The room is going fast, like merry-go-round at the village fair. I pour more tablets into my hand but the hand so shaky that many falling on coffee table and then on floor. I don’t care. I feeling lazy, happylike. I just swallows more pills. I knowing now that I am dying. I tries to think of my Shilpa’s face, tries to remember her laugh, what her hands look like. I knows I should say the prayer, ask God for pardon for sin I am doing, but I don’t. God seem very, very far away now. I wants Shilpa’s name to be last name on my lips, my sister’s face to be the last face I see before I am leaving this cold, empty life forever and ever.
2
SHE WAS ALMOST out the door when the phone rang. Dr. Margaret Bose groaned to herself as she glanced at the clock. Quarter to five on Friday and she was on her way to meet with Peter for a drink. Since they were meeting in Homerville, it would take at least a half hour to get there, and she was already late.
“Bose,” she answered shortly.
“Maggie? Am I glad you’re still here.” It was her boss, Dr. Richard Cummings, head of the psychiatric unit. “Need to talk to you about a patient. You got a minute?”
“Actually, I was about to leave, Richard. Can this wait till next week?”
“Actually, it can’t. We have a late admission. Came in directly from ER. Hard case. Immigrant woman. Attempted suicide. I can’t get her to say a word. Husband says she understands English, but you could’ve fooled me.”
Maggie wanted to cry with frustration. Sudhir was out of town only until Tuesday, and she had spent all week looking forward to seeing Peter Weiss again, ever since he’d phoned her on Monday and casually asked her out today, as if simply picking up a dropped conversation, as if he had not disappeared from her life three years ago with barely a goodbye.
“Can’t Wayne see her?” she asked. “As I said, I was almost out the—”
“He tried. He can’t even get her to look at him. Like I said, it’s a tough case.”
Despite her disappointment at having to cancel with Peter, Maggie was flattered. She felt a stab of self-hatred for being so susceptible to Cummings’s flattery, after all these years.
She realized he was waiting for her to reply. She sighed heavily, cupping her hand over the mouthpiece as she did so. “Okay, give me five minutes to get there. What room is she in?”
“Room 745. Thanks, Maggie. See you Monday.”
“Okay.”
“Oh, Maggie? One other thing. For what it’s worth, she’s Indian. Just letting you know. In case, you know, it’s helpful or anything. See ya.”
Of course. That was the real reason Cummings had asked her to help out—because she was married to Sudhir. She should’ve known that after all these years of working at the hospital, of being the best goddamn psychologist on his staff, when Cummings saw her, he still saw a black woman married to an Indian immigrant who taught at the university. God, how she hated working in this lily-white town. What did Cummings expect her to do—walk into the patient’s room and announce, “Hey, guess what? We’re both married to Indian guys. So you can trust me, sister”? Did white people presume some primal solidarity between all people of color? Would Cummings be disappointed if she and the patient weren’t soon bonding over cups of tea and trading recipes for samosas while watching Bollywood videos?
“Whoa, whoa,” Maggie said to herself. “Where is all this hostility coming from? Cummings is a good guy, remember?” She and Sudhir had socialized with Cummings dozens of times, and she had never detected any of the reductiveness she was accusing him of now.
But she knew the answer to her question even as she posed it—felt the answer deep within, where a spitball of disappointment lodged pungent and hot. Peter. She had so looked forward to having dinner with Peter. Ever since she’d heard that he was back in town, had been rehired as a visiting professor of photography at the university, had returned from whichever war-torn or famine-struck country he had visited most recently, she had debated whether to get in touch with him, whether to risk finding out if the passion that had flared so unexpectedly between them during his last time here was still alive. Her better angels had won. She had reminded herself how close to the edge of infidelity she had walked three years ago and told herself that choosing the sweet comfort of her marriage to Sudhir had been the right thing to do. So she had not acted on the knowledge of Peter being back, knowing that sooner or later she would run into him—it was a small campus, after all—anticipating and dreading that moment when she’d find herself face-to-face with him, at a faculty concert, perhaps, or on the bike path, or at a party. She had told herself that she would not be taken in by him this time—by that easy, relaxed gait, the lopsided grin, those green eyes that flitted restlessly in a face as malleable as clay, eyes that moved from one thing to another, restless, probing, watching everybody, always a little distant, a little guarded, always the observer. A photographer’s eyes. Which was why she’d been so unprepared three years ago when those eyes had landed on her face and then stayed there, intent, focused, and lost some of their usual critical distance; they’d softened, and Peter had smiled, smiled so slightly that only she had noticed, not his usual one-sided grimace but a real smile that had made her flush violently.
