Father Freitas, Dr. Walsh and the others at Mission Hospital expected her at 6 p.m. They planned a special welcome service before dinner. Well, people up here must be used to delays. She sips water sparingly as she doubts there will be more rest stops.
Rising in the dark foothills, the headlights shine on patches of snow and ice. She prays for safety and tries to anticipate the dazzling views she’ll see tomorrow morning.
“I hope you have found the weekend…provocative,” Father Daniel said after that fateful retreat in Minnesota. Provocative enough to propel her to these winding foothills. He’s back in Chennai now. She’ll write to him tomorrow.
The trees have changed shape and color. Even in the dimness, she can see this is an evergreen land.
Emmanuel’s lights catch a billboard: “Slow Drive. Long Life.” Then another: “Always Avoid Accidents.” She closes her eyes and imagines she’s in India. Emmanuel’s scratchy music has become almost soothing. She recalls the films she watched with Beata this year: the dazzling saris, swirling dupattas, dancing hands.
*****
“Welcome home!” A stranger’s voice. Friendly. Crisp. Another new accent.
She awakes, bewildered. How long has she napped?
Ah, she’s here. This is Moorty.
A slim woman with large green eyes and red hair—a shade lighter than Monica’s—stands next to the van smiling. “Welcome, Dr. Murphy.”
She blinks, rolls down the window. “Sorry to be late.” Calm down, this isn’t the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party. “We were delayed, as you must have gathered.”
The night air is cold. Winter in the mountains. Everyone is wearing a heavy coat. Monica buttons her parka snugly.
She’s supposed to disembark. This is it, the end of the journey, the beginning.
“Yes.” The woman is nodding, sliding open the door. “I’m Brigid Walsh, Dr. Walsh’s wife and a nurse here at Moorty.” She helps Monica to the snowy ground.
“Monica Murphy,” she clasps Brigid’s warm hand. Her eyes adjust to this disappointingly dark world, gradually making out shapes and people. If only they had arrived in daylight.
An Indian in a clerical collar steps forward. “A very, very warm welcome, Doctor. I am Father Freitas.”
“I’ve heard so much about you,” she bows. “Delighted.”
Emmanuel is driving away.
“Where?” she begins.
“Don’t worry,” says Father Freitas. “He’s just delivering luggage to your rooms.”
“I didn’t get a chance to thank him.”
“So American, the thanking,” chuckles the bespectacled fair-skinned priest.
“Emmanuel will join us for supper,” Brigid explains.
“Oh, no, you shouldn’t have delayed your supper. I’m terribly sorry.”
“Too many apologies!” Father raises his eyebrows. “We’ll find a cure for that.”
A tall form approaches.
The ghost of Hamlet’s father. Weird association. She feels a chill. Of course, she’s standing in the snow. Moorty is 6,000 feet above sea level. In the Himalayan foothills. Yes, she’s here. Tugging the green shawl tighter, she manages a direct, alert gaze.
“Dr. Murphy?” His voice is an Irish rumble. (She now places Brigid’s accent. Brain returning.) “Welcome. I’m Kevin Walsh, senior doctor at Moorty Mission.”
“Thank…”
“I see you believe in fashionably late arrivals,” he says archly.
She hopes this is a joke.
Father Freitas stares at his shiny black shoes and shakes his head slightly. The priest is a foot shorter than Kevin Walsh and a quiet, compelling presence.
After a brief supper at the refectory, Father Freitas accompanies her to their quarters, a three story yellow house renovated into flats.
“May I assist you with the unpacking?” He cocks his head.
“No, thanks Father. I may go straight to bed and put my life in order tomorrow morning.”
“An ambitious woman. To accomplish such a task in one morning!”
She laughs.
“Welcome, again, and good night, Dr. Murphy.”
She wants to hug this genial spirit. Instead, she smiles. “Good night, Father.”
He climbs downstairs to the flat he shares with Dr. Sanchez, who is out of town.
Her bedroom and living room are spacious, with windows facing north and east.
