Traveling with Spirits (22 page)

*****

  Their second day in Delhi starts with a visit to Mission House and ends with a saunter through Lodi Gardens.

  “It’s gorgeous,” Beata exclaims. “A museum and botanical garden all in one.”

  Monica takes in the graceful trees, the rolling lawns, the lake, the striking Mughal mausoleums where children play and lovers rendezvous.

  “Look at the strollers. Women in tennis shoes, wearing those beautiful long blouses and pants, what are they called?”

  “
Salwar kameezes
.”

  “Pretty as well as practical. But the tennis shoes?”

  “Exercise. They wear sandals to work, tennis for walking.” She thought Beata would like Lodi Gardens, this serene respite in the middle of one of the most vibrant, chaotic cities in the world.

*****

  Brigid invites Beata to say grace. “As a welcome to our little communion.”

  Kevin watches.

  “Yes, yes,” Father agrees enthusiastically.

  Raul looks down at his plate, something he often does when Kevin is present.

  “Bless us, O Lord, for these thy gifts, which we are about to receive. Thank you for bringing me to see my old friend and to make new ones in these beautiful mountains. Amen.”

  After the collective “Amen,” Father Freitas raises his glass. “We’ve looked forward to your visit for some time now.”

  “Thank you, Father.”

  “We know a fair amount about you,” Raul teases.

  He’s lightening up. Monica can see the effect of hanging around Sudha.

  “Even your shoe size,” he says.

  Brigid and Monica giggle. The others, including Beata, look perplexed.

  Brigid explains, “Dr. Sanchez and I were here when your lovely boots arrived.”

  Beata smiles. “I feel I know all of you. For instance,” she turns to Raul, “Monica has told me about your wonderful rural project.”

  Monica’s heart sinks.

  Kevin clears his throat.

  Never a good omen.

  “I received a letter from Mission House today,” he intones as if reading an epistle from St. Paul, “about your special project, Dr. Sanchez.”

  “I sent them a report about the first six months.”

  “So it said.”

  Suddenly winter gusts into the room.

  “Glad it arrived,” Raul nods. “You never know with the Indian postal service.”

  Walsh ignores the comment. “In future, please do me the courtesy of running your missives by me before submitting them.”

  “You’re the head doctor, but not the administrator,” Raul says stiffly. Then more guardedly, “If you’re interested I’d be happy to do that. Providing you don’t censor them.”

  “Why on earth would Dr. Walsh do that?” Brigid sits straighter.

  “We do have some disagreements about the rudiments of medical care.”

  “What might those be?” Kevin demands. “I believe in discussion, even debate. You’ve never raised this disagreement about ‘the rudiments’ before.”

  Raul hovers between exasperation and rage. “I’ve made some complaints. You refuse to protect women from unwanted pregnancies. And given the huge families…”

  Father Freitas raises his eyes toward the ceiling. Monica knows he agrees with Raul on this, but can’t contravene Vatican policy.

  Walsh reddens. “Catholic hospitals do not dispense contraceptives. Why would I give birth control to a young girl in good health? It could ruin her body.”

  “Excessive pregnancies kill women at a far greater rate.”

  “Besides,” Walsh clearly relishes certain arguments. “God has made his plans. Not every sex act leads to contraception. Why should we engineer systems to interfere with a power wiser than ourselves?” He looks to Father, who does not meet his glance. Walsh then continues, “We are not on this earth to tinker with nature.”

  Sister Eleanor excuses herself from the table.

  “Therefore we shouldn’t set Aruna’s leg when she falls?” Raul retorts. “We should let little Gita die from her fever?”

  “My friend,” Walsh pauses theatrically, “you know the difference.”

  My friend, Monica notes, bad move. Raul gets more aggravated as Walsh grows bellicose.

  “We’re here to preserve life, not to destroy it!” Walsh waves his arms. “Providing contraceptives would kill my patient’s child.”

  Beata squeezes Monica’s hand under the table.

  Raul’s left hand is shaking uncontrollably. “You might be killing her starving children while cultivating an embryo.”

  “Baby,” snaps Brigid. “Baby. The moment of conception brings us babies.”

  Monica hears so much in this voice: grief over lost infants; frantic defense of her husband’s morality.

  Everyone is bending forward, listening, arguing silently. Everyone except Father Freitas who has folded his hands and slid his chair back from the table.

  How astonishing, Monica thinks, this is the first time they’ve all spoken about these issues as a group. Issues that have troubled her long before Raj’s question, which grows more urgent for her each day.

  Raul rests his left hand on his right palm. “St. Thomas Aquinas declared that male embryos don’t have souls for forty days; for females it takes ninety days.”

