I couldn’t stop the shuddering breath, both visible and audible to my friend on the other side of the world. Sullivan’s expression turned serious and sincere. “Is this about the tickets?” she asked.
“No. Yes.”
She leaned back a little in her chair and seemed to assess what she saw on my face. “Use your words, Chickadee. What’s going on with your friend?”
It wasn’t that I couldn’t find the words. It’s that there were too many. I inhaled—deep and reluctant and desperate. Then I exhaled my confusion. “It’s an old friend. From childhood,” I said. “And he’s dying.” I tasted the finality. “And I … Those tickets you offered. I was going to get to see him again before he … but Sam decided not to take them.”
Sullivan’s expression hadn’t changed. Curiosity and compassion. “Tell me more,” she finally said.
“Aidan. We practically grew up together. He found me on Facebook when I signed up and—”
“Wait—the Aidan? The one you talked about at Christschule when you and Sam were … ?”
Long-forgotten conversations in our room in Sternensee surfaced from the confusion of my mind. I’d only mentioned him once, when Sullivan’s frustration with my reticence to accept Sam’s advances had pried his name out of me. “Yes,” I conceded twenty-some years later. “That Aidan.”
She shook her head. “And he’s dying?”
“Brain cancer.”
She looked away from the screen for a moment, thinking. When she turned back toward her laptop’s camera, she said, “How long have you been back in touch?”
“Not long. A few weeks.”
“And Sam knows.”
I shook my head and hoped Sullivan couldn’t sense the guilt that cornered me.
“Sam doesn’t know,” she amended, frowning.
I rushed to my own defense. “I just haven’t figured out how to tell him.”
“Chickadee, if Aidan is merely a friend, what’s the hard part of telling Sam?”
I didn’t know how to respond. Sullivan seemed to sense my disquiet. “Unless it’s something more …”
I shook my head. “No—no, Sullivan. Really. We’ve just known each other since we were kids and … it’s a lot to explain.” I sighed and ran a hand over my face, exhausted by too much intensity. “I just need to make my peace with … with all of this.”
“How often do you think of him?”
“What?”
She was as serious as I’d ever seen her. “During the day—how often is he on your mind?”
“Why are you asking—?”
“He knows you. He needs you. He reminds you of easier, happier times, and he’s far enough away that he feels safe.” She shook her head and sent me a compassionate smile. “I’m only asking the questions you’d ask me if the roles were reversed.”
Guilt tingled at the edges of my consciousness. “It’s not like that.”
“With the stress you and Sam have been under—”
“It’s not like that.”
Sullivan let a few moments pass. I could tell she wanted to say more and was grateful when she didn’t.
“Listen,” she finally said, kindness in her expression and a bit more firmness in her voice, “friendship and death—these are universal themes. Sam may have made his mind up about the tickets, but if you told him about Aidan, do you think he’d at least reconsider then? Surely he’d understand the importance of such a friendship.”
I thought about the life we’d lived since Sam’s first encounter with Prakash. “He might have forgotten,” I whispered. “About the value of relationships.”
Our eyes met across the thousands of miles that separated us, and she sensed what I couldn’t admit.
“This Aidan. You’re sure it’s a healthy thing?”
I looked at Sullivan and felt tears come to my eyes.
“Chickadee …”
twelve
SAM HAD BEEN HOLED UP IN OUR BEDROOM FOR MOST OF the afternoon, hammering out the tasks that needed to be accomplished before he headed out again tomorrow. We’d gone to church that morning, as we always did. It was a small gathering of the English community under the leadership of a loosely Anglican pastor from Ireland who requested that we simply call him Justin. The services were casual and flexible, easily driven off script by lengthy periods of sharing or prayer times extended by an urgent need among us. It felt good to disconnect, for that one morning per week, from the tedium of grading and worry and make-do strategy.