Imagining her new life on the middle floor between the Walshes and her other two colleagues, she is surprised by the comfort. The flowery curtains on the north and east windows. She’d expected a single room, something more monastic than this cozy flat. Here’s a couch, a large desk, two bureaus, a single bed. Across the hall, she discovers a toilet, shower and tiny kitchen.
Bed! She sprawls on the hard narrow mattress. She needs sleep. She’s traveled to yet another new world.
Her mind races about tomorrow’s orientation. About the cases they’ve scheduled for her. She has to be alert. She must sleep.
Restless from rocking in that wretched van, she bounces up. Up, up and around. And around. “Always Avoid Accidents.”
Just a whiff of mildew in the closet. She begins unpacking. So many slacks and blouses, a ridiculously profuse wardrobe. She needs more hangers. How embarrassing.
On the ancient mahogany bureau, Monica spots a small shortwave radio. Shortwave: how far can it reach? How far back? How far forward? Taking a long breath, she presses the power button.
SEVEN
February, 2001, Moorty
Shivering, Monica clutches her collar snugly as she walks from the ward to the refectory. Sharp winds send moist air straight to her lungs. Brigid Walsh cheerfully advises they’ll all be grateful for altitude in May when the plains are baking. Right now, Monica is grateful for her sturdy Minnesota boots crunching on the fresh, white snow.
Nearly the end of her first week. Thank God for the grace that got her through six frenzied days. Sister Margaret was right about needing an extra doc at this small hospital where the demands are endless.
Monica pauses as mountains come into view. Oh, how Moorty’s atmosphere is more conducive to healing than Lake Clinic. If she needs more than twenty minutes with a patient, she takes it. No insurance forms. No unctuous visits from drug company reps. She jots notes on lined paper, writing at a pace that permits her to listen to patients. No invasive, dysfunctional pseudo-efficient system here. By mid-day, she always feels exhausted, but not constricted by anger and frustration at time wasted on bureaucratic ritual. A year ago, she couldn’t have imagined being so useful, feeling so excited.
Clapping to keep warm, she continues toward lunch, determined not to be fashionably late. She hopes Dr. Walsh lightens up; she’s developing a definite aversion.
Yesterday’s dark was misted with stars. Cold and crisp: perfect February night. How does the moon shine on these Himalayan foothills? Will it look like the one at home? The one in Delhi last month?
Monica remains stimulated by the morning’s chat with head nurse Sister Catherine about preventive medicine, about initiating simple programs. At home, she never left the clinic thinking. Worrying, maybe. She’d hop in the car, switch her brain to NPR. Reality was elsewhere—Somalia, Iraq, Peru—not her 10 hours of doctoring.
The sudden wind catches her by surprise. Perhaps this is a two-shawl day. Father Freitas enjoys teasing her about feeling cold. Yes, she explains, Minnesota’s climate is harsher. But in Moorty, it’s impossible to warm up indoors. What would she do without all the sweaters and shawls left behind by the two Kerala doctors who returned south this year? What will she leave behind, and when? She has no idea if Mission House, or the visa office, will let her stay if Indian doctors become available here. Of course she’s always known this,
but now that she’s feeling at home, the tentativeness feels more real.
Monkeys screech from behind. Noises are different from the Delhi racket, yet just as loud. People arriving at dawn, chatting, chatting. Road construction outside the clinic. Frightening shrieks from orange and brown rhesus monkeys. Scarier are the plump black scorpions she saw snuggled in the doorjamb of her bedroom the first morning. Nothing lethal up here, Sister Catherine joked, except the automobile drivers. Then she mentioned her aunt who died of snake bite or scorpion sting in Bihar last summer. “We are lucky not to live in Bihar.”
Monica accepts the new experiences one by one, offering up her confusion and fear. Praying for courage, patience, ingenuity, transcendence, whatever’s available. She’d hoped to move nearer to God, strengthening her newly recovered faith up here in the foothills. She thought the closeness would come from actual grace, useful actions. She didn’t anticipate needing divine reassurance about scorpions, monkeys and snakes.
