The Prayer Room

by Shanthi Sekaran

  George cared for her. He brought her soup on a bed tray that she hadn’t known they owned. He lifted water to her lips, and sometimes sweet fizzy drinks. He took her temperature at night. She cared for none of this. This sickness, this care, was just another cobblestone on a path that led the wrong way. What was she doing here in Sacramento, married with three children? She hadn’t asked for this. Her marriage she hadn’t wanted. This house she hadn’t seen until after the papers were signed. Even her children—she had wanted one. Who’d asked for three? All three at once. What next? Kamla. George would take Kamla away from her. She would become his friend, he would kiss her on the cheek, and they would laugh in that way together. He’d taken everything from her.

  Several times a day, she wondered if she’d ever managed to make a single good decision. A sign that she had done at least one thing right, at one juncture of her life, and she would have gotten out of bed. No sign came. But on the seventh day, there was a letter.

  Now and then, with little regularity and no warning, an aerogram made its way west across a continent, over an ocean, past highways and state borders, and into the mailbox at the end of their drive. It was always the first piece of mail visible, its garish blue jumping from the stack of bills and junk mail. The sketch on the back of the aerogramme varied from year to year. This time it was Jawaharlal Nehru, in high collar and soda-fountain cap. Babygirl ran into the bedroom with it, her backpack still swinging from her shoulders. “Can I do it?” she asked, already clutching the mail opener. Often these letters came from Viji’s cousin Meera or her aunt from the village, asking for a wire transfer and complaining about her uncle’s gout. But this one was from her sister. Sister, it said. We are all fine. When will you come to see us again? It’s been so long. As if she’d thought twice about it, she added: You need to come back and take care of things.

  What there was to take care of, Viji didn’t know, but if she could have left that night, she would have. However, a woman with three children can’t flee overnight, dragging them behind like fugitives. There were visas to obtain, and airplane tickets for four people. Shanta was locked into Viji, hidden like a secret passageway inside her. Never had her sister asked her to visit, not once since Viji had left—not even when their mother had died. She wondered why the call for her to return had come so suddenly; but then she realized that it wasn’t sudden. It had, in fact, taken twelve years. She could picture her sister, sitting and looking out from their veranda, deciding all at once that Viji had been gone too long, then charging inside to pick up a pen and write this letter. Her patience had worn thin, or maybe the realization had set in that Viji might never be coming back. Either way, Viji was going for the Christmas holidays. George said he would have to stay behind, though Viji never did ask him to come.

  She didn’t talk much those days, because any question that left her lips threatened to fly out of control. She would have to act as if things were normal, or else he’d never let her go.

  “Why do we have to go?” Kieran wanted to know.

  “Why not?” Viji had just hung up on a travel agent who couldn’t find Madras International in her database. The kitchen was hot with afternoon sun, though it was early December.

  “I thought we were going to Santa Cruz for Christmas.”

  “I have family, Kieran. Surprise, surprise. Do you know how long it has been since I saw them?” Viji asked.

  “No.”

  “Twelve years. And how old are you?”

  “Eleven.”

  “I haven’t seen them for as long as you’ve been alive. Imagine that.”

  “How come we’re going now?” asked Avi.

  “She told us, dummy,” Babygirl cut in.

  “Don’t call me dummy. Mom!”

  “Don’t call names, Babygirl.”

  “But how come we never went before?”

  Viji turned to Avi. For this she had no answer. Or rather, she had too big an answer. Where to begin? Because going back was always too much. It was too much.

  “They live so far away, chellum. But they’re our family, and they want us to come.”

  “Like who?”

  “Like who?” Viji was losing patience. “Like my sister.” She gazed at her children.“My sister sends the three of you cards every year on your birthday. Not one card, three cards. Do you know what that costs from India? One for each of you. And do you ever write back?”

  “No. How come she doesn’t just send one with three names on it?”

  “Have you ever sent a thank-you note?”

  “No.”

  “And yet she continues to send them.”

  “When are we going?” Kieran wanted to know.

  “As soon as we can. Christmas.”

  “We’re missing Christmas? That’s BS.”

  “Kieran.”

  “Why do you care if we miss Christmas?” Babygirl scowled at Kieran from the kitchen counter.

  “What’s your problem?”

  Viji turned to the next travel agency listed in the phone book. By dinnertime, it was settled. They would fly for eleven hours, land in Malaysia, and spend a day in Kuala Lumpur. They would book a hotel, and even take a city tour if they felt up to it. Or just sleep, which was probably what the triplets would want to do. The kids could have their last real shower in the hotel bathroom. Viji hadn’t told them about Indian bathrooms yet. She hoped everyone would just squat when they needed to. She, on the other hand, began to crave an Indian bucket bath. To scoop hot water from a bucket, pour it over her head, and let it run down her back. A bath felt real only when she could hear the splash of water on stone.

  In her own bathroom, Viji turned on the shower. Cold water gushed out. What happens when cold water turns warm? Viji couldn’t say, exactly; she knew only that the frosty spray that hit her fingertips wasn’t changing at all, though she’d been standing patiently outside the shower, naked, arching her body away from the solitary bullets of water that leapt off the tub and nipped her belly and legs. And then it arrived. Softly, on her palm, the needles of chilly water melted away, a cushion of heat and steam growing around her. Warm, warmer, hot. Hot enough to boil rice. Like showering in a cup of tea.

