“What do you mean?”
I attempted a patient, rational tone and missed the mark. “I get it. I get that this is everything you hoped it would be. That you’ve made friends with people you can’t exchange two sentences with. I get that you love your work and that you love the challenges of living in this country.” I turned to look at him so he’d see exactly how serious I was. “But I’m going home.”
I got up, went back into the house, climbed the stairs to our bedroom, pulled a suitcase from under the bed, and started to pack.
I lay on my bed between Suman’s departure and Ryan’s arrival, wearing nothing but my underwear and begging for the gods of electricity to turn it back on. The fan stood motionless next to the bed while humidity thick enough to trigger my claustrophobia covered me like a wet cloud. I yelled at Muffin to be quiet when he started barking, and the effort pushed more sweat to the surface of my skin. We were just three weeks out from the illness that had caused my epic meltdown, and I lived in fear that it would happen again.
“Oh, hush now! You know me, you loon.”
The sound of Eveline’s voice put a temporary end to the torpor that immobilized me every afternoon. I threw on a pair of shorts and tank top, clothes I would never wear outside our courtyard, and hurried downstairs to greet Eveline. It was a rare occurrence for her to come by the house—rarer still unannounced.
“Eveline.”
She looked up and smiled, giving Muffin a good shove with her leg so he’d know who was the boss. “Well, aren’t you the picture of monsoon morosity!” she said in her aristocratic English accent.
“Morosity?”
“That state in which we find ourselves after too many sweat-drenched nights and humidity-plagued days,” she explained. “Even after all these years, there are still times when I feel exactly how you look.”
I tried to hide my dismay. “So I won’t get used to it?”
She patted my back as we climbed the steps into the house. “There are a lot of things we can learn to live with, Lauren, but monsoon season will always be unbearable.”
“Would you like something cold to drink?”
“Water is fine—and you can pour it right down my back, if you wouldn’t mind.”
I led the way into the kitchen. “I’m surprised to see you.”
“Well, a rather handsome little birdie suggested to me that you might enjoy some company.” She took the glass I handed her.
“A birdie?”
She leaned in conspiratorially. “Rhymes with sham, luv.”
I wasn’t sure how I felt about Sam enlisting Eveline’s help. I’d recovered slowly from my monsoon meltdown, hampered by the humidity, but there was a lingering fragility in my spirit that felt like a flaw.
“You could have called me,” Eveline said. “When you weren’t at the last couple of games, I figured you were traveling. If I’d known …”
She let the words trail off, and I knew they were meant to express her concern. An invitation to seek help when life spun out, as it just had. But I hadn’t considered seeking help from Eveline in the depths of my illness or the slog of my recovery. I hadn’t called anyone, not even Sullivan, when a halt in the deluge saw Sam leaving town again with excitement in his step. And I wasn’t sure, as this displaced foreigner with the kind face and willing words offered her companionship, what my reticence was. It just felt like this life—this desert land—was mine to navigate alone.
“What exactly did Sam say when he told you I could use some company?”
If she heard the hardness in my voice, she didn’t let it show. “Just that you’d hit a bit of a hiccup in processing life here.”
“And he told you I got sick.”
“He did. I suppose that makes you more officially one of us. You can’t really claim to have lived here if you haven’t spent a minimum of three days chained to the loo.”
“It’s a dubious honor …”
“Granted.”
I wasn’t sure what to say. If Eveline was here to cheer me up or counsel me, was I supposed to come right out and ask for her advice? We headed out to the front steps to sit. The faint breeze felt insufficient.
“Tell me what’s been bothering you,” Eveline said.
I contemplated putting on a resilient face and dismissing her concern. But I knew it wouldn’t be convincing. “How did you do it?” I finally asked. “When you first moved here. How did you make your peace with this place?”
She thought for a moment. “Well, I just embraced it, I suppose. Not because I’m any kind of saint or cultural chameleon. I’ve been here long enough to know that some of us …” She paused and frowned. “I hesitate to speak in generalizations. It just seems some of us are wired to do better with change.”
