Flying Home

by Rachel Ann Nunes

  “Thank you,” Liana said, liking Jane more and more. Not in the soul-bonding way she had liked Mercedes, but Jane was so open and honest, and so young—it was hard not to like her.

  Out in the street, they piled into a battered old car that had long ago lost any obvious color. It was so tiny Liana doubted for a minute they could fit. Austin wouldn’t be able to, she mused. Christian and Bret wouldn’t have found it comfortable, either. But the women fit inside, and Liana discovered the tin can wasn’t as uncomfortable as she had assumed.

  From the backseat, she watched Calcutta fly by. The city teemed with vibrant life, and Liana was fascinated by what she saw. Calcutta appeared to be a city of contrasts. From its poor hovels to the elegant marble buildings, a medley of Occidental and Oriental styles. From the beggars on Suddar Street to the striking gold jewelry so many inhabitants wore. From the many roadside shops featuring Indian handicrafts to larger stores with automatic doors and security guards. Everything beckoned to be discovered. Now that Liana had found what she had come for, she hoped to take time to experience India.

  After buying a few staples and other items at the store, Jane drove to their hotel. Only when she had arranged to take them sightseeing the next morning did she let them out of the car and drive away. They were immediately accosted by four children with their little hands extended. Clarissa gave them a large chocolate bar from a shopping bag, and they eagerly unwrapped the paper and began divvying up their treasure. Almost immediately they were interrupted by a hotel employee who appeared and shooed the children away.

  “So do you want to sleep or eat first?” Clarissa asked Liana. She carried the two bags of groceries, while Liana held onto the precious box containing her childhood memories and her mother’s journal.

  What Liana really craved was to open that journal, and for that she wanted to be alone. Clarissa would also want to read it, but by unspoken consent the first read was Liana’s. “Eat, I guess,” she said. “Maybe a yogurt and a slice of bread.”

  Later, when regular soft snores came from the next bed, Liana turned on her lamp and began to read:

  Diary of Karyn Olsen. . . .

  CHAPTER 21

  Diary of Karyn Olsen

  Thursday, July 20, 1972

  I am feeling more and more comfortable here. I love it! Already I’ve delivered five babies. Not assisted but delivered all by myself. Apparently, if you can do something here, you do it. Never mind your college degree. The doctors are kept too busy with surgeries and serious illnesses to worry about pregnant women. Birth is viewed as natural—at least for the poor women—and is something a nurse is equipped to take care of. I hold their hands, teach them to breathe, and tell them when to push. I labor with them, sometimes for days. So far everything has gone well.

  Dr. Schrader asked me out. There I was, sweaty from being in the labor room for twenty-nine hours straight, my hair pulled back in a ponytail and blood on my white coat, and he asks me out! I told him I wasn’t interested. He didn’t seem at all fazed by the rejection and next asked me to fly to a remote village with his team. There were some women who were expecting that he thought I would like to help. I’d heard good things about his team and their adventures, and of course I immediately agreed to go. I can’t wait!

  Sunday, August 6, 1972

  I’m crying as I write this. I don’t know if I can stay in India after all. I don’t want to see death or poverty this close! Yet if I leave, that would mean one less person to help these women. Oh, I wish Dr. Schrader had never asked me to fly to the villages. Some of these people are literally starving, something I never dreamed I would see so close up, and the way they live is terrible. No clean water, hovels to sleep in, clothes that should have been thrown out a lifetime ago.

  I lost my first mother after she gave birth to a baby that will likely starve to death itself (though I gave it to a neighbor to nurse). The mother was just too weak and the labor too long. In a modern hospital, we might have been able to save her. I cried all day. I must find them food somehow. There is no reason not to bring food when we come. I’m going to contact some charities to see what aid they can give.

  Dr. Schrader is tireless. I have seen him sit by a patient all night. I have seen him weep with the survivors when there is a death. He is gentle with the children. He is gentle with me as well. He held me yesterday after my patient died. I didn’t have to say anything. He knew.

