I carried the laptop—along with a blanket—up to the roof and installed myself in one of our creaky lawn chairs. The clock said 10:00 p.m. Twelve fifteen p.m. in Pennsylvania. Aidan would be at work. I figured I might as well answer now, while communicating was safe. I’d write our overdue newsletter and tend to our month’s budgeting as soon as I was done.
I love your imagery, Aidan. Didn’t I always tell you a writer lurked inside there? And you wasted your time painting …
Thanks for the details. I can’t imagine the courage it must have taken for you to quit your job and change your life. To move to PA and commit to doing something with your art. I know the impulse probably came out of a couple decades of desire, but still …
There it goes again. A memory broadsiding me. That’s been happening a lot these last few days. We were driving around town in your grandpa’s car. I can’t remember exactly where we were going. The windows were down, so it was spring or summer. I think we were listening to that horrible grunge stuff you played just to annoy me. Or maybe you actually liked it. I was never sure. You were spewing this long, impassioned monologue. Something about your parents wanting you to go to college and get a teaching degree and you wanting to lose yourself in painting. You spouted off all the reasons they’d given you for getting a “real” education so you could land a “real” job. You were pretty riled up, as I remember it.
Next thing I knew, you pulled into a parking spot—careened into it and slammed on the brakes is more like it—and you turned in your seat to face me and screamed, “I—am—my—art!” at the top of your lungs. Do you remember that? A bit dramatic, at the time.
Somebody came running out of Eddie’s Pizza Shop to see if everything was okay, and I told them you were practicing for the school play. I thought then, as I do now, that the only reason you screamed was to stop yourself from crying. That’s how much you loved your art.
And now you’ve shoved off into a phase of life where you truly can experience what it is to be—your—art. I’m proud of you. Is that condescending? I don’t intend it to be. I’ve been stalking your Facebook page and poring over the pictures of your work. It has evolved in profound ways and I’m glad you’re seeking a broader audience for it.
You asked for more on Ryan. Coming to Nepal was … hard on him. I’m actually not sure if it’s the adaptation that was hard or just the fact that we forced him to come. I guess we didn’t force him, per se, except that Sam and I decided moving here was what God wanted us to do. And since Ryan belongs to us …
God—there’s a messy topic we haven’t raised yet. Do you think it would be as messy today as back then, when you gave me such a hard time for attending youth group and going to church and praying about things? I’m guessing it would.
Ryan. Before our change of life, he was a vivacious and affectionate child. The apple of many eyes. (Bushels of apples.) It took us a bit more than four years to get here. Not all happy ones, though we knew this was the right move at the right time. He started to get in trouble. Nothing Aidan-esque. But just not like him. We sought counsel for him and for ourselves, and then we discovered that the funds we’d raised were sufficient to head out. “Sufficient.” I’ve come to hate that word. It smacks of: “If you were a better person, you’d think it was enough.”
We got here. And, in many ways, Ryan left. He’s thirteen now. I love him with every cell in my body. But I don’t know how to reach him. I’ve tried. And, yes, I’ve prayed. Go ahead and say it—you always have. “Prayer’s great until you find out God’s a mass hallucination.” Except that prayer has gotten me through every day of my life since you and I said good-bye in my parents’ backyard. So, yes. I pray.
That got a bit dark.
Got to run. If I can figure out how to do it, I’ll attach our last family picture. Ryan’s the kid using hair as camouflage. That red sweatshirt is a story in itself …
I’ve got to tell you. I’ve had no desire to use my writing creatively for—a long time. Too much “prostituting my true love,” as you put it, for the sake of, in my case, ministry and income. But hearing from you. No, reengaging with you. It’s stoked that fire again. Maybe not a fire. Embers glowing brighter. I need to tell you “thank you.”
Sam would be home on Sunday. Three weeks gone and one week home. We’d made that pact. Either with God or the devil. But he’d be home on Sunday.
