“I don’t pack guns, Mickey. It’s pretty straightforward. Mom can’t live alone anymore. She can come live with me. I’m a grown up. I have a whole house.”
Mom moving two hours north is crazy. She’d miss her friends. Her parish. Monica would miss her.
“Besides I’ve already invited her.”
“You have?” Monica feels the panic and anger rising. “When? Just this weekend, she said—”
“We discussed it the last time I was down. Once I persuaded her to return my keys.”
“You drove home that night?” This is out of her mouth before she thinks about it.
“Don’t start.”
Everything’s moving too fast. Monica takes a long breath. “What did she say?”
“She said no,” Jeanne scoffs, “because it would hurt your feelings.”
SIXTEEN
April, 1998, Minnesota
Walking to Lucia’s Café, Monica marvels at the crocuses in the yards on Humboldt Avenue. And the Scylla! Beata says these little blue flowers are also called Siberian Squill. Siberia in Minnesota. No, not hard to imagine. Yesterday she saw a cherry tree flowering on Hennepin. Two weeks ago, sidewalks were treacherously icy; last Monday the temps hit ninety. Now the mid-April weather is more reasonable, about sixty degrees. A truly bipolar climate. Jekyll and Hyde—these Twin Cities.
She steers her mind back to Eric—away from Sunday’s family dinner. Tonight she can’t do a thing about family. If she wants this sweet man, she has to focus. She’s been distant for weeks. He’s smart, kind, attentive. Beata is scoping out brides’ maids’ outfits. Discussing their honeymoon. Whoa, Monica tells her. Not ready. Not yet.
The lawns near 31st Street are dappled with tulips and daffodils. The gingko she loves is almost in full bud. The scent of lilies floats from a nearby yard.
She’s wearing an olive green silk blouse for their first anniversary, not that they call it that. Still, when Eric made the date, he asked if she remembered what they were doing last April 17th. No sentimentality, they agreed. They appreciate each other’s aversion to sappiness. Of course they share a lot more: political commitments, interests in experimental theatre and new music. Great sex.
He sits at a table by the window, jotting something. Eric values time, uses it well, understands her own work pressures. Sometimes she worries he’s sold his soul to the Macalester History Department, but he could say that about her doctoring. Once he laughed, “We’re mutually useful auguries.” She likes a guy who uses the word augury.
From this distance, she registers a man who is handsome, unselfconsciously so—dark, serious eyes, clear olive skin—fit, but not bulked up. The balding doesn’t bother her. He keeps his thin hair clipped and hilariously disparages colleagues with “academic comb-overs.”
As if sensing her gaze, he glances up.
Yup, there’s the dazzling smile. Her heart catches.
She waves, startled as he tucks a small package into his briefcase. Oh, no. She has nothing to give him. Unfair. No sentimentality, they agreed.
Garlic. Tomato. A trace of cigarette smoke from the distant bar. Fresh bread. She loves the aromas of her neighborhood bistro. Jeanne would call Lucia’s pricey, pretentious. She needs to leave her sister in Duluth this weekend.
He busses her on both cheeks. She air kisses him back. Cosmo Minneapolitans.
“Nice blouse,” he notices. “You look terrific in green.”
They scan the wine menu together.
“Is red OK, despite the sudden summer?”
“Amazing weather,” he laughs. “I’m not removing the snow tires yet. Remember that storm last May?”
He’s cautious. The San Diego boyhood showing.
“Hardly a storm,” she parries. “Two inches. Snow melted overnight.”
“I love how you savor this town—in all its seasons.”
She’s blushing. Love? Their favorite table. The suspiciously small cadeau in his briefcase. She warns herself not to drink too fast.
“So what were you writing as I walked up?”
“Just notes for my meeting with the Dean next week. He’s got a cockeyed idea about consolidating departments. Absolutely clueless about intellectual integrity.”
“Isn’t he an academic, too? Don’t you have to be a professor to be a dean?”
Eric lowers his voice. “The guy’s from Marquette. A psychologist. I guess he barely qualifies as an academic.”
She inhales sharply. Always an edge when he talks about Catholic schools. As much as she agrees with him about Church provincialism and imperialism, she’s strangely uneasy around the anti-Catholic jokes. “A psychologist. What’s wrong with that? Beata is a psychologist.”
“Dear Beata is a clinical psychologist. She helps people. And makes no pretence about social science.”
“At the moment,” she stretches for a lighter note, “with all the fundraising, Beata doesn’t make any claims about being a therapist.”
“Another thing about the dean. He wants us to go donor hunting, to help ‘grow’ the college.”
“Reminds me of Captain Louise.” She takes a gulp of the rich Pinot Noir.
“Do tell.” He butters a slice of multigrain bread.
“No, I promised myself not to gripe about work tonight. Too irritating.”
“If you shared the problem it could become less irritating. That’s what people who are, um, dating, do, talk to each other.”
She sighs, eats bread to absorb the half glass of wine. “We had a meeting on Wednesday, a ‘team consult.’ Louise got on my case about doing Free Clinic work.”
“What business is that of hers?” he demands.
“Good question. I only volunteer one night every two weeks.”
