“Bellissima,” said Simonetta, looking up from her magazine.
Madeline smiled at her reflection, flashing back to the disaster of her prom night, more than twenty years earlier. Her mother had forgotten to bring home a dress as promised, so Madeline went to Macy’s the day of the prom and, with the help of a woman on the selling floor, found something and charged it to her mother’s account. That dress, a mauve monstrosity with a deep V back and tulle at the chest and shoulders, was far from what one would expect the daughter of a leading Hollywood costume designer to wear. Her brother, Eddie, was eight years old. He looked up from his coloring book, without hesitation, and said: You look pretty. It was the only compliment she received that night.
Now, with little Eddie’s voice still echoing, she blushed at her image in the mirror. Yes, she was bellissima. One of the women approached with a raised hand.
“Excuse me, madam,” she said and reached toward Madeline’s face.
Madeline expected the woman to adjust her hair, but instead she felt a cool and gentle pressure at the space between her eyebrows. She closed her eyes. The sensation both calmed and invigorated her, as if a button had been found and pressed. When she opened her eyes to take in her reflection again, the small, sparkling jewel thrilled her, and Simonetta laughed kindly. She looked glorious, and she felt like a little girl dressing up as an Indian princess.
“There, madam,” said Mr. Premji. “With the bindi, you are now complete.”
They spent another hour selecting fabrics to take home. Madeline found two scarves and three other sarees she loved. On their way to a restaurant Simonetta knew, she spotted a stall selling ornate slippers and less expensive sarees as well as long embroidered men’s shirts. An idea for a party was brewing. By the time they arrived at the restaurant, Madeline was weighed down with bags and famished. They ordered white wine, which was refreshingly ice cold, and they quickly found a pleasant groove of intoxication. Madeline couldn’t remember a nicer day out shopping with a girlfriend.
“A bottle is a single serving,” she said, pouring the last of the wine into Simonetta’s glass and motioning to the server that they’d like another. When Simonetta excused herself to find the ladies’ room, Madeline took the opportunity to select a bindi from one of the sheets of bindis she’d purchased at Mr. Premji’s boutique. When Simonetta returned, Madeline reached over with it.
“Pazza,” Simonetta said, retreating and feigning embarrassed protest, but then she settled and let Madeline place the bindi on her forehead.
“This has been such a great day,” she said. “Thank you so much, Simonetta.”
Simonetta raised her glass silently; she wasn’t going to get sentimental, but she also wouldn’t hold it against Madeline.
“Do you have children, Simonetta?”
“Sì. Three boys. Grown now and making grandchildren,” she said and smiled.
“What do they do? For work?”
The oldest, she explained, ran the family business: fine silks. The younger two were both lawyers. The second bottle of wine arrived and was poured. Madeline was trying to imagine Simonetta as a grandmother, full of love and joy. She had a lot in common with Madeline’s once glamorous mother, a certain eccentricity and charisma. But it was the love Madeline had known from her grandmother that she granted Simonetta in her imaginings. Without Grandma June, Madeline would perhaps have no concept of the meaning of unconditional love, her mother having always focused on herself, her career, her men. Madeline could not let herself do the same, whatever she decided to do about adoption.
“Madeline,” Simonetta said, her voice tinged with compassion, as though she were being forced to gently disabuse a younger woman of some untruth. “You have a big day tomorrow, I know. We’re not just shopping today, eh? We are also taking your mind off a choice you must make. The thing you want but can’t be sure of. The thing you are afraid of. But allow me to tell you something. Being a mother is like anything else you do. It’s one part of you. You just have to give a damn.”
Madeline used Simonetta’s driver when she returned to the orphanage the following morning. She told him he could come back for her in two hours, leaving herself no chance of a quick escape. Now she was pacing before the entrance like a nervous building inspector ensuring that the lime-green walls were sound. There was a moment in the car when she’d felt close to certainty, but it was fleeting. She’d thought: Perhaps not being my biological child might give the boy a leg up, free him from the Almquist family hex. And this thought had turned out to provide an unexpected second reason for adoption, because she’d imagined a boy, and this reminded her that adoption meant she could choose. The door opened despite Madeline not yet having summoned the courage to knock. It was the same gentle boy from the day before, and the familiar face did wonders to calm her.
“Good morning, madam. Welcome back,” he said, opening the door wide. “Mr. Channar is on the phone. You may wait inside.”
She followed him into the dark hallway, then stopped, resting a hand against the rough wall, cool to the touch, until her eyes adjusted to the lack of light.
“May I use your restroom first?” Madeline couldn’t make out his expression, which remained in shadow, but she guessed at his confusion from his silent stare. “The bathroom? A toilet?”
“It’s down the hall,” he said and led the way.
