She tucks her hands into the pocket of her jean jacket and touches Sunil’s picture. “Do you think you’ll ever go someday?”
“Maybe.” He taps the edge of the envelope with one finger. “If you come with me.”
She smiles at him, not taking him seriously.
“We could hike deep into the woods and scatter her ashes at the roots of a two-thousand-year-old redwood. I like the idea of her ashes filtering into the soil with the rain. Getting sucked up by the roots. Then travelling all the way to the canopy. I like the idea of her being able to see all the way to the ocean.”
“That does sound beautiful.”
“Then don’t make me go alone.”
As Kavita watches him behold the objects of his lost youth, she knows she is witnessing a rare moment of frailty in her friend. Normally, she is accustomed to him so sure of himself, so sage. In the end, they aren’t so different. Watching as his chin dips toward his chest, she knows that they are the same, haunted and incomplete, without their other halves.
He reaches into the box and lifts out the Polaroid. The first sight of Sequoia and Hawthorn as children stalls Kavita’s breath. They share the same dark hair and fair complexion, the same penetrating brown eyes and tempting smile. Sequoia’s hair is styled in a side ponytail. She is dressed an oversized fuchsia Roots sweatshirt and tapered acid-wash jeans. Hawthorn is wearing an identical outfit, although his sweatshirt is teal and his jeans a lighter wash. His hair is cut short. It feels strange to see him without his trademark half-up ponytail. She notices the comma-like dimple denting his left cheek. Something about seeing the two of them standing side by side, smiling, completely unaware of the future that would tear them apart, weakens her
“Tell me about this picture,” she asks.
“Well,” he says, gazing, “we’d just finished digging the hole. Instead of including a newspaper like most people do, we wanted to include a picture of us. Mom took it. Dad was right next to her, joking around, trying to get us to crack up. God, look how young we are.”
“She’s beautiful,” Kavita manages to say despite the tears gathering in her throat. “You’re beautiful together.”
Hawthorn can’t take his eyes off of his sister’s childhood image. “You know, it’s impossible to encompass everything she was. Even if I talked about her for a year straight, it still wouldn’t be enough. I wanted you to be here today because I wanted you to get to know her the way I knew her. But it’s impossible. You can’t get to know someone from a few random objects in an old tackle box.”
Kavita pulls the picture of Sunil out of her pocket. “Or from a photograph.”
His eyes widen with awe. “You brought it.”
He holds the picture carefully. In it, Sunil is standing beside her in their dining room with his arm around her shoulder. He is at least a head taller than her. He is wearing a grey sweatshirt and a black Nike cap. Her hair is in two braids, and she is dressed in a canary yellow Bart Simpson t-shirt. On the table is a round ice-cream cake decorated with pink sugar flowers.
“Is that a hospital bracelet on your wrist?” he asks.
She nods. “I spent a few days in the hospital after getting my tonsils out. I must’ve been about seven or eight, I think, so he was about twelve or thirteen. When he visited me at the hospital, he brought a bunch of games: Operation, Connect Four, a deck of cards. Before I knew it, visiting hours were over. I started to panic. I didn’t want to be left behind in a strange place. So, he asked our parents if he could spend the night. The nurse said it was fine. He could sleep in the bed beside mine as long as they didn’t need it for another patient. You know how hospitals are never quite dark or quiet enough at night? Well, I kept falling back in and out of sleep. But every time I got startled awake, I would look over at Sunil, and I felt safe again. Like I was home.”
Although he doesn’t say so, Kavita knows Hawthorn understands exactly what she means by home.
“When I found out he was struggling, I thought to myself, finally Kavita, here’s your chance to save him for a change. I honestly thought I could.” Anchor pulls. “The truth is, Sunil was close to turning things around, but he couldn’t see it. He had his appointments. He’d taken the first steps towards recovery. If he’d held on a little longer, he would’ve been able to see it for himself, one day. That’s one of the hardest things to accept. We almost made it.” The centre of her palm pulses like a heartbeat, and she recalls all the pain that gathered in her tortured flesh. She wants to squeeze her nails into her scar, but breathes shallowly instead, waiting for the feeling to pass, as she knows it will, given time.
Hawthorn hands her back the photo. Frowning, he gazes more deeply at the picture of Sequoia, as though searching for details that he had missed.
“The guilt that gets me is that I’m the healthy twin, and I don’t know why. We shared almost everything. But I couldn’t share the loneliness of her illness. It kills me that she went through it alone.”
“When does it go away?” she asks.
He looks at her sideways. “What?”
Anchor pulls, pulls, pulls. “The guilt.”
He tosses the Polaroid into the box. “I’ll let you know.”
They sit for a while, nestled in quiet, as though even the birds dare not sing. Kavita slides the photograph back into her pocket.
“Thanks for being here,” he says. “I think I’ll open the other letter later.” He slips the letters back into the tackle box and shuts the lid. “Are you coming inside for cake? My parents can’t wait to meet the friend from group I keep talking about.”
“I’m a sucker for cake,” she grins. “But look at my jeans. I’m all dirty.”