Five days later, she had found herself in his arms, feeling his tongue deep inside her mouth, allowing his hands to hold her breasts, feeling the kind of surrender, the abdication, the setting down of a weight, that she had never felt with Sudhir. Like she was no longer responsible for her own breasts, for her own bones, her own will. She would not have expected it to be a good feeling, this loss of control, but it was, liberating and peaceful. And sexy. She had looked at Peter’s big white hands, capable hands, hands that wielded a camera lens as skillfully as they were now handling her, hands that had pitched tents in the desert, changed tires on the side of dusty highways, handed bribes to informants in distant countries, turned over corpses in the killing fields. Sudhir was a whiz at math, but if a faucet leaked in their bathroom, it was Maggie who had to fix it. If they had a flat tire, he was as helpless as a baby while they waited for AAA to arrive. Maggie knew that in his lack of handiness, Sudhir was typical of Indian men of his class, and she had never held his ineptitude against him, had even found it endearing. But being in Peter’s arms, knowing her body was being expertly manipulated and enjoying the manipulation, she felt for the first time a sense of loss. Not that there was anything wrong with Sudhir’s lovemaking. It was just that Sudhir in bed was Sudhir in the world—quiet, efficient, competent, with no drama. He would never lose himself in bed because he never lost himself in the world. Whereas Peter was roaming her body with the eagerness of an explorer mapping a new continent. So it was with the deepest of regrets that Maggie had told Peter to stop.
A paperweight slipped from Maggie’s desk, and she moved her foot out of the way with a small cry. Shit. She hadn’t seen Peter in three years and already she was acting like some fool schoolgirl. This was why she’d never taken it any further with Peter, unable to bear the intensity of her passion.
She looked up at the clock again and then picked up her cell phone. Peter answered on the first ring. “Hi.”
“Hey. It’s me. Listen, something has come up at work. I don’t think I’ll be able to do dinner. I’m sorry.”
He hadn’t said a word and yet it came through, his acute disappointment. It flattered her, this unspoken need. Then he said, “Is this just an excuse? To get out of having dinner with me? Because you don’t have to do that . . .”
“No. Really. We got a late admission. I’m really bummed at not seeing you. Honest.”
“Well, why don’t you just come by the house, then? When you get done. I’ll whip up an omelet or something. Or we can go out for a late meal.”
Her stomach lurched at the thought of visiting Peter at his home. She shook her head violently to rid herself of the temptation that was already forming. “Not a good idea, Peter. How about if I call you in an hour or so? And we can decide where to meet?”
&n
bsp; She heard the chuckle, just the tiniest, faintest sound, heard the triumphant note in it, heard that he had caught what she had not said: I don’t trust myself to be alone with you. It irritated her, that sound, but it also thrilled her, made the connection between them suddenly feel electric and charged. “I’ll call you,” she repeated. “Okay?”
“Okay, babe,” he said, and there it was again, the feeling that he was taking charge of her, possessing her, reeling her in.