Ryan tagged along because he had no other option. We made him take out his earbuds when we reached the gate of the school that housed our eclectic bunch. He sat hunched throughout the service, occasionally needing a prod to get him to stand at appropriate places. Sometimes he dozed. Most of the time he sat blank-faced, eyes on nothing, or staring out the window at the construction crane that towered over the half-built gym. I think I’d have preferred a scowl or a forced smile. Anything other than his absence.
When the pastor asked for prayer requests, Sam rose to speak. I pasted on my “peaceful wife” expression, knowing the spotlight that shone on Sam would catch me in its peripheral glow. He gave a brief update about his upcoming travels, mentioned a couple of specific prayer requests—the traditional missionaries-on-Sunday fare.
I listened to his smoothly modulated voice and wondered when his words had ceased to be inspirational to me. A prayer time followed. I fought the resentment that surged as good people uttered heartfelt pleas for Sam’s important work, praising his determination and praying for his stamina. Eveline included me in her typically sturdy petition. “And be with Sam’s family as they persevere through his absences,” she said. I hated the swell of self-pity weighing in my stomach and reminded myself of greater needs than mine. Of cancerous lesions and counted days. I despised my shallowness.
It was day six of Sam’s time at home, which meant our meals were shorter and our words sparser. It was hard to engage in casual banter when we lived most of our lives in different worlds.
And now we were off to Swayambhunath, a collection of shrines and sacred places known as Monkey Temple, founded on a steep hill in the fifth century and topped by a stunning white stupa on which Buddha’s eyes and eyebrows were painted. On our first trip there, shortly after our arrival in Kathmandu, the monkeys that ran wild around the temple had coaxed the first delighted smile from our son on Nepali soil. We hadn’t seen many of them since then. Still, we returned to this place periodically, not only for its beauty. I think we saw it as a glimpse into our past.
Sam had allowed us to take a taxi this time, a gesture I attributed to his imminent departure and the slightly less than pleasant nature of his weeklong stay. Other times, we’d forgone the taxi and made the eight-mile trip on foot, deliberate in our commitment to live as the Nepali did—some of them, anyway.
We took Swayambhunath’s 365 steps slowly on this day, stopping to browse through vendor displays whose prices varied depending on the number of foreigners navigating the long stairway. Smaller stupas formed a playground for the monkeys who darted in and out of reach, scanning the crowds for low-hanging shiny fare or snatchable food.
Though Ryan had once been enthralled by the dashing, chattering few, I now caught him watching mostly the older monkeys who sat out of reach, a distance from the path, observing monks and travelers with a dispassionate stare.
We circled the white dome festooned with prayer flags hung on wires that radiated from the center, peering into the small temples that lined it, taking in the gifts left by the devout to appease a stern god. Monks from the nearby monastery rang bells as they circled the stupa, while tourists stepped in for close-up pictures of their serene faces.
All I could think of was Aidan. How he’d want to sit and absorb the sights and sounds. How he’d already be plotting the medium he’d use to extrapolate immobile art from bustling reality. How he’d lose himself in contemplation for minutes at a time, as he had so often in our youth, then leap from that focus into a compl
etely irrational burst of hyperactivity.
We took the shaded back steps down to the World Peace Pond and found a bench to sit on while we ate our sandwiches. Ryan wandered a few steps off and crouched against a wall. His expression was blank and distant. He didn’t move when the first monkey, an older female, slid off the wall a little ways down and sidled up to him. He pulled off a piece of his sandwich and tossed it lightly in her direction, eyes forward, emotionless.
When she had captured the forbidden food, other monkeys ventured nearer, chattering to each other, eyeing the crouching human who continued to tear off chunks of bread and lob them in their direction.
I watched as a faint gleam of light appeared in Ryan’s eyes. He lowered himself completely to the ground, legs crossed, and continued to feed the simians from his bag. As they grew braver, he finally turned his head to look directly at them. There was a brief face-off while they seemed to consider each other, then the monkeys moved closer in a gesture of trust.
