Traveling with Spirits (19 page)

  Monica colors at the attention. “We wear the same size. It’s easy to remember.” How clumsy. “Yes, Beata is the kindest person I know.”

  “But you said she does have a sense of humor?” Raul asks.

  “Yes, a wicked wit. Sometimes a little corny, though.”

  “Then I look forward to the visit. You have good taste in friends.”

  “Sudha mentioned she saw you last week,” Monica moves on nimbly.

  “Yes, we noticed you in the Tibetan restaurant,” Brigid perks up.

  Monica stares into the middle distance to curb her astonishment at this new social curiosity from Mrs. Dr. Walsh.

  Clearly amused by the female curiosity, Raul intercedes, “We were eating dinner as the Walshes walked into the restaurant.” He turns to Brigid. “Sudha Badami is a teacher at the local school.”

  “We’ve met. I know Dr. Walsh is taken aback that he hasn’t been invited to lecture at her classes as you two have done.”

  She still calls him “Dr. Walsh,” like “Mr. Lincoln,” even though Raul and Monica always use people’s first names—with the exception of Father.

  “I suppose she can’t ask everyone,” Raul tries.

  Monica had been surprised when Sudha offhandedly mentioned the dinner. She said Raul wanted to discuss reading and math workshops in Manda, using her advanced students as tutors. But given how Sudha fretted over which sari to wear, Monica knew more was going on. Raul, himself, was particularly cheery last week.

  Cook, the tactful choreographer, appears with steaming vegetable
biryani
.

  Brigid bows her head. “Bless us, O Lord…and bless Mrs. Mitra. May she join the Communion of Saints before surrendering her mortal life. Amen.”

  Raul and Monica exchange glances.

  Monica has heard gossip about Brigid secretly baptizing newborns, but keeps telling herself this is preposterous. Surely she’d lose her visa. And jeopardize the whole hospital.

  Raul adds, “Please help little Gita. Amen.”

  To this Monica adds, “Amen.” She’s not confident for Gita.

  Brigid passes the steaming fragrant
biryani
. “How is the child?”

  “Holding her own,” Monica shakes her head. “We’ve ruled out malaria, cholera, typhoid and encephalitis. The fever persists and the diarrhea.”

  Raul is tired and edgy, “We tested for salmonella, schistosomiasis, as well as shigellosis.”

  They sit in silence, half-heartedly eating the delicious rice.

  “Monica stayed up all night with Gita,” Raul shakes his head.

  “I did not.”

  “I heard you return to the residence at 4:30 a.m.”

  Monica rubs her hands. “I sat with her a while, then fell asleep in the chair. Sister Catherine shooed me to bed. So you, my friend, are the night sentry?”

  “No, I had a troubled sleep. The avalanche victim. Hopeless, given his state on arrival. I can still see his terrified eyes. His brother’s anguished face.”

  “Very strange,” Brigid whispers. “Rock slides in this season. So much more likely in late May, after the melting. But you did all you could. I noticed the night before you didn’t come home yourself, until early morning.”

  “What’s this?” Monica asks. “Doesn’t anybody sleep around here?”

  “Usually I sleep like a log. Perhaps I awoke when Raul crunched on the snow outside. Winter nights are so quiet. I love the snow reflecting the brilliant moonlight.”

  “Minneapolis is like this. Not mountainous, of course. But the snow illuminated by sun and moon. I love it too.” How odd that Beata is coming in the cold season. Maybe she reasons she’s just trading one winter for another.

  They slip into separate reveries until Cook presents the tray of chai. Monica watches Raul add extra sugar.

  “Looks like an overflow clinic this afternoon,” she frets.

  “Yes,” Brigid says with satisfaction. “When we opened, we sometimes waited days for a patient to walk in.”

  “I hope we see them all. I hate asking them to walk all the way back tomorrow.”

  “We could use a few more docs,” Raul murmurs.

  She adds, “And a new surgical lamp, a stronger generator…”

  “Dr. Walsh expects some large donations. He was very effective in Chicago.”

  Raul and Monica rise in unison.

