aisle and hung out the door by handrails. Several more had climbed to the top of the bus, one of them carrying a goat, and I could hear them talking casually as we lurched our way around blind hairpins. I looked out the window as rice paddies yielded to pine forests, averting my eyes when we seemed to hang over the precipice and squeezed past vehicles coming the other way.
The bus belched black smoke when our driver shifted gears. The road got steeper. The space between houses became wider and the air seemed to clear. After a couple incidents that felt to me like close calls, I focused my imagination on the hotel waiting at the top—its clean, well-furnished bedroom and Western-style bath.
The bus stopped with a screech of brakes and I stepped off eagerly, taking in the landscape of terraced mountainsides and the weaving roads that connected them. The town was small and modest, its Western hotels a bit farther up the road. Rustic restaurants lined its main artery, while unpaved roads ran farther into the hills.
Sam asked for directions at a roadside bar, where a large cutout of “Bryan Adams, Live in Nepal” seemed incongruous. While most of the other foreigners seemed to be following the main street through town, Sam and I jogged left onto a smaller, unpaved road. He carried the one bag we’d packed for the trip and walked quickly and effortlessly despite the seven-thousand-foot altitude. As I followed, I took in the sights of the mountaintop burg where local poverty coexisted with foreign wealth: a boarded-up schoolhouse, a dairy store where farmers dumped fresh milk into large cisterns, a small temple whose mud and bamboo walls seemed to have succumbed to the elements. And everywhere, Nepali people, their skin leathered by exposure, their clothing colorful and bold. Their expressions were arresting—introspective and calm.
The smooth dirt path turned rutted and rocky.
“You sure we’re going the right way?”
“Just up ahead,” Sam said, his breathing barely labored. Mine was coming in short gasps, the altitude wreaking havoc on my stamina. But I trudged on, motivated by the comforts waiting when we got there.
“Here it is,” Sam said. I look
ed up at the orange and brown building he was facing. It stood just off the road, where construction crews worked to replace large drainage pipes.
“This?”
Sam double-checked the paper he’d printed off before leaving home.
“Yep!” And he stepped inside.
The hotel of my dreams was actually a modest hostel that catered to hikers. The German owner led us up three flights of stairs to a long hallway and motioned to a room on the right. “Dinner served anytime after six,” he said in a robust accent.
I tried to lower my expectations as Sam led us through the door, but I was still disappointed. Our room was small—bare walls, hard mattress twin beds, and a set of windows that overlooked the valley. Sam saw my expression. “This isn’t too bad.”
I pushed the door to the bathroom open and felt my expectations deflate. It had a sink and a toilet—but the shower was just a small hose protruding from the tiled wall right above shoulder level. I could sit on the toilet and wash my hair under the trickle of water it produced. There was a yellowed, handwritten sign that warned guests not to drink the water. Not for the first time, I cursed myself for letting my hopes get in the way of reality. I’d invented a weekend that would feed me in the small and meaningless ways I craved, and real life had dealt me something infinitely less idyllic.
The disappointment sapped what little enthusiasm I’d been able to muster, leaving me feeling bereft. When Sam said, “Great place for a getaway” in his usual, content way, all I could muster was a small smile and a nod. I pulled the thin, faded curtains back from the window and looked out over the valley to where the Himalayas should have been. A thick bank of clouds obscured the horizon.
Sam’s arms came around me from behind as his chin settled on my shoulder. We stood looking out the window together. I knew what would come next and wished I could cover his arms where they crossed on my stomach with eager hands, then turn into his strength for the kiss he’d been saving for this moment. I wanted to want him. But his touch felt impersonal and formal.
Afflicted and reluctant, I turned into his embrace.
“Do you remember Aidan?” I asked as we sat on a parapet overlooking the Himalayas, a statue of Sri Chinmoy in the alcove at our feet.
I’d realized at some point during the night that the “right time” to broach the subject of Aidan was just another figment of my imagination. I’d already waited too long. There would be no moment in the near or distant future when telling Sam about our communication would be a comfortable thing, so the sunrise in Nagarkot had seemed as bad a time as any.
Sam seemed to search his memory after I asked the question. “The guy from home?”
I nodded. “The artist. Remember?”
“I do. He wanted you to run off with him before your graduation, right?”
“He’s dying of cancer.” Every time I said the words, they felt more damning.
Sam’s eyes were on me. “Okay.”
I tried to school my expression into something sincere and guilt-free. “He found me on Facebook a few weeks ago.”
“You’re on Facebook?”
“Sullivan talked me into it.”
“Okay.” He was trying to hear me out.
“I just wanted you to know that we’re communicating. It didn’t seem right that you weren’t aware of it.”
“On Facebook.”
I looked directly into his eyes, wanting to defuse any notion he might have that I wasn’t being honest. “Messaging, yes. And Skype,” I said. “We talked on Skype one time while you were gone.”
He nodded and gazed out as the last hues of sunrise escaped what was visible of the mountain peaks. “What kind of cancer?”