Sam took a breath and I knew—I knew—what he was going to say. He’d point at one of the multilingual signs lining the space where we sat and say, “That’s illegal, son. No feeding the monkeys.” I lay a hand on his arm and motioned toward Ryan. I hoped Sam saw what I did. A softening in his countenance. A slightly lighter bearing. A hint of presence in that time and place. Sam nodded and looked away.
“Do you think we did the wrong thing—coming to Kathmandu?” he asked.
The question had been hanging between us since our conversation on the roof. I sensed the weight of the moment and paused to consider a measured reply. “To tell you the truth, I don’t know.”
“But … we got here. Right?”
“I know,” I said, sighing. That simple fact had always been at the center of Sam’s arguments.
“How many people told us it couldn’t be done? I know I keep coming back to that, but … if God hadn’t wanted us to make it here …”
My concession was reluctant. “We’d still be home fund-raising.”
Sam nodded and swung his gaze toward Ryan again. “I know my traveling has put a lot of pressure on you and Ryan.”
A pregnant silence stretched between us. It was I who finally broke it. “But your work can’t be done from Kathmandu.”
Sam’s relief was a nearly palpable thing. He reached for my hand. “Thank you for understanding, Lauren.”
I wanted to tell him that I didn’t, but I knew any demands would be futile. I wanted to tell him that this on-again, off-again version of marriage couldn’t possibly be healthy. I wanted him to understand the full extent of the sacrifices soul-saving work was imposing on Ryan and me. But I’d loved him long enough to know how useless the words would be.
“I’ve been looking into getting away—just the two of us,” Sam said after a few minutes.
I glanced at him, trying to curb my hope. “You have?”
“There’s a hotel in Nagarkot. It’s the off-season, so the prices are good. We could go for a couple days next time I’m home.” He looked at me. “Would you like that?”
Like. Beige word. “Are you sure we can afford it?” I hated the question the minute it was out of my mouth.
“We can. I think this is important.”
“And Ryan?”
“This time”—Sam smiled— “we can actually say yes without hesitation when he asks to stay at Steven’s.”
A part of me that had been disappointed too often doubted the sureness of his offer. “What about work?”
He shrugged. When he turned on the bench to look at me, I saw vulnerability. It startled me. “The work will keep,” he said. “This is about you and me.”
I scanned his face for signs of reluctance. I saw nothing but sincerity. We watched as orange sunlight crept up the wall against which Ryan sat, then leapt off into night. My husband wanted to get away with me. He was willing to spend our money—his own investment on his own terms—for me. While I’d been trying to repress the yearning to flee this place for a couple of weeks, Sam had been planning for us to leave it together for a weekend, without compromising the principles that made him who he was.
“I’d love to go to Nagarkot,” I said.
Aidan … how are you feeling now? The nausea and fatigue. Are those normal? I worry about you. The frustration of not being able to do anything for you—that’s what keeps me awake at night. Being too far.
I’m concerned that I might have sounded petty in my last message. Or critical of Sam. Actually, petty is exactly what I was … He turned down Sullivan’s tickets and I dug out my rebel flag and started waving it like a lunatic. I climbed my barricade and blustered. “I’m going to take those tickets whether you want me to or not!” Very mature, wife-of-the-year stuff. But sometimes I feel like Sam has a simple equation he uses to determine the right and the wrong of things. And it often feels like I don’t appear anywhere in it.
Regardless—I shouldn’t have made Sam sound so callous when I wrote to you. He’s not. He just marches to the beat of a drummer who doesn’t exist on Planet Lauren. He could climb Mount Everest unassisted and still have the energy to preach a sermon from the top. Not me. I’m not cut from that cloth. The unspoken missionary rules state that I shouldn’t admit it, but there’s no way around it. I’m just not strong—not in that way.
