The Enlightenment of Bees

by Rachel Linden

  For my favorite niece. Be brave and strong and true, just like Mother Teresa, she’d written on the inside cover in her bold, slanted scrawl. I took one look at the drawing of Mother Teresa on the front cover and claimed her as my hero too.

  “What made you think about that?” I ask. That coloring book had made a tremendous impact on my young mind and heart. I’d colored the border of Mother Teresa’s sari Crayola denim blue, and used sky blue for the stream of water pouring from a ladle into the open mouth of an emaciated, dying man. I imagined myself in the picture, my hand holding the ladle, the goldenrod sun hot on the crown of my head.

  “I was just thinking about you as a kid,” Henry replies. “You used to tell everyone that you wanted to travel the world and be like Mother Teresa. Do you remember?” He chuckles.

  “Saint Mia,” I reply. That’s what I dreamed of as a child. Saint Mia giving her life to help those in need.

  “So when did you give up on that dream?” he asks.

  “I haven’t given up on it,” I say, feeling a little defensive. “I just . . . haven’t quite figured out how to live it out yet.”

  But as soon as I say it, I wonder if that’s entirely true. Have I forgotten those childhood dreams? Are the dreams I have now more Ethan’s than mine? Maybe a little. Maybe more than a little.

  But I want the life Ethan and I have created together. It’s a good life, an appealing life. I want to live it with him. But still, Henry’s question niggles at me. It feels important. Why had I let my childhood visions dissolve? I’d known I was giving something up as Ethan and I moved toward a future with each other, but wasn’t that normal? The result of two people compromising to make a life together work?

  Had Ethan had to let go of any of his dreams? I’ve never considered that question before.

  “You still there?” Henry clears his throat.

  “Yes, sorry. Just thinking.” I hesitate. “So what do you think I should do now?”

  “Think about what you want for yourself, not just what you and Ethan planned together,” Henry says bluntly. He doesn’t sugarcoat things. “I know you hope it will work out between you, but what if it doesn’t? What would a life without Ethan look like? What would you choose if it were up to just you?”

  My mind immediately flashes to an airplane lifting off the tarmac into the sky, bound for some exotic locale. Like me, Ethan has only ever been to Canada. Unlike me, he’s quite content sticking close to home. Hawaii for vacations, New York at Christmastime—those are the extent of his travel aspirations. We’ve wrangled and compromised, settling on the Caribbean for our honeymoon—maybe England and Scotland for the soccer and the Scotch distilleries someday. But he still doesn’t have a passport. Those plans are all still just theoretical.

  I think for one split second of a tiny airplane circling the globe. Of high windswept plateaus in Patagonia, the bitter aroma of mint tea in a dusty Moroccan souk. I think of the South Pacific, palm trees swaying in the breeze, sand as soft and white as icing sugar. I think of my passport filled with official-looking stamps.

  “Where do I start?” I ask finally.

  “Start with Saint Mia, start with the dreams you had before Ethan,” Henry says gently. “At least that could help point you in the right direction. I think you need to start planning an alternate life.”

  An alternate life. I grip the bridge railing and blow a breath out through my mouth, a long slow exhale to quell my panic. I have no idea what that would look like. I want the life I’ve been planning on for six years. I want my apprenticeship at the bakery. I want Ethan. But Henry is right. I may not get the chance to live the life I’ve been counting on.

  “Okay.” For the first time since that disastrous Ferris wheel ride, I feel a spark of hope. I don’t have to be the victim here, waiting on someone else to decide my fate. I can’t control Ethan’s decision, but I can start taking steps to control my own future. The idea gives me a wobbly sort of courage.

  “Hey, text me and tell me how it goes,” Henry says. “He’s a fool if he lets you go. You deserve a man who sees how amazing you are. And Mia, remember, you’re stronger than you think.”

  “I hope so.” I clear my throat, trying to swallow the clog of tears. “Thanks, Henry.”

  After we hang up, I ponder his words. An alternate life. I roll the phrase around in my head; it’s terrifying and liberating all at the same time. I still hope more than anything that Ethan chooses me, chooses us, but if he doesn’t . . .

