Traveling with Spirits (7 page)

  “Other tasks, Doctor, other tasks. You will be most satisfied with my honorable cousin.”

  She takes a deep breath. “Where is your cousin?”

  Mr. Menon points to a beige van with a cockeyed bumper. “Waiting, Doctor. This very minute waiting to escort you safely to your new home.”

  She wished he’d stop repeating the word ‘safely.’

  Forestalling further protest, Mr. Menon briskly launches her bags into the back of the dilapidated vehicle. He secures the rear door with a rope.

  Emmanuel stands by the driver’s door. Eighteen at most: a tall, handsome man with a repaired cleft palate. “
Namaste, ji.
”

  “
Namaste
,” she tries for a kindly voice for her kidnapper.

  “Emmanuel was cured at Moorty Hospital,” Mr. Menon speaks rapidly. “Our family is eternally grateful for this sterling care.”

  She nods, overpowered by tension from the flight, the hectic race through town and the confusion.

  “Actually, he does know a few English phrases,” Mr. Menon’s words zip past. “But you won’t be chatting much. Such a beautiful ride. Be assured Emmanuel has made this trip many, many times. He knows the way with perfection.”

  She steps into the van, discouraged by the hard seat, wishing she’d brought a pillow for her spine now that she’s been turfed out of Mr. Menon’s limousine. Monica knows how spoiled she is. During the last month, she’s seen vans crammed with dozens of people. She and Emmanuel have the whole vehicle to themselves.

  She pivots, waving good-bye, but Mr. Menon is already speeding his comfortable car in the direction of the airport. She fumbles in her pocket for Ashok’s Ganesh and Sister’s medal, rubbing each of them for luck and blessing and simple comfort. She reaches into her other pocket for Beata’s St. Christopher.

  Slowly the van rattles to a start. Coughs. Then enters the road. She closes her eyes and sighs. Already they’ll be two hours late. She sees from the map that Emmanuel must drive way back to the airport to catch the road to Moorty.

  Flexibility. Patience. Acceptance: all virtues she needs to develop. India will offer boundless practice.

  Emmanuel inserts a cassette of Bollywood music as they reach a narrow highway which snakes up the mountainside.

  The thoroughfare barely permits two lanes of traffic. It’s congested with coaches and elephants and cars and auto rickshaws and clattering vans the same vintage as Emmanuel’s. She folds her map, watches the road ahead.

  Up, up.

  Up, up, up they travel. Around and around the ever greening hills, all the while breathing black exhaust fumes from lorries and buses. Would Emmanuel mind closing he window, she wonders, then notices all the other drivers have theirs rolled down.

  Trucks are painted with radiantly colored flowers and images—sometimes of Krishna or Ganesh; sometimes Christ; sometimes a scene from a driver’s hometown.

  Bumpers and mud flaps are meticulously lettered in English and Hindi: “Happy Journey.” “Have a Good Day,” and the ubiquitous “Use horn.” What a macabre camaraderie among the death-defying travelers. Ashok says almost 2,000 people were killed by cars on Delhi streets last year. How many more perish on these hazardous regional roads? One contribution to preventive medicine would be a set of traffic rules. She hears Ashok’s laughing at her Western rationality.

  Her bags rattle and roll in the back. She’s packed the fragile items diligently, so they probably survived Mr. Menon’s energetic tossing. A long crack on the van’s side window has been mended with masking tape. The mustard yellow vinyl bench is wearing away her tail bone. Get a grip. Real pilgrims suffered hardship, not just discomfort.

  The scenery is stunning. Small, terraced farms score the hillsides. Occasional peaks of white promise the snow to come. Stately green trees border the road. Occasionally, she glimpses mountains.
The
mountains. The Himalayas.

  Suddenly, Emmanuel wrenches off the thoroughfare.

  “Rest. Tea. Toilet.” He grins at her in the rear view mirror.

  Someone did an excellent job on the cleft palate. They say Kevin Walsh, Moorty’s senior doctor, is a fine surgeon.

  Toilet. That will relieve half her discomfort.

  He drives a kilometer down a dirt road to a small cottage.

  “Mother,” he explains haltingly.

  Standing in the doorway is an ancient woman with brilliant eyes. Warts crowd furrowed cheeks. Over her turquoise sarong is a white sweater secured with a safety pin.

  Emmanuel opens the van door.