  “Thank you very much, Cook,” Monica calls into the kitchen.

  “
Muchas gracias
, chef!”

*****

  Gita rallies a bit after dinner. Sitting with the child, Monica thinks about Father Daniel’s quick response to that anxious email. Her loyal mentor and friend said she was pursuing the right tests and urged her to pray. Watching Gita’s breathing, she wonders why she ever thought she had special gifts as a doctor. Because she cares? They all care. Raul also prescribes prayer for Gita. Still, isn’t there some test they haven’t tried?

  “
Pani
,” a little voice.

  “Right here, Gita dear,” Monica answers in Hindi and holds a straw to the girl’s pale lips.

  Such a pretty child, darker than many local people, with high cheekbones and a nose that will one day be long and noble. There’s already something valiant about her. She sees the pain in Gita’s eyes and the loneliness. Also a kind of acceptance.

  Her poor mother has five other children. Eyes filled with fear, she comes at least once a day to sit with Gita.

  Gita manages, “Thank you.”

  The first English she’s heard from the child. Who knows? “Thank you” is as much an Indian phrase as an English one.

  “
Koi bat nahi
,” she concentrates on Sudha’s pronunciation of “You’re welcome.” She tries to remember the first verse of that simple Hindi lullaby she and Sudha practiced last week, “
Omana Thankal Kidavo
.” Very softly, almost in a whisper, she sings:

  “Is this sweet babe the bright crescent moon,

   or the charming flower of the lotus?

  The honey in a flower

  or the luster of the full moon?

  A pure coral gem

  or the pleasant chatter of parrots?

  A dancing peacock, or a sweet singing bird…”

  Gita extends her tiny lips to a half smile and closes her eyes.

  Monica sings the verse again and again until Gita’s breath evens out in sleep.

  Sitting back, she surveys their clinic in the dim evening light. Here at the end of the ward, among the sleeping patients, she settles into a new contentment. Yes, she’s worried about Gita. But the day has gone well. It was helpful to talk to Father Freitas about Kevin. As Father noted, the man works hard for his patients.

  Monica breathes in the almost comforting scents of disinfectant and pesticide. Despite night-muted lights, she can see Sister’s orderly desk. The sparkling instrument cart next to the door. The crucifix over the entry. Moonlight pours in the window, past the curtain, down by Mr. Singh’s bed. He’ll be recovered this week. She plans to take him up on the promise of a small bag of the sweetest winter apples from his stand.

  Gita stirs. Steady breathing returns. A dream? A nightmare? How terrifying for a child to be in hospital. Especially a hospital with white doctors.

  Gita mustn’t feel abandoned. She’ll sit up with her each night. It’s unthinkable that this child might “leave us for Heaven,” as Brigid would say. Unthinkable.

*****

  “First you boil water,” she says again. “
Then
you slip in the pasta.”

  “I never cook rice this way,” objects Sudha.

  “Rice is a different food.” She laughs.

  “Why should I trust you?” Sudha bends over the water, hands on her hips. “Murphy’s not an Italian name.”

  “Someone who’s lived in Britain should know an Irish name when she hears one.”

  “ ‘Britain’ is an English word. Scotland is a country to itself. So is Ireland. The English claim everyone by using ‘British” for Welsh, Scots and Northern Irish people.”

  “I see. You’re not a Hindu nationalist. You’re a Celtic nationalist.”

  “Less thuggish company.”

  “Depends on which Celts.”

  Monica tries not to worry about the R.S.S. They haven’t come back for months, not since a long argument with Raul at the gate.

  “Let’s return to culinary issues. How are those diced onions?”

  “All complete, see—onions, peppers, courgettes, everything sliced as per your rather peculiar instructions. Shouldn’t we start them now?”

  “Maybe the onions over a low fire. We want the vegetables
al dente.
”

  Sudha looks dubious.

   “Now didn’t I follow obediently when you taught me to prepare
porotta
?”

  “No need to be from Kerala,
porotta
is an Indian food.”

  “At this point,
pasta
is an American food.”

  Sudha smirks, attentively browning the onions.