  “You well know, Dr. Sanchez, as someone who studied for the priesthood…” Walsh pauses for a sip of water.

  Monica blinks at this new revelation about her ever unpredictable friend.

  Brigid intercedes. “We are forgetting our manners. Arguing in front of a guest. These important issues are best left to a staff meeting. Let’s shift the subject and tone, shall we? Beata, will you tell us about your work in Minneapolis?”

*****

  “Oh, Monica, I really blew it,” Beata whispers as they hurry through the snow to the residence. “I’m so sorry I mentioned Raul’s project.”

  She ushers Beata into the warm flat. She should have turned off the space heater during dinner, but so what, she’s trying to be less of a good girl. The heat is welcoming.

  “Let’s make tea in the kitchen and chat.”

  “You’ve built up this collegiality for ten months now and I come in like a vampy home wrecker.”

  “Vampy. The perfect word. You’re definitely high vamp.” She holds Beata’s hands. “Sweetie, don’t beat yourself up. The conversation has simmered beneath a very thin surface for months. I’m grateful we’ve begun to talk. ‘Begun’ because the discussion will continue for some time.”

  “Aunt Honey always said I had a mouth on me.”

  “Aunt Honey, oh, right, from New Orleans. Wish I had met her.”

  “Auntie would say, ‘We’ll all meet up in heaven.’”

  “One more thing to look forward to. I’m afraid St. Peter won’t appreciate my silence about condoms. We’ll never change the policy unless we talk about it.”

  “I was planning to ask how you deal with that retrograde dogma. It’s one thing to be a liberal Catholic at home; quite another to work at a Catholic hospital here.”

  Monica drops into the chair and takes a long breath of steam from the fragrant tea. “I work in limbo, between good and bad. The hospital does do a lot of good here.”

  “Clearly.”

  “But we’re falling short in all kinds of ways.”

TWENTY

December, 2001, Moorty

  Sudha and Beata stride ahead of her down the mall, laughing. Why did she worry about them getting along? They haven’t stopped talking since they met.

  Life would be perfect if Beata moved here. More realistically, Beata’s visit reminds her of life in Minnesota, a life to which she might return any month. When she made the commitment to Moorty Mission, she was under the illusion the hard decisions were over. Nothing lasts forever, as the visa office continually reminds her.

  Monica loves this route where the village rooftops are framed against distant white mountain peaks. She hears commotion as merchants make the last sales of the day. At the Tibetan residence, faded prayer flags flutter in the mild wind. Some houses in this part of town have been here since the middle Raj period, more English than Indian. A scratchy loudspeaker wails a Muslim call to prayer, followed by competing chants from Hindu and Buddhist temples. At least Catholics don’t use these loudspeakers.

  The Mayflower Hotel’s grand lobby is decked with elaborate chandeliers, red brocade upholstery, stunning Persian and Afghan rugs. Sudha was right to pick this plush Victorian hotel for Beata’s splurge night.

  “My father would love this place,” Sudha grins, ushering them into the lounge.

  Monica nurses a Kingfisher as Sudha and Beata giggle over Mango Mama daiquiris. This place is beyond special in its over the top opulence.

  “I’ve tried to get her to at least try on a sari,” Sudha says. “She’d look stunning in a green Bengali silk one.”

  “Naw, Monica isn’t interested in fashion. Believe me, I’ve tried. A shame with that great figure and gorgeous red hair. Yes, green would be perfect.”

  “Monica is right here,” she reminds them. “Monica wears green blouses and dresses.” And a green jade necklace from Eric. “But Monica doesn’t want to wear a sari. I already told Sudha, I’d feel like I were at a masquerade.”

  “You could at least try…” Beata begins.

  “Yes,” Sudha agrees. “Do you find that our friend is a wee bit serious?”

  “A wee bit.”

  “Now, I didn’t invite Beata here to join you in a teasing match.”

  “But it’s so much fun,” Sudha says.

  Mercilessly, they continue the wardrobe inventory. Then they move on to Ashok.

  “It’s an ordinary friendship,” says Monica with a note of finality. There’s no way that she’s prepared to discuss her growing feelings. Not here; not yet.

  “What does that mean?” asks Beata.

  “A term people here use for platonic relationships,” she replies.

  Beata raises her eyebrows and Sudha shakes her head in amusement.

  “I believe it’s time for our dinner reservations.” Monica stands.

*****

  How can this be Beata’s last day? Of course Monica would have a late afternoon emergency. The visit has raced by. Will she remember it next week?