“Something I love about you is that you’re such an old-fashioned good person.”
She shrugs, “Anyway, Louise says it’s a conflict of interest, that I can’t be part of two practices at once.”
“The Free Clinic isn’t a practice! She doesn’t have a leg to stand on.” He reaches for her hand, which has been nervously shredding the label from the wine bottle. “Monica, you have the craziest people in your life. They don’t deserve you. Speaking of that, what’s happening with your barmy sister?”
How quickly she loses her resolve of silence. “Mom is moving in with her.”
“She’s going to Duluth?”
“There are some great things about Duluth.”
“But living with your alcoholic sister isn’t one of them.”
“No.” She feels the tears brimming.
He hands her a white handkerchief. It smells of Tide and Clorox. Eric is the only person she knows who carries handkerchiefs.
“Why? Why would she leave her lovely neighbors? She’s lived in that house twenty-five years.”
“Thirty-eight.”
The waiter serves their salads.
“So why?”
“It’s sad, mad. Mom dragooned me into the kitchen, whispering that this would be good for Jeanne. She wants to help my sister ‘take better care of herself.’ ”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Mom has always sacrificed for others.”
“How did we become relatively normal people, coming from these nutty families?” Eric’s face is long and sad. “Maybe that’s what drew us together.”
She takes a breath, looks around. The room is packed now. What drew us together. What I love about you. OK, she’s shy of his affection. Beata says she has “abandonment issues” around men because of Dad. Of course, Beata is once more going over the top.
“Who says we’re normal?” Monica grins. “Listen, I need a break from family. Tell me more about the Dean. Do your colleagues a
gree with you?”
Watercress salads. Shrimp and artichoke pastas. Eric is still venting. It’s worrying to see him so wired.
“The administration starts to see you as a teaching and service machine.”
Odd how they usually order the same dish. A year ago, she would have switched her choice, then sat through the meal covetously watching him eat her entrée.
“I’m committed to teaching. That’s why I chose Mac over large schools. I studied at a small college; I know what a professor can give.” He brightens.
Eric has the sweetness of her father, but not a trace of the vagabond. Sometimes she is stunned by his steadiness. Sometimes, just a little stifled.
“I also know that in order to continue giving, I need intellectual nourishment. And their administrative trivia eats up my research time.”
He’s like a patient facing surgery, naturally absorbed in the precise details of pain, the options for relief.
“That means the dean has to give you more time to research.”
He nods vigorously, finishing the pasta.
If Eric is a little long-winded, she has to remember that she asks the questions. She often deflects his queries about her work and family. Why?
“While we’re waiting for coffee, I have a little something for you.”
Little. She’s seen the gift—tiny—and is now fully aware of how much she does not want it. She can hardly breathe for intimacy. With Mom attached to one lung and Jeanne to the other, she cannot add another person.
“Hey,” she cries, “unfair. We agreed not to be sentimental tonight.”
“Just a small thing,” he protests, hurt.
“Let’s wait until next Saturday, when I can bring something for you?”
“Come on. You don’t have to reciprocate. It’s an expression of my feelings—”
“That’s just what I don’t want!” Has she said this? Can he hear the panic?
A ray of comprehension crosses his pupils. He laughs nervously. “Honestly, I think you’ll like this.” He presents the small silver box tied with a cherry bow.
Cruel not to open it. She takes a long breath, unknotting the ribbon. Slowly, she lifts the shiny lid.
“Oh,” she gasps.
“Do you like it?” He leans forward with that inimitable smile.
“I’ve always wanted one of these. As kids, we used to call them fairy worlds. But I’ve never seen one this tiny. Ah, it’s Minneapolis, right?” She tips the snow globe and watches white flakes float down the Mississippi River.
“I knew you’d like it,” he laughs, relieved.
Blushing, she’s startled by a disappointment welling in her chest. Damn her fears and resistance. She does love this guy; why can’t she just open up. “Yes, Eric, thank you. I like this very much. I love it.”
SEVENTEEN
November, 2001, Moorty
Cold. Grey. Wet. Glorious snow-slicked mountains. She hurries from the clinic to the refectory over a steep, icy path. Prying the heavy door open against late November winds, she spots a large brown package on the table. Beata’s handwriting. Monica winces at the heavy homesickness that flooded her with Beata’s first letter at Mission House.
How much has changed as these nine months have flown by…and inched along. She feels she belongs to Moorty Mission now. Not that she’s comfortable as a Westerner in India or a feminist at King Kevin’s court, but she’s found navigable waters. Her patients keep returning. She enjoys the health maintenance work. Even Kevin acknowledges her small success. Raul’s gradually opening up and Brigid is less frosty. Her friendship with Sudha has grown beyond expectation. And Father Freitas has proved the best of spiritual advisors, helping her accept the Walshes and to be less self-critical. His wry wisdom and affection for everyone is contagious.
From the dining room, she hears animated voices: Brigid and Raul. They’re worrying about the young girl with malaria. Malaria in winter. People in Minnesota couldn’t fathom this, but the disease takes months to breed in the body before presenting. A cruel fever to spike in this bitter cold. Still, Anu will recover. She’s got pluck.
