Maple and Spice

by Moushmi Biswas

  “How can I help?”

  His voice was unrecognisable. Like an imposter speaking. She told him she’d been in an accident, that a teenager came at her from the wrong side of the road, and that the airbags had saved her life.

  He interrupted her, the imposter.

  “Okay, I’ll ring you back when you have the results. Thanks for calling.”

  What?

  He was gone.

  A few minutes passed, then an hour. Then two. There was no phone call.

  At half past eight came a text message.

  “Needed at home.”

  What? That was it?

  Frantically, she rang Tina. It went straight to voicemail.

  With a heavy heart, Monisha decided to call Saurav Das.

  42

  Outside there was a hive of activity. The night staff were arriving. Keys rattled. Patient files flipped open and shut. A group of nurses spoke amongst themselves in lowered voices. Then the door to her cubicle flung open and Saurav Das burst in, wearing his white coat. He’d been in another ward, on call. He rushed to her bedside, sweat streaming down his face.

  “I won’t hug you,” he said. “It must be agony.”

  He paused to look at her cuts and scratches.

  “I won’t tell your parents either. They’ll only worry.”

  After asking her some questions about the crash, Saurav Das set to work. He contacted the witness and rang the insurance company. When the phoning was done, he left the room and returned with two plastic cups, hot chocolate for her and coffee for him.

  All of a sudden, he sat down and looked her square in the eye.

  “Monisha, there have been rumours going around. Wild rumours. About you and John Davidson.”

  Monisha turned her head. She could still feel the weight of his stare, hear the loud slurping noise from his coffee.

  “Are they true?”

  Monisha looked down at the hump in the bed clothes, where her feet were. Her eyes transfixed. The starched white sheets were cold on her legs.

  Saurav Das sighed, deeply.

  “I know, with everyone gone, you’ve been lonely… and their eldest child’s condition must have taken its toll.”

  He caught sight of the expensive looking handbag on the bedside table. One of those designer pieces, the kind that Swati would nag him about. It made him slightly uncomfortable.

  “Are you going to be the one to break up his family?”

  God how did he know all this? Plain, downright nosy! She crossed her arms.

  “His marriage was over before he met me.”

  Saurav Das leapt up from his chair, with such force, that its legs began to wobble.

  “Young lady, there are a couple of things you need to be aware of. Firstly, Professor Baxter could stop you from getting the oncology job if she finds out.”

  Monisha shot him a disbelieving stare and shook her head. She couldn’t possibly do that; the research had produced a paper published in The New England Journal.

  Saurav Das wagged his finger. “Don’t be so sure of that! Susan Baxter is a very powerful woman. And you know she’s Lisa’s cousin.”

  Monisha cringed. This fact had been conveniently omitted. Saurav Das cleared his throat, sat back down and shifted the chair closer.

  “Swati handles Lisa’s accounts at the bank. Last week she mentioned moving to Denver. There’s a special school there for Oliver. And her own family live close by.”

  Monisha buried her head in her hands.

  “Surely, she can’t just move?”

  Saurav Das stared at the crumpled bedsheets then at Monisha’s cuts and bruises. His voice softened. Apparently, she wanted Oliver to start at the school as soon as possible.

  “Denver University has just advertised for a new dean. She’s no fool, Monisha. And why do you think she told Swati all this?”

  Monisha looked up at him blankly. Saurav Das frowned deeply as he waited for an answer. When none came, he shot her a bewildered stare.

  “Because I know you!”

  A nurse arrived with painkillers and a glass of water. Within minutes everything was deadened. She was numb. Frozen. Her legs. Her lips. Her tongue.

  Saurav Das leant over and took her unbandaged hand.

  “Monisha, this accident was a message from up above.” He raised his eyes towards the ceiling.

  “You’ve been given a chance. Be strong… Walk away.”

  She was still frozen. A statue, made of ice.

  “Time will heal.”

  Monisha tucked her chin into her chest and began sobbing.

