by Liam Pieper
Once that stolen box was empty they improvised, and he sourced a condom from a vending machine in a dive bar – which failed at the crucial moment, although they didn’t realise until afterwards, when he reached for a travel-pack of tissues to clean himself up.
Her period was a month late. She arranged to meet him at his favourite pizzeria, judging there’d never be a good place or time. When she told him, his eyes bulged and he spat his half-chewed bite of pie onto his plate.
‘Fuck!’ he said, tucking his hair behind his ear. ‘FUCK!’
‘What do you want to do?’
‘You have to take care of it. I thought you were on the pill!’
‘No you didn’t.’
‘You told me so!’
‘No,’ she said firmly, calmly, ‘I didn’t.’
She’d been expecting him to take control, to offer a solution, to at least offer sympathy, and her stomach turned as she realised none of this was forthcoming.
He looked around the restaurant, reached for his napkin, put it down again. He was at a loss. She didn’t know whether to feel angry or sorry for him.
He dropped her around the corner from her apartment, then sped off, tyres spinning. When she called him that night he didn’t pick up his phone. When she called back the next day she got a machine, left a message, never heard back. She realised that she had no other way of contacting him, did not know his address, or his parents’ names, or how to reach him through mutual friends. He had just disappeared. It amazed her that someone could make themselves so scarce.
She went to church every day for two weeks, making the journey all the way in, to the New York Cathedral. The bustle, the anonymity offered by the crowds, made it easier, and she had a superstition, even though it made no logical sense, that God was more present in his larger houses, would be paying closer attention.
She took to the pews, let the wood bite into her knees until they prickled and went numb. The pain was welcome – it was the smallest of penances, but somewhere in her faith wires had been crossed and she thought that any extra suffering would encourage the angels to take notice of her, give her some guidance.
‘Please,’ she whispered. ‘Please, please just take it away.’ There was no response, from God or from the nonna in mourning clothes working her rosary further down the pew.
A week passed. Her period did not come.
Sasha went to confession, nearly confided in the priest, but at the last moment some warning instinct at the back of her mind stopped her. She knew in her marrow that the confession booth was inviolable, that the Church would keep her secrets, but still she did not trust Him to be able to sneak anything past her mother.
Six weeks. She found a public library and searched for ways to fix her problem, hunched over the monitor with her hood pulled down low, furtive as the old men looking at pornography on the other computers.
She starved herself, went for long runs.
Seven weeks. She skipped school and drank half a bottle of gin in a hot bath – woke up naked and shivering on the bathroom floor, in a puddle of bathwater and vomit, and had to clean it up before her mother got home.
Eight weeks. She was gaunt, but convinced every time she looked in the mirror that she had put on weight around her hips and thighs, that her stomach was ballooning out.
And then, at the end of that eighth week, she woke up with her belly shrieking. The pain was so intense that she jerked from deep sleep to find herself gasping, grasping at her lurching stomach. The air was heavy and raw – in the next room she could hear pans clattering, Russian opera on the stereo, the smell of frying butter and sausage; it was Sunday morning, they had church soon, and there was a blessed, perfect circle of blood on the sheets.
For the rest of high school Mama kept her under house arrest, cutting back her hours at the deli to make it possible. She walked Sasha to school and was there to meet her at the gate when the bell rang, already a little wobbly on her feet in the afternoon. None of her friends knew what had happened, not exactly, but soon all invitations dried up. She became anxious about what people were saying about her, then, one day, stopped caring altogether. After high school she would never see these people again – she resolved to defer making friends until college, when she would emerge again and unfurl, a beautiful new creature magnificent in Gap jeans.
She spent her senior year of high school with her head so deep in books that her eyes watered by the end of the day. When she looked up to blink she could see a whole world out there, stretching way beyond Long Island.
When the time came for her to apply to colleges, the school guidance counsellor called her into his office and, in a tone that suggested he didn’t often have this conversation, announced her grades were high enough to get her a full ride at a college in the city, and she should think about what she wanted to do in life.
