Traveling with Spirits (28 page)

  She shrugs.

  “Are you angry with him?”

  “Why would I be angry?” she flares. Startled by her intensity, she adds quietly, “What makes you say that?”

  “You feel this groundless guilt about Marie’s death. Maybe you think he was some kind of accomplice?”

  “Thank you, Dr. Johnson, for your shattering insight.”

  Beata sits back. “Sorry, that was intrusive.”

  Monica can’t hold back the tears. “No, you’ve been wonderful, Beata. Eric, yes, in some twisted way, I may hold him complicit in that awful weekend. I feel so ashamed.”

  “There was nothing shameful about it.”

  “Then why do I feel so god-damned guilty?”

  “Because it’s easier than feeling other things?”

  “Like torment about not saying good-bye to Mom.” She pounds the arm of the couch. “Like rage at Jeanne.”

  Beata joins Monica on the couch, slips an arm around her shoulder. “Maybe, yes.”

  “And betrayal. I failed utterly in the last, most important time. I abandoned her, like Dad. I feel so alone. I’m grateful for your friendship. And for Eric. I truly wish I knew how to take him back into my life.”

  “You could start by answering one of his calls, just talking.”

  “I don’t think I can risk it, the disappointment. Deep down, I feel all alone now. So alone.”

  “Monica, there’s something I’ve been wanting to mention.”

  She looks up, wiping the tears with the back of her hand.

  “Now don’t get upset.”

  “A shopping expedition?” Monica aims for a change in tone. “Another big shoe sale?”

  “Metaphorically speaking,” Beata studies her. “Shopping for equanimity.”

  Monica adroitly extricates herself from Beata’s embrace. Yet she knows she’ll acquiesce. There’s no choice.

  “A retreat but not what you think. This is ecumenical: Buddhist and Catholic, considering the Paramitas from different spiritual traditions—at St. Ursula’s in a few weeks. Fall is stunning out there. We could take walks. You could attend as few sessions as you liked.”

*****

  Most days are slow, ponderous. One early Friday morning, before anyone arrives, she reviews patient notes. It takes a while to settle in, the grief counselor says. Monica has given the same advice to her own patients. Even after years in Medicine, watching people die, helping people die, it’s completely unbelievable that her mother is gone.

  A rap on the door. “Monica, are you there?” A woman’s voice.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s me, Jill.” A pause. “May I speak with you?”

  Cautiously, Monica opens to the door.

  Jill holds out a book. “This was really helpful when my dad died. I hope I’m not intruding.”

  “No,” she says, suddenly aware of her defensive posture. “Would you like to come in?”

  “For a moment,” Jill says. “I have to be at the station by eight. But I didn’t get to speak with you after your mother’s Mass.”

  “Thank you for coming.” She is chastened.

  “I hope you are taking care of yourself. I’m doing a series on family leave this month. Paternity, caretaker, grief. Have you caught any of the spots?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Compassionate leave is an important preventive measure. And if you need more time, I’ll talk with Louise.”

  “Thank you. Really, thanks.” She can’t think of anything she’d like less than Jill appealing to Louise or being the poster child for her radio show. She should be grateful. The woman is trying to help. Like so many people. Eric urges her to come up to the Boundary Waters. The grief counselor invites her to join a group. Mrs. Wilson calls every week, offering a home-cooked meal.

  “It’s the least I can do.” Jill takes her hand.

  “Actually, Jill, work is the best therapy for me. Thanks so much for coming by. And for the book.”

  Jill touches Monica’s arm. “Just let me know.” She closes the door softly behind her.

  Head on her desk, Monica sobs in dry heaves.

*****

  The room is almost monastic, well, cheery monastic. A single bed and a small sink. A bathroom shared with the neighboring cell. Straight back chair with a small desk facing French doors which open out to a woods of oak and maple. She thinks about Carol Fitzpatrick and the certainty of their youth.

  Monica unpacks and pulls out a map of local hiking trails.

  The opening evening, Beata has promised, will be light on ritual.

*****

  She sits beside Beata and watches the speakers appear. The round, sixtyish woman named Mary Arneson, is a Buddhist teacher. The priest from Pondicherry, Father Sanjay Daniel, is as thin as his colleague is round and as dark as she is fair. Perfect Minnesota nod to diversity, she thinks sardonically, checking out the audience, mostly white, save for Beata and a Southeast Asian man near the back.