  Dizzy with the magnitude of it, I swing my leg over my bike and pedal toward home, trying to wrap my mind around the idea. In the sky ahead of me, south toward SeaTac airport, I see an airplane lifting off into the pearly gray clouds, the nose pointed up and away, toward a far horizon. It looks like freedom. I think of my passport waiting in the suitcase I’ve never used. I think of a spinning globe, all the countries of the world a blur of colors as they whiz by. In an alternate life I could do anything, be anywhere. When I consider the possibilities, I can’t quite catch my breath.

  Chapter 7

  “I got you salmon,” Ethan says, unpacking our picnic from a brown paper Metropolitan Market bag. I sit beside him on a grassy knoll at Gas Works Park, facing a panoramic view of Lake Union and, beyond it, the city of Seattle. I feel preternaturally calm, but I have to clench my hands between my thighs to keep them from trembling. I desperately want to hear what he has to say, but equally I’m afraid for him to open his mouth. If he doesn’t speak the words, they are not yet true.

  Pulling out plastic trays of sushi, little packets of soy sauce, wooden chopsticks in white paper sleeves, Ethan arranges our picnic between us on his plaid wool picnic blanket. Tonight feels like a distorted mirror image of so many other peaceful evenings here, all of the same elements but none of the ease.

  “Thanks.” I clear my throat and take the tray with the salmon roll and a bottle of ginger kombucha. I pick at my salmon roll nervously.

  “Listen, Mia, thank you for giving me space this week.” Ethan sets down his chopsticks on his untouched tray of shrimp sushi roll and looks at me.

  My heart plummets. Don’t do it, I want to beg. If you say it, you can’t take it back.

  He gazes out at the jaunty white sailboats on Lake Union and sighs in a resigned way. “I think I’ve dragged this out long enough, and I want to be fair to you,” he says. “I’ve been thinking a lot about us.” He clears his throat, then turns to me, holding my gaze with those striking blue-green eyes, steady and resigned. “I just don’t think it’s going to work.”

  He says the words, and I stare at him numbly, holding a piece of salmon roll between my chopsticks. Not going to work? Those are words you say to someone when you cancel a dinner engagement or reschedule a doctor’s appointment, not destroy your future together.

  “What?” I ask in a strangled voice.

  He looks pained. “Look at us, Mia. We’re going different directions. I’ve been concerned for a while now, but I didn’t know what to say. I’ve been offered a job with the investors who came out a few weeks ago, and I’ve accepted it. I’m moving to San Jose this spring. I know you hate the idea of Silicon Valley, that you don’t want to live a corporate life, and that’s okay. But I think we need to face reality. We’re not the same people we were six years ago. It’s not just the move. It’s a lot of reasons.” He looks down at his hands. “I just don’t think we fit together anymore.” He flexes his jaw as though willing himself to stay strong, to be a man and get through this meeting.

  “Is there someone else?” I ask dully, putting the piece of salmon sushi back in the tray. I have no appetite.

  He shakes his head, looking stung. “I wouldn’t do that to you. You should know that.”

  “I’m not sure what I know anymore.” It’s mean of me to say, but it’s how I feel. He has the advantage here. I have . . . nothing.

  Below us on the water a rented hot tub boat glides slowly past, a happy couple in swimwear lounging in the hot tub sunk into the deck of the cu
te little craft. It hurts to look at them, so carefree and relaxed, arms twined around each other. I thought that would be us. I thought we were forever.

  “Mia . . .” Ethan sounds pained. “Mia, listen to me.” His voice drops, softens. “Look, I don’t regret us. These last six years have been amazing. You’re a wonderful person. I just don’t think we’d be happy together. Can’t you see that?”

  I want to argue, to pull out a dozen reasons why this is not best, why us being together is best. But the only one I can come up with is that I still love him. It isn’t enough that we can finish each other’s sentences, that I can predict with 99 percent accuracy what flavor of ice cream he’ll order at Molly Moon’s (balsamic strawberry), or that we have a running six-year game of Scrabble scored on the back of an old Top Pot Doughnuts box. It isn’t enough that he can quote the lyrics to Patty Griffin’s greatest hits and I can do the same for all his favorite Beatles songs.