At home, she took a sheet of paper from her desk drawer, neatly folded it to provide a crease, ruled down the middle with a pen and wrote two headings: law and medicine. Underneath, a list of the pros of each; money, prestige, opportunity to travel, the sort of people she’d be able to help in life.
As she stared at them, Sasha tried to imagine the lives that might spin off from this moment. She made an effort to picture herself as an adult: standing in the skyscraper window over a darkening Manhattan, rushing for a cab with a soft-leather briefcase, putting away bad guys for a million years and celebrating in bars populated entirely by square-jawed men with perfect stubble, flirting with them in a short skirt over a long drink.
But these fantasies were just that; she had no idea what being a lawyer was like – she didn’t know any lawyers. The image she had of them were only the fever-dreams of TV writers, who themselves probably didn’t know any lawyers.
She had met doctors, in the run-down, sterile-but-stillgrimy family clinic Mama preferred. To a man – and they were always men – they were pale, greying, depressive creatures. They lived in fear of malpractice suits and so were stingy with advice and quick to write prescriptions to get her out the door. They did not track with the doctors she saw on TV – gleaming, beautiful people flashing Médecins Sans Frontières IDs in some dusty village, kneeling beside a child, giving them a shot, handing them a lollipop. A stupid fantasy too, she knew, but it had its appeal.
She wore out a legal pad making more lists. She scrunched them up, threw them away. Sasha worried about it for days, made up her mind, changed it, changed it again, and then, realising she was driving herself mad, resumed her old nervous habit of squeezing her fist closed to protect the scar there. She recalled the way she had felt that day, when Mama had found her bleeding on the bathroom floor, sewed her up, fixed it all better. She realised that her decision was actually very easy.
The little girl weighs nothing at all. Just a slip of a thing, a strip of jerky inside a cotton shift, thrown inelegantly over Sasha’s shoulder.
She rushes through the jungle back to the busy heart of the ashram. There’s a jagged tear of fear – irrational, irresistible – as she recalls Mama telling her that when the soul leaves the body it magically weighs much less. But no, when she tumbles into the central square, crying out for help, the girl is still breathing, barely.
Sasha unslings the girl from her shoulder, begins to lay her down but moves too fast – the girl’s head cracks sharply against the hardened earth. Sasha winces.
‘I need some help here, please!’ she yells. ‘Can somebody help?’
A crowd forms around her, a tight gaggle of Seekers, but none move to assist. She read about the bystander effect in college, but hasn’t really believed in it until this moment, the crowd pressing in closer, bovine and unspeaking, no one stepping forward with so many other people around.
‘Goddamn it!’ Sasha hears the anger in her own voice. ‘Could you get back, please? Somebody get some bandages.’
The girl is drained of colour. Blood oozes up from the dog’s bites, a deep, ragged wound across the collarbone and throat, and another two across
her arm, still spurting blood, but less and less as the girl’s pulse weakens.
Sasha’s fingers are back in the biggest wound, slippery and hot, and she’s trying to locate the source of the bleeding, apply pressure. She knows she must clear her head, but the Seekers just herd closer in; she has to fight the urge to let go and swing her fists at the mob. But then they are moving back, making a path, and the guru is by her side, giving orders in calm Tamil.
A stretcher appears and the girl is lifted off the ground and brought to a sparse hut. Sasha follows her, but one of the guru’s attendants blocks the door.
‘Please, I can help. I can help her,’ says Sasha. ‘I’m a doctor.’
The guru calls out from inside the hut, the guard lets Sasha pass.
The girl is stretched out on a gurney, the guru by her side, gently stroking the hair back from the girl’s face. Her eyes flick up to Sasha and she asks, ‘What do you need?’
