The Story Hour

by Thrity Umrigar

  Which was why she wasn’t prepared for the story Rose told her that day. It turned out that Roland had a twin sister who’d died in the womb. The doctors couldn’t do anything to remove the dead fetus; the risk to the other baby was too great. So Rose carried her other child to term, walking around for three months carrying a dead child. She and her husband had never mentioned his sister’s death to Roland. But Rose still woke from a recurring nightmare in which the dead baby called to her, threatened to put its translucent hands around the healthy brother’s neck and choke him. “I just can’t wash it off,” Rose whimpered. “That dirty feeling of carrying death within my body. And the baby in my dreams—it’s sinister. So unforgiving. Like something from a cheap horror movie.”

  Maggie knew Rose was looking at her, to her, to say something, to set things right, but she was stunned. Amazed at her own vapidity, her own cluelessness. How could she have missed something so important in someone she’d counseled for so many years? And yet how could she have known? She was struck by the limitations of therapy, was reminded anew of the opacity of human relations, the inability to truly know someone else. Her mind flashed to the conversation in the car with Sudhir. If her husband couldn’t have guessed at her history with her father, how on earth could she have known what guilt poor Rose was harboring all these years?

  She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, Rose. I’m so sorry,” she began, hoping that her eyes were conveying the sympathy that she felt for the older woman, more than her words could.

  “I know,” Rose said. “It’s okay.”

  Maggie had a two-hour break after Rose left and before the next client arrived. She went into the kitchen to make coffee. She reached for the pot and found that her hands were shaking so badly that she had to set the pot on the counter. She stared at her hands, puzzled, and even as she did, she felt the shaking spread through her entire body, so that she pulled up the kitchen chair and sat down. Was she getting ill? Catching a cold? She didn’t feel ill. Maybe her sugar was low? Then she felt a sensation in her stomach, and it moved quickly to her chest and then into her throat and escaped from her mouth as a sob. When she heard that sob, followed by its twin, and then by another and another, she was surprised—What the heck are you crying for in the middle of the day? she scolded herself—but unable to stop. She felt grief move within her like a barefoot woman flitting through a dark house.

  So much pain. So many secrets. She felt burdened by the weight of other people’s secrets, their grief, their trust, their blinking anticipation, their eager faces, the hunger with which they looked at her, expecting answers, expecting cures, expecting miracles. And until this moment, she had always felt capable of meeting their expectations, had believed in her ability to help them part the cornstalks of their confusion, sift through the hard pellets of their grief, and arrive at a new understanding. Until now she had believed in the power of logic, of rational thinking, of cognition, of self-awareness. But not right now. Not as she sat with her head on the kitchen table, hearing herself sob and unable to stop. Right now each human heart felt remote as a coral reef, and every person so mysterious, so unknowable, so incomprehensible, that she wondered how she’d ever do her job again.

  Is this what burnout feels like? she asked herself, and before she could answer, an image flashed before her eyes: of her father sitting across from her at dinner and talking to her husband. Sudhir was explaining a mathematical concept, doing his best to explain it in layman’s terms, and Wallace was doing his damnedest to follow. They were all doing this for her sake, Maggie knew, but still she was irritated at Sudhir for trying so hard. Just then Wallace’s eyes wandered to her face and he gave her the faintest smile, just enough to let her know that he sensed her irritation, that he knew she was as trapped in her seat as he was. No one else caught that exchange, but it flustered her because it told her two paradoxical things: one, that this was all a performance, that Wallace was simply a guest in her house who would soon be on his way; and two, nobody would ever know her as well as her father did. In one look, Wallace conveyed to her both his hold over her and his disinterest in her.

  So it’s not burnout, Maggie told herself. It was that she was rattled by her father’s visit, and telling Sudhir what had happened when she was ten had made her realize that the memory, which she’d assumed was defanged and toothless, still had a bite left in it. That’s all. Rose’s confession today had just put her over the edge.