“They won’t care. To be honest, I think they miss having a girl around, on days like today especially.”
“Are you sure I won’t be intruding?”
“Yogis never lie.” He gives her a shallow bow.
“We talked about that.”
“I didn’t say namaste.”
She smiles and pulls at the clover. “It would be nice to celebrate a birthday. I didn’t do anything for mine this year.” She pushes out a sad laugh. “Didn’t even get a card from my parents.”
“Still lost at sea, are they?”
She nods. “I miss them.”
“Didn’t your hub do anything for you?”
“He asked if I wanted to do something but I wasn’t up for it. I hate the idea of getting older without Sunil. I keep aging but he’ll always be thirty. In a few years, I’ll be as old as he was when he died. Then I’ll be older than him. Older than my older brother. It doesn’t make sense.”
“In that case, I’ll make sure we stick a candle in your slice.”
“I wouldn’t want to steal your moment.” She knows he is just being kind, as always.
“Honestly, it would feel good to share it with someone again.”
Kavita searches his face for pity. She knows by his dark, soft eyes that he’s being more than kind, he is telling the truth. “Well, when you put it like that.”
A broad smile spreads across his face, squeezing his dimple, the sight of which always causes a smile to spread across Kavita’s face, too. He rises to his feet and leans over for the tackle box. With his free hand, he reaches out to her and helps her to her feet. Neither of them lets go as they walk toward the house, and the daring beauty of Sequoia’s mural, with water on their lips, as a warm spring shower comes swinging in.
35.
THE HIGH-PITCHED PING of the singing bowl signals the end of class. The unexpected ring startles Kavita as she sits in Lotus Pose in her usual corner at the back of the class, causing her to muscles to jolt as if wakened from a shallow sleep. For a blissful while, she dipped out of time.
Hawthorn strikes the brass bowl twice more. Each time, the vibration peaks, then peters into silence. He closes their practice with an impenetrab
le Sanskrit chant that is nonetheless beautiful in his deep and melodic singsong voice. The last thing she does before letting light into her eyes is send a prayer of love and light to Sunil, as she does at the end of every class. It is a comfort to think that goodness may find him, wherever he is now.
At last, she opens her eyes. The studio is slowly emptying as students scurry back and forth from their mats to the props cupboard, from the changing room to the front door. All the activity reminds her of edgy squirrels in autumn, bounding and scampering, trying to outrun time. Unlike the other students, she isn’t willing to give up that pleasing hum, that quiet place inside, where everything makes sense, even for her. She’s in no rush to leap back into her complicated story.
She flutters her knees. Her inner thighs ache from too many hip openers. Still, she notices her body is growing supple. Soon she will be able to rest her forehead on the cup of her arches in Cobbler’s Pose. Well, maybe not soon, but soon enough. Her physical transformation, however, isn’t the most astonishing progress she has observed about herself lately.
During those timeless moments on her mat, somehow her life is no longer a jail, nor does she feel trapped by circumstance. While she rests on her mat in compassionate contemplation, she no longer tries to outrun her grief. Instead, she sits with it, like company, her sad friend dressed in blue. Something she was too frightened to even consider a couple of months ago, convinced that her pain was greater than she was, that if she let it out, it would sink her, the way Sunil’s pain had submerged him.
Now, when alone, she discovers space. Space between herself and her circumstances. Space between herself and her grief. Space to be safe.
When she finds space, she is no longer part of a turbulent narrative. Rather, she is a step beside it, as though watching a blizzard from behind a pane of glass. Within the storm, she sees all the things that have troubled her. Yet, from her vantage point, a step away, she understands that none of these tumultuous states are who she is. Just as Sunil was not his illness, she is not her pain. None of the thoughts or feelings or situations she had found herself in since Sunil’s passing are who or what she is.
Who and what she is, is indestructible.
She stands and gazes across the room at Hawthorn, who is arranging cushions and making tea. The kettle whistles as though summoning her.
“Another great class.” She grins sleepily as she strolls toward the mass of colourful cushions that are piled in their usual spot by the bay window.
He hands her a steaming cup. “One ginger lemon tea for my favourite student.”
“I thought you were supposed to be impartial,” she teases. She sets the mug on the floor to cool.
“That’s true.” He blows over his tea. “But I guess it doesn’t matter anymore.” He places his cup on the floor and then lowers onto the cushions.
“What do you mean?”
He bobs his tea bag a few times. “I have something to tell you.”
Her light-headedness clears as she detects a change in his tone. “What is it?”
“Ever since our birthday last month, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Sequoia’s letter. So, I’m going down to California to scatter her ashes. My parents are coming, too. I’m giving up my classes.”
“That’s wonderful. But why give up your classes? Can’t you find a sub?”
He chews his bottom lip. “The thing is,” he says. “From California, I’m heading down to Costa Rica. An old teacher of mine has offered me a position teaching classes and workshops to tourists at an eco-lodge. The place is right on the beach along the Caribbean coast. I’ve seen pictures online. It looks pretty incredible.”
