“Auntie, Auntie, please,” Mr. Channar said after an uncomfortably long pause. “Much time has passed and still no contact. How long will we wait? How long must we offer charity to the boy?”
Birendra wished he could know what Mrs. Nair was saying. Perhaps she was reminding Mr. Channar that Birendra worked hard for him, that he had earned his stay. If she was resisting him, did it mean she knew something, had heard from his uncle and aunt? If so, why did Birendra struggle to believe they would still come? Then Mr. Channar gutted him by speaking those very thoughts, leaving no chance for hope.
“It has been too long. They would have sent word. They would have come for him. No one is coming, and now there is a nice woman, a rich woman, from America. Who are we to deny the boy such a life? What can we give him in exchange? Will you take him to England to find these relatives? And what if they won’t have him even then? Let’s be reasonable. The boy is an orphan. We can help him find a home.”
A moment later Mr. Channar was consoling Mrs. Nair, assuring her she’d done everything she could when Birendra’s mother died. But Mr. Channar was also firm. She must now let the boy go. Birendra only hoped he would see her again. For weeks, he’d told himself that being with his aunt would make the great distance between Varkala and West London less frightening. But California! America was another world entirely, and with a woman he didn’t know—he couldn’t help it; he was scared. He looked again for Rani, but he was alone in the hall. Mr. Channar was off the phone and speaking in English again.
“No, no. Nothing like that,” Mr. Channar was explaining. “The people who brought the boy here were his neighbors, a cousin of my father and his wife. We all hoped someone would come for the boy. My cousin and his wife cannot take in an orphan at their age.”
Birendra could hear a concern for his welfare in Mr. Channar’s voice he had not known was there. He would thank him. He would not admit that he had listened to their conversation, but he would thank Mr. Channar without saying what it was for and it would be especially for this.
“So he has other family?” the woman asked. She sounded distraught.
“It has been five weeks since the boy’s mother died, and no one has come or made any attempt to contact us. If he had people to take him, they would have let us know by now.”
“So he can’t be adopted legally? What precisely is the issue?”
“No, this is just paperwork. And we are, fortunately, well respected and connected. Besides, Mrs. Madeline, you are an American. Your passport is your most important document. I can assure you there will be no issues.”
“And the boy, does he want to be adopted?”
“I do want it,” Birendra whispered from his side of the door.
He closed his eyes and repeated his nightly prayer: Please, please, please help me find a home.
“Birendra is a quiet boy,” said Mr. Channar, “a very good boy. I may not be able to tell you what he thinks he wants. But every child needs a home and a mother. This I can say with great confidence.”
* * *
On the day of his departure, Birendra was in his little green room, carefully wrapping the pictures of his mother and father in the fabric Mrs. Nair had left on her visit. She had not been able to come again before he left, but she had gone to town so she could call and wish him safe journeys. She promised he would remain in their thoughts and prayers. He thanked her for everything and he asked her to thank Mr. Nair as well. He would miss them, even grumpy old Mr. Nair. There were many people he would miss, and that’s why he opted to spend his last day and night at the orphanage when given the choice the day before. The American lady, who was called Maddy, had said he could spend his last night with her at the hotel if he wanted. There was a pool he could swim in, and he might be able to play with a little boy who occasionally came around. But Birendra thought he should stay and tell the children one last story, and she gave him permission to spend the night in the orphanage, where he was also able to thank his parents and Ganesh for watching over him, for finding him a home. Now he put his Ganesh in the pocket of his trousers, where it often lived during the day, then he took the monkey in his hand. He poked his head into the hall to look at the hanging clock. There was still a little time.
Mr. Channar’s office was empty. Birendra knew where to find the paper and tape. He could help himself, or he could go and find Mr. Channar to ask permission. He looked again at the clock. He might not have time to do both. He took a sheet of paper out of the drawer and, with one eye on the door, retrieved the Scotch tape dispenser from the desk. He tried wrapping the monkey according to its shape, but the paper wouldn’t allow it, so he rolled it up with the monkey at its center, folded the ends in, and placed two pieces of tape at each side and one along the seam. He closed the drawer, replaced the dispenser, and he still had three minutes to get his bag and meet Mr. Channar at the front of the building as he’d been advised. He could hardly believe he was on his way.