During my first months in Nepal, the days preceding his returns had been buoyed by a livening in my spirit. I gleefully announced his return to the other moms at soccer games. They knew the intervals of his absence, but it still felt good to say it out loud. I delighted in making plans. “When Sam’s home, this week …” “Why doesn’t Sam give you a hand with that … ?” Better yet were the sentences that could include both men in my life. “Sam and Ryan are at a game, but I can give him your message.” And the ultimate joy was speaking words like, “We’ve got plans as a family tonight, but maybe some other time?” Family. Oh, the decadence of the word.
I’d spruce up the house to make it as welcoming as possible: spotless stove, clean rugs, ironed sheets, small vases of sweet peas on bookshelves and tables, and the aroma of incense in every room. Then I’d turn my efforts on myself. Our cement shower and its trickle of warm water were hardly a spa, but I waited for the time of day when I knew the hot water would be in greatest supply. I deep conditioned, I exfoliated, I pumiced. All with eyes and mouth conscientiously closed, lest I swallow a drop of water and be ill for any portion of Sam’s seven days home.
But time had passed. I’d learned through recurrent surprises that one of the many Nepali traits Sam had embraced since our arrival was a loose relationship with punctuality. Being ready a little early for his return was one thing. But seeing his arrival time come and go, then waiting for hours for him to walk through the door? What good were smooth legs and ironed sheets if the spirit was resentful?
And now I waited again for Sam to come home. I knew the circuit of stores I’d need to visit to stock the pantry’s shelves, but what had once been an exciting precursor to his return now felt more like a chore.
It was rush hour in Kathmandu, but in the area where we lived, just outside the pulsing heart of the city, it was a less frantic thing. Still, the surge in traffic made walking the narrow, sidewalk-less streets an exercise in strategy and panoramic vision. My goal was to stay a step ahead of the taxi veering to miss a truck, the cyclist dashing through the two-foot space between my body and the fruit I was inspecting, and the dispassionate stray dog that picked the moment I stepped over him to take a piece out of the man carrying bricks from a demolition site. I weaved my way to the bakery with my senses trained on the sounds and movement around me, pausing to press my hands together and bow with a quiet “Namaste” to those who knew me.
Every so often I got a glimpse of the progress I’d made since our arrival in Nepal. Things that used to bother me did so more rarely now—like people who cut in line without the slightest hesitation. I’d grown accustomed to the holy men, the sadhus, bathing mostly naked at communal taps, and to the smell of the sewage-polluted Baghmati River that had made me gag during my first weeks in Kathmandu.
I could mostly take it all in stride now, except on frustrated days when my inability to speak the language got to me. I’d taken classes for a while, but the basics I’d learned were in the official Nepali tongue, and in a country where 145 languages and dialects were spoken and in a city where thousands of foreigners lived, I might as well have stuck to English.
The bakery was a small shop at the end of a narrow passageway lined with propane tanks. Bina started her day at three in the morning, preparing croissants and raisin buns and square yeast breads called Krishna Pauroti in a surprisingly modern oven at the back of her shop. Two small children covered in flour stared at me with a sullen sort of interest as I ordered with gestures, nods, and the few words of Nepali I could apply to the task.
Then it was off to the grocery store, a two-aisled space stacked floor to
ceiling with a complete inventory of basic household needs. In my first weeks in Nepal, the thought of shopping for groceries had been a terrifying thing. Few products looked familiar and fewer yet had labels I could read. But the store’s shelves held less mystery now, and after more than two years, I could navigate through it without the meltdowns and near panic attacks of my first months in the country.
I carried my loot in several large bags and retraced my steps, my agility hampered by the weight of the groceries, and my Namastes somewhat handicapped by their pull on my arms.
Once home, I heaved the bags onto the table in the middle of the kitchen and flinched a little as Suman got to work putting the groceries away. With Sam coming home, my nesting instincts were in overdrive, and there was something about our housekeeper’s familiarity with my space that felt more intrusive than usual.