  She steps down as gracefully as she can after that bumper car journey, unsure just how her bones and joints have been rearranged.

  Beaming at her son, the woman approaches. “
Namaste, ji,
” she greets Monica.

  “
Namaste
!” Monica folds her hands.

  The small parlor is decorated with magazine advertisements featuring European children. Very prominent are a large refrigerator, a small TV and a VCR. But where’s the bathroom? She digs in her purse for the Hindi phrase book.

  The old woman touches her elbow, directing Monica to an outhouse.

  She washes her hands at a faucet next to the pristine privy before returning to Emmanuel and his mother.

  What trouble they’ve taken. The table is covered with a lilac wool blanket. Set before the cup and plate is a small tray of English digestive cookies.

  Emmanuel’s mother appears with a steaming cup of chai.

  It dawns on Monica that she’ll be having tea alone. She gestures for Emmanuel and his mother to join her.

  Emmanuel nods toward the kitchen.

  “
Dhanyvad
.” They probably have a lot to talk about, she rationalizes.

  The chai is syrupy with rich evaporated milk and heaps of sugar. How generous to share these expensive provisions with a stranger. Ugh, the cloying sweetness. She sips a little at a time, gulping the last bit.

  Dusk, as they return to the highway. Traffic looks worse. An unfazed Emmanuel inches ahead. Up and around. Higher and higher they climb. When they aren’t idling at a complete standstill. “
That road is fairly labyrinthine
.” Ashok is right again.

  Father Freitas, Dr. Walsh and the others at Mission Hospital expected her at 6 p.m. They planned a special welcome service before dinner. Well, people up here must be used to delays. She sips water sparingly as she doubts there will be more rest stops.

  Rising in the dark foothills, the headlights shine on patches of snow and ice. She prays for safety and tries to anticipate the dazzling views she’ll see tomorrow morning.

  “
I hope you have found the weekend…provocative,
” Father Daniel said after that fateful retreat in Minnesota. Provocative enough to propel her to these winding foothills. He’s back in Chennai now. She’ll write to him tomorrow.

  The trees have changed shape and color. Even in the dimness, she can see this is an evergreen land.

  Emmanuel’s lights catch a billboard: “Slow Drive. Long Life.” Then another: “Always Avoid Accidents.” She closes her eyes and imagines she’s in India. Emmanuel’s scratchy music has become almost soothing. She recalls the films she watched with Beata this year: the dazzling saris, swirling dupattas, dancing hands.

*****

  “Welcome home!” A stranger’s voice. Friendly. Crisp. Another new accent.

  She awakes, bewildered. How long has she napped?

  Ah, she’s here. This is Moorty.

  A slim woman with large green eyes and red hair—a shade lighter than Monica’s—stands next to the van smiling. “Welcome, Dr. Murphy.”

  She blinks, rolls down the window. “Sorry to be late.” Calm down, this isn’t the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party. “We were delayed, as you must have gathered.”

  The night air is cold. Winter in the mountains. Everyone is wearing a heavy coat. Monica buttons her parka snugly.

  She’s supposed to disembark. This is it, the end of the journey, the beginning.

  “Yes.” The woman is nodding, sliding open the door. “I’m Brigid Walsh, Dr. Walsh’s wife and a nurse here at Moorty.” She helps Monica to the snowy ground.

  “Monica Murphy,” she clasps Brigid’s warm hand. Her eyes adjust to this disappointingly dark world, gradually making out shapes and people. If only they had arrived in daylight.

  An Indian in a clerical collar steps forward. “A very, very warm welcome, Doctor. I am Father Freitas.”

  “I’ve heard so much about you,” she bows. “Delighted.”

  Emmanuel is driving away.

  “Where?” she begins.

  “Don’t worry,” says Father Freitas. “He’s just delivering luggage to your rooms.”

  “I didn’t get a chance to thank him.”

  “So American, the thanking,” chuckles the bespectacled fair-skinned priest.

  “Emmanuel will join us for supper,” Brigid explains.

  “Oh, no, you shouldn’t have delayed your supper. I’m terribly sorry.”

  “Too many apologies!” Father raises his eyebrows. “We’ll find a cure for that.”

  A tall form approaches.

  The ghost of Hamlet’s father. Weird association. She feels a chill. Of course, she’s standing in the snow. Moorty is 6,000 feet above sea level. In the Himalayan foothills. Yes, she’s here. Tugging the green shawl tighter, she manages a direct, alert gaze.