“Brain.” Something caught in my throat and I raised a hand to quell it. I swallowed hard and took a deep breath, willing myself to be emotionless and calm. “Advanced stages. It could be a matter of weeks.” Sam said nothing, so I went on. “I hadn’t heard from him since we graduated high school, and all of a sudden he wrote to tell me he was sick and … I had to write him back, Sam. He doesn’t really have anyone.”
“Where is he?”
“Pennsylvania. Near his parents.”
“Married?”
“Not anymore.”
“And you’ve been back in touch for … ?”
“A few weeks.”
Silence stretched and tightened. A group of Japanese tourists chattered by. I watched a hawk soar high above the terraced mountainsides and hang immobile on an updraft.
“Are you in love with him?”
The question jolted me. “Sam, why would you ask that?”
He looked at me again. “Because it took you this long to tell me about him.”
“You haven’t been home very much.”
“I’ve been home enough for a conversation.”
“I didn’t want to bother you … and I wasn’t sure it was important.”
“But now you are?”
“I … Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re my husband and Aidan and I are still talking, and if he gets any worse … I just want you to know.”
“Or maybe you’re afraid I’d find out on my own.”
“Sam—stop acting like you’ve caught me doing something illicit.”
“What if I came to you saying that I’d found an old girlfriend and had been talking to her online? You might have some qualms too.”
I wanted to tell him that Aidan was more than an old boyfriend. That he had been a part of me long before Sam and I had met in Austria. That he held places in my life that no one else could possibly fill. All true. All susceptible of validating Sam’s suspicions.
“You’re right,” I said calmly, my self-control straining. “I probably would.” I straightened and reached for courage. “So what do you want to know? Ask any question you have.”
He let out a long, loud breath and trained his eyes on the mountain peaks barely visible through the patches of thick clouds covering the Himalayas. “What do you talk about with him?”
“His art—he’s still painting. His disease. Death.”
Sam bent a leg and turned on the parapet so he could face me. I did the same, wanting my explanations to be sufficient. “How often do you communicate?”
“Probably every day.”
Surprise. “That seems like a lot.”
“Not when you consider that every day could be his last.”
I watched Sam absorb the comment and mull it over. “You’ve been different,” he finally said.
That took me aback. “I have?”
He nodded.
“I’m surprised you noticed.”
“So,” he asked again, his expression more analytical than concerned, “are you in love with him?”
“Sam.” Annoyance lent an edge to my voice. “Stop asking that.”
He looked down and sat in silence for a moment. “I don’t want to be suspicious,” he finally said. “If you tell me you’re not …”
“It’s not like we’re having—”
“Just tell me. Are you …” He shook his head a little, as if to clear his thoughts. I’d seldom seen him so cautious before. “Are you emotionally involved with him?” He looked right at me and I saw sincerity in his gaze. So very Sam. He expected the same from me.
Shame stunned me. I knew. Though I longed to assert—loud and clear—that our relationship was harmless, the truth was in the twinges of unease, the stirrings of guilt I’d quelled in recent days. It breathed in the pulsing space Aidan inhabited in my mind. In my consciousness. In my perspective and desires. He’d entered so subtly, so naturally and quickly, that I had barely noticed. And he was anchored there now.
But there was no place in this moment for remorse. I lacked the energy and courage it required. Aidan would be dead soon. And none of this would matter anymore.
I attempted a half truth. “He’s someone I cared for. And I’m concerned about him. I think I’m grieving for him too. And I just—if communica
ting with me helps him to—to approach death with less … I don’t know. He was—he is a big part of my childhood. Surely, you can understand that.”
In Sam’s place, I knew I would have distrusted my words. They were too jagged to be entirely sincere.
“Sullivan’s tickets,” he said. “Is Aidan why you were so determined to accept them?”
I hadn’t expected him to make that connection. I chided myself for the lapse. “It might have been part of it. There was a lot more to it than Aidan—I explained that to you—but …” I expelled a long breath. “Yes, it definitely made me want it more.”
“Okay.”
There was one more issue I had to address. “Ryan overheard the end of a conversation a few days ago. I think he … I think he jumped to conclusions.”
“About you and Aidan.”
“And the nature of our friendship, yes. I tried to explain it to him, but …”
He nodded. “That’s why he’s been so angry.”
“Angrier. I can’t remember a time in the past couple of years when he hasn’t been some degree of angry.”
Silence stretched thin.
“Why didn’t you tell me that’s why he’s been acting out?”
“Because I needed to tell you about Aidan first.”
Something unsure fell over his features. I could see him fighting it, committing his extraordinary intelligence to making sense of my revelations. I gave him time, the one commodity I most wanted to preserve.
After a few moments, he drew in a breath and examined my face, perhaps looking for something contradictory or conclusive. He stared so long that I wanted to look away, but I summoned enough self-control to keep my eyes locked on his. “Okay,” he finally said.
I was startled. “Okay?”
He got up and extended a hand to me. I took it and let him pull me to my feet.
“Sam—if you have any questions …”
“I trust you,” he said, twining his fingers with mine as we started back toward our hotel. “Let’s get some breakfast.”
“So …” His long strides kept him just a bit ahead of me. I pulled on his arm to slow him down and he stopped to look at me. “We’re okay?” I asked.
Of Stillness and Storm Page 24