So, update: He told me yesterday that he’s made plans to take me away the next time he’s home. A place called Nagarkot, up in the mountains. Famous for its views of the Himalayas. Sam, who won’t spend twenty dollars a month so we can get fast enough Internet to stream stuff for Ryan, is booking us a room in Nagarkot. Different planet—different drummer. When will I learn?
I guess that’s the danger of having reconnected with you. This figment from the past reenters my life and communicates more in a handful of messages and art than others have in years of face-to-face. And gets me. The figment understands who I am after twenty-some years of separation, while those closest to me in proximity and relationship remain baffled. I’m wrestling with that one.
Sam leaves tomorrow for the next three-week installment of Sam’s Great Disappearing Act. And after that, Nagarkot. Something to look forward to feels good.
But it also officially closes the “free ticket” chapter of my life. And that hurts. Aidan, you have no idea how … fervently … I wanted for that to happen. I guess I let my hopes rise too fast. It’s a habit I’ve been trying to undo for most of my life.
I hate to think of you going through all of this virtually alone. You’ve said that’s how you want it, but still. You need someone there … don’t you? How do you process the emotions that must be a huge part of this fight you’re engaged in? I imagine your art plays into it, but even that—even that must not entirely quell the uncertainty and … fear?
Thinking of you, Aidan. Praying, pleading, and believing.
My hand drifted over the stubble of close-cropped hair on Sam’s head. His backpack stood propped against the bedroom door. He’d spent the evening as he always did the night before his departure: packing and planning as his excitement visibly increased. There was new energy in his steps as he climbed the stairs two at a time to get his clean clothes from the line, fresh vitality in his voice as he described the next expedition over dinner, and a general brightening of his expression as he connected by Skype with a couple of important donors. There was no denying the way these journeys galvanized him. He came alive with purpose and expectation, and the transformation in him was astounding.
There was a scar on the back of Sam’s head. Small and mostly faded, it was at once a source of gratitude and a call to prayer. The large stone that had fallen from a cliff and glanced off his skull could have done serious damage. Just a couple inches closer and … But Prakash had quickly disinfected the wound and taped it shut, then they’d gone on their way ministering to others under unimaginable conditions.
Sam adjusted his position, glancing at me through barely conscious eyes as he shifted higher on the mattress. He was asleep again before h
e’d completely settled. I watched the movement behind his eyelids and wondered what he was dreaming. Did Ryan and I figure in the stories playing out on the broad screen of slumber, or were his dreams populated with the people and places I’d never known? I wondered what a hindrance I’d been to Sam’s work. Guilt stirred. Then I remembered his uncanny ability to be utterly present in the immediacy of need, regardless of the challenges in other spheres of his life. I was certain my failures as a wife and missionary had had little impact on his ministry.
I walked Sam to the gate the next morning, trying to install a bottle of clean water in the loop on the side of his backpack. He was fresh-shaven, his clothes were clean. He radiated a sense of purpose and excitement.
“See you in three weeks?” he asked as a taxi pulled up just outside our gates.
I nodded. “I’ll be waiting.”
He dropped his pack into the rear seat and was preparing to climb in when I grabbed his arm.
“Are we okay, Sam?”
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. With the … the arguing. Are we—are we okay?”
I wanted him to tell me how concerned he was. I wanted him to say that our arguing had scared him too, that he was starting to see that my needs were different from his, that he was seriously considering changes that would make my life easier, that we’d talk about those tickets again when he got home.
Instead, he smiled and said, “We’re fine, Lauren.”
“Okay.”
He looked more closely into my face. “Aren’t we?”
I nodded and forced a smile. “Sure. Sure—we’re fine.” That old refrain.
Sam gave me a kiss good-bye, then framed my face in both his hands, staring into me. “I love you, Lauren.”
“Love you too.”
And he was gone.
I scratched the top of Muffin’s head and headed back to the house. Ryan was upstairs sleeping. He’d said his good-byes last night. I needed to get ready for my day of teaching, though the prospect was utterly unappealing.
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