  In fact, the shaking had stopped a few minutes later, and she saw her other two clients that day without any further problems. But two weeks later, it happened again. Then nothing for a few months, and then the shaking came back. Sometimes the most mundane of confidences could bring it on. When Maggie sheepishly mentioned to Sophie her suspicion that building the home office had somehow knocked down the metaphoric wall between work and home life, Sophie pooh-poohed the idea. Plenty of therapists work from home, she declared. That’s superstition.

  So Maggie let it go. Accepted the shaking as an occupational hazard. Worked around it. Managed to control it so it wasn’t easily apparent to anyone else. Sure enough, she hadn’t experienced it in almost six months. Until now. Her encounter with the Indian woman had set it off. She knew what it was, too: Something about how bereft, how existentially lonely, Lakshmi looked had found an echo within her. And when she’d mentioned the bit about her mother being sick . . .

  She walked to her office, glad that it was late in the evening and most of her colleagues had gone home. She opened her office door unsteadily and sat down on the desk chair. She sighed. A martini. That’s what she needed. A martini and Peter Weiss were just what the doctor had ordered.

  5

  TODAY IS MONDAY and the husband has day off so he look more relax. He sitting in chair and I feels him staring at me. But when I looks in his face, his eyes shift away from me, as if I a piece of leftover food he sick to look at. Again he ask, “Why you do this wicked thing? I give you everything—food, saris, house. This is how you repay me? By doing the suicide?”

  I want to say: This is why I do the suicide—because you have come to see me Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and today and not one time you say my name. Not once you give me the kind touch or say one good word. Not one time you looking at me like I your wife. I seen you look at the butter chicken in the restaurant with more loving than you look at me. I want to say: My family was poor but full of love. My dada prideful of me, my ma call me jewel of her eye. When she young, my sister, Shilpa, follow me like a tail. In my village, everyone say my name. Lakshmi, come do this. Lakshmi, show me how to do that. Lakshmi, you so smart. My teacher always pet my head. Even Menon sahib, our landlord, tell me I am as if his niece. That’s why only he puts me in charge of Mithai. He always pinching his son and say, “Munna, see how Lakshmi so good at the maths and accounts. You must learn from her.”

  I want to say: In my village, the earth is red and soft. When rainy season come, it like a green sari cover my village. The earth smelling so fresh and clean and sweet. I want to say: What this cold, hard place you bring me to? Half year, no leaf living on trees. And ground so bitter and cold, nothing grow. And where the people go? When we driving to the Costco, not one person walking on the street. No melas, no old man selling roasted peanuts, no childrens laughing-playing, no stray dog running round and round, no sweet cow sleeping on pavement, no crow cawing on tree, no nothing. Just long, empty road of silent. You brings me to this upside-down place and you set me in corner like old suitcase. And then you say, “Why you do the suicide?”

  But I says nothing. So husband make big breathing sound. “Okay, talk, don’t talk. I don’t care,” he say.

  How hard his words is. I feel the tears in my eyes and I open-close eyes fast to make them stop. But he sees and he bends near his chair and pull out tiffin box from cloth bag. “Here,” he say. “Rekha sent food for you. Goat biryani and gulab jamun.”

  Minute he say gulab jamun, my stomach make loud noise, like angry dog. He hear and look so surprise, I begi
ns to laugh. “That Rekha smart.” He smile. “She know what you like.” He bring out spoon and plate and put biryani on it. “Eat,” he say. “Nurse complain to me yesterday you not eating their food.”

  I makes the face. “Not food,” I say. “It is plastic. No chili powder, no cumin. This is dead people food.”

  He look around. “Be quiet. The white people take insult if they hear you. This their home you are in.”

  I say nothing. I am eating half with spoon, half with hand. It is first time today I eat. After few minute, I look at husband. “Thank you,” I say.