  Quickly, she changes clothes, determined to look stylish tonight when she meets her two friends at Sudha’s. The blue dress should do it. And the purple shawl. It’s true, she doesn’t have much flair. Maybe it’s a class thing. Mom always looked like an Irish housewife, even when she worked in the insurance office. Clean and neat was her motto. All those years of Catholic school uniforms left Monica clueless about dress. At the U, most girls wore jeans and t-shirts or sweatshirts. So she’s not a Vogue model; she’s still not as dowdy as Laurel and Hardy are making out.

  Sudha ushers her in from the cold, takes her coat, offers her a drink.

  “Beata’s in the kitchen. Chicken gumbo tonight, well, a Moorty version, with Indian spices.” She sets out a wooden bowl of salted lentils.

  “Beata’s chicken gumbo! We’re in for a treat.”

  “I know.” She grins, offering a glass of beer.

  “Thanks, I can use this.”

  “Tell me about the emergency. Workers at a building site?”

  “Two slipped off the bamboo scaffolding. One fractured an arm. The other, poor man, broke both legs.”

  “Ow.”

  “They’ll be fine. The leg guy is in for a long rest, but the breaks were clean.”

  “Lucky for him you were there. It’s thirty miles to the nearest government clinic. Rough with two broken legs.”

  Monica nods, gratified by the acknowledgment.

  “Do I hear someone I know out there?” Beata calls from the kitchen.

  Monica notices that Beata’s voice takes on a Louisiana softness, as it always does when she cooks “home style.”

  “Yes,” Sudha calls. “Come see her, all kitted out for our fashionista evening.”

  Beata appears, resplendent in a crimson sari.

  Monica gasps.

  Sudha and Beata are beaming.

  “Gorgeous! It doesn’t look like a masquerade costume on you.”

  Beata glows. “Getting dressed was a trip. Now, it feels perfectly natural. Something I don’t want to take off.”

  “I knew you guys would get along famously, such refined, determined women. How does poor little mousey Monica fit in?” she teases.

  “Mousey Monica,” Sudha rises to the occasion. “The brilliant doctor who launches preventive health care systems, sets broken bones, conducts emergency surgeries. Mousey—isn’t that the perfect word? By the way, you look super in blue.”

  “You may not be mousey,” Beata says with mock impatience, “but you are a little tardy and my chicken is going to fall off the bone if we don’t sit down.”

  Monica recognizes Sudha’s block print table cloth from the
mela
. How many of these did she buy? The table looks lovely with candles and Sudha’s best dishes.

  Beata emerges from the kitchen gingerly carrying the pot well in front of her. “I’m terrified of spilling on Sudha’s splendid silk.”

  “As I said, the sari is yours. It was meant for you. Suits you so much better!”

  “No, I couldn’t.”

  “This smells delicious.” Monica realizes how famished she is.

  “New Orleans comes to the Himalayas!” Beata is radiant.

  Monica says a short, silent grace, then digs in.

  For several minutes, they eat ravenously.

  Sudha takes a sip of water. “Why don’t you stay, Beata?”

  “Pardon?”

  Monica feels an odd mix of alarm, jealousy, excitement.

  “Why don’t you stay a while? You’re so fascinated by the intersections of Buddhism and Catholicism. Moorty would be the perfect place to study, to meditate. And your work would be useful here. People deny the alcoholism, but I see it affect our families every day. Perhaps you could join the hospital in some capacity?”

  Sudha’s come a long way, Monica marvels, now enlisting for the Mission.

  “How I’d adore your company. To be reunited with my old friend and to get to know my new friend. But I miss James. And I’m more timid than you two. You’re searching, courageous women.”

  Monica’s heart sinks. It was ridiculous to hope.

  “Oh, come now,” Sudha scolds.

  “As much as I’ve fallen in love with Moorty and as much as I complain that the Twin Cities aren’t New Orleans, I’m settled there. You both are strong and brave enough to leave home, to start new lives. No wonder you’ve become fast, close friends.”

  “We’re all friends now,” Monica declares. “All of us.”

TWENTY-ONE

December, 2001, Moorty

  Suddenly, she’s gone. Monica resists sadness. Beata is not lost to her the way Mom is, in the way Jeanne might be. Beata will always be her friend. She’ll see her in Minnesota. And Beata will return here. Missing is different from grieving; this longing is threaded with a spine of faith.

  Days return to normal. Not quite. She, herself, feels more confident of her place here. And the dinner quarrel between Raul and Kevin echoes in her mind. At night, she’s taken to pacing her flat, playing the arguments over and over.

  The phone rings tonight during her restless walking.

