Beyond Molasses Creek

by Nicole Seitz

  Oh great. I run in here for this? What’s he going to sell me, a website in India or maybe—I go to hang up but something stops me. “Yes, it is.” I’m cold and ornery.

  “Good, very good. This is Theodore Assai, consulate officer with the US Embassy in Nepal.”

  Nepal.

  “I—I’m following up on the case of your missing daughter, madam.”

  I cannot speak. My mouth is wide open, but nothing is coming out. The blood is draining from my head and my limbs and I feel my way to Daddy’s La-Z-Boy chair. I sit carefully and hold my breath. I cannot take any more bad news. God, if you are real, please, what do you have against me? Am I that terrible of a person? Am I some sort of Job?

  “I—okay.” It’s all I can muster.

  “Ms. Green, I realize what you must have gone through many years ago with the loss of your daughter, and I want to convey my sincere sympathies.”

  Sympathies. His sympathies. I lay my head back and push the lever down. I recline and roll over into a fetal position, the phone resting on the side of my head. It’s happening. I have waited my whole life for this day. She’s dead. Daddy was right. He wasn’t lying about the heaven thing.

  “Madam, are you still there?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m here.”

  “Well, what I would like to tell you is that we may have some evidence in that case. Some . . . Well, would you mind, if you don’t mind, do you happen to remember what your daughter was wearing at the time of her abduction?”

  My mind is shattering, a glass windshield in a rainstorm. I’m having to go back there. I don’t want to go back. I’ve only just lost Vesey. I’ve only just lost my father. I don’t want to go back, and yet there it is, as fresh as if it happened just yesterday.

  I have just been to the Garden of Dreams at the Kaiser Mahal palace, billed as an “oasis of peace.” I carry my child and show her the beautiful fountain pool, the stunning architecture, the statues of elephants in the courtyard. She likes the elephants and reaches out to them. There are two matching statues of a mama and baby elephant together. I let her touch the baby as I say the word “baby.” She is happy with this and smiles. I am beginning to feel peaceful. I’ve realized in Nepal that with Vesey, ours is an untouchable love. It never will be. I am beginning to accept it.

  I am sitting in the Malla Café nearby. I have just drawn the place, the waiters, the tourists, the umbrellas on the tables, the baby, and I am pleased with myself. I am so engrossed in my drawing. I tuck the sketchbook down into the bassinet, and I look at my child for the very last time. She is sleeping and I don’t want to wake her. What I wouldn’t give to have just picked her up. She is sleeping and has the sweetest little baby-doll face and hands. I smile and turn away, reaching for the menu. I am scanning it and turn when I hear a commotion. There are glasses breaking to the right of me. I watch as a waiter bends down to pick it all up and when I turn back around, something is wrong. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a very blank spot where the baby just was. There’s nothing there. She’s vanished.

  I moan a little and whisper hoarsely into the phone, “It was a dress. My mother made it. It was tiny and frilly with stripes all over.”

  “Yes, yes, and was there anything else, I might ask?” The man’s voice sounds almost apologetic. I remember these embassy men. I remember them all with their kind voices and useless questions.

  “A diaper for sure and a hat, I think. A little cotton hat. White. Very simple. I was afraid she’d catch cold if she didn’t have a hat. My mother had ingrained it in me, and I promised my mother I’d keep one on her. I . . . had to promise.”

  I hear a deep intake of air on the other side, and I feel my face grimace and tears start to stream from my eyes straight down into my ear. Daddy’s note keeps going through my head:

  Ally, sweetness, I’ve seen her. She’s here.

  Time for you to rest now.

  Dad

  Daddy, where are you? I need you now. I’m getting the call. After all these years, I’m getting the dreaded call.

  “Ma’am, thank you for cooperating. I realize this has been difficult for you, but I wanted to be sure.”

  “Sure . . . of what?” I am near death, I think.

  “Well, madam, I wonder if you’re sitting down? If you would like to sit down.”