When he opened the main door, this time to leave and not to welcome families in search of a son or daughter, he saw the car Mr. Channar had said would be coming just for Birendra. It would take him to the American woman’s hotel, and from there they would go together to the airport, to take a plane to America. Mr. Channar and the driver were at the car’s front end, talking and smoking cigarettes. They watched as Birendra approached, then they nodded at him, as though he were a man. He felt older than he ever had. Mr. Channar put out his cigarette and reached out his hand. Birendra set his bag down and took Mr. Channar’s hand in his, remembering to thank him, while the other man took Birendra’s bag and put it in the back of the car, squinting against the smoke that rose from his cigarette.
“My advice for you, Birendra,” said Mr. Channar when they were alone, “is to go and never look back. You are fortunate to have a new life ahead of you. It will be different, but try to leave this one behind. Don’t talk about your life here when you get to America. Behave and do as you’re told. You don’t want to upset anyone.” Birendra nodded. He wanted to take any advice Mr. Channar offered, although he didn’t understand why it would upset people if he talked about his life here. Did that include talking about Rani and the children he’d known? The Nairs? Mr. Mon and his praise? Mr. Channar must have seen his confusion. “You don’t want to appear ungrateful and end up back here, do you?”
Birendra said nothing. That such a return was even possible terrified him. Clearly he would only be given this one chance. Mr. Channar opened the car door, and Birendra got in the front seat. Through the open window Mr. Channar wished him good luck, then disappeared through the entry of the orphanage.
Birendra’s heart was racing as they drove away. Sure he’d forgotten something, he felt his pocket. Ganesh was there. He looked in the seat behind him, but then he remembered the man had put his bag in the trunk. They were farther from the orphanage than he’d been since the day of his arrival. Suddenly he realized he had forgotten to say thank you and a final good-bye to Rani and Dipika. And to the children. He imagined Sunita and Sanish and Pasha asking Rani, as he had once done, where their playmate had gone. She would tell them that he had found a new home and that they would make other friends until they, too, found homes. But who would tell them stories now?
“Why are you crying?” the man asked. “You’re a rich boy now. Going off to America.”
He raised his feet to the seat and dried his eyes against the knees of his trousers. He hadn’t remembered Rani, when she had been so good to him. Now he would never see her again. Sometimes it felt like all Birendra did was never get to say good-bye.
XIV
This time Madeline was sure she heard a car coming down the dirt path to the resort. She wished Simonetta were there with her. She wanted someone else to witness his arrival, to ensure she acted appropriately. What did she say to the boy who would soon stand before her, depending on her absolutely? These days of phone calls and preparations, even securing an immigration lawyer—it was all, as Mr. Channar had said, paperwor
k; none of it prepared Madeline for this moment. How could she ever catch up on eight years of life? What was his favorite color? What foods did he like? What was his favorite subject at school? Did he like music? Movies? Television? Sports? Was he allergic to anything? What would he call Madeline? This was a question she’d been struggling with for days. She wanted to respect the mother he’d had, his relationship with her, which could obviously never be replaced; at the same time, it was important to establish intimacy. She didn’t know what he’d called his own mother, and she wasn’t about to ask, but she kept coming back to Mama Maddy, thinking he could one day decide whether or not to drop the second half. God forbid he would decide to drop the first half. And there was his name to discuss as well. She’d spent two days trying to get it right and had only just managed. She hated to think of him enduring a lifetime of people getting it wrong. It was his choice, but she had an idea. And her own mother? What would she say? More important, though, was her brother, Eddie. She hoped he would embrace the role of uncle. Madeline could certainly use the support.
The most terrifying realization was that her own nervousness would be nothing in the face of this boy’s. And it would be up to Madeline to assuage his fears about what was to come. She needed to find a sense of calm for his sake. It took her back to the day she left home for college. A part of her couldn’t wait to leave, but there had been Eddie to consider. He was still so young—he must have been about nine then—and she knew what she was abandoning him to. He’d hardly spoken a word since the week before, when Madeline told him she would be leaving. She’d received her acceptance letter months earlier but hadn’t said anything to anyone about it. She warned him not to tell a soul, not even their mother, and wondered if it would take the tuition bill coming for her mother to notice Madeline had even left. Eddie never said the words, but they were emanating from his small soul, clenched in his quivering throat, spilling like tears from his puffy eyes; he was begging her with every silent fiber: Don’t leave me.