“I’ll take care of it,” I said lightly, taking a two-kilo bag of lentils from her hands. She looked at me. “It’s okay,” I said, nodding and smiling to add meaning to my words. I pointed toward the pantry, then at myself, miming putting things away. “I’ll take care of this.”
Suman looked at the clock. There was a half hour left in her day. A pot of dal bhat simmered on the stove. Lettuce and cucumber soaked in a bath of diluted iodine in the sink. All our pitchers were full and lined up on their shelf.
“You don’t have to stay,” I said, articulating each word carefully. There was no telling how much English Suman understood. She’d worked for foreigners for nearly thirty years and she must have picked up some language in that time, but she kept her proficiency close to the vest.
Suman nodded her head no, as the Nepali did. I nodded my head yes. She nodded her head no. Nonverbal communication could be a confusing exercise in a country where identical gestures held opposite meanings.
“Namaste,” I said, wishing her good-bye, then I turned up the wattage on my sincerity and said thank you with all the deep appreciation I could muster. “Dhanyabad, Suman. Dhanyabad.”
I went back to the kitchen after she left and unpacked the groceries myself, taking an extra moment here and there to rearrange a row of cans or combine two half-finished bags of sugar. It was my silly attempt at regaining possession of the space before my husband got home.
running ragged here. trying to get a commissioned (sorta) piece finished by friday. kitschy coffee shop in soho wanted something for a save-the-planet campaign (how original) and since my agent is a customer … it’ll be good exposure at the very least. i’m going with a sort of postapocalyptic concept. desolate landscape where greens grow out of structures made from landfill trash. i know. always the upbeat thinker.
i’m sorry about the ryan stuff, ren. i truly am. i realize i have no context, but i don’t get it. i always knew you’d be an awesome mother. wait—not awesome. that’s a cheap word. like elvis on velvet. i knew you’d be an attentive, devoted, and affectionate mother. i guess it’s because, in some strange, not kinky way, you mothered me. don’t frown and roll your eyes and look at me like i’m an idiot. like when i used to tell you you’d be published someday. i’m being sincere here.
you were a friend to me. and because of who you are—you were something of a mother too. patient. affirming. chastising when necessary. and mostly able to take my immaturity and jackassery in stride. i have no doubt that you’ve been a good mother. and i’m sad things are rough with ryan. life gets in the way of our best intentions and efforts, sometimes, doesn’t it? maybe that’s just me. i want you and ryan to be good. i have a feeling you will be.
prayer. i saw how you just snuck that topic in. there you go shoving your faith down my throat again (kidding). i actually have a few things to say about it. trying to figure out how much and how. no time for that right now though. i have a postapocalyptic ‘agenda piece’ (blech) to finish.
but i’m attaching another one before i hit send. did it a couple months ago and i think it’s right up your alley. i call it ‘hope.’
pop quiz: describe your life there in one word. just one. you’re a wordsmith, you can do it.
this is … wild.
a.
There was a small version of a painting at the bottom of Aidan’s message. I clicked and found that I was holding my breath. The digital picture of Aidan’s Hope opened in a new window on my screen. I let out a slow breath.
I should have known before I clicked the thumbnail what my reaction would be. How many times had I entered the garden shed to find him sitting on the stool he’d positioned facing the back wall so the sun filtering through the dirty window could illuminate the piece he was creating. And how many times had my eyes glanced off his work in progress, then swung right back to it, captured by something almost tangible that reached out of the canvas and demanded … not just attention … engagement. A sort of visceral, enveloping response to lines and colors and the texture of intimacy.
The first landscapes he’d painted had been anemic foreshadows of the work he’d produce in his late teens: psychotic collages that articulated emotion. Mixed-medium portraits that merged erratic shapes and slashes of color into faces that seethed with history. His abstracts were focused and concise. His still lifes imbued with intrinsic authority. Some teachers called his work artistic arrogance. Others called it unconventional brilliance. I suspected both sides knew that time and training would make Aidan Dennison a name to remember.