  Friday, August 25, 1972

  Guenter Schrader keeps asking me out. He is adorable the way he talks to me in his accented English. He knows five languages in all—English, German, Russian, Hindi, and Romanian. He is the son of a German soldier and a Romanian woman. Their story is incredibly romantic. Guenter’s father was serving in the German army in Romania and fell in love with Guenter’s mother. When his service was up, he refused to return to Germany but married her and stayed with her and their son until he died when Guenter was fifteen years old. Guenter spent his early years in Romania, where he learned Romanian and Russian, but later he went to live with relatives in Germany where he was educated.

  Guenter said he feels very lucky that his father stayed with his mother. He has an uncle who was in the German army in Ukraine about the same time Guenter’s father was serving in Romania. But this uncle left a child behind and never looked back. For many years, Guenter’s father sent the child and his mother money when he could, and Guenter still keeps in touch with his cousin.

  Anyway, I finally said that I would go out with him. (How could I say no when he asked me in all five of his languages?) So tonight he took me to dinner at a beautiful little restaurant here in Calcutta by the water. It was so nice to be away from Charity Medical where I spend almost every second. We weren’t battling for life and death, but just two people out on a date. He was kind and courteous to me. He didn’t try to kiss me at my apartment door, though. I didn’t think I was interested in him that way, but to my surprise I was disappointed.

  Tomorrow we’re flying out to the villages again, as we do almost every weekend. This time I have food to bring, bought with my own small savings. I hope to arrange more in the near future. A few weeks ago, I made some calls to America and found Angie. She promised to get together some help, and I’m waiting to see what she will send. And praying. I hope the little boy I delivered is well.

  Saturday, September 16, 1972

  We have just finished watching an Indian sunset. Out here away from all the lights of the big city, it’s so beautiful. Of course, everything is beautiful when I am with Guenter. I’ve been so worried these past weeks. I could see myself falling for him, and I never thought I could feel this way again.

  This trip to the villages we brought with us a sizeable food supply that came from America last week on a plane. Angie was true to her word, and she’s promised there will be more to come. I’m so grateful. But there was one thing in the shipment that she meant for me. “I know how much you love chocolate,” she said in her letter. Well, it was one of those packages of Hershey kisses. I’ve only been here two and a half months, but it felt like a year since I’d seen those little chocolates wrapped in that silver foil. I brought them with me on this trip, thinking to share with the children. But then I found myself watching the sunset with Guenter and it was him I wanted to give them to. I ran to the tent to get them.

  “A kiss?” he said when I handed him the package. He was very puzzled because he’s never seen any before. Then he leaned over and kissed me, without touching me or holding my hand. I kissed him back, not real hard, but soft and tentative. I was so nervous! Then his arms went around me and all the awkwardness vanished. We watched the rest of the sunset together, holding hands and kissing. It was the most beautiful in the history of the world.

  Oh, I wanted to make sure and record that the little boy I delivered whose mother died is growing strong. I hope my other patients do as well.

  Sunday, October 1, 1972

  Guenter asked me to marry him this morning. He sneaked into the tent that I sh
are with the other two nurses, and when I awoke he was sitting on the edge of my sleeping bag. The others were still asleep. “What are you doing here?” I whispered. “They’ll never let us live it down if they find you here.” He shrugged and took my hands, holding me at arm’s length. When he spoke his accent was more noticeable, as it is when he is deeply emotional. “I want to be with you for the rest of my life, Karyn,” he said. “I want to help people, I want to be a doctor, but without you by my side, it has all become meaningless. I want you to bear my children. I want to grow old with you. I want to die with you by my side. Please, will you become my wife?”

  I started to cry. Why is it that you cry when you are happy? Since I lost Travis I’ve wondered if I would ever have the chance to be married to a man I loved, and here my dream is coming true. I love Guenter with a fierceness I do not recognize in myself. It is a focused, urgent feeling, and yet tender and all-compassing. The feelings I had for Travis were but a child’s first crush compared to my love for Guenter. That we enjoy the same things and share the same life goals is but the silver lining wrapping our Hershey’s chocolate kiss. Or perhaps it is the very core. Who is to say? It really doesn’t matter.