  I clench my jaws and then relax, my body humming. “Sir, nothing good ever came from a woman sitting down. I’ll have you know I am lying down. Is that good enough? She’s dead, isn’t she?

  She’s dead? Get this over with. Please.”

  “I apologize, but that is not why I am calling you.”

  I stop. “It’s not?”

  “No, madam. I—” The man seems to be choking. He clears his throat. “I am very happy to tell you that I believe we have found your daughter. And your daughter is alive and well.”

  I hear blood humming in my ears now. Sparks are flying in the back of my head and I worry I may be having a stroke.

  “What did you say?” I ask.

  “I said we have your daughter, and she is very well. Very much alive.”

  “Constance? Are you talking about my Constance Green, missing thirty-eight years now?”

  “I believe I am. Yes. Although she goes by another name now.”

  “Another name? What is it?”

  “Sunila.”

  “Sunila?” The word drips from my tongue. I sit up slowly and my face tears apart from side to side. “Sunila? She’s my Constance? My baby? Are you sure? My child is alive?”

  “It appears so, yes.”

  I begin to wail, a long, loud wail that comes up from years of darkness. I cannot stop. I cannot move forward. I am stuck in this longest cry that begins in my toes and explodes through me.

  “My baby? My baby! Oh my, no, no, this can’t be happening!” I know I must be scaring him to death, but I just can’t stop. When the screaming dies down, I put the phone to my ear again. I am beginning to hyperventilate and feel faint. I may disappear at any moment. “Will she . . . is she there? Right now?”

  “No, madam. Not at the moment. Sorry. But if you would like, I will contact her and we can arrange another phone call . . . together?”

  I stand up and run to the kitchen drawer. I pull out a piece of paper and pen and with shaky hands say, “Yes, yes, I—may I have your number, just in case—”

  “Yes, it is Theodore Assai, US Embassy, zero, nine nine seven . . .” I scribble in illegible handwriting on one of Daddy’s prescription pads. I picture them falling from heaven all over me. And when I get off the phone, I am laughing and in some sort of strange euphoria that is oddly similar to grief. It’s that same out-of-body experience. My spirit is still soaring up through the clouds, but there is blood rushing through my face, hot and wild. I’m sweating.

  I run outside and look for somebody, anybody! I look left and right and run around the statues like a madwoman, then out onto the dock toward Vesey’s house, but he’s no longer there. So I lift my hands into the air and yell up to the sky, “Yaaaaaaaaa-hoooooooo, she’s alive, she’s alive, Vesey! Daddy, my daughter’s alive! You hear that? They found her they found her they found her they found her oh God oh God oh God oh God . . .” A flock of birds scatters above me and changes direction as I fall to my knees. I cry like a baby then, and mouth just running I start praising a God I’ve never really known. I tell him how wonderful he is, how wonderful this is, how amazing, and how I can’t believe it, and for the first time, even though Daddy and Mama aren’t here and even though Vesey isn’t here, for the first time ever in my life, I know that they are with me, and I feel loved. Wrapped up, snuggled up, warmed up, lift-you-up-in-the-air kind of happy—truly, wholly loved.

  FIFTY-FOUR Awakening

  Kathmandu, Nepal

  Sunila

  “YES? NAMASTE.”

  “Hello, Sunila?”

  “Mr. Assai?”

  “Oh, good, you are there. I was worried something had happened to you on your walk. I was afraid I . .
. Sorry. Are you awake?”

  “Of course. Yes.”

  “Good. May I come over to your hotel and meet with you? I know it is late.”

  I pause and swallow. I whisper, “Did you contact her?”

  “Oh, Sunila.” Mr. Assai’s voice cracks and I hear him trying to get the words out. I fear she may be dead by the sound of his voice and my heart sinks. My shoulders turn to stone.

  “Sunila, I did indeed contact her. We have spoken, this woman and I, and I am quite positive that she is the same woman who lost her child at the Malla Café in 1972.”

  I open my mouth and a tiny noise escapes. I take a deep breath and try to remain calm.

  “I realize it is late,” says Mr. Assai, “but with the time difference, this . . . this would be a good time to call.”

