by Nicole Seitz
“Oh, Sunila. You are in America now. You are not an outcast. You are my daughter. Please, honey, don’t forget that.” She is sullen, and I know I must lift her up. “Well, then, maybe you’d like to know something else about your Mr. Assai.” I reach into my pocket. I’ve been carrying this around for a while now, waiting for the perfect time. “When you first came to see me, you brought me a wrapped package of the clothes you were wearing when you were . . . taken. You remember?”
Sunila nods.
“Here. I have a note I found in that package. It’s from Mr. Assai.” I hand it to her, but she looks at me, troubled. “Would you like me to tell you what it says?”
Sunila blinks and I know I cannot lie to her again. Not about this. It’s too important. So I tell her exactly what it says, and as I let the words fall out of my mouth, I release myself from the hold they’ve had on me. I feel I’m on the verge of forgiveness, of letting go of what cannot be undone.
“It says that Mr. Assai cares very deeply for you, and he was very moved by knowing you. He says he understands how much you still worry about . . . your mother in Nepal. The woman who raised you.” I swallow hard and try to appear at peace. “And so, Sunila, honey, look at me.”
I take her hand in mine and squeeze it as I’m telling her this, partly for her but partly for me too. “Your friend, Mr. Assai, has been back to the quarry where you grew up, and he’s paid the debt that your parents owe. All of it. Even for your running away.”
Sunila goes weak in her knees and she falters. I hold her up. “Did you hear me, honey? Did you understand what I said?”
Yes,” says Sunila, fresh tears pooling. “It means”—she looks up at me with sudden urgent understanding—“it means we are all free. All of us.”
“It does indeed,” I say to her, a wave of relief coming over me. “We are all blissfully free.”
I used to dream about being right here, in this place, but for very different reasons. Standing here on Vesey’s side of the river, the two of us watch as a white heron flies down straight from the sun and perches on the clothesline cross just feet from us. The bird isn’t scared of us, rather addresses us, seems to know us. Ah. The bird. The clothesline cross. That’s it, isn’t it? My dream about the elephant and the bird? It’s happening. Right now. You’re the elephant, old girl. And the bird . . . I suppose the bird was Vesey all along, wasn’t it? I hear you, Vesey. I really do. I know you had your faith, and I’m grateful you’ve pointed me in a new direction. I have crossed over in my thinking, I have—but I’m not where you were. Not yet. I still have questions. Why would God allow such suffering? I wonder if I’ll ever have my answers. You can send them to me anytime you like.
Sunila and I watch the bird, breathless, and then just as quickly as it catches our eye, it opens its broad wings and flaps. It gains air and we watch its legs trailing behind and brilliant whiteness glowing in the sun. It soars over to my side of the river and seems to skim the stone statues in my garden. It was her all along, wasn’t it? My fascination with the statues was just a deep maternal connection to a stone carver half a world away.
I look back at the cross with the reds and pinks and purples of the sunset fanning out behind the trees. It’s still here, that cross, unmoved and constant, after all these years, the one thing that’s stable even after Mama and Daddy and Vesey are gone. It’s still here, and looking at it now, I am excited for another day. Once upon a time that was an impossibility for me.
I smile to myself and wrap my arms around my daughter, my own flesh and blood, and as the breeze picks up and blends us together, I know without a doubt, we’ve finally crossed the river.
Epilogue
Kathmandu, Nepal
Ally
OUR JET IS LANDING. WE’VE FINALLY COME BACK TO THE scene of the crime. Sunila grabs my hand, and I squeeze. I pull it up to my heart and close my eyes. I kiss her knuckles. I have my child. We are together again. Don’t be afraid. Be strong for her.
Look at her. A year in the States has definitely changed her some. She has taken to wearing blue jeans and slacks. Her skin is lighter and smoother, thanks to modern sunscreens and lotions. Her hair is smooth and pulled back into a ponytail. Her skin and body are slightly plumper, as they should be. She is my daughter, after all, and a daughter of the South. Her favorite food is not my macaroni with oodles of cheese or anything else I cook, for that matter. Her favorite food is the fresh fruit and vegetables she gathers from Vesey’s garden. Yes, it’s still growing, long after he’s gone. He built something that lasts and continues to thrive.