  The next day, back at her apartment, the curtains and blinds remained unopened. Blackness was everywhere. Outside and in. Once or twice she got up to use the bathroom. Dizzy from painkillers. Her ribs and muscles throbbing. The pain in her chest. Crushing.

  At lunch time, Tina arrived with bagfuls of groceries. First, she pulled out onions and celery to make soup, and then a giant chocolate fudge cake. Apparently, the decadent swirls of ganache icing did wonders for a broken heart.

  But Monisha didn’t even want to look at it, let alone taste it. She lifted her hands to her mouth, but it was too late to hide her quivering lips. Tina rushed over with outstretched arms.

  “I know… I knew it all along.”

  Now that she was unconstrained by the thin walls of a hospital cubicle and the fear of nurses swooping in, Monisha began sobbing. Hysterically.

  After handing her a giant tissue box, Tina swiftly headed for the table. There she laid out chicken, onions and a fresh bunch of thyme.

  “It’s nice for a girl to feel special and get all the lovely presents… without having to do the messy stuff… like bleach out the stains on his underwear.”

  Monisha held her sides together so it wouldn’t hurt to laugh. Tina began chopping, swiftly.

  “But they want it all, Monisha. Christmas and Thanksgiving with her and the kids. New Year’s Eve with you.”

  Tina didn’t blame John Davidson, even if it had been awkward seeing him in Aubert. Tongue hanging out. Drooling with lust. And she could understand why marriages fell apart when a child with special needs came along. Or any child for that matter. She worked in family law. She saw it every day.

  “Sometimes, we women get so taken in by motherhood… we forget the men.”

  After an hour or so, Tina gave her a bone crushing hug and got up to leave. Right now, she was needed at the office, but she promised she’d be back to sleep over. The first night alone was always the hardest, she said. And dangerous, when there were sleeping pills and painkillers round.

  At exactly five o’clock, the bell rang. Monisha woke with a start. She eased herself up off the sofa, then slung her dressing gown over her pyjamas, wincing with every jolt of pain. Each movement seemed to take for ever, her arms and shoulders felt like iron pillars. Eventually she limped over to the front door.

  Through the spy hole, she could make out the blurry outline of John Davidson. She stood in stunned silence, watching him. The tall, creepy shadow of the man she’d loved once. Now she was thankful for the solid oak door that stood between them.

  A moment passed. The bell rang again. Hesitantly, she unlocked the chain. His eyes immediately fell onto the cuts and bruises on her face. He winced and hastily extended his arms towards her shoulders. Monisha groaned and pulled away.

  “I hear Lisa is moving you all to Denver,” she said frostily.

  He began removing his coat, like in their lunchtime ritual. Suddenly, he stopped.

  “Who told you that?”

  Monisha tightened her lips. It was some time before he concluded that his question would not be answered.

  “She’s been saying that for years. Her family is there.”

  Monisha hobbled into the front room and laid herself back down on the couch
. When he saw there was no space for him, he began pacing. Right in front of her.

  “What about the school for Oliver?”

  He recoiled in horror. “Who told you?”

  Monisha turned her face away and switched the table lamp on. In the soft light, she could make out that his eyes were filling up. He said he knew about the school, but he didn’t know she’d put his name down. Or that now he’d finally got a place.

  Monisha folded her arms and sat up.

  “I don’t believe a word you say.”

  He sank to the floor and placed his hands on her knees. Once more she felt his touch through her pyjamas; a comforting warmth.

  “I haven’t lied to you, Monisha. I’ve always said the boys come first.”

  Monisha put her hands over her ears. Ugh!

  “Then when are we going to stop playing this silly game?”

  John Davidson got up and began pacing again. Back and forth, in his coat.

  “Lisa must have found out… Maybe it was you who let the cat out of the bag!”

  Mustering up every bit of her energy, Monisha stood up and grabbed him by the arm. Words spurted out, like poison.

  “I certainly didn’t use my research fund to pay for a suite at the Ritz Carlton.”