And there I sat, nearly twenty-two years later, catching my breath as Hope unfolded on my screen, top to bottom, like a curtain. Given the title, I’d expected something bold shifting from dark to bright. Or something redemptive that spoke of coming things. I remembered how creatively stunted Aidan’s work had always made me feel.
The colors of the painting were dulled and the textures flattened by the computer’s screen. Still, the harrowing depths of jagged emotion reached out to me, their danger muted by just a hint of light, as if a waking sun had skimmed raised ridges in the dark and left them morning-tinged.
I ran a finger over the image, disappointed by the smooth, cool surface of the screen. I composed a dozen responses in my mind. Tried to type a few and clicked delete. The last ten days had birthed a flurry in my soul. An awakening. And I was still learning how to function in its grip. I felt torn between two planets. Each with its own mystery. One more captivating than the other. The other more real and breathing.
I typed four words and clicked send.
You are astounding. Still.
Then I logged out. Turned off. Put away. And determined to live, at least for a few hours, dead center in the “real and breathing.”
Muffin let out a happy bark, letting me know Ryan was back. The poor dog was completely unaware that his love was unrequited. We’d found the mixed-breed dodging traffic at rush hour one evening, a couple months into our new life in Nepal. He was about four months old and malnourished.
We’d picked him up and carried him home, hoping he would give Ryan a boost—maybe coax some nurturing and affection out of him. But Ryan had studiously ignored the new member of our family, kicking him away when he begged for attention and shutting him out of the house. I’d been taken aback by Ryan’s refusal to connect. But there wasn’t much about my son that made sense to me these days.
He came clattering through the front door.
“Good day at school?” I asked when he came into the kitchen and headed to the fridge to get some yogurt.
“Yeah.”
“Your dad’s coming home in two days.”
“I know.” He was spooning some of the yogurt into a bowl.
“What would you like to do while he’s here?”
“I don’t know.”
“We could go up to Swayambhunath. See the monkeys.”
“That’s okay.”
“Is that a no?”
“Yeah.” He moved into the dining room and sat at the table to eat. I continued my unpacking in the kitchen.
“Do you have any games while he’s home?”
“Tuesday.”
“That’ll make him happy.”
“Whatever.”
“You might want to start on your homework right away. The power’s been on for a while, so it could go off anytime …”
“I know.”
I went into the dining room and sat down across from him, wondering if Aidan’s question might begin to bridge the conversational gap that broadened into a chasm in the days preceding Sam’s returns. “Ryan …”
He sighed but didn’t look up from his yogurt. “What, Mom?”
“If you had to describe our life here in one word—”
“Mom …”
“Come on. One word. How would you describe it?”
He looked up from his empty bowl. I was startled by the direct eye contact. How I loved the gold flecks in his brown irises. The smattering of freckles over his nose. The hint of peach fuzz growing on his upper lip. I couldn’t remember the last time we’d looked at each other this directly for even a moment. The realization seared me.
“Why do you want to know?” he asked in the expressionless tone he used for all his interactions with me. His voice had deepened noticeably in the past few months. I wondered if it cracked sometimes. I hadn’t heard him talk enough to know.
“A friend asked me,” I answered. “And … I’m stumped. But I thought you might have an idea.”
“I don’t know,” he said, pushing his chair back and picking up his bowl to return it to the kitchen.
I hung my head. Tensed my shoulders, then released them. Valiant attempt—nothing gained.
Ryan was heading out of the kitchen when he said, almost too quietly for me to hear, “It sucks.”
He’d disappeared when I turned. I looked at the empty doorway through tear-filled eyes and loved him till it bled. I guessed Nepal required two words to describe it.
I let a couple minutes pass before following him upstairs. His bedroom door was open. He was standing by the desk, looking out.
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