  Monica concentrates on chopping tomatoes. Something about Sudha compels her toward perfection. It’s not at all the kind of judgment she feels from Jeanne. Rather, it’s a positive expectation. She often thinks that Sudha is rather perfect, herself: fiercely intelligent, funny, dedicated, beautiful, modest, generous.

  They sit across the candlelit table. She runs her hand over Sudha’s Ikat cloth from the
mela
, closing her eyes, savoring the almost Italian aromas. She’ll ask Beata to bring proper spices. She says a silent prayer of gratitude for Sudha’s friendship.

  Is she in awe of Sudha the way she used to idealize Beata? No, she simply admires her. Each friend is so different from her beloved mother and troubled sister. Class: they both carry the poised self-assurance of people born into the upper-middle class. And she’s enough of her own person that clear-sighted fondness for Beata has replaced idealization.

  She opens her eyes to find Sudha studying her warily.

  “Parmesan!” she declares to forestall her friend’s mind-reading. “I’ll ask Beata to bring a good chunk of Parmesan, too.”

  “This tastes good to me. You were right about the crunchy vegetables.”

  “So it’s international cuisine week. Italian tonight. Tibetan last Sunday.”

  “Yes,” she tries to sound off-hand. “Raul’s proposal for tutoring in the remote areas is quite interesting.”

  She recalls that Raul credited Sudha with the idea. “You spent the evening discussing medicine and education?”

  Sudha stammers, “W-we talked a little about our families.” She pauses apprehensively. “Don’t go presuming things, Dr. Busybody. As a feminist, I’d reckon you’re used to ordinary friendships between women and men.”

  “Of course.” Sudha can be very private. She’ll learn the details in time. In time.

  “And he started to tell me about St. Thomas. Fascinating. When the Walshes walked in, he got edgy. We left shortly afterward.”

  “Too bad.”

  “Still, I was curious, from a historical point of view. He said that Thomas came in the first century to Parthia, Kerala and then traveled to Tamil Nadu.”

  “So we’re taught.”

  “I always wondered about those Syrian churches. Not only in Kochi, but dotted all through the back waters of Kerala.”

  “They say Christians have traveled here for centuries. Alfred the Great sent Anglo Saxon envoys to the Thomas shrine at Madras in the 9th century. St. Francis Xavier visited Goa in the 1500s. Robert di Nobili preached in Madurai in the early 17th century.”

  Sudha looks a little abashed by her suddenly instructive friend.

  Monica explains. “I studied for months before I came.”

  “No wonder, then, there are so many of you people in my country.”

  “India had Christians centuries before Ireland, over a millennium before the Americas.”

  She mutters, “Just as well Dr. Sanchez didn’t get into this. With you, I can argue. But I’m not so familiar with him.”

  “Sounds as if you’re getting better acquainted.”

  “Speaking of growing acquaintances, isn’t your Ashok due next week?”

  “He’s not my Ashok,” Monica says, while noting the pleasure of hearing his name. “Yes, he’s coming up. Then we’ll take the train down together and I’ll meet Beata at the airport.”

  “Ah, that train. You have a treat in store.”

*****

  Gita’s mother weeps loudly into clenched hands.

  Walking into the busy ward, Monica imagines the worst. This is her first break from the outpatient clinic today. Sister reported at lunch that Gita’s fever was down and she allowed herself to relax. Damn. Didn’t she learn anything from Mom’s abrupt turn?

  “Mrs. Roy,” she bows. Immediately she turns to the child.

  Gita’s eyes are wide and bright, “
Namaste, ji.
”

  Relieved, Monica smiles. “
Namaste
, Gita.”

  For Mrs. Roy, she summons her budding Hindi. “What is wrong? Gita’s fever is going. That’s a wonderful sign.”

  Sister Catherine intercedes. “She wants to take her home. But she’s still short of breath, can hardly sit up.”

  Monica holds Mrs. Roy’s hands. Calmer now, the woman weeps more quietly.

  “Of course you long to have her home. We can help her more here. She’s still quite sick.”