  All of a sudden, she was drained. Bent double. Her voice fell to a whisper. He hadn’t even told her that Professor Baxter was a relative. John Davidson gently walked her over to the couch. He placed a cushion behind her, kneeled beside her and held her hand. Tears rolled down his reddened face. “I’ve tried to protect you… Worked hard and helped you write those papers. Anyway, it’s no use…”

  Monisha began to cry. Bruised, battered and blubbering, she reached for the box of tissues, next to the half-eaten plate of fudge cake.

  “When are you off to Denver then?”

  John Davidson held a tissue in front of her nose and asked her to blow. Just like he did to his boys.

  “Monisha, I am completely shaken up by all this too. I love you.”

  He placed his head on her lap and cried. His tears soaked through her pyjamas.

  “But I’m torn. You’re young and smart. You’ll go places. But my son, he’s not as… blessed, and he deserves a chance.”

  He clutched his chest and sobbed louder.

  “And I’ve got to give him it, Monisha. This is killing me, but I’ve got to. I mustn’t lose sight of that. Please, please, please understand!”

  Her heart began to melt. They hugged each other and kissed briefly. A painful, passionate kiss. Then he pulled himself away and began walking towards the door. He told her he’d be applying for the chair in Denver and that Susan Baxter could take over as her supervisor.

  She stared at him, stone-faced.

  “Perhaps this is best for everybody.”

  The door shut behind him. When she heard the sound of his car engine, Monisha reached for another round of painkillers.

  43

  When the snow was crisp and powdery, Burlington looked picture perfect. A winter wonderland, blanketed in white by day, festooned with glittering Christmas trees and twinkly fairy lights by night. But the black ice and gloom came a day later. First on bridges and gullies, then on the roads. With the insurance money from the crash, Monisha had bought herself an SUV. But, right now, she was terrified of driving it. Terrified!

  By nine o’clock, the roads were deserted. Inside, the houses were so warm that people would literally dry up, their skin wilting like dead leaves. But the loneliness was bone chilling, and far more treacherous than the weather. At night, when Monisha climbed into bed, wild thoughts spun round her head. She wished that John Davidson’s marriage was completely shattered. That the hatred between him and Lisa was so poisonous, that he’d been demoted to a ‘weekend dad.’ And so he was begging to come back.

  In her dreams, she saw him. Dressed in his freshly pressed suit. Holdall and laptop in hand. They’d be checking into a hotel. Or sipping wine at a pharma dinner. Legs touching beneath the table. Ooh, the thrill!

  Then something inside would tell her that it wasn’t real. And an invisible force would prise her eyes apart which such power that she woke. Shivering. Gasping.

  Crushed.

  Wishing the entire world would be wiped out in an instant.

  Eventually, she’d wander into the kitchen. Turn on the coffee maker. Wait for the intense aroma of roasted beans to infuse her senses and bring her back to life. But the pain was so deep it blocked everything. Taste buds. Nostrils. Everything.

  It was all hopeless. There was nothing left to do except pull on her snow boots and fight her way through the blistering air and black ice to the library.

  Susan Baxter was always too busy to meet. Corrections on the thesis flew back and forth by email. Her own suggestions were scattered through the text in silly looking balloons. And passages that had been painstakingly constructed by John Davidson were struck through with bold red lines.

  Each week day, Monisha would sit in the computer room and type away on the old keyboards for a couple of hours. She’d attend seminars she didn’t need to, and lab meetings that were now irrelevant. Just to pass the time and kill the loneliness.

  When Swanker rang up, jobless and penniless, asking to stay at her apartment, rent free, she leapt with joy. Two days later, when he arrived, the pain lifted somewhat. And the good old days were back. Sipping hot chocolate with marshmallows. Skiing and skating together. Watching hockey at the stadium. With big sister paying for both of them.

  With her PhD finally complete, the oncology interviews were a total anti-climax. She was a shoo-in. Susan Baxter asked her only one question: with her credentials, why was she sticking around in Vermont? Why wasn’t she aiming for Sloane Kettering or Hopkins?