  “Dr. Murphy?” His voice is an Irish rumble. (She now places Brigid’s accent. Brain returning.) “Welcome. I’m Kevin Walsh, senior doctor at Moorty Mission.”

  “Thank…”

  “I see you believe in fashionably late arrivals,” he says archly.

  She hopes this is a joke.

  Father Freitas stares at his shiny black shoes and shakes his head slightly. The priest is a foot shorter than Kevin Walsh and a quiet, compelling presence.

  After a brief supper at the refectory, Father Freitas accompanies her to their quarters, a three story yellow house renovated into flats.

  “May I assist you with the unpacking?” He cocks his head.

  “No, thanks Father. I may go straight to bed and put my life in order tomorrow morning.”

  “An ambitious woman. To accomplish such a task in one morning!”

  She laughs.

  “Welcome, again, and good night, Dr. Murphy.”

  She wants to hug this genial spirit. Instead, she smiles. “Good night, Father.”

  He climbs downstairs to the flat he shares with Dr. Sanchez, who is out of town.

  Her bedroom and living room are spacious, with windows facing north and east.

  Imagining her new life on the middle floor between the Walshes and her other two colleagues, she is surprised by the comfort. The flowery curtains on the north and east windows. She’d expected a single room, something more monastic than this cozy flat. Here’s a couch, a large desk, two bureaus, a single bed. Across the hall, she discovers a toilet, shower and tiny kitchen.

  Bed! She sprawls on the hard narrow mattress. She needs sleep. She’s traveled to yet another new world.

  Her mind races about tomorrow’s orientation. About the cases they’ve scheduled for her. She has to be alert. She must sleep.

  Restless from rocking in that wretched van, she bounces up. Up, up and around. And around. “Always Avoid Accidents.”

  Just a whiff of mildew in the closet. She begins unpacking. So many slacks and blouses, a ridiculously profuse wardrobe. She needs more hangers. How embarrassing.

  On the ancient mahogany bureau, Monica spots a small shortwave radio. Shortwave: how far can it reach? How far back? How far forward? Taking a long breath, she presses the power button.

SEVEN

February, 2001, Moorty

  Shivering, Monica clutches her collar snugly as she walks from the ward to the refectory. Sharp winds send moist air straight to her lungs. Brigid Walsh cheerfully advises they’ll all be grateful for altitude in May when the plains are baking. Right now, Monica is grateful for her sturdy Minnesota boots crunching on the fresh, white snow.

  Nearly the end of her first week. Thank God for the grace that got her through six frenzied days. Sister Margaret was right about needing an extra doc at this small hospital where the demands are endless.

  Monica pauses as mountains come into view. Oh, how Moorty’s atmosphere is more conducive to healing than Lake Clinic. If she needs more than twenty minutes with a patient, she takes it. No insurance forms. No unctuous visits from drug company reps. She jots notes on lined paper, writing at a pace that permits her to listen to patients. No invasive, dysfunctional pseudo-efficient system here. By mid-day, she always feels exhausted, but not constricted by anger and frustration at time wasted on bureaucratic ritual. A year ago, she couldn’t have imagined being so useful, feeling so excited.

  Clapping to keep warm, she continues toward lunch, determined not to be fashionably late. She hopes Dr. Walsh lightens up; she’s developing a definite aversion.

  Yesterday’s dark was misted with stars. Cold and crisp: perfect February night. How does the moon shine on these Himalayan foothills? Will it look like the one at home? The one in Delhi last month?

  Monica remains stimulated by the morning’s chat with head nurse Sister Catherine about preventive medicine, about initiating simple programs. At home, she never left the clinic thinking. Worrying, maybe. She’d hop in the car, switch her brain to NPR. Reality was elsewhere—Somalia, Iraq, Peru—not her 10 hours of doctoring.

  The sudden wind catches her by surprise. Perhaps this is a two-shawl day. Father Freitas enjoys teasing her about feeling cold. Yes, she explains, Minnesota’s climate is harsher. But in Moorty, it’s impossible to warm up indoors. What would she do without all the sweaters and shawls left behind by the two Kerala doctors who returned south this year? What will she leave behind, and when? She has no idea if Mission House, or the visa office, will let her stay if Indian doctors become available here. Of course she’s always known this, but now that she’s feeling at home, the tentativeness feels more real.