“I love you, honey,” I say to my daughter. “Look how far we’ve come, huh? We left, what, three days ago, took a plane to Chicago and another to Abu Dhabi, spent the night, and now finally, we’re here. How do you feel? Other than completely exhausted.”
Neither of us speaks for a moment as the wheels make contact with the runway and we feel the heavy rumble of the asphalt below. For a brief second I remember the story of a plane that overran this runway in May 1972, right before I came to Nepal. We won’t overrun today. Everything will be just fine. We can’t travel all the way back here to face our demons and start anew, only to have our jet crash, now can we?
The jet comes to a jerking halt and then . . . we are still. I take a deep breath.
Sunila looks out the window beside me. She seems to be taking in each brick of Tribhuvan International Airport, the mountains, this Kathmandu Valley that once swallowed her up.
“You want to know how it feels,” she says. “It is hard for words.”
“I know,” I say. “It’s hard for me too.”
“I am changed,” says Sunila. “I am . . . who I am now, not who I was forced to be. Do you understand?”
“Yes, honey. More than you know.”
“In America, when I stand on my father’s corner and sell his newspapers,” says Sunila, “I make more money one Saturday than one whole year carving stone in Nepal. People smile and they are kind to me. And under his umbrella, I think my father speaks to me. He tells me to educate so I can teach others.”
A tear drips down slowly to my lips. I cannot look at Sunila, but instead watch out the window as a cart comes around to gather our luggage.
“It is my dream, coming here,” she says. “I think, if one Dalit woman can be free, this school is my destiny. You understand? My life is okay.”
I do understand. Over the next two months, we’re going to be working with an NGO to establish a school for Dalit women and children in Kathmandu. It’s exciting. It’s terrifying. But it’s what we need to do to make sense of it all. I’ve seen the light in my daughter’s eyes over the last several months as she’s saved her money and poured her soul into planning this school. I am so proud of her.
And yes, maybe if we help one woman, this will all have been worth it. But I don’t feel that way yet. I am not as evolved or forgiving as my daughter, though I hope to feel that way one day. My path is still long and winding.
The flight attendants open the door to the aircraft, and we gather our things and shuffle out. When we enter Immigration, Sunila slows. “Don’t be afraid,” I whisper. “You are an American citizen now. You are not untouchable. You hear me? You are not untouchable.” I squeeze her hand until I can no longer feel my fingers. We hand the man in the window our passports and he eyes us, almost bored. “Americans?”
“Yes,” I say.
Sunila swallows heavily. She puts her hand behind my back, and I can almost hear her protest. No, she wants to say. No, I am not an American but a Nepali citizen. I always will be. She doesn’t speak up, but my heart continues to race. The man stamps our passports and tells us to have a good stay. We move solemnly to Customs downstairs and, without much to declare, step into Arrivals.
My daughter freezes and drops her bag. We are expecting to see him, so I don’t know why she seems so shocked, but when I look in Mr. Assai’s face and then into hers, I know. Sunila has found that love I always dreamed of. And twice as lucky, it
looks as if it is returned to her.
It strikes me in this moment that these two may never have met if I had never come here, if my daughter had never been taken from me, if she’d not had the courage to break free. Is it possible that True Love would go to such great lengths to bring these two people together? My gut instinct is to wrap my arms around Sunila and flee from this place, back to our lazy spot on Molasses Creek—but if there’s one thing I’ve learned in life, it’s this: we must hold lightly to those we love most. They are gifts but for a short while, and we are privileged for the time we spend together.
My daughter is frozen, as if turned to stone.
I move forward, hands outstretched. “Mr. Assai?” I say. He nods. He doesn’t look quite as I remembered. He’s lighter-skinned and missing more of his hair. Still handsome in an interesting way. Maybe it’s just the way he looks at her.
“Ms. Green,” he says. “It is so good to see you again.” He reaches forward and hugs me.