It was spacious, and the floors were lined with thousands of tiny hexagonal tiles that climbed halfway up the walls. She ran her fingers over them and was soothed. She splashed water over her face, then asked her blurred reflection, “Do you or do you not want to adopt a child?”
She did. She really did. This plan for motherhood wasn’t perfect, but it was the best choice for her. And she was here. In India, at the orphanage, prepared to give a damn! It was time to find the nerve to act. She dried her face on the edge of a hanging towel. As she pressed it against her eyes she saw an image of her brother as a young boy. He turned out all right, and hadn’t she essentially raised him while their mother was off living her life? Didn’t that prove something? Besides, she reminded herself, she was under no obligation. She would go to the nursery and spend as much time as was necessary. If she felt a strong connection with one of the children, that she, in particular and not just anyone, was truly needed by another, she would know she was doing the right thing. If not, she would leave as she had come, alone.
The boy was waiting in the hallway under a framed print of a purple deity. His eyes were cast down in thought, beautiful lashes framing them. He had a cowlick that appeared to have been standing in perpetuity. And there was something about the awkward tuck of his shirt into his pants that made Madeline smile.
“What was your name again?” she asked.
He told her, but she still didn’t catch it.
“Say that again. Slowly.” She moved closer, bending to hear.
“Birendra, madam,” he repeated softly, shyly.
“Birendra,” she said, garnering a smile from the boy. “My name is Maddy. Are you Mr. Channar’s son?” He shook his head. She looked down the hall toward Mr. Channar’s office. Despite her pep talk moments ago, she wasn’t quite ready to return to Mr. Channar and his folders. She much preferred this quiet boy’s company. Perhaps it wouldn’t be inappropriate to ask him to take her to the nursery. She pressed two fingers against his unruly sprout of hair and tried unsuccessfully to persuade it down. “Would it be possible to see the children before I went to Mr. Channar? It seems he’s still on the phone.”
He, too, looked in the direction of Mr. Channar’s office, as though for permission. Then to another door, slightly closer, which opened as he pointed it out. A woman appeared and was obviously surprised to find Madeline and the boy standing where they were. She spoke to the boy in another language. Madeline could sense her affection for him, and this came as a relief. As the woman left them, she smiled at Madeline politely, shyly.
“Is that your mother?” She’d already forgotten how to say his name.
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br /> “No. Her name is Rani. She’s working here.”
Madeline stopped him from opening the door, which had a lite at eye level she could peer through and locate the three children Mr. Channar had mentioned before entering the room. She could see another woman attending to a baby, who was wrapped in a sheet and nestled in the woman’s arm. Though the woman looked tired, Madeline could imagine the profound sense of peace that came from holding a tiny baby tightly in her arms, wet eyes staring back at her with absolute trust, unconditional love. But bottles, bibs, diapers, and toilet training? Sleepless nights? Is that why she abruptly suggested an older child to Mr. Channar the day before? She still had a business to run in Los Angeles. Of course she would rely on her unflappable assistant, Paige, for help at first. She relied on Paige for everything. But she didn’t want to have nannies. She didn’t want to be one of those moms. And she didn’t want her child’s life to be anything like hers had been.
One of the little girls Mr. Channar had mentioned came into view. She might have been the four-year-old. She wore a simple dress, and her hair was flat against her head, her bangs carelessly cut. Madeline imagined her in a white dress with pink embroidered flowers, something from her own childhood, a gift from Grandma June. The girl’s hair hanging in delicate curls above her shoulders, pulled back at the sides in barrettes, two rows of tiny teeth smiling back. A swift movement shattered Madeline’s fantasy. The girl snatched away a toy that a younger girl, the three-year-old, had been playing with and was now teasing the crying child, who was clearly terrified of her. Suddenly the dress and curls were gone, and Madeline saw a smoking, cursing teenager wearing too much eyeliner and an ugly snarl despising a haggard Madeline at fifty.
“It’s okay,” said the boy beside her. “You can go inside. Everyone does.”
She shook her head and was about to retreat from the door when she remembered the boy, the four-year-old she’d wanted to locate. Was he the one Mr. Channar had described as shy and quiet? Of course it would be a boy, since she could choose.
“Thank you, Burenda—did I say it right?” He rocked his head and flashed a crooked smile. Perhaps not quite. Who was this adorable boy? And what was he doing here at all? He wasn’t in one of Mr. Channar’s files. “Are you related to Mr. Channar?”
He shook his head and dropped his chin, but his eyes remained on Madeline. He seemed to be studying her, perhaps determining if she were a worthy confidante. She tried to show that she was, waiting patiently for his response with a sympathetic smile. He looked away before he spoke.
“My parents are gone,” he said. “I’m working here.”