“I’ve done change before,” I interjected, stung by what sounded like censure. This wasn’t my first taste of newness.
“Of course you have. Change is inevitable in any life, I suppose. But this version of it—the kind that explodes any sense of familiarity—it’s an identity-shifting thing. And I’m not sure what it is that makes some people more predisposed to weathering it than others. Some can take it in stride—thrive on it, really. And others … Others struggle more.”
I let out a breath and wiped the sweat from my face. “And if we’re not in the thriving group? We’re doomed?”
“Heavens, no. It just may take a bit more time. More courage.” She laughed.
“More courage,” I repeated. I tried to imagine why Sam had sent Eveline to my rescue. She was a foreigner in Nepal, but she was also a high-profile doctor’s wife, living in a gated community with amenities I only dreamed of.
“I’m sorry, Lauren! Here I am on a pick-me-up mission and running my mouth in a most discouraging way.”
“No,” I said, reaching out to pat her arm. “You’re being honest. I’m just not sure what to do with what you’ve said.”
“We’re all different,” Eveline said, “and we must each adapt at our own pace.” She looked at me over the rim of her glass. “Sam certainly seems to be taking it all in stride.”
“He is.”
“Wonderful to see him so passionate about his work.”
“Yes.” I lacked her enthusiasm.
“Well, it’s splendid. A man needs a mission.”
“A woman does too.”
She heard the edge in my voice and gave me a look. “Yes, of course.”
“I don’t want to be here,” I heard myself say. If Eveline was surprised, she hid it well. She waited for me to continue. “I’ve been putting on a brave face and trying to be the good little missionary wife, but …” I looked at her and saw no reprimand. “This is hard, Eveline.” I blinked against the tears I felt rising in my eyes. No more tears. I’d vowed to banish them after the monsoon episode.
Eveline nodded, looking out over our unkempt yard. “You’re right,” she said. “This is indeed hard. And there is absolutely no shame in realizing it.”
“But …”
“No buts, dear. Not today. This is your chance to make a long list of everything you despise and tomorrow—tomorrow you can start thinking about the buts.” There was nothing on her face but a sort of firm, compassionate expectancy. “All right, then. Make your list. Tell me what has brought you to your transitional knees.” She said the last two words with enough drama to elicit a small smile from me.
“Really?” I asked. After weeks of trying not to speak of the challenges that were sucking the life out of me, I found Eveline’s invitation strangely exhilarating. I sat up a little straighter and took a deep breath, still unsure.
She leaned in to say under her breath, as if there were someone else present, “I’d say to take your time, but the day isn’t young and I have a feeling your list is rather long. So … off you go now.”
I gathered my thoughts and began rather timidly. “It’s not that I really want to leave.”
“Yes, you do. Come on, luv. Tell me what’s been hard.”
I sigh
ed. And then I started to enumerate my grievances. And though my list began with the obvious discomforts and lacks of a life in a Third World culture, it became clear that my greatest frustration was that it didn’t need to be that way. Other expats had the luxuries that would make my new life in a frighteningly different place less taxing. And I had a husband who constantly reminded me that we were called to live in Nepal, not around it. Among the people, not above them. And though others, whether missionaries or diplomats and business families, might put their survival-comforts above the optics, we would not.
I understood Sam’s desire to live as the Nepali did and his repeated assertions that we were already failing in that aspect—what with our three bicycles and kitchen filter and one portable heater and housekeeper and meat three times a week. This was the life we’d chosen—though we’d done so with incomplete information and theoretical temerity.
When I’d finished enumerating all that had depleted my tenacity, Eveline took my hands in hers and said, in her usual firm way, “You’re stronger than you think, my dear. And those frustrations you’ve just listed? You can do something about quite a number of them.”