  Beata pats her hand encouragingly.

  Pay attention, Monica. Don’t waste the entire weekend stewing in suspicion.

  Mary Arneson introduces each of the Paramitas: Generosity. Morality. Renunciation. Wisdom. Energy. Patience. Truthfulness. Determination. Lovingkindness. Equanimity. Her long dark hair falls to the shoulders of a shapeless blue dress, a tent capacious enough to contain all these virtues and more.

  Father Daniel explains that they’ll review five Paramitas on Saturday and five on Sunday. Each afternoon there will be a general discussion. Monica likes his informal authority and openness.

  “A room at the south end of the building is always open for silent meditation.” He tugs absently at his clerical collar. “Curiosity. Dispute. Enthusiasm. Skepticism. All attitudes are embraced here.”

*****

  She follows Beata in the cafeteria line and they snag places at a corner table. She prefers a personal chat to a “getting to know you” chat with five unknown seekers.

  Dusk huddles in. Autumn days are growing shorter. Orange and red leaves glow in the last light.

  “May I join you?” A high-pitched, familiar voice.

  Monica’s heart sinks at the thought of being trapped in “community.”

  “Certainly, Father,” Beata answers for them. “Please sit down.”

  She recovers. “Yes, welcome, Father.”

  “I’m eager to meet Americans on their home turf, as it were,” he speaks with British-inflected English. The crisp lyrical accent Monica enjoyed this afternoon.

  “You’ve never met Americans before?” Beata inquires.

  That’s it. Let Beata handle him: she loves priests. Monica can zone out. Maybe excuse herself early and read in the room.

  “Oh, I know Americans in India,” he smiles. “Several work in our medical mission.”

  “Medical mission?” Monica asks.

  Suddenly, they’re the only ones left in the cafeteria. Beata sips her tea and watches happily as they chat.

  “You know a fair amount about India,” Father Daniel is pleased.

  “Not really. A grade school project. Close Indian friends from med school. And I devour novels from South Asia.”

  Beata stretches, “If you’ll both excuse me, I should prepare for bed. I understand tomorrow is a big retreat day.”

  Father Daniel throws up his hands. “Apologies for monopolizing your evening. I didn’t expect to find another doctor here and someone like you, Beata, so well-versed in public health questions. Thank you for a most enlightening conversation.” He bows and departs.

  Monica studies his light tread, head bobbing from side to side. She checks her watch. “Oh, shit, I had no idea.”

  Beata is grinning. “Retreats are like this. Time flows. Flies. Floats.”

  “Come on. We were talking about ideas, not—”

  “Not what? You didn’t expect to think on a retreat?”

  Monica yawns. She doesn’t know what to expect. She does know she’s not going to win this round with Beata.

  At sunrise, Monica rambles in the woods. She loves early October when the colors are most vibrant and cool mornings lead to warm afternoons. Light is sharp and bright. If only this lasted longer, if only…

  She finds a seat at the back of the hall, on the aisle: her customary location, a position for slipping in and out unnoticed.

  Mary Arneson speaks simply and clearly, about the Buddhist concept of generosity, the habit of sharing, of letting go of need. Her dark hair is pulled back in a silver barrette. She’s persuasive because of her indifference to persuasion.

  Father Daniel exhibits the same disregard for conversion. He provides colorful examples from the New Testament of Christ’s generous nature, about the satisfaction of being a good neighbor, about the manifestation of joy through giving.

  All sensible, straightforward concepts. None of it seems religious at all. Fervent young Carol Fitzpatrick would be very disappointed as would her pious friend Monica. She’s not sure how the current Monica feels about…anything.

  She ducks out before the session on “Renunciation.” A useful topic, but she’s too fragile with guilt and shame. She showers and lies down for a few minutes.

  Wakening an hour later, she gapes at the clock. She hasn’t napped since childhood. She holds her forehead, but finds no fever. Actually, she feels invigorated.

  The second day passes swiftly. Mary’s talk about Lovingkindness feels like a testament to Mom. There are degrees of virtue Monica knows she’ll never achieve. She does agree with much of what Mary and Father say about patience, truthfulness, determination, but she’s irritated by their enthusiasm. Their spiritual gusto.