  George used to bathe with her while she showered, sinking lower and lower in the tub as the pool of water grew. There were no children to watch yet, though Viji grew more global each day, her belly swelling into a ripening pod. They lived in a small apartment downtown. It was the time, in that first year, when she was beginning to open to him. She let go of her shyness gradually, let it float away from her like a balloon let loose. It was not long before she let him see her naked, in full light, with nothing to cover her. He liked the way water rained from her hair and onto her buttocks, forming two small streams that ran down her thighs and vanished when they reached her knees. Her game was to cup her hands to collect the water that ran off her belly, then throw a handful of it at George, letting it splash a pattern in his chest hair. Sometimes she’d let him soap her breasts, and they’d both watched the lather scatter like ocean foam, drawing rivulets down her hips.

  In the house on Winding Creek Road, the master bathroom was large, with shag carpeting and a mirror that covered an entire wall. There was no tub, only a large flatbottomed shower. It had two showerheads, so they could have showered together, facing each other, but they never did. Viji leaned against the shower wall and let the spray bounce off her shoulder. Steam filled her lungs like happiness until she could hardly breathe. But it was a pleasant suffocation, and it passed when a gust of fresh air blew into the bathroom. She soaped her upper back, scraping the skin and coming away with gray grime beneath her fingernails. She sipped water from the showerhead and spat it out, then let the spray rinse her nails clean. Around her, the ceiling and walls vanished in a tranquil fog.

  “Viji.”

  She jumped. The air was opaque, and all she could see of George was a shadow in the doorway. Her breath was coming fast. She closed her eyes to the rush of steam.

  “Viji,
it’s soaking. How hot is that shower?”

  “I’m fine,” she gasped.

  George’s face, now at the shower door.

  “Viji.”

  “What?”

  “Turn off the shower.”

  Leave me alone. She didn’t say it. Instead she turned off the tap. The ceiling dripped.

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  “Are you okay?”

  Of course not. “Yes, why?”

  “So you’re going to India, then?”

  She stood dripping. The glass door was clearing, revealing her nakedness to George. She hugged herself. “And you’re taking the kids?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “There just seems to be a lot you’re not…talking about.”

  “My sister asked me to come, and I’m going.”

  “Right. Exactly. Your sister calls, and you go. As you should do.” George stopped short. He sighed. “But why now, exactly? Do you know? Is she sick?”

  The glass was clearing, and she could see George’s head and shoulders. “I don’t think so,” she shrugged. “No. No, of course she isn’t sick.” She opened the shower door and reached past him for a towel. He caught her arm and held it. “Let me go.”

  “Viji—” As she struggled from his grasp, he wrapped his arm around her. “Viji, come here.” She pushed against him. He wanted to hold her. He pulled her in so that her head was on his chest.

  George’s arms were around her now; water soaked through his shirt. This body that held her, her husband’s, felt empty to her, no more human than the sleeves of a bathrobe. Weakly, she began to cry.

  “What happened?” he sighed, as if he knew.

  What she felt for him—what she used to feel—had grown inside her for twelve years, fluttering, kicking, feeding. Now it floated with its limbs adrift, listless.

  Atowel. George swaddled her in it, binding her arms to her sides. George could be forceful. Sometimes he got his way without even seeming to ask for it. He was a quiet and vigorous wind.

  She let herself go limp, and he held her close. His shirtfront was soaked now, and her hair dripped onto his trouser fronts.

  “What is it, darling?” he asked. “What’s going on?”

  “I have to leave.”

  “For India. Of course you do.” That wasn’t what she meant, but she said nothing.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The morning came, mid-December, when Viji and the children would leave. Thinking was futile amid the rush of zipping suitcases and frantic runs from bedroom to kitchen, last-second grabs for a book or colored pencils. George listened to the racket of the triplets as he shaved. They’d been up since the dark hours before dawn, abuzz with the adventure ahead. Standing before his closet, he paused. He rarely thought of what to wear. But that morning, feeling dull, he wanted something bright. Feeling murky and edgeless, he wanted something crisp and clean. He chose a newly laundered shirt that hung in its plastic cover, and a bright green sweater that he’d never worn before. He was, after all, sending his wife away. When she looked back at him from the departure gate, he wanted her to see a handsome man.

  And then they were in the car on the two-hour drive to the San Francisco Airport. They’d left Stan at home; there wasn’t room for him in the car. His version of goodbye had consisted roughly of an observation: So you’re off, then, and a warning: Careful of them snake charmers, now.

  The children filled the car with questions. How long will it take to get there? No, to India? How come so long? How many miles is it? How are we going to eat? How do you cook food on a plane? Who’s going to take care of us when we get to India? How are we going to have money there? Can we see the Taj Mahal? Why not? How come Dad isn’t coming? Why not, though? Can he come after? Why not? Why? Why?