  We stand or fall on the strength of our commitment, and I suddenly see that I am alone in this love. I am clinging to a man who has already let go of me. So in the end I don’t say anything. I just nod, chin up, trying to be courageous in the face of this bombshell revelation.

  “Do you want to finish your sushi?” he asks, and I shake my head, not trusting my voice.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, and I look away. There is nothing more to say. Fighting back the sting of hot tears, I fumble for my phone and order a ride from Uber. I can’t let Ethan drive me home. It’s too humiliating.

  Abdi driving a blue Prius is four minutes away from collecting me when I stand. Ethan scrambles to his feet too. We face each other awkwardly across the picnic blanket, scene of so many carefree memories, the entire history of our relationship spelled out across the buffalo plaid.

  “Are you going to be okay?” he asks, looking uncertain.

  I gape at him. How could he ask me that question? Seeing his hangdog expression, I feel the first sizzle of anger, like cold butter in a frying pan. I glare at him for a moment, my anger and sorrow building in my chest like a sob. He just blew our future to smithereens. Of course I’m not going to be okay.

  And then I hear it, Henry’s voice whispering in my ear. Why are you letting Ethan have all the power? . . . You need to start planning an alternate life.

  I hesitate for a brief moment, and in the space of that hesitation, something unexpected happens. I catch a glimpse out of the corner of my eye, a whirl of rainbow-colored saris, a whiff of cardamom and black pepper. Rosie’s voice bubbling over with excitement. India, Thailand, Mexico . . . It could be the chance of a lifetime. And all of a sudden I know what I am supposed to do.

  “I’m going away,” I say abruptly, looking at Ethan with a sudden sense of purpose.

  “What? Where?” Ethan pauses. He is holding open the Metropolitan Market bag, already tidying away the scene of our demise.

  I glance away from him, over the water, to the skyline of Seattle and the Space Needle. It hurts to breathe right now. “On a humanitarian trip through India, Thailand, and Mexico with Rosie and a team of skilled professionals volunteering with the Humanitas Foundation.” I sound like a travel brochure.

  “The what foundation?” Ethan stares at me in puzzlement, our plastic sushi trays in his hand.

  “I want my life to mean something,” I say. “I’ll be gone until July.”

  “Um, okay.” Ethan stuffs the trays in the bag and gives me an astonished look. “Really? When did this happen?”

  Why does it matter? I want to ask him. Instead, I shrug. “Recently.” I attempt to look calm, hoping against hope that I am not too late, that they do indeed have a space for me on the trip. I have to go. I am destined to go. Suddenly I am ravenous for this alternate life.

  A glance at my phone tells me that Abdi is one minute away.

  “I should go.” I gesture toward the parking lot.

  Ethan hesitates, as though he wants to do something, say something, to make this easier and better than it actually is. For a moment he looks uncertain, regret mingling with relief. In the end he just says, “Take care, Mia.” He gives me his sweet, endearing smile, tinged with sadness, with finality. This is excruciating.

  My phone dings. Abdi has arrived.

  “Goodbye, Ethan.” It feels so unbelievably sad. I never thought this day would come. Like Ilsa in Casablanca, leaving Rick for the final time, I am brave and stoic. I walk over the hill alone. When I glance back, Ethan is standing on the picnic blanket, silhouetted against the Seattle skyline, head down and shoulders slumped, in relief or sorrow, I can’t tell. Maybe both. I watch him for a moment, my heart breaking and breaking again.

  In the back of the Prius, I tap out a hurried text to Rosie, my hands shaking. Is there still space on your trip? I’m in.

  “Please, please, please let this work out.” I mouth a panicked little prayer as I punch Send. Then I lean my head back against the seat and let myself fall quietly to pieces.

  Chapter 8

  “So, Mia, tell us a little more about yourself.” Stella, the director of the Humanitas Foundation, leans close to the computer camera. A fortysomething wasp-thin blonde, she has sharp eyes and an intent, pinched expression. Beside her sits a younger, stocky man with thinning brown hair and a thick Boston accent. Bryant is the personnel relations coordinator for the Humanitas Foundation and the ideas guy. They appear to be in a luxury hotel somewhere, surrounded by marble walls and potted palms. Above their heads hangs a massive tiered crystal chandelier.