Sasha gives orders, which are echoed in Tamil by the guru. A medical kit is brought, bandages and antiseptic, a needle and thread. Somewhere outside the hut a generator roars to life and a lamp hanging from the ceiling casts a blinding pool of light over the table.
The room clears except for the guru, who sits silently in the corner and watches Sasha work, saying nothing, barely moving. Sasha struggles with the needle – it’s been a long time since she’s done this, and never with such rudimentary equipment. Every time she’d sutured a wound it was with a proper driver and forceps. With her bare hands it’s hard to pierce the skin, the needle keeps slipping, and Sasha has to pause and wipe the blood off her hands.
It’s only at the end of the procedure, as she is sterilising the wound, that Sasha begins to worry about the risk of blood-borne infection she’s exposed herself to, not to mention the horribly unsanitary conditions for the girl. The stitches themselves are rough, irregular, but they will hold.
When Sasha is done the guru gives a small nod and escorts her out of the room.
Afterwards, Sasha writes down a shopping list – antibiotics, opiates, bandages – and a motorbike whizzes off to Puducherry to secure them. Sasha and the guru retire to the guru’s chambers, where she dismisses her attendants and invites Sasha to sit opposite her.
The guru’s rooms take up one of the old temple buildings – the walls of antique granite remain unadorned, creating an air of studied modesty. A huge hardwood desk takes up most of the space while a simple beaded curtain leads off, presumably, to where the guru sleeps. The room is dark when they enter, and the guru’s attendants rush about lighting oil lamps and incense.
The chair she is shown to is ancient, worn hardwood and overstuffed leather, but Sasha melts into it. She is all at once aware of her body, the deep-rooted exhaustion of soured adrenaline, the back of her thighs sticking to the leather, the front of her dress stiff with dry blood. Overcome, she feels tears welling up but blinks them back. She meets the guru’s gaze, which is unperturbed.
A pot of tea materialises and the guru pours them both a glass, before asking, gently, how Sasha learned to do what she just did. Sasha gives a brief account of her education and explains her encounter on the beach, how she accidentally chased the girl beyond the fence. The guru nods once, considers, and speaks.
‘The girl. Will she be okay?’
‘It looks bad, but I don’t think it is. None of her arteries were damaged. She’s lucky.’
‘Good.’ The guru exhales, relieved, leans back in her chair.
‘Who is she?’
The guru shrugs. ‘Probably a daughter of one of the villagers, or she has no home, is just wandering. It was unfortunate she intruded beyond the fence. The jungle is not safe for outsiders.’
‘The dog.’ Sasha says. ‘I saw it. It was one of yours.’
She had not meant the words to sound like an accusation, but if the guru is offended, she gives no sign.
‘The dog will be taken care of. As will the girl – we will look after her like one of our own until she is well again.’
‘Who will?’
The guru blinks, as though the question makes no sense. ‘Us. The community.’
‘She’s going to need medical attention. Do you have a doctor here?’
‘Not as such.’
‘She’s going to need one. She’s in a bad way.’
The guru ignores this, sips her tea. ‘You’re the one from yoga the other day. You hurt your shoulder. How is it?’
‘It’s fine,’ Sasha feels defensive. ‘I’m resting it.’
The guru takes a long appraising look at Sasha, asks her if she doesn’t find it strange that she hurt her shoulder, taking her yoga away, which led her to the forest, which led her to finding the little girl, saving her life. The guru says it is apparent the universe has a plan for Sasha, that this is a very happy day.
‘We might have different ideas of happiness,’ says Sasha.
‘All people do. Listen – you have a talent. There’s a reason for you to be here. A divine reason.’
‘Oh,’ Sasha says. ‘Okay.’
‘Not everyone is fated to be a servant of the divine. People come here for all kinds of reasons. All seek healing. Some find it through their practice – yoga, meditation,’ she waves a hand dismissively. ‘It is fine. But humans are capable of so much more. There is an old fable. The spider and the bee. Perhaps you know it?’