“Thank you,” I whisper into his ear. “Thank you for so much.” I am crying now. I did not expect to melt this way over him, but I have. He is all that is good with the world. And he has my daughter’s heart. We pull apart and he turns his attention back to Sunila, whose hands are clasped in front of her. She is delicate as a flower, and I long with all I have in me to pull out my sketchbook and etch this memory permanently on paper, but it is not the right time. Instead, I must soak in every detail in my mind.
Mr. Assai steps forward to her, hands at his sides. He moves slowly, then comes close, nary two feet away. He is quiet. There are no words between them, but Sunila stares up into his brown eyes, returning his gaze. Mr. Assai smiles warmly, a boyish grin. Sunila does the same and then blushes. Yes. This is her true love.
My heart stirs and I think of Vesey Washington. I imagine him smiling down on us now, watching all of this, and I am warmed from the inside.
“Namaste,” Mr. Assai says to my daughter.
“Namaste,” she says, honoring the light in this man.
“I am very glad you came,” he says in English.
“I, too, am very happy,” says Sunila. “It is a long time.”
Mr. Assai and Sunila do not embrace. Though she is an American, he understands she is Nepali at heart. He understands this possibly better than I do. He knows that she is still not accustomed to embraces from the opposite sex, and I can see it on his face—he will play this thing just right to win my daughter. I won’t ever let on, she’s already been won. She reaches out to him and touches his shoulder with a trembling hand.
Suddenly, fear grips me. I envision a wedding. What if she wants to stay here in Nepal? What if she never comes home?
No. I can’t live my life in fear anymore. I won’t do it. She deserves better. I deserve better.
Take care of her, I say to my white bird in the clouds. She’s all I’ve got.
No, says a voice deep in my spirit, rumbling, almost audible. You have so much more, and you always have. Now relax. You made it. The best is yet to come.
Together, we exit the airport and then out to the streets of Kathmandu in Mr. Assai’s small vehicle. I am struck once again by the incredible beauty of this place that captured me so many years ago, and for a fleeting instant, I remember the elephants that once haunted my dreams. They don’t haunt me anymore.
“To the Garden of Dreams,” I tell Mr. Assai. “Please. If you don’t mind. We need to revisit it. And then to the café. The one where—”
“Are you sure you are ready?” asks Mr. Assai, turning his head from the wheel to look at me. He is concerned.
“We’re as ready as we’ll ever be,” I say. “We’ve come here to face things head-on, Mr. Assai. We are two strong and capable women, and together, we can do this.” I look at my daughter. “Can’t wait to see the Shangri-La Hotel,” I whisper.
“And taste dal bhat,” says Sunila. Then she breaks into a wide grin. After a moment, she begins to giggle like a child. And I join her. I laugh and laugh until all my nerves and fears and ghosts have vanished, and we speed off together toward a glorious new day.
Acknowledgments
CERTAIN ELEMENTS OF THIS STORY WERE LOOSELY inspired by real instances or individuals. This book got its beginning in 2008 when my husband and I were in an Indianapolis airport on the way to a wedding. I bought a Forbes magazine that had a cover story about child labor. I remember one particular seven-year-old girl named Santosh in India who made cobble in a stone quarry for a living. I was struck by her. I hadn’t known about current child labor or “debt bondage,” how the problem is widespread and affects millions of children worldwide. Americans buy products made by children unknowingly all the time. Had I? I felt helpless. And then I thought: What if this was an American child? Or my child, even? Would I be more horrified? Would it change my perspective enough to do something about it? When I began thinking about a new book, I remembered that article and knew it was time to write.