  “Oh, hello, Ashok.” He’s already called this week so she’s surprised. “Is everything OK?”

  “I just imagined you could feel, well with your friend leaving, a little lonely.”

  “How thoughtful.” Her stomach somersaults at the intimacy. “I’m doing fine, thanks.”

  “You don’t sound fine.”

  He finds his way to the topic of Kevin and Raul.

  “No, I’ve vowed to myself not to talk with outsiders about this.”

  “I’m an outsider?”

  “Of course not, I just mean…”

  “Maybe if you told me what’s bothering you, you could let it go.”

  “You’ve morphed into my confessor?”

  “Try friend.”

  She releases a long sigh, repeating the argument over condoms and contraception.

  “This is important. Why didn’t you mention it?” He’s clearly hurt.

  “I’ve been praying about my own conflicts.” 

  “And those are?”

  “We could do so much good with condoms and birth control. But a Catholic hospital can’t offer them. Otherwise we do help many people: accident victims; patients suffering from a huge variety of gastro-intestinal diseases,” she goes on hectically.

  He listens.

  She can almost see his serious eyes when she says, “I thought I knew what I was getting into, but there’s a difference between anticipating contradictions and living with them every day, facing women who don’t want a sixth pregnancy, people of all ages contracting HIV and knowing we could have prevented…”

  “Have you talked to your actual confessor about this? The Father you rave about?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “From what you say, he’s a man of the world. From Goa, for heaven’s sake. He must have experienced the same contradictions as you.”

  She shrugs. He’s right of course. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Good.”

  “Enough about me.” She’s calmer just for airing the worries. “How was the rest of the week at school?”

  “Fine,” he allows. “Every student passed the quiz.”

  “You’re a good teacher, Ashok.”

  His voice turns abrupt, almost curt. “Listen, I want to suggest something.”

  “Yes?” She’s pacing again, puzzled by her sudden nervousness.

  “I was just invited to the Institute next month. I’m speaking on a Thursday.”

  “Yes,” she says, reluctant to admit—or betray—enthusiasm.

  “Since I’ll be in your neighborhood, I could drop by Moorty for the weekend. That is, if you can cope with visits two months in a row.”

  “Yes, of course.” She’s thrilled, but should play it cool. “Everyone will be glad to see you, Sudha and Raul. And you’ll get to meet Father Freitas.”

  “Everyone, oh good,” he’s more subdued. “I’ll book the ticket. Perhaps we can attend another edifying cultural event at the Playhouse.”

  “Tell me truthfully,” she’s feeling giddy. “Didn’t you find the theatre charming?”

  “Charming might be going a bit far. But quaint, yes, quaint.”

*****

  “Welcome, to my cave,” Father Freitas ushers her into his sparsely furnished office.

  Three chairs and a small wooden desk. A crucifix hangs over the doorway. The concrete floor is warmed by a small Kashmiri rug. His bookcase is the only spot of indulgence, overflowing with novels, poetry, history and books on theology in English, Portuguese, Konkani and Hindi.

  She takes a long breath and tries to discharge her anxiety, then relates the conversation with Ashok.

  He listens intently, as if she were the only thing in the world that matters.

  She longs to develop this kind of deep concentration. Yes, she does focus on her patients, but part of her is always worried about the next injury or illness.

  After she finishes unburdening herself, he waits a few beats.

  “I could say so many familiar things,” he starts. “I, too, have differences of conscience with Vatican teaching on these issues.”

  She sees the pain in his eyes.

  He exhales audibly. “You must listen to your heart. Many good Catholics oppose the Church’s ban on condoms.”

  “But they don’t work at Mission hospitals.”

  “Most of them, no.”

  She sits straighter, realizing Raul is probably dispensing prophylactics in Manda. How has she been so naïve? Ah, she’s not here to talk about Raul.

  “Monica, you’ve come with a theological and ethical quandary, yet, well, I wonder if your sleeplessness and distraction might have additional roots?”

  “Such as?” She’s taken aback.

  “I’ve had the gift of knowing you for almost a year. I’ve come to admire Monica’s ability to place herself where she is ‘not Monica,’ or to reinvent herself to the situation. Admirable. And tiring.”

  She’s not sure she wants him to proceed.

  “From what I know of your childhood, you leapt across social classes to become a physician and succeeded marvelously at that.”

  “To a degree.”

  “To a great degree,” he corrects. “You’ve adapted beautifully here, learning Hindi, making Indian friends who trust you and, dare I say, love you.”

  This is not what she came to talk about.

  “Perhaps you could be more accepting and come to like Monica, yourself.”