Pausing now, she savors the fragrance of the stately deodar cedars. Nothing like this scent in Minnesota, simultaneously sharp and sweet. Gazing down toward the streets of Moorty, she anticipates where she can spend her half day there next week. Father Freitas says there’s a new internet shop offering email connections.
The patients are friendly and grateful. Also tolerant of, sometimes pleasurably amused by, her fragmented Hindi. The reserved but cordial Sister Catherine is a gem. Almost as radiant as Father Freitas.
Just a few more feet to lunch. She wonders about Dr. Walsh’s conventional self-importance and Mrs. Dr. Walsh’s subservience. Did he drive away the Kerala doctors with his arrogance? And when will the mysterious Dr. Sanchez appear?
The aroma of chilies and coriander drifts from the small kitchen. As she pulls open the creaking wooden door, she spots a letter from Beata on the white rattan foyer table. No, don’t get distracted. Focus on collegial lunch and talking about the out-patient clinic. The letter will be tonight’s reward.
They’re all gathered at the table—Sister Catherine, Father Freitas, the Walshes.
Quickening her pace, she slips into a chair next to Father.
“Ah, finally, Dr. Murphy,” Kevin appraises her.
How does Brigid cope with his superciliousness? And the others? Maybe she can talk with Father Freitas. A complicated relationship: can Father be friend, boss as well as confessor?
“Good afternoon, everyone,” she stifles an apology. A minute or two late at most.
“I believe it’s Mrs. Walsh’s turn to lead us in grace,” Kevin instructs.
All bow their heads.
Monica concentrates on Brigid’s sweet-sharp Irish intonation.
“Bless us, oh Lord, and these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive. Amen.”
Cook appears with a steaming, fragrant platter.
Father Freitas leans over. “Cook heard that you enjoy vegetable jalfreze, so he has been working all morning on our feast. We owe you our gratitude.”
“Lovely,” she bows to the small man in the plaid shirt and lunghi. “Thank you …” she wants to say, Matthew, but people call him Cook. A respectful term like Sister, Father, Doctor? Maybe she’ll get the nerve to say Matthew in a few weeks. “Thank you, Cook.”
As the platter approaches, Monica notices how many vegetables in her special dish are carrots. She doesn’t remember carrots in jalfreze. She didn’t expect carrots in India at all. They seem such an American vegetable. She loves the sweet crunchiness of raw carrots, the way they sate hunger in the late afternoon. She hates, has always hated since childhood, cooked carrots. A miserable, soggy contrast to the refreshing raw vegetable. It’s puerile; still she also loathes cooked turnips, rutabagas, parsnips. Perhaps it’s a family gene, passed down from generations thinned out on roots wrestled from Irish soil. At home, she pushes aside the carrots, but her childish loathing is trivial in impoverished India. She gulps water after each dose.
“Thirsty, Dr. Murphy?” Kevin Walsh teases. “Jalfreze usually is a spicy dish.”
Monica gazes at the crucifix hanging on the yellow wall behind him. “The lunch is delicious,” she speaks loudly for surely Matthew is listening behind the kitchen door.
“Perhaps Monica is simply getting accustomed to our altitude,” Father Freitas intervenes. “When I first arrived, I drank gallons of water.”
She nods, pleased to find only two carrots left.
“Dr. Sanchez returned late this morning,” Sister Catherine reports.
Monica has noticed the canny nun deftly shifting topics several times this week. They’ve all developed strategies for coping with Dr. Walsh.
“Why is he not at lunch?” Brigid asks anxiously. “Is he unwell?”
“No, no illness,” reassures Father Freitas. “ ‘Rattled,’ so he said. Exhausted from the journey. He’ll join us for supper.”
Kevin Walsh clears his throat and begins a report about fundraising for the new hospital wing. “I’m contemplating another U.S. ‘money safari,’ that is if I can be spared, that is if Dr. Murphy can acclimate soon enough, that is—”
“Dr. Murphy is up to speed already,” Father Freitas declares.