  But he shake his head. “Eat slowly-slowly. Otherwise you getting sick and they keep you longer here. Big problem at restaurant, not having you work. When they going to discharge you?”

  I don’t know meaning of word “this-charge” but I don’t want to say. He not even waiting for me to answer. “I had to hire my friend Prithvi’s son to be waiter in restaurant,” he say. “Stupid fellow, know nothing of being server. All mistakes he is making. Saturday, two customer take off without paying. I need you to come to work quickly.”

  I feels good, my husband missing me. I feels good with biryani in my stomach. So I feels the courage. “How much you pay Prithvi’s son?” I say.

  Husband look surprise and then he say, “Minimum wage.”

  “When I come back, you pay me,” I say.

  Husband’s face look shock. “Did suicide make you crazy? If I pay you, how I pay electric company? How I pay gas bill?” Then he get angry. “Only loose woman speak like this to husband, Lakshmi. I am the one who feed you, clothe you, give you roof over your head. When I come home and find you dead-like on sofa, I call 911 and transfer you to hospital. You know how much this hospital bill going to be? Insurance rate will go up also. Other man would leave wife after this evil business. Such shame you have brought on my family name. Every day customers saying, ‘Where your missus?’ And what answer I give them? That my missus is doing aram in a hotel room, eating goat biryani and gulab jamun, while I break my back before a stove?”

  I feel ashame. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I was making a joke, only.”

  “Joke?” the husband say. “Joke is funny. This is not funny.”

  I say sorry second time, and when I looks up, I see someone standing inside the room. At first I only sees the white coat because the face is so dark, but then I know who is standing there and my stomach move, like I on a boat. The husband hate the black people and this is same lady who was here before. She standing with one hand in her coat pocket and her head crooked sideways and she frown. She look at back of the husband like he smell bad.

  Then she walk into room, and husband hear her and push back his chair. He open his mouth but she talk first. “Hi. You must be Lakshmi’s husband?” she say. “I’m Dr. Margaret Bose. Her therapist.”

  My husband look like he have heart attack. No one say anything and in that minute, I feels something move inside of me, so I shifts from my husband to her side. I feel bad, but it happen automatic-like—I feel happy watching husband try to think what to say, do, where to look. And she not know how he hate the black people, and I want to protection her, the way I do my Shilpa. But she also stronger than Shilpa, I know, she no needing me to do protection.

  “You are Mr. Patil?” she say, and husband look surprise and then say, “Yes.”

  “Good. I’m glad I caught you. We have a lot to discuss,” she say, and then she come to me and put hand on my shoulder. “How are you today, Lakshmi?” she say, and her eyes are so soft and again I think of my Mithai. And of Ma as she lay on the mud floor of our house, the ’rthritis twisting her hand and foots into the crooked shape of the ginger root.

  “I am fine,” I say loudly and both she and husband look at me surprise.

  “Did you have a good weekend?”

  “I am fine,” I say again, wanting her eyes to stay on me, wanting to build the thread tying her to me, against the husband.

  “Good.” She smile. “Good.”

  Husband make uh-uh sound in his throat. “When will she be discharge?” he say. “My business suffering with her absent.”

  The lady look at him funny. “Well, Mr. Patil, we’re hardly at that point. Your wife has just attempted to kill herself. Unfortunately, because of the weekend, I’ve not been able to work with her much. I realize the pressures on you, but under the circumstances—”

  Husband not bother to behave his temper. “Then bring a real doctor to give her treatment. I have a business to run. I cannot leave the business to come every day during visiting hours. Very difficult and very costly.”

  The black lady’s eyebrow go high. “I am a real doctor, Mr. Patil. Now, if your wife has a problem with me, I’d be happy to refer her to a different therapist. But”—her voice get real quiet—“I think you’re the one with the problem.”

  Husband open his mouth, but just then the black lady say, “Now, if you’ll excuse us, visiting hours are over. And I need to start my session with Lakshmi.”