  “You would like to call her again?” I ask carefully. “Tonight?”

  “Yes. I would like to. She is expecting us. She is overcome with joy, as you can imagine. She thought that you were dead, Sunila. She . . . she is quite overcome. I feel it is important to go ahead and speak with her as soon as possible.”

  Tears are streaming down my face and I feel strangely as if I have been lifted up off the bed and am floating somewhere near the ceiling. I want to reach through the phone and kiss Mr. Assai. I want to wrap my arms around him. “Oh, thank you, Mr. Assai. I do not know how to thank you. I—thank you.”

  “I am heading out the door now. Why don’t you get yourself ready? I will be there in twenty minutes?”

  “Twenty minutes.” I look at myself in the mirror beside the television and see nothing but a glowing blur of a figure. “Yes. I shall be ready. I—yes.” I break into a smile and then feel as if nothing could wipe it away. These feelings are truly foreign in me, as foreign as my own American mother. Yet at the same time, it’s as if I’ve only just entered my skin. As if this is the feeling I have been destined. This must be what a child of the gods feels like every moment of her life.

  Mr. Assai is wearing the same brown suit he had on earlier, but his tie is pulled down and his top buttons undone. His head is shiny and radiant, though his face appears much more tired than the first day I met him. He breaks into a smile when I open the door and he pulls his hand out from behind him. He is holding wild orchids and curly bamboo for good luck. I take the flowers from him and nod. “Thank you.” I have never had flowers given to me. Is it possible for a person to be as happy as I am now? It is almost frightening.

  “Please, enter.” I set the flowers on a table by the windows and turn around to Mr. Assai. I put my hands up to my face and press my cheeks. Is this really happening? Are we going to speak to my true mother? Mr. Assai pulls his other hand from behind his back and gives me the Book of the Gods along with a newly wrapped package.

  “It is the same your mother gave to you. I have rewrapped it. These things belong to you.”

  “We should have tea,” I say, and I pour two cups of hot milky chai that was brought up by the hotel. “Yes. We should have tea.”

  The two of us sit down gingerly, sipping the tea with shaky hands. I look at him and ask, “What did she sound like, my mother?” My face must be glowing. My ears burn.

  “She sounds . . . happy,” he says. “She was very cautious at first, as you must understand. She was expecting only bad news when I told her I was from the embassy in Nepal. It was very sad. Very sad indeed.”

  “But then she was happy?”

  “Sunila.” Mr. Assai puts his teacup down on the table. He presses his hands together as if he is praying and closes his eyes. “I was not prepared for the depth of her emotion. I have never experienced . . . Are you prepared to speak with her?”

  “I . . . I would like to speak with her, but I will not know what to say, I’m afraid.”

  “You do not have to say much. She will hear your voice. It will be enough. She will hear it and know that it is you, that you are her daughter. Yet I feel . . .”

  Mr. Assai looks off and stands to go open the curtain. He looks outside over the gardens and I ask him, “Please, what is wrong?”

  “Nothing. I—I am hopeful that this is true. It is happening, but part of me—”

  “Yes, part of me as well,” I say. “Part of me believes nothing this good could ever happen to me. I am happy, Mr. Assai. Truly happy. Yet there is still a part of me that protects the other. I have lived a life of hardship. I know this now after meeting you, after seeing this hotel. I know that I am not one to deserve this happiness and must be borrowing this life for a short time. I am prepared to go back, you know. I am prepared. I want you to know.”

  “No, Sunila. Please do not cry. I—I feel responsible. I have grown very fond . . . I simply want things to go as they should for you. You deserve a bit of happiness in this life. I am grateful simply to witness this reunion. I never imagined I could care this way about . . . about a case. I’m sure it’s highly improper.”

  A case. I am a case to him. I firm myself. “Mr. Assai. If I may, would you please tell me, to which caste do your parents belong?”

  “I told you I don’t believe in the caste system.”

  “Yes. But I imagine your parents do. It is not easy to forget one’s place in the world.”