She ignored the screaming in her head that told her it was a mistake to see Peter Weiss, even in a public place, as she ran her fingers through her hair and prepared to exit her office. She caught the elevator to the seventh floor of the hospital and walked down the hallway past the nurses’ station until she got to Room 745. The door was open—patients on a suicide watch were not allowed to shut their doors. She glanced in to see a hunched woman sitting on the bed, hugging her knees, staring at the blank white wall. Even though the woman faced away from the door, Maggie felt a stirring of pity. She had treated immigrant women before—the loneliness, the sheer isolation of their lives, was hard to fathom. Though the fact that this woman supposedly spoke English was a good start.
Maggie flipped through the chart, gleaning the basic facts. Taken to the ER at ten-fifteen p.m. last night. Was found slumped on the living room floor by her husband. Had to have her stomach pumped and was treated for a large bruise on her forehead. The MRI for an internal head bleed had come back negative. The woman was a thirty-two-year-old immigrant from India. Her name was Lakshmi Patil and she was employed at her husband’s restaurant. Reason for suicide attempt unknown. Patient was generally uncooperative.
Maggie Bose drew in a breath, knocked perfunctorily on the open door, and let herself into the dark room.
3
I DOES NOT TURN around when I hear my name being called. They come into the room every two-three minutes, asking this-question and that-question. One wanting to know if I needs anything, another offer me water, one says he’s Dr. So-and-so and can he look into my eyes and do this-thing and that-thing. All of them have the questions, all of them want to know why I do such a wicked thing, though nobody except my husband say to me what I do is wicked. At this hospital, everyone is nice and kindly, everyone’s face look sad and sorry, like they all wanting to being my friend. But I is knowing the God-truth: I having no friends. Bobby is the only friend I had and now he is lost to the California. No, in this hospital, in this country, in this life, I’s alone.
“Mrs. Patil?” the voice say. “I’m Dr. Bose. Maggie Bose. May I talk with you for a minute?” I know it is rudeness but I don’t turn around. I am liking looking at this wall, which look like myself from the inside—empty and blank. A big piece of nothing.
“Mrs. Patil,” the voice say again, and before I can think, this person come sit on the side of bed next to me. I am so surprise my head jerk up, and then I get the shock when I see her black face. I has never been so near to the black person before and I am so ascare I think I will do soo-soo in my gown. I push on my hands to move back in the bed, so my back resting on the wall.
The black’s eyes grow big. “I’m sorry, my dear,” she say. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” She get up from the bed and pulls the chair and sits on it facing me. I looks at the ceiling, floor, bed, her knees, everything but to look into that face again. My husband always say to never talk to the black. They liar and cheat, he say. Will rob cash register if you look away for one minute only. One time some college boys from place of Africa come to our restaurant, he give them such rude service, they complain. He look at them straight and say, “Then don’t come back.”
I knows they send this black woman here to make me ascare, to punish me from trying the suicide. I don’t know what punishment for—for trying or for fail. “Please,” I say. “I never do suicide again. Please, beg your pardon.”
“Mrs. Patil, I’m not here to judge you. I’m here to help you. But I can’t do that if you don’t speak to me.”
I remember what the husband say: The black will smile sweet like a baby before he stab you and steal your moneys. That is why she is talking about helping me and all. But I has no moneys. “I has no moneys,” I say to her. “You go to the next room and try that patient.”
“Nobody’s talking about money,” she say. “We treat people without insurance all the time. Please don’t worry about this.”
This woman making me angry. She think we are charity case. “We have insurance,” I say. “My husband buy. We are having our own store and restaurant.”
“Good. That’s good. So that’s something we don’t have to worry about, right?” Her voice get tight, like we on merry-go-round wheel and she wanting to get off. “So now that we’ve settled that, why don’t you tell me a bit about how you’ve ended up here?”
I am not allowing me to hear her words. This is a game I play when I’m not liking people. Instead of hearing their words, I allows myself to hear the silence between each word they say. Or, this is what I hear: Whawhawhawha. This is what she sound like to me.