“Oh,” she says, a bit stunned. “That sounds like an amazing opportunity.” She is embarrassed by how hollow her words of congratulation sound now that she has heard them, but the news of him leaving came as such a surprise, she couldn’t find any other words to reach for. “Those don’t come around every day. Of course, you have to go.” Something in her chest starts unspooling. “I’m just going to miss you, that’s all. I’ve gotten used to you torturing me in class. And of course, group isn’t going to be the same without you.”
“I’m going to miss it, too.”
Silence settles between them for a few tense moments. She tries to think of encouraging things to say, excited things, like a friend should, but instead snags her tongue on disappointments.
“That’s why…” he says at last. “I want you to come with me.”
“Well, of course, I’ll come to California with you, if you don’t think I’d be intruding. You’ve helped me so much this year, I’d love to be able to support you for a change.”
He blinks at her. “Thank you. I appreciate it. And I’m happy to hear that you want to come to California with us. I could definitely use the support. But that’s not exactly what I mean.”
She looks at him, puzzled.
“I want you to come to California with us to scatter Sequoia’s ashes, that’s true. But when my folks go back home, I want you to stay with me, so we can go to Costa Rica together.”
Seconds pass and her mind is blank. Whatever she might have been thinking or feeling before his invitation drops to the floor.
“Hawthorn,” she says. “This is out of the blue.”
“Can you really say that to me?”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t make it sound like it’s all in my head.”
“I have a husband.”
“I know all about him. How he doesn’t talk to you or support you or stand up for you.”
“I told you those things in confidence. You aren’t supposed to use them against me. That’s the opposite of trust.”
“I’m not using them against you. I’m just trying to open your eyes. There’s so much more to life than what you’ve settled for.”
“I haven’t settled for anything.”
“You’ve rebuilt yourself from the ground up. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. You’ve done such hard work and changed so much, it inspires me. But you’re still clinging to things that you’ve obviously outgrown.”
“My life is what it is.”
“But what do you want?”
“Want?”
“Out of your life?”
“I want everything to be different. I want Sunil to be alive. I want to be able to go back in time and do everything over. But that isn’t possible. All I can do is make the best of things as they are.”
“You’re right, everything’s changed since your brother died, right down to the people you thought you knew, and yourself. There’s no way back to the way things were before. So, since that’s the case, where do you want to go from here? Because this holding pattern you’re in can’t last forever.”
Time passes as she breathes unevenly. “I don’t know,” she confesses at last.
“Let me put it this way. Do you want to hide forever? Keep just getting by from day-to-day? Or do you want to reinvent yourself with me?”
“Nothing’s ever that simple.”
He lifts her chin with his warm fingers and reaches deeply into her eyes. “I’m not saying it’s going to be easy. What I’m offering you is a fresh start. With someone who understands you. Someone who knows what you’ve been through. I’ll take the burdens your heart can’t take, Kavita. I’ll stand by your side. Isn’t that what you’ve been searching for? I have, although I didn’t realize it until I met you.”
Part of her knows he is right. That their time together has been as much about connection as healing. With him she has found a new cave to dwell in, full of light, and warm. In him, she found someone like her.
A fresh start, she repeats silently to herself. Is such a thing even possible in the wake of tragedy? Can anyone touched by trauma ever really start again?
“Was this part of your plan all along? Prey on the sad gir
l?”
“You know me better than that.”
“Do I?”
“Of course,” he says, his voice tender. “You know me better than anyone. Even better than Sequoia in some ways. After all, she missed all of this. But you haven’t. You’ve been here with me.”
Her cheeks flush with embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. But you caught me off guard.”
“Then I’m sorry, too.”
She rubs her forehead. “When do you leave?”
“We leave for California in two weeks. I hope you’ll still come with us. So do my parents. They really like you. They told me so. They really like you, Kavita. And I adore you. Broken pieces and all. You’ll never have to hide those parts from me. I’d never want you to.”
She looks into his eyes. They are dark and soft and open. Wells of empathy.
36.
THE NEXT DAY, she drives up to Gatineau Park along the narrow road that swerves through the densely wooded hills all the way to the top of the escarpment. A few cars are parked at Champlain Lookout. A family of four stands by the stone half-wall, peering over the flat land below as they snap photos. A pair of cyclists dressed in bright spandex like riders in the Tour de France suck on blue energy drinks. Off to one side, a couple of teenagers lean against the wall, kissing.
She climbs out of the car and ambles to the wall with her hands stuffed inside her jean jacket pockets. She touches the smooth thread of Sunil’s rakhi, winces for a second, and then rubs it between her thumb and forefinger as though it is a japamala.
When she reaches the wall, she stares at nothing for a few moments. This is the place Sunil came to think, to get away, to gaze at the hawks riding the thermals—unencumbered and free—and dream about joining them. Desperate for his council, she was drawn here, the way the weary are drawn to temple, to feel the spotlight of heaven kiss the crown of their heads and surrender the secrets of their hearts. She feels his presence in so few places anymore, but she feels him deeply here, somewhere in the poetry blue of the sky.
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