  Faces flashed before her. Tina. Justin. Swanker. The Dases. Leave them all behind and start over? Embarrassingly, she’d choked up.

  “No, no, the green mountains are home.”

  It had made her sound more like Heidi than an aspiring oncologist.

  New Year’s Eve was wild. After a drunken karaoke session, with Swanker’s friends, she returned to her apartment. At three o’clock, she was awoken by the sound of a woman moaning and table legs bashing against the floorboards.

  She crept out to investigate and was horrified by what she saw. Her brother’s bony behind. And a woman, with a bright orange afro, like a clown. Naked except for nipple tassels. Legs akimbo on the kitchen table.

  “WHO THE HELL IS THIS?”

  “That information is on a ‘need to know’ basis,” said Swanker.

  Monisha let out an almighty roar and came charging towards them. The clown woman grabbed her overcoat and dashed out through the front door. Swanker pulled his trousers on and lit up an unauthorised cigarette. Beer and nicotine wafted onto her face.

  “You’re just pissed off cos you’re not getting any, now that married lover boy’s gone.”

  Cigarette ashes were stock piling on the floor. Monisha picked up a mop as if to clean them. Instead she waved it in front of Swanker and began chasing him round the flat.

  “AND YOU BRING HOME KOOKY, FREAK-SHOW WHORES!”

  Swanker zigzagged in and out. Bare chested and bare footed. Through the kitchen. Into her bedroom. Into the bathroom. Monisha followed him with her mop, swinging and missing.

  “If Mom finds out, she’ll stick you on Shaadi com,” cried Swanker.

  “And you!”

  Suddenly, there was silence. Nobody wanted to go on Shaadi.com. Monisha dropped the mop and threw Swanker his t-shirt. They slapped hands high in the air and down below. Truce!

  Their secrets were safe. Just like old times.

  She poured out the rest of the champagne. It was flat and warm now. Swanker flicked on the Indian channel. The Holi scene from Silsila was showing. Vintage Bollywood! A lovelorn Amitabh Bachchan danced sug
gestively with beautiful Rekha, while their spouses watched helplessly from the side lines.

  “Ranga barse bhige chunarawali, ranga barse,” sang Monisha and Swanker as they danced round the room in circles.

  As the colours shower down, the girl’s dupatta gets wet.

  Round and round they went.

  Just like old times.

  When news came out that the PhD ceremony was in May, everyone in the faculty expected John Davidson to show, even though he was the dean at Denver. They’d given him space on the platform and invited him to the graduation dinner. In place of him, they were sent a forwarded email.

  In it, he congratulated everyone who had completed their thesis. He said that he missed his esteemed colleagues and he wished everybody well, but after that he apologised. Due to other ‘pressing engagements’, he was unable to attend the ceremony.

  Reading the email was like picking through ice. Underneath an alphabetical list of collaborators that he wanted to ‘acknowledge especially’, Monisha found her own name. Sandwiched between Barrat and Bosniak.

  She pressed the trash can symbol. Delete. Delete. Every business-like message that hid the truth. Delete. Delete. The two-and-a-half-year email trail. Delete. Delete. Delete! Block sender!

  Ha!

  He was gone. The man who’d waited for her in Rosie’s Bar. Who’d cradled her head after they’d made love. Who’d held a tissue to her nose and asked her to blow.

  Gone.

  Lisa could have this imposter.

  Her parents rang to tell her they’d be coming over to watch her graduate. Her father was like an excited school boy.

  “Make sure you order your cap and gown in time, Monisha. That shop gets busy!”

  Then her mother grabbed the receiver.

  “Congratulations, beti… It’s lovely and all, but I would be happier if there were three different letters beside your name.”

  Monisha sighed.

  “You know… M, R and S.”

  44

  The weekly ‘educational event’ happened every Friday night: a sponsored slideshow, followed by a free meal. In the foyer, a crowd of medics swarmed round the pharma rep with the invites. Monisha flung off her white coat, took a flyer and decided to join them. After all, she had nothing better to do. And eight weeks in oncology had taught her that life was short.