She ask something but I make myself hear only the Whawhawhawha. Her voice sound so funny to me, I begins to feel tickle with laughing. After few minute, she get up. Now I listens to what she say. “Okay, Mrs. Patil. Have it your way. I just want you to know, though, that by state law, we can’t discharge you until we’re sure you’re not a danger to yourself. I hope you have a good weekend in here. I’ll see you on Monday.”
She move toward the door and now I feel ashame for how I acting. She put her hand on handle and then she turn around. “By the way, we have something in common. My husband is from India also.”
“Liar,” I say, and then I look at ceiling, so she won’t know the word came from me.
But she hear me. She come back inside the room and stand in front of the bed. “I beg your pardon?” And when I say nothing, say, “Did you call me a liar?”
I say nothing, but I’m thinking, Indian man never marry the black. I will tell the husband this story when he coming to visit me tomorrow. I wants to look at her face, but I ascare. So I looks at her hand, which wearing silver bracelet and is pushing, pushing, inside her purse. She pull piece of paper out and take one-two step near me. “This is my husband,” she say. “He teaches math at the university here. His name is Sudhir Bose. I’m sure he’s shopped at your grocery store.”
I keeps my head straight, but my eyes moving on their own to look at photo. I see Indian man, tall and handsome, dressed in a kurta-pajama and sitting on sofa, his face smiling. But then my heart go thap-thap because I see his arm is around a black lady who is wearing long gold earrings and red lipstick. She is also having big smile. I feel like I do when I looks at Stardust magazine and see photos of Abhishek and Aishwarya or Shahrukh Khan and Gauri—happy and empty at same time. My husband only look with love at a woman one time. That woman not me.
“Where your mister from?” I hear my voice saying. “Bombay city?”
“No, he’s from Calcutta. We were there just two years ago, to see his parents.”
My eyes grow big. They allow her inside Calcutta? And his parents know he marry the black?
“Where’re you from? How long have you been in Burnham?”
“We not live in Burnham. We live in Chesterfield,” I say. “Far from here. That is where husband business is. We live in the apartment above store.”
She sit back on chair. I look at her knee, her feet, her fingers. But not the face. “Chesterfield, huh? I think I may have been in your store once, with Sudhir. He usually does the grocery shopping, since he’s the cook in the family. Usually, he buys his masalas from the Indian store in Cedarville, where we live.”
This lady make me crazy. First she insult me by telling me her husband does the shopping at another store, our competitioner. Then she tell me her husband does the cooking. Why the man must cook if his wife not dead?
I decide to lock my mouth shuts, but then I again hearing my voice say, “That man who owns grocery stor
e in Cedarville is big fat crook. All extra-extra he charges. You want to waste hard-earn money, you shop there.” I have heard my husband say exact same thing to customer.
She smile. I can tell from her voice. “I’ll make sure Sudhir knows this, Lakshmi.”
How she know my name? How? I feel panicky, like pot of water boiling inside my head. I turn to look at door, to make sure it still open and I can run out, and in looking doing this, my eyes land on her face.
Her face look so soft and welcome. Her face dark as the mud but her eyes light brown, like honey, same-to-same color as Ma’s eyes, and Shilpa’s. And kind and gentle-like, and suddenly I thinks of Mithai the elephant. How he used to get same look in her eyes when I sing to him.
The black lady’s smile gets bigger and now she shows her teeth, white and strong, as if she grow up chewing the sugarcane that grow in my village. “Hello,” she say softly, as if she just is walking in, and I feels shy. I look down at floor.
“What’re you thinking, Lakshmi?” she ask, and I say, “About Mithai. How you look like him.”
Her eyebrow goes up and she look at me crooked. “Mithai? I look like a sweetmeat?”
And now I’m knowing for sure she marry to Indian man because she know mithai is name for the sweets we sell in the store. She think I calling her a halva and this is so funny to me that a laughing comes out of my mouth, like a bit of soo-soo that leaks down there sometimes, and then she shake her head, and that make me laugh more. I try to stop but nothing happen. I have not eat since yesterday and now I am filling my stomach with my own laughing.
The Story Hour Page 2