Sasha has not. Fables did not feature heavily in her childhood, and the guru delights in recounting it.
‘A spider and a bee are arguing. The spider claims that the bee creates nothing of its own, whereas the spider is an original creator who spins his own silk, owes no debt to anyone, survives entirely on his own ingenuity, and that his web is a triumph of architecture and mathematics. The bee counters that the spider’s web is spun from digested flies, and that all the spider really contributes is its poison. The spider stays in one place its whole life, feeding on vermin. The bee, on the other hand, ranges far and wide to search out flowers, which they do no harm to, help flourish, and in return they make honey and candlewax. Through this they give mankind two gifts: sweetness and light.
‘Scholars and mystics, Aesop said, are like bees who fill their hives with honey and wax. The ancient and wise knew that the evolution of humanity relies on taking the very best parts of all cultures, and weaving them into something new. The way that bees do.’
The guru lights up as she speaks and gestures back towards the heart of the ashram. ‘Every human being has a choice – to be a predator, alone and cruel, or to be part of something greater. That is what we strive for here, we follow the idea of the gurukula, that learning is not confined to classrooms. We come together in a quest for learning, as equals, that we might teach as much as we learn. No religions, and all religions. The best of all cultures. Here in this crucible in the jungle, out of nothing, we are building a kingdom of sweetness and light.’
‘Right,’ says Sasha. ‘But this kingdom needs a medic.’
‘I believe we’ve found one. Don’t you?’
‘Nope. No way.’
‘Why not?’
‘I can’t just . . . pack up my life and stay here.’
The guru is surprised, and gently curious. ‘Why not?’
‘I have a whole life back in the States.’
‘Do you?’ The guru’s tone is light as a scalpel, the lilting, off-kilter English. But she cannot know how much this wounds Sasha.
She is startled by the strength of her reaction. This innocent-enough question feels like a punch in the solar plexus. She takes a moment before answering, blinking, making sure her voice will be steady.
‘I have a family, a career.’
If the guru has any notion that Sasha is hurt, she doesn’t show it. She reaches out and takes her hands.
‘We all have our destiny. We do ourselves great harm when we fight against that. Life is too short to not become who you are meant to be.’
This platitude is so far from Sasha’s experience that she laughs. The guru stif
fens, leans back in her chair and sniffs. Sasha, who did not mean to offend, is stricken, fumbles an apology.
But then the guru softens, reiterates the point, and Sasha is so relieved that, when the guru suggests she stay, just a little while, just to look after the girl while she recovers, she agrees.
The guru is delighted, leans across the desk to embrace Sasha. She returns the hug, a little stiff at first but then more confidently. The guru smells of sandalwood and sweat.
‘I’m so glad,’ she tells Sasha. ‘What else in your life will ever be as important? To be part of a new kind of human community? Without rules except those ordained by the divine.’
The guru lets her go, and sniffs, lightly.
‘But first let’s get you a bath. You’re covered in blood. It’s disgusting.’
Sasha met Stephan towards the end of the fall semester. She was struggling at school – there weren’t enough hours in the day to complete all the study, to rush across town to her shift as a waitress, to make it home for a few hours’ rest. More than once she’d been hauled in front of a review board who queried her grades, the wisdom of giving her a scholarship, floated the possibility that it could be taken away.
She was in her class, trying to prepare a slide – was hovering with a pipette full of blood over the glass sheet – when she felt her professor slide behind her. She tensed up. He was slimy, in a parched sort of a way. He stood too close to his students, took little liberties – a hand on the shoulder, on the small of the back – nothing that students could complain about, not exactly, but enough to make Sasha uncomfortable, which, she thought, was what he got off on anyway.
Her thoughts were already thickened by exhaustion as he loomed over her shoulder, his lips peeled back in a smirk. Her concentration was shot and her scarred hand clenched up around the pipette, cracking it in two. The sound attracted pitying looks from the other students.