  Viji fell asleep with her mouth open somewhere past the Davis exit. The engine’s rumble gave her a peace she hadn’t felt in weeks, and for once she slept dreamlessly. She woke, two hours later, to the careening of the car across the highway, through lanes and lanes of honking cars, and onto the airport entrance ramp.

  George sighed as he craned his neck to see over a passing motorbike. Airports, like funerals, were designed to distract from what was truly happening—painful departures, goodbyes, and hellos to be followed by lengthy stays. Three terminals to choose from—who knew? He chose the first. He wound through narrow lanes with arrows pointing hopefully, knowing that an incorrect turn could draw him to the wrong side of the terminal or spit him back onto the highway. And then there was parking: short stay, long stay, shorter than expected but too long for some, longer than short but not worth taking a shuttle, satellite, hotel, delivery, and rental. He looked longingly at the drop-off curb, then winced with guilt.

  Twenty minutes later, George stood watching his wife and three children file toward the check-in counters. From where he sat, distanced by a sea of suitcases, they were four heads in a crowded airport, one larger with black hair, three smaller, of uniform height, with hair the color of chocolate. Not a single person there knew that they were his. The evening before, he’d been grading papers in his study when he felt a movement at the half-open door. “Kieran,” he’d said to the side of head he saw hovering by the doorway. It was Avi.

  “Hi,” Avi said.

  “Hi.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Marking some papers. And what can I do for you, sir?” Avi only shrugged.

  “Here, help me with this, then.” George gave him the

  grade register and showed him how to record the students’ grades next to their names. Avi worked quietly with George, kneeling on the chair by his desk. Soon, George knew, Avi wouldn’t have to kneel. Nor would he bother with George or his office, and neither would the other two. They were well on their way to the sad and necessary end of childhood, the period of disenchantment, of falling hopelessly out of love with one’s parents, of looking for bigger, better, and brighter things than family and home and food and love. For the moment, though, they were still his—and here he was, sending them away.

  They were halfway to the front now, maybe two-thirds of the way. George counted the number of people in front of them, the number of people behind them. There was much lifting and putting down of suitcases as passengers filed along the guide ropes. He closed his eyes and rubbed his lids and waited for the comedian in the queue to make bleating noises. He watched them reach the front, greeted by a woman who ran her tongue over her teeth compulsively. And then they were finished, turning, coming back to him once more.

  At last, the slow walk to security. Slow because they had time, slow because George couldn’t bear to hurry. And all at once, they were hit by the inevitable—the pervasive, ruthless smell of cinnamon and sickly-sweet sugar. Every airport had one of these stands. It was a monopoly, designed to entice travelers and coax them into a docile state of diabetic coma. George hated them.

  “Mom!” Kieran began.

  “No,” said Viji.

  “Please? Come on.” The other two joined in, please please please please, hands clasped in prayer, suddenly religious.

  “Momm-y-y-y,” Babygirl whined. “Please can we have some? We’re starving!”

  “No, they’re bad for you.”

  She scrunched her eyes in desperation. “I beg you—”

  “Never beg!” Viji barked. George was startled. Babygirl fell quiet, scratched her cheek, and stared at the wall. George sought Viji’s eyes but she snapped them away. It was the stress of traveling—three children, suitcases. The triplets with their backpacks looked up at him.

  “Come on, you three,” he said. “Come with me.” He headed to the stand, Viji’s eyes hard on his back as his children trailed after him, hopping in anticipation. He bought them each a bun, and a fourth to share with Viji.

  “They’ll be sick on the plane now,”Viji said, fixing her eyes on the departure screen.

  “No we won’t, Mom,” said Avi. “Promise.”

  “Food takes forty minutes
to digest, and we have two hours,” Kieran added. He had his tongue out, trying to lick the syrup that had crusted on his cheek.

  “It’s good,” George ventured. He held the bun out to Viji.“Try some.” Without a word, Viji pinched a piece off the bun and watched the white icing break away. How sad she looked. “Viji,” he began, but didn’t know what else to say. She shrugged in response, looked up with a weak smile. “I will miss you, darling.”

  “You’ll be fine,” she whispered.“I’ll be back soon.” This wasn’t so much a lie as a thoughtless promise. She’d left a note for George to find when he got home.

  And then they were at security for the kiss goodbye. The triplets looked at the ceiling, at the people in line, at the metal detectors, at anything that wasn’t their parents kissing. It was a lingering kiss. For George it was redolent of temporary separation, cinnamon icing, and unspoken promises to keep the house clean, water the lawn, and call on Christmas. Viji’s lower lip quivered.

  George gathered the children in a single embrace, then stood quickly and chuckled. He was terrified that he would cry, and the peril of it crept up his throat and threatened to fly loose. “Goodbye, darling,” he said to Viji.

  “Goodbye.” She looked intently into his eyes, as if examining his pupils, then turned to go. He caught on her face that last flicker, when her eyes switched off, grew dim, and retreated back into themselves, when the ties from a moment before were severed and she became, once again, a single solitary person. He could have chased after her, pulled her back and into a final embrace. Or she could have turned and run to him, leaving the triplets behind and bewildered. But she didn’t, and neither did he. So he watched her pass through the metal detector and walk farther and farther away, until she was no more than a troubling memory.