I shook my head, fighting back tears. “Sam won’t let us,” I said, feeling guilt at the disloyalty of the statement.
“But they’re such small investments in the larger scope of things—more water filters and better Internet coverage and another heater or two—maybe even a secondhand vehicle—and, for heaven’s sake, an inverter for the electrical necessities. Surely, he wouldn’t …”
I pulled my hands back. “He would. He has.”
Eveline, who’d never before seemed to run out of words, said nothing for a few moments. “You’ve explained to him how much easier life would be?”
I nodded.
“Maybe if I ask around—someone might be leaving or upgrading …”
“He wouldn’t allow it even if we could get those things for free,” I said, rubbing my hands over my face. I didn’t try to explain Sam’s reasoning. Eveline couldn’t possibly understand the difference between a medical post and a nonprofit ministry.
“How many months has it been since you arrived?” she finally asked.
“Going on seven.”
“And have you found any sort of niche that makes you feel useful?”
I heard the sincerity in her question, but it sounded like a mild rebuke. “No, I haven’t really had the time to find a niche,” I said, trying to keep the bitterness out of my voice.
“Well, there’s no time like the present,” Eveline said in her positive, no-nonsense manner. “What do you like to do?” She waited for me to make a list.
I drew a blank. I tried to think of activities I enjoyed, but every one that came to mind required more time than I could spare, more money than I could afford, or more energy than I could muster. She started listing off some options, but they sounded to me like just another drain on my already depleted life.
“How would you feel about assisting me with our expat ladies’ group?” she finally asked. “I’m constantly in need of a right-hand person to help with our meetings and outings.” I’d heard about the Expatriate Women of Kathmandu group. Eveline had invited me to join since our arrival in Nepal, but I’d balked at the notion. As most of the participants belonged to the business world or the diplomatic corps, I feared our modest lifestyle and complicated calling would make me feel too different—too unworthy of the group.
“What would you think of that?” Eveline persisted. “There would be, heavens, perhaps one activity per month. Some planning … some implementing. What do you think?”
I was so torn between her kindness and my reticence that I couldn’t muster an answer. Eveline took the silence for consent. “Right then. Let’s get back in touch in a few days and take a look at our calendars.”
“Eveline, with my teaching job, I can’t just—”
“A little variety will do you good!” She smiled expectantly. “You’ll set your mind on different things and perhaps even discover something you like about this country.”
“It’s not the country …”
“It seldom is, luv.”
After Eveline left, I sat on the step and considered her offer, feeling a nagging sense of dissent. Sam’s assumption that a visit from a recent acquaintance would “fix” me galled a little. Did he think it was boredom fueling my desperation? Was it lack of hobbies that had sent me to him begging to leave?
When Eveline called a few days later with an invitation to help her plan an outing to Shivapuri Nagarjun National Park, I politely declined. I hadn’t planned to. But the moment she’d started telling me about her upcoming field trip, I knew I would have to say no.
“I see,” Eveline said, disappointment in her voice. “Maybe in a few more weeks, when you’ve settled in some more.”
“I just don’t think it’s the right fit,” I said. “But I’m so grateful for your willingness to include me.”
I sat by the phone after she hung up and tried to discern what had prompted such a definitive refusal. Lack of social energy, perhaps. Or just not the “right fit.” I wanted the answer to be something that simple, but I knew the truth was more obscure. More twisted. There was masochistic solace in enduring my pain in isolation—as if my solitary survival exposed how much I lived without. And in a strange, convoluted way, the notion felt affirming.
eleven
SAM WAS IN THE CITY. HE AND PRAKASH WERE MEETING with officials who might be able to supply the materials and equipment they planned to bring to Rambada. It was part of the ritual I’d come to expect when Sam came home. I’d made my peace with this reality—most of the time. I’d wait for his return, I’d celebrate his arrival, we’d try to function as a family for a day or two, something we disagreed on would come up, he’d apply his dispassionate logic to it, I’d argue my point, he’d stick to his guns, I’d concede defeat, and we’d spend the remaining days pretending there was no tension while ministry obligations stole him from our home.