  The afternoon is intense with eager people testifying about their successes and failures with equanimity.

  Monica likes the other participants, although some are rather earnest. She glances out the window at an orange maple.

  Then she finds her hand in the air.

  “Yes, Monica,” Mary calls on her.

  “Equanimity is the one I have the most trouble with.”

  Father Daniel regards her playfully. “Why do you think we left it for last?”

  She persists, “This accepting—surely some things aren’t acceptable. Many of the most vocal anti-war activists are Buddhists and Catholics.”

  Mary mulls this over. “We work for social justice and to assuage pain when we can, but sometimes—”

  “That’s it,” she interrupts. “How can God or ‘the Spirit’ allow war? How can you believe in a power so unfair, cruel?” She hears Jeanne’s voice. Finally, an accord.

  “A fascinating challenge, Monica,” Father Daniel acknowledges. “Tell us what you mean by fair and unfair.”

  A bell rings.

  End of session. They often end like this, on a question. Monica doesn’t know if she’s more relieved or aggravated.

  The final ritual is inclusive and brief. She doesn’t pay much attention, still chewing on the question. She does feel respect for the retreat leaders and gratitude the weekend didn’t turn to be sanctimonious or woo-woo.

  Beata hums as they pack for the car. Monica is still brooding about unfairness.

  “Monica!” someone calls.

  Father Daniel rushes toward them, breathless, holding a small white card.

  “Oh, Father, we were coming back to say good-bye.”

  “I trust you found the weekend…” he regards her mischievously and pauses as if wishing her to finish the sentence.

  What does he want to hear? Instructive, inspirational, useful? Honesty, she tells herself and out spills, “Provocative.”

  “Precisely,” he declares. “I, too. Please take my email address.”

  She smiles in surprise.

  “We do have email in India. In fact, we are a nation known for our techies.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Minnesota isn’t far from Tamil Nadu when you connect electronically.”

  She hands him a business card. “It would be fun to hear from you.”

  They drive back to the Cities in silence.

  As Beata takes the exit for 35 W, Monica says, “Your powers are unpredictable.”

  “Yes?”

  “Of all the outcomes I might have anticipated, I never thought I’d wind up with a priest as a pen pal.”

  “Don’t forget, he’s invited you for haute cuisine in Pondicherry.”

  “Right,” Monica says as they pull up to her apartment. “I’ll book a flight next week. And be sure to send you post cards.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

October, 1999-August, 2000, Minnesota

  It’s a symphonic autumn morning, Monica thinks, the crisp edge of cold. On the lawns of grand lakefront houses, Japanese maples pulse fiery red. The lofty gingko in Adam’s yard is sheer gold now, on the cusp of dropping leaves. She loves the Sunday morning walk around Lake Calhoun, watching joggers, bicyclists and skaters. And people strolling in jeans or Sunday dresses. Since Holy Spirit parish is directly across the lake from her, she has a chance to think over the sermon. This brisk late October day feels ripe with unfamiliar contentment.

  The phone is ringing when she opens the door. Monica runs up the stairs and is breathless as she lifts the receiver. “Hello.”

  “In the middle of calisthenics or something?” Her dear, deadpan sister.

  “No,” she pants, surprised that she didn’t screen the call. “I ran upstairs.”

  “Oh, hanging out with your friend Beata at the Coffee Shack?”

  “I’m coming back from Mass,” she says without thinking.

  “Church?” she exclaims. “You’ve gone over to the dark side looking for Mom?”

  Settling by the window, she drinks in the late autumn colors. “This isn’t about Mom,” she murmurs. Charity, she reminds herself, lovingkindness.

  “You have to face facts, Mickey, she’s gone. You can’t go into some airy fairy hereafter looking for her.”

  Monica holds her tongue. If she’s learned any spiritual practice it’s silence.

  “I guess you called about the financial papers?” Lately this is their only topic.

  “Yeah,” Jeanne says. “I’ve made some kind of order. Her affairs were really a shambles.”

  “Jeanne, I don’t mind doing that work. You’ve done so much.” She hates bookkeeping, but hates it less than her sister’s carping. Besides, this is her responsibility, too.

  “If there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s accounting,” Her voice rises. “No, no, I’m only trying to locate the final sale papers on the house.”