As for the rainbow-colored umbrella, it’s been on the corner of Johnnie Dodds Boulevard and Houston Northcutt Boulevard at the foot of the Ravenel Bridge for as long as I can remember. Beneath that umbrella stands a man named Hassie Holmes selling magazines and newspapers. He’s the most visible figure as we’ve got here in Mount Pleasant. Nearly every day, one can see him riding his bicycle with a trailer on the back filled with everything he needs for his stand. He’s there in front of the Hardee’s when it’s one hundred degrees outside. He’s there in the rain. Although we’ve never spoken, I’ve always admired his tenacity and faithfulness to that corner and to the people of our town. My character, Vesey Washington, although inspired by that corner stand and that faithfulness, is completely fictitious and wholly born from my imagination. Any further resemblance to Mr. Holmes is completely coincidental, though I do encourage you to stop and buy a newspaper or magazine from him if you find yourself in Mount Pleasant anytime soon.
On November 28, 2010, while I was writing this book, I received this message from our beloved “Uncle Mel” Nathanson, my husband’s uncle in Raleigh, North Carolina:
Nicole, I’ve asked Mel Jr. to send something like this, which is a recent note, to one of my boyhood friends. It’s a short self-edited thought. If it appeals to you, please use it in one of your novels, my dear, should it be appropriate. Feel free to edit as appropriate.
Love to you and Brian, Uncle Mel
Your name is on a list of people special to me. Mel will send a note when things are over. I don’t want any big deals when I’m gone. No on-and-on obituary, no pretentious ceremonies, and hopefully, no tears. I lived my life well, did lots of good things, learned a lot, had a number of dear friends (of which you are one), lots of amazing adventures, and few regrets. Sailor, private pilot, husband, father, farmer, instructor, field engineer, entrepreneur, and finally an old geezer waiting out my time. Managed to do just about everything I ever wanted. I hope things may work out for me to see my friends again. Nobody knows that part or where that spark of life winds up. I have asked my folks to scatter my ashes on the seashore as I have scattered those that left earlier. Do not grieve over what is natural. Celebrate my passing as a life lived successfully. I wanted you to have my words in event that things move faster than I would like. If not, that would be fine as well. Our lives were entwined, and for that I am grateful.
On December 12, 2010, two weeks later, I received this note again from his son, letting me know Uncle Mel had succumbed to mesothelioma, which he had been diagnosed with ten months earlier. To honor this amazing man, you will notice some similarities between his note and the sentiments in chapter 49.
I’d like to thank several people who have inspired me on my journey to write this book. To my editors, Amanda Bostic, Rachelle Gardner, and Becky Monds, thank you for your encouragement and enthusiasm for this story as well as your expertise in making the words sparkle. I appreciate so much the room you’ve given me to test the boundaries of storytelling. To everyone else on the fiction team at Thomas Nelson, thank
you for your skill and prowess in packaging my work and getting it into readers’ hands.
To Mary Edna Frasier, thank you for inviting me into your studio years ago and allowing me to witness the magic and beauty of your batiks. You inspire me.
Now to some delightfully unexpected “soul mates” I’ve met along the way: To author Shellie Rushing Tomlinson, words can’t explain what your friendship and prayers have meant to me in the writing of this book. Thank you for understanding me fully and supporting my efforts from all the way in Louisiana. To Ric Cochran, radio personality extraordinaire in Charleston, West Virginia, what can I say? For someone I’ve never even met in person, you’ve had quite an impact on my life as a writer and person. You inspire me to do bigger, better things, and I can’t thank you enough for being such a gracious example of an honorable man. I am blessed to call you my friend.
To my family—my parents, in-laws, children, siblings, aunts, uncles, nieces, and nephew—you are a constant source of inspiration and the foundation on which I stand. I love you and thank God for you. To my mother, my reader, my dear friend, thank you for always lifting me up and urging me to keep going. And to my husband, Brian, you are so gracious and understanding of my need to write. Every day I know how blessed I am to have you in my life. I’m sure the people who enjoy my books thank you as well. You have my unending love and respect.
Now to my Father in heaven, thank you for the words, for the mountains you’ve moved, and for the prayer partners you’ve put in my path. I love this journey we’re on together and can’t wait to see where we go next.
Reading Group Guide
1. In the prologue, Ally admits, “Sometimes stepping back in time is the only way for a girl to move forward.” Is this something you’ve experienced in your own life? Do you agree or disagree with the statement?