  Of course I told him yes. Then my friends woke up and kicked him out. I didn’t even mind their teasing.

  Monday, October 30, 1972

  It is the happiest day of my life. Today Guenter and I were married.

  Tuesday, October 30, 1973

  It has been exactly one year since our wedding, and I have still been unable to conceive. That is the only thing that keeps me from complete happiness. Guenter is everything a husband should be, and I love him more each day. Though we often go for days without a minute to ourselves, we are very happy. Guenter is sure we’ll have a child soon, and I pray that he’s right.

  How ironic that earlier this year in America the Supreme Court ruled in Roe v. Wade that women have the right to obtain abortions. Given my desire to have a child, the ruling seems horribly cruel. Even worse, some of the women here continue killing their newborn daughters. So many don’t accept the help we offer, preferring to hide the fact that they ever had a child rather than let us place their babies with others. I sometimes ask God why these women are allowed to become pregnant when they will only kill their babies. Why not me instead? I’d have as many babies as He’d give me—a dozen or more—in a heartbeat.

  Wednesday, January 7, 1976

  Today I am thirty years old. I can’t believe how quickly the years are passing—like fleeting moments of a beautiful Indian sunset. In October Guenter and I will have been married four years. We are still working at Charity Medical in the never-ending quest to save and better lives. I have delivered exactly six hundred and three babies, assisted in thirty-five caesarian deliveries, and taught forty-three people to read (and to practice proper hygiene!). I love my work with a passion that is surpassed only by the passion I have for my husband.

  Oh, that I could give him a child! We’ve done some tests, but there doesn’t seem to be any reason why we haven’t conceived. I hoped I might be pregnant this month, and that I might have a wonderful surprise for him tomorrow, but my period arrived late last night. I cried for hours in the bathroom. Fortunately, Guenter was at Charity Medical for an emergency. He gets so protective when I’m upset. I sometimes wonder if that terrible night I spent with Boyd back in America resulted in some disease that has caused me to be infertile. While I feel I have paid for that terrible mistake, sometimes I fear I deserve to keep paying. But what about the good I have done since that horrible night? And what about Guenter? He doesn’t deserve any of it. The possibility of such a permanent consequence gives me no end of agony.

  I think of Clarissa and her two babies (could she have another one by now?) and wonder how they are. Strange, but the love I have for Guenter seems to have rid me of any bitterness I experienced in my old life. I know now that I was wrong. Back then I couldn’t see that much of what happened between Clarissa and me was my doing, not hers. Or Travis’s. Now that I look back on it, he never offered more than friendship to me. I was angry at how he could fall so quickly for my sister, but when I met Guenter, I finally understood how that could happen. When it’s right, you know it’s right. I was too young to see that then. In my defense, I believe my father’s abandonment of our family when I was so young and then his death when I was twenty had a lot to do with how desperately I clung to Travis. That he and Clarissa could fall in love and leave me behind was another form of abandonment. Even so, I wasted too many years wallowing in my hurt.

  I wish I could talk to Clarissa or to Mother now. I regret how horribly I acted toward them both. I need to tell them—to ask forgiveness. I did send a letter to Mom’s old address, but there was no response. She must have moved too long ago for my letter to be forwarded. Maybe I’ll ask Angie to help me find them.

  Please, God, give me a child.

  Friday, December 3, 1976

  I’m going to have a baby! That’s right! A baby! I found out only yesterday. I’m a week late on my period, but that’s happened so many times before I didn’t really even think about it. Then I decided to do a test at Charity Medical. I almost couldn’t believe it when it was positive. Guenter is in seventh heaven, though he says there’s no way I’m going to be allowed to fly with him to the villages until the baby is here. I hate to say that I agree. There is too much work there, and I won’t risk my baby’s life. Oh, I hope it’s a girl. I want to name her Lara.