Cook’s preparing something spicy. Perhaps he’s right that such heat sustains you in winter. Monica now looks forward to chai after lunch. Granted, Cook’s chai isn’t as rich as the precious cup Emmanuel’s mother served her on the way to Moorty, but she’s surprised by her new taste for sweet milky tea. The espresso craving is almost gone.
She runs her hands over the address label as if she might bring Beata closer. Well, she, herself, is arriving next month. What has she sent? No, wait until after lunch.
Brigid Walsh smiles. “Hi there. It’s just us. Dr. Walsh and Father Freitas went down to the Lower Bazaar. Mrs. Mitra. It may finally be her time.”
“I’m sorry,” Monica remembers the old woman’s reluctant acceptance of painkillers. “She’s outlived the prognosis. And she’s had those months with her family.”
“Thanks to you,” Raul says. “The hospice training has been transformational here. By now, everyone says so.”
Brigid bites her lip.
“Why did Father go? I didn’t think Mrs. Mitra was Catholic.”
“She’s not,” Raul says. “You know Padre. They struck up a friendship in the ward. As an outpatient, she always visited him before returning down the hill.”
“What do you suppose is in the package?” asks Brigid.
Taken aback by the warm familiarity, Monica shrugs. “I didn’t want to keep you waiting. It’s something from my friend Beata.”
“Oh, the lady who brought you back to the Church.”
Monica flushes. Why is she so cautious? She’s glad Brigid is warming up. The woman has been more open since she followed Father’s advice and invited her to lunch at the Kerala Coffee House. Brigid confided about losing her prematurely born twins. In turn, Monica offered confidences—about Beata, about the first retreat with Father Daniel.
“Yes, a very old friend.”
“Isn’t she coming soon? Beata, I had an aunt named Beata.”
“Women! Talking. Talking. How about some action?” Raul teases. He’s often good-humored in Kevin’s absence. “Let’s see what’s in the parcel.”
“You don’t mind?”
“It’s not every day we receive personal gifts from the outside world,” Brigid says.
Ceremoniously, Raul carries the box into the dining room and sets it before Monica. He pulls a Swiss Army Knife from his pocket.
“You’re prepared,” she laughs.
“It’s like an early Christmas,” Brigid cries.
Monica won’t spoil the good cheer. She prays the box doesn’t contain something embarrassing like a walleye Jell-O mold. Beata has a certain kitschy Minnesota humor.
“Boots! Lovely!” exclaims Brigid. “May I?”
“Of course,” she offers the box, delighted by Brigid’s playful side.
“Luscious, fleece-lined, fine tread on the heels. Rich brown leather.”
“Perfect gift,” Raul nods. “There’s a close friend: someone who knows your shoe size.”
Monica colors at the attention. “We wear the same size. It’s easy to remember.” How clumsy. “Yes, Beata is the kindest person I know.”
“But you said she does have a sense of humor?” Raul asks.
“Yes, a wicked wit. Sometimes a little corny, though.”
“Then I look forward to the visit. You have good taste in friends.”
“Sudha mentioned she saw you last week,” Monica moves on nimbly.
“Yes, we noticed you in the Tibetan restaurant,” Brigid perks up.
Monica stares into the middle distance to curb her astonishment at this new social curiosity from Mrs. Dr. Walsh.
Clearly amused by the female curiosity, Raul intercedes, “We were eating dinner as the Walshes walked into the restaurant.” He turns to Brigid. “Sudha Badami is a teacher at the local school.”
“We’ve met. I know Dr. Walsh is taken aback that he hasn’t been invited to lecture at her classes as you two have done.”
She still calls him “Dr. Walsh,” like “Mr. Lincoln,” even though Raul and Monica always use people’s first names—with the exception of Father.
“I suppose she can’t ask everyone,” Raul tries.
Monica had been surprised when Sudha offhandedly mentioned the dinner. She said Raul wanted to discuss reading and math workshops in Manda, using her advanced students as tutors. But given how Sudha fretted over which sari to wear, Monica knew more was going on. Raul, himself, was particularly cheery last week.
Cook, the tactful choreographer, appears with steaming vegetable biryani.
Brigid bows her head. “Bless us, O Lord…and bless Mrs. Mitra. May she join the Communion of Saints before surrendering her mortal life. Amen.”
Raul and Monica exchange glances.
Monica has heard gossip about Brigid secretly baptizing newborns, but keeps telling herself this is preposterous. Surely she’d lose her visa. And jeopardize the whole hospital.
Raul adds, “Please help little Gita. Amen.”
To this Monica adds, “Amen.” She’s not confident for Gita.
Brigid passes the steaming fragrant biryani. “How is the child?”
“Holding her own,” Monica shakes her head. “We’ve ruled out malaria, cholera, typhoid and encephalitis. The fever persists and the diarrhea.”
Raul is tired and edgy, “We tested for salmonella, schistosomiasis, as well as shigellosis.”
They sit in silence, half-heartedly eating the delicious rice.
“Monica stayed up all night with Gita,” Raul shakes his head.
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