She felt her heart constrict and ache. His parents were gone. And he was alone. Her first instinct was to hate Mr. Channar for employing a boy so young, but she’d now seen enough to know it could have been worse. There were children wandering the streets of the city like feral cats. It was so devastating that she had to look away. But this sweet boy, clearly educated, so helpful and considerate, alone and working in an orphanage when he couldn’t have been more than nine years old. When he’d so obviously known love. Why hadn’t his name been on one of those folders in Mr. Channar’s office? Was it only a matter of time? Or had that time come and gone?
“Do you know where California is?” He nodded, either with interest or relief at having the subject changed. “You do? Well, aren’t you a clever boy?” This made him smile wide. “That’s where I live. In Los Angeles.”
“Is there a good school there?”
“The very best schools,” she said, utterly charmed.
But the boy sighed heavily at this news. “I miss school very much.”
Madeline had to blink away the gathering tears. The depths of his dismay had taken her breath away.
“I bet you do, you sweet boy.”
Her certainty rushed in and consumed her completely. It expressed itself in her uncontainable smile, in the overwhelming sense of, yes, joy. It was undeniably joy. She had to laugh just to let some of it escape. The poor boy looked at her, perplexed, and this made her laugh even more, until they were both laughing, neither one sure of the reason. Except that Madeline did know the reason. She couldn’t say why or how it had happened, only that she had arrived right where she was supposed to be. From Los Angeles to Barcelona and on to tropical southern India and to this particular orphanage—right here, in front of this beautiful boy. This boy who just wanted to go to school. This boy whose parents were gone. This boy who already felt familiar to her. That thoughtful gaze, perhaps, a gentleness not unlike Eddie’s. The light entering from a high window at the end of the hall became brighter: the sun had shifted and was now in view. She placed a hand on the boy’s head, where the light was brightest, reflecting off his black hair. Whether it was hormonal, biological, cerebral, or cosmic, she didn’t care. Here, in front of her, was the small soul whose fate she would align with her own. This was what it felt like to start to be a mother.
XIII
Birendra pressed his ear close to Mr. Channar’s office door, but the voices within were muffled, impossible to decipher. If he peered through the keyhole he caught glimpses—the back of the blue chair and the American woman’s head, Mr. Channar’s folded hands, his look of astonishment. Birendra placed his ear close to the keyhole. She’d made up her mind. It was that boy, she said, or she was leaving by herself. His heart beat faster.
“But Birendra is working here, Mrs. Madeline.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Channar. My mind is made up,” she repeated.
Had his prayers finally been answered? Did Ganesh and his parents send this lady because they knew his aunt and uncle could not come?
“It would be most irregular,” said Mr. Channar. “I don’t have paperwork for Birendra. He was supposed to be here only temporarily, as a favor to a family member.”
“Is it a matter of money? What do you mean ‘temporarily’? He said his parents are gone. Is he an orphan or isn’t he?”
Birendra had asked this very question so often he no longer expected an answer to present itself, but here, with the American lady asking for him, he awaited Mr. Channar’s response, breathless.
“Please, madam,” said Mr. Channar. “There is someone I can call in Varkala, and he will go to collect my cousin or his wife, as they have no phone. Let me consult them.”
The room was quiet a moment. Birendra turned to peer once again through the keyhole. Mr. Channar was holding the receiver and dialing. Then Birendra heard his name spoken loudly, behind him, and swung around with a terrible shame at being caught spying. It was Rani, and she wore the expression of baffled disappointment he’d only ever seen when she was dealing with Pasha.
“What do you think you’re doing?” He made no response and hung his head. “Birendra?”
“Listening,” he said. She raised an eyebrow and folded her arms, awaiting a confession that went beyond the obvious. “The American lady,” he ventured, “she chooses me. Mr. Channar wants her to take Sanish or Sunita, but she wants me.”
Rani approached, equally astonished by his claim. He thought she might pull him away so she could eavesdrop herself, but she simply rested a hand on his shoulder and smiled widely.
“Of course she wants you. You’re a wonderful boy, Birendra.” She took his ear between two fingers and gently tugged. “Now, do you want her to think you’re a boy who enjoys spying on conversations not meant for his ears?”
Rani was right. He shouldn’t be listening, but he desperately needed to know what was happening. Rani must have agreed because she continued silently down the hall, allowing Birendra to put his ear to the keyhole once more.
A silence followed, then Mr. Channar was speaking Malayalam, thanking someone for calling him back. He asked when Mr. Nair would be available. It must have been Mrs. Nair on the phone. Mr. Channar explained about the American woman who was interested in adopting the boy, “your neighbor’s son,” he added for clarification. The announcement to a third party sent a thrill through him.
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