  CHAPTER 22

  Diary of Karyn Olsen

  Thursday, August 4, 1977

  I thought when I married Guenter it was the happiest day of my life. I was wrong. Today when I held my little daughter, with Guenter by my side, I knew true happiness. This is a little person we created together. She is all ours. I pray the days will go by slowly because I don’t want to go back to work and be apart from her for one second. Luckily, Guenter is urging me to take all the time I want. When I do go back, if I do, Mamata, our landlady who is renting us her second floor and who cooks for us, has agreed to be her nanny. Mamata is exactly what her name implies: love and affection. Plus she speaks excellent British English and will be able to read to my little Lara. But I will not think of that now. This precious baby is all mine, and I am going to enjoy every minute with her.

  Angie found Clarissa’s address, though I’m not sure how she did that because Clarissa lives in Nevada now. I wrote to Clarissa last month. She hasn’t written back yet, but the mail here is slow.

  I am the luckiest woman alive.

  Liana had read for hours before falling asleep with her mother’s journal in her hand. At first the entries were nothing special, except that her mother had written them, until she made the first mention of Travis Winn on her twentieth birthday. Then Liana had read with fascination the journey that had taken Karyn away from her family. Liana’s tears flowed freely. She finally gave in to her exhaustion only after reading that her mother had finally given birth to the baby she had longed for.

  Me, she thought, and smiled.

  Liana could hear Clarissa in the bathroom showering. She fingered the journal longingly, eager to read about her early years, but her wristwatch showed nearly eight-thirty and Jane would be arriving at nine for their sightseeing plans.

  She put the journal in her suitcase, which she hadn’t yet fully unpacked, and found a tan pair of slacks and a matching short-sleeved blouse that should be light enough to stay cool but dressy enough for any museum.

  “Oh, you’re awake.” Clarissa smiled as she came from the bathroom. “I woke up so early—about three or four—and couldn’t go back to sleep until seven. Then when my alarm rang at eight, I didn’t want to get up.” She sighed and flopped onto the chair and toweled her wet hair. “I think by the time I finally adjust to being twelve hours ahead, the week will be up and it’ll be time to go home.”

  Liana stretched muscles that were sore from crouching in the attic. “I actually slept pretty well.” For a change, she added sile
ntly.

  “I’m glad someone did,” Clarissa said. “We should probably call Dr. Raji this afternoon. See if he’s up to visiting again.”

  Liana agreed, though she didn’t hold out much hope of his being lucid. Besides, she thought, the journal is what I came here for.

  Jane was waiting outside as they left the hotel. There were no beggar children in front today, probably because of the burly hotel employee who was smoking by the door.

  “First we’ll go to the India Museum,” Jane said. “Then we’ll hit a few more nearby places before visiting the Armenian Church and the Nakhoda Mosque. You will like those. And of course, we can’t miss the Botanical Garden.”

  Clarissa laughed. “Sounds like a lot for one day.”

  “You’re right.” Jane grinned. “We’ll probably only get in a few, but I like to be optimistic. I guess you’ll have to go to whatever we miss another day. You could spend several weeks at least, just going to the museums here. They have a great many of them.”

  Liana enjoyed the India Museum with its relics of ancient civilizations, but her favorite place was the Nakhoda Mosque, which Jane told them could accommodate ten thousand people at once. By the time they had finished at the mosque, it was after one, and they were all ravenous. Jane took them to a restaurant where they ate rice, lentils, vegetables, and savory fish curry. Fortunately for Clarissa, this restaurant offered a mild version of their curry dishes. For dessert Liana ordered the rasgullas from her memory of the day before—little balls of rose-flavored cream cheese. She hadn’t remembered what they looked like, but when the waiter brought the sweet white balls, she dug into them with excitement, her tongue remembering what her mind had not.

  Often throughout the day, Liana thought of her parents, especially her mother. Had she eaten here? Had she loved rasgullas as much as Liana did? Or had that sweet tooth been something Liana shared only with her father? There were so many questions, and each answer she had found in the journal so far had only brought more questions. She hoped the journal would resolve them soon. There were also the documents in the unknown language. Could one of the many tourists who were visiting Calcutta even this early in the year translate them?