  It’s been two days since the fateful sushi picnic, and I am in a hastily arranged video call interview to see if I’m a good candidate to join the trip.

  “Mia, we’re looking for someone with good energy, positive vibes, you know?” Bryant bounces up and down in a deep wingback chair and massages a stress ball in one palm. “I spent five years working with aid organizations in Tanzania, and let me tell you, it takes a unique person to really flourish in those environments. Some people just aren’t up to the challenge.”

  I sit up straighter in the floral armchair in the cottage living room, trying to project positive vibes, though I’m not exactly sure what that would look like. I hope my eyes aren’t still pink and puffy from crying.

  Across the room Rosie hovers out of sight of the camera, coaching me wordlessly with hand signals and facial expressions, like a high stakes game of charades. She filled out my application the night Ethan broke up with me. I lay curled on the sofa in a daze of grief and disbelief, woodenly responding to her prompts as she scribbled down my answers to pages of questions, everything from medical history to future aspirations. I drew a complete blank on that one, and Rosie tactfully suggested we just put, “Make the world a better place,” and hope it would fly.

  Apparently it did, because I’ve moved on to the next level.

  “Mia, can you tell us why you want to be a part of this trip?” Stella asks.

  Bryant passes the stress ball from hand to hand. They both watch me closely.

  “Well . . .” I clear my throat nervously. Behind the computer Rosie stretches her mouth into a rictus of feigned delight, a reminder for me to smile. I paste on a smile and try to look positive.

  “I’ve always wanted to travel . . .”

  Rosie shakes her head vigorously, and I hurry on to the next point. “And I am passionate about social justice and helping to make the world a better place. I want to engage in genuine opportunities to bring about positive change.”

  Rosie gives me a thumbs-up. Stella and Bryant glance at each other. I can’t tell whether they liked that answer or not. I feel a little like a pageant queen onstage during the question and answer portion. Smile. Look bright and sunny. Give pithy answers. Hope the judges give you a good score.

  Bryant leans forward in his chair. “Great. Thanks, Mia. So, as I’m sure you are aware, one of the goals of the Humanitas Foundation is to help participants give back long term. We ask each volunteer to draw up a personal plan, something unique that they want to accomplish to
make the world a better place. We love Rosie’s idea to create a jazz club for at-risk youth in New York, a place where kids can go to learn jazz and teamwork. That’s the sort of project we’re interested in.”

  I glance at Rosie, surprised by this revelation. It’s the first I’ve heard of it. She nods and looks modest.

  Bryant clears his throat and eyes me earnestly. “Mia, what long-term goal do you have to make a difference once the trip is over? We felt your answer on that part of the application was a little vague.” He makes a tamping down motion with his hands, as though to reassure me before I get too nervous. “Now, we know you’re applying late in the game, and so we don’t expect you to have everything squared away just yet, but if you can just give us a rough idea of your future goals.”

  I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. The truth is I’m not sure what I can give the world other than a nice light brioche, and that certainly isn’t going to wow anyone. Stella is watching me narrowly. Bryant is working his stress ball as the silence stretches long.

  “Medical care,” Rosie says firmly. She moves in front of the camera and gently nudges me aside, out of view of the screen, obscuring my blank look of surprise. “Mia wants to provide free medical care to disadvantaged women and children in the US and abroad. Isn’t that wonderful?”

  I stare at Rosie in confusion. This is a complete fabrication. I have no interest in medical care. Quite the opposite, in fact. I catch her eye and mouth, “What?”

  She smiles encouragingly, then moves so she is out of view of the camera too. She presses the mute button so that Stella and Bryant can’t hear us, hissing, “Well you have to say something.” She turns, ready to get back onscreen.

  “But I don’t know the first thing about medical care,” I protest. “I faint at the sight of blood. Why couldn’t you pick something I’m actually interested in and good at?”

  “Can you think of anything better?” Rosie gives me a pointed look. “Sugar, you are kind and smart and talented, but you have to give them something concrete, even if it’s not exactly what you want to do. Don’t worry, just go with it. It probably won’t matter anyway. You can always change your mind later and design a project around something more suited to you.”