Or maybe it was only me who sensed the distance in our postreunion cohabitation. Sam’s mind seemed happily occupied by thoughts of saving Nepal one villager at a time. I suspected he never really strayed from that focus. Not when we argued, and not on those rarified occasions when he reached for me at night in what felt like a coercion of forgiveness.
When Ryan asked to sleep over at Steven’s again, I snapped at him.
“Your father is only home for four more days, Ryan.”
“So?”
I tried not to let his tone get to me. “So I’m sure he’d like to spend as much time as possible with you before he heads back out again.”
He stared at me. “Can I spend the night at Steven’s?” he repeated.
We locked eyes for a few moments, me trying to detect a trace of vulnerability in his armor and him probably wondering if I’d just hurry up and give in—like I usually did when Sam wasn’t around.
“Come home by ten,” I said.
“Why?”
“So we can have breakfast together.”
A little more loudly. “Why?”
“Because your dad is only home for four more days,” I said again.
“And that’s my problem?”
“He’s your father,” I said, surprised by the passion in my voice.
Ryan shook his head and grabbed his jacket off the hook next to the door. “Tell him that.” And he was gone.
I vented my frustration by scrubbing our floors and cleaning the chickens’ pen and organizing the pantry … again. Then I sat in Sam’s chair up on the roof and wondered how we’d gotten here.
It was a useless train of thought. We were here. Period. In this place. In this family. In this marriage. In this ministry too, though I had trouble celebrating that dubious blessing on days when it felt like it had stripped everything else from me.
With my resilience exhausted by keeping it together, I let myself be drawn back to a place of soul comfort. I opened the laptop I’d brought to the
roof with me and read Aidan’s last message again. I skimmed over the medical details of his treatment, the description of his faith, his recollection of the day I’d bullied him into giving up buzzed driving, and stopped, sobered, on his parting phrase. “Love the ones you’re with.”
Aidan. Sometimes I feel like the mark you left on my life is more crater than footprint. And I wonder how many of these messages it will take to fill it. And how much time we’ll have to try.
Thank you for letting me in on your treatment and your heart. You say “maybe weeks” and I say MONTHS. YEARS! But that’s my fervor speaking. I don’t live inside the disease, as you do. Inside the discomfort of radiation and the nausea of chemo. Maybe that’s the difference. Still, I’m believing in longer—much longer. Enough to fill that crater to the brim.
I do “love the ones I’m with.” I do. But these days have been … hard. I catch myself wandering nearer to a pathetic sort of whine about my circumstances—a son who rarely speaks, a husband who seldom understands, a life that seems to diminish me.
It’s not this country. I wish it were that easy. Nepal is beautiful in its brokenness. Its people are exquisite—kind, strong, and genuine. The lifestyle is organic and stripped down. I think you’d love it, as many Westerners do. I don’t know why I haven’t connected with this place and culture. That’s not true. I have theories and suspicions. Mostly I have disappointment. In myself and in my woeful weakness. (Yes—I’ve noted the alliteration.)
Can I tell you about a friend of mine? Her name is Sullivan. She’s a feisty, effervescent Southern woman who wields her irresistibility like Sam wields his Bible. She called two nights ago. Skyped. And … Aidan, she offered to buy us tickets to come home. She and a bunch of our old friends. For two or three weeks or however long we needed. Can you imagine? A trip home. A trip back to everything that’s familiar. Maybe even to see you.
Sam refused to accept the gift. He has reasons—none of them worth trying to explain. And this anger, this small, petty, immature anger has plagued me since our conversation ended with his “no.” It wasn’t apologetic or sympathetic. It wasn’t even falsely understanding. It was a dispassionate decree. We will not accept the offer of free tickets for a trip home to see our family.
Of Stillness and Storm Page 17