“Oh, she is indispensable,” Sister Catherine agrees.
“No one is indispensable;” Kevin Walsh retorts, “we are each God’s servant.”
Moorty Chapel is a plain, wooden structure located in front of the refectory, sheltered by a stand of deodars. Monica appreciates the modest furnishings: an altar, twelve pews, no vestibule. In February, the church is chillier than most buildings. Shivering, she yanks the heavy wooden door, which, unlike all the other mission doors, isn’t weather warped. The low whoosh of the opening is almost reverent. As her eyes adjust to the dim light, filtering through simple stained glass windows, she realizes she’s not alone.
A tall man in the second pew.
Shaking his black curly hair, he looks upward, then rests his head on the forward bench. Dr. Sanchez.
Sliding silently into the last pew, she gazes at the tabernacle. Making a visit to the Blessed Sacrament, as Sister Henrietta urged her fourth graders to do every week. She’s always felt closer to God sitting alone in a pew. Since returning to the Church, she’s discovered Catholic traditions of meditation, not unlike Buddhist practices.
Dr. Sanchez doesn’t seem very serene up there, rocking back and forth, sighing heavily. He begins thumping his fist on the bench.
*****
The compact white clinic has a reception area, two examination rooms, a pharmacy desk and an equipment pantry. She hears the low chatter of patients and checks her watch. No, she’s not late. Sister Catherine explained people arrive hours early.
She meets the young charge nurse, Sister Melba, and nods at the people waiting on folding chairs. A pregnant woman; an old man with an arm oddly bandaged; an adolescent boy and his striking mother. The pair hold her attention—the kid’s anxiety; the mother’s calm, almost an ennui. Ten or twelve other patients in back rows.
Panic rises. At Lake Clinic, she entered a side door after lunch. Patients were escorted to her, already weighed and measured and partially screened. Here she’s conscious of people waiting, endless lines of them.
“Just a moment, Sister Melba, and I’ll be ready for the first patient.” She retreats to the tiny exam room, washes her hands, reminds herself she can only see one person at a time and says a quick prayer for guidance. All the afflictions of India are not her responsibility. She’ll do better if she concentrates on the person before her than if she frets about those on folding chairs.
Sister Eleanor stations herself in the corner to help with translation. Monica likes the young nun, but looks forward to the time when she knows enough Hindi to see patients alone.
The sun gradually drops lower and lower in the trees.
It’s several hours before she can see the boy and his mother.
The mother greets her in English, “Good afternoon, Doctor.”
He follows shyly, “Good afternoon, Doctorji.”
“I am Sudha Badami, a teacher at Walkerton School. This is Vikram, one of our finest students.”
The boy drops his gaze.
“Thank you, Sister Eleanor,” Monica smiles. “We won’t need translation for this patient. Would you like to take a break?”
The nun regards her warily.
“Really, Sister, we’ll be fine. Why not have a cup of tea and stretch your legs?”
Sister Eleanor smiles hesitantly and withdraws.
“You speak no Hindi?” observes the teacher.
“Thora Sa. I am learning.” Monica is embarrassed by the teacher’s challenge. “How can I help Vikram?”
“Something is occurring in his eyes.” She tilts her pretty dark face, concerned.
Monica notices that Sudha Badami is her age, mid-thirties—a poised woman wearing an elegant green silk sari. Saris make Indian women look older, more grown up. In comparison, Monica feels bleakly utilitarian in her brown skirt and black sweater.
“Vikram, do you speak much English?”
He glances uncertainly at his teacher.
“He speaks more than he lets on. But if I may be permitted to translate, you both might be more comfortable.”
Edgy lady. Focus on the patient.
“How long have your eyes been red?” Monica asks.
“He has suffered four days only.”
Monica examines the boy’s shy eyes. “Vikram, you have conjunctivitis. Do you know what that is?”
“No, Doctorji.”
“There’s an infection in the membrane over your eyeballs and inside the lids.”
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