  I feel something prideful in my chest. The husband look like he Pran and he got beat up by Amitabh Bachchan. He don’t know whether to go or come, sit or stand. He look at me for help but I look straight at him. What he call this room? A hotel room? If I’m in hotel, he the visitor.

  Chup-chap, quiet as a lizard, he gather the tiffin box and take the dirty plate. The gulab jaman, wrapped in foil, he put on the table for me. He look at me again, and then at the black lady, and then he leaf the room.

  Soon as he go, I feel like to cry. So alonely I’m feeling without the husband. And wicked, for how I happy when this lady make him defeat. Some jadoo she do, to make me side with her over my husband. I decide I will not speak to her. Let her leaf my room as she make my husband leaf.

  She sit down on chair across from me. “I heard you’re not eating much here, Lakshmi,” she say. “So I’m glad your husband is bringing food from home.”

  Who tell her I not eating? How she know my husband bringing the food? “Who telling you such lies? Why you care what I eat? You mind your own business.”

  “It is my business,” she say. “Look, my goal is to evaluate you and make sure you’re fit to be discharged, okay? So I require your cooperation, Lakshmi.”

  Such big-big word she using. I don’t understand anything she say.

  She look at me close. “Are you getting what I’m saying? It’s really important that you understand. If you don’t, we can get a interpreter, okay?”

  “What ‘inter-printer’ mean?”

  “Someone who speaks your language. Hindi? Punjabi? Gujarati? Whatever you speak. And that person can tell you what I’m saying.”

  “Why you need to speak to me?”

  She give out big breath. “Lakshmi. You’ve just tried to kill yourself. If your husband had not come home early with a headache, God knows what would’ve happened. Okay? So we can’t let you go from here until I’m convinced . . . until I’m sure you won’t do this again. Do you understand?”

  I nods. “I’m sorry. I am wicked woman for the suicide. I am sorry.”

  “Sweetie. You’re not wicked. You’re just in pain. You’re hurting. I can see it on your face. And I’m here to help you. But you’ve gotta let me in.”

  “You already in,” I say, confuse.

  She laugh. “In, like, into your heart. Your mind. You have to tell me why you took this step. So that we make sure you don’t do it again.”

  I feel as if I walk into a dark room and turn on the light. I now understands what she is wanting from me. She is wanting my story. Just like when you go to the doctor sahib with cough-cold and he is asking questions—when it started, were you walking in rain, were you eating too many sour mangoes all of once? Then only he knows what medicines to give.

  She is wanting my story. In my village, I was champion storyteller. When Ma became sick with the ’rthritis, I would tell Shilpa stories at night so she could go to sleep and not hear Ma’s crying. When the bad men hurt Mithai the elephant, I spend night wi
th him and tell him story after story. In school, I always make the other childrens laugh by stories and jokes I was telling.

  But I have not told story to anyone in very long time.

  “Lakshmi,” the lady say. “What happened? What made you do this on Thursday? Did your husband beat you? What brought it on?”

  I thinks of Bobby and how he look, standing in that parking lot, holding the statue I gave. I thinks of him getting in his car and how it feeling like my heart remove from my body and get in his car with him. How I know, even then, that Bobby only think of me as waitress in restaurant but I . . . I think of him as . . .

  I wants to tell her about Bobby and about his kindness and the California. But then I ascare. What if she tell my husband? What he do if he know I likes Bobby in the bad ways, in the way married wife must not like other man? He be angry and mean, or he make joke about it. Either way, he hurt me.

  I cannot tell her about Bobby, who is beautiful like ice to me. You putting ice in the sunshine, where other people can see, and it melt. Bobby is secret, one of two secret in my life, that I will never tell.

  “Lakshmi,” she say again, and I know she waiting for me.

  “What?” I say. “What you wanting to know?”

  She lean toward me. “I want to know,” she say, “if your husband beat you. Is that why . . . ?”