  He is quiet and looks pained. Finally he says, “Vaishya.”

  “They were business owners?”

  “Yes.”

  My heart stills. “Thank you. Thank you for your honesty.”

  I set my cup down on the table and after a deep breath I say, “All right. I am ready now. Let us call Ms. Green in America and let me hear the sound of her voice. I will know then. I will know if she is my mother.”

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Great White Bird

  Charleston

  Sunila

  Three weeks later

  I AM IN AMERICA. MR. ASSAI AND I FLEW ON A GREAT white bird to get here. I watched the tops of the clouds until my eyes closed. I flew up where the gods must live. I have never been so happy. As we sat next to one another, at times Mr. Assai’s arm would rub against mine, and when the airplane would shake, he would touch my hand and calm me. I like him very much. I have never had someone treat me so kindly. Except for Amaa. I am a very long way from home.

  The houses here are far apart. There is green grass everywhere and no temples or monkeys or cows in the street. There are large cars as we drive down the streets. There are great trees that hang over us and a bright blue sky that welcomes us here.

  We arrive at a house and my stomach tightens. I hold my chest and smooth my sari. It is beautiful blue with gold sequins like the Brahmin wear. Mr. Assai bought it for me for this trip and I am grateful. Grateful for everything.

  My American mother lives in that house. It is a gray house with trees and grass and stone statues to one side. Statues. Behind the house, a river flows. I am meeting my mother in this house, at this moment, for the first time in my life.

  I breathe heavy.

  “Are you okay?” Mr. Assai asks me.

  “I think I am.” I sit in the car rented by Mr. Assai. He did not have to come all this way for me; he could have stayed in Nepal. I am greatly indebted to him. I turn to Mr. Assai and say, “I am happy you are here. It is right that you are here today. I am . . . grateful for all you have done.”

  “I am doing my job,” he says. The words spread between us. “What I meant to say is, it is my honor to bring you here. I am honored, very much so, to be here.”

  Ally

  I am a mess. I look in the mirror and straighten my pearls, tuck a piece of hair behind my ear. I pucker my lips and blot my lipstick, then wipe all of it off. I’ll want to kiss her. I hope she lets me kiss her. I don’t want to mess up her cheeks.

  I am bursting out of my skin right now.

  I never imagined that I’d be okay after Vesey was gone, but I am better than okay. I feel him with me like I never felt before. He was always across the river, but now, now he lives on in my heart. He’s had something to do with this, pulled some strings, I
am sure of it. Because she’s coming. My daughter is coming home to me today! Nearly forty years in the desert, wandering alone and lost and parched, and now, now I have entered some promised land. I feel as if I am home for the first time in my life. All the pieces have added up to bring me to this moment, wearing these beautiful shoes and cream-colored dress that Margaret bought for me to wear today. She is here with Graison in the other room. They are drinking iced tea with Ronnie and Marlene. All my dear friends, my whole family is here now. We’re just waiting to see her.

  God, if I haven’t said it today, thank you. Thank you for all of it. The years of wandering. I don’t mind them now. I see how they were useful. Look where you have brought me. How much more grateful am I now that I have lost and found. How grateful I am. How unworthy I am. How unlikely.

  I have not felt a stitch of pain in my hip since I heard her voice on the phone. It was as if the sound of her voice had the power to heal me from thousands of miles away. I am living pain-free today. Free from the pain of losing her, of losing Mama and Daddy and Vesey. I am free from the pain of loss for the first time in my life, for I am overflowing with gain, and it is truly a miracle. I never thought I would see this day.

  Kat jumps up on the bathroom counter and arches his back. He wants me to pet him. I do and turn on the faucet for him so he can drink a little trickle of water. Wild thing. He loves to do that. Why is it that this tiny trickle thrills him more than the big bowl of water I leave for him by his food? There is something special about water falling from the sky. I realize that now. “Sweet boy. Are you ready? She’s coming any minute now.” I turn the water off and rub his head and kiss it. “You’re a good kitty cat, you know that? I am so glad you’re here. I love you, Kat.”