But what choice did she have? She’d cared for him since she realized she had to. Since the days when their mother started disappearing and Madeline came to understand that waiting for her, or even learning where she was going, would do nothing to help her brother eat, get ready for school, do his homework, feel looked after. She’d sacrificed much of her own childhood—gladly, most of the time—but she never should have had to. She knew it was time to start a life of her own. And she needed to show Eddie that it was possible to leave, to eventually break free. Of course, she first had to prove it to herself.
She’d called him to come and say good-bye. He had slunk into the hall, not looking up at her, as she handed him her backpack to take down the stairs. Her suitcase was so heavy, but she hadn’t wanted to leave anything behind. She let it thud down the stairs, one at a time. In the entryway, she’d turned for a final glimpse into their house. She hadn’t actually expected their mother to be present for this send-off, even though Madeline had told her in the end that she was going and when. She’d done this for Eddie’s sake, so he wouldn’t be left alone. Her mother would have been sleeping off the night before if she was home at all. But then Madeline had heard something in the kitchen, and she went to look, as if her mother might have been there waiting with a batch of send-off cookies. Of course it was Ana, the housekeeper who occasionally helped care for Eddie, but Madeline hated getting her hopes up in that moment, which would haunt her for years. She was leaving her brother to endure their mother alone. She’d tried to stay strong for him as well. “Cheer up,” she’d said. “Maybe you can visit me in New York.” He was resisting the urge to cry. She tousled his hair and pulled his forehead to her lips, as Grandma June had done so many times, comforting Madeline when she was a little girl. “It’s not forever, Eddie. It’s just for now.” Then she lifted her pinkie. He’d just stared at it. “Take my pinkie in yours,” she said, and he gripped it with his whole hand, making her laugh, despite his tears. She wiggled it free and hooked her finger around his. “Pinkie promise?” she asked. “You have to say it, too.” And he did.
How she’d cried for him in the taxi. Out of that house, that life, she finally had air to breathe. She heaved and sobbed all the way to the airport. And now she was tearing up again, her vision cloudy but her gaze locked on the entrance to the resort. The gate opened, and she was abruptly pulled to standing, as though the boy, entering with his cowlick and his little backpack, had thrown an invisible lasso around her. And now she was being pulled to him, into an embrace. She didn’t have to say anything, she realized, and what a relief.
XV
The airplane was smaller than Birendra had thought it would be, though it did seem quite long. Mama Maddy—that’s what they decided he would call her—got him situated first. She let him sit by the window and told him that he could have whatever he wanted to eat or drink on the next flight, from Delhi, which would be a much longer flight, across the ocean to America.
“As a special Christmas treat, we’re going to be flying first class,” she said. She cast a nervous glance around them and farther down the aisle. “I get claustrophobic with so many people on these little planes.” She paused. “Do you know what claustrophobic means?”
He shook his head, worrying that his lack of vocabulary would disappoint her, but she didn’t seem to mind.
“It’s like you can’t breathe because you don’t have any space or air around you. Does that make sense?” He was considering his answer while at the same time trying to recall the word. “But you’ve never been on a plane before, have you?”
He shook his head again and was about to say he’d always wanted to go on one, that his aunt in West London had told him about flying. But he remembered Mr. Channar’s warning and thought he shouldn’t mention that.
“Oh, sweetheart, you must be a little scared, then. But there’s nothing to worry about; it’s the safest way to travel. I take planes all the time. All the time.”
She tightened his seat belt across his lap and began explaining about how noisy it was for takeoff and landing and about the pulling sensation in the pit of your stomach when taking off. And the bumpiness when the wheels touched down. About the dinging noises that meant passengers could or could not get out of their seats. About the whooshing sound in the bathroom when flushing. He hadn’t been scared before, but now he was getting concerned. It didn’t sound as fun as he’d hoped. Then she began describing what she called the wonderful things about flying, such as looking out the window and seeing the world in miniature below. Houses and cars like ants, and you floating above the clouds like magic. He lifted the shade and looked out the window. There were two men leaning against a truck, all still ordinary in size. She showed him the button to push if you wanted someone to bring you Champagne, or juice in his case. The food wasn’t even terrible, she said, certainly not in first class. Best of all, when you were on a plane, that was it: anything left undone back home was just too bad and would have to wait. No point even worrying about it. Not once you were up in the air. He tried hard to follow her words. He’d always thought English was English, but now he was beginning to fear it wasn’t quite the same in America.
“How long?” he said, finally able to get a question in.
“How long what, sweetie?”
“How long will it have to wait?”
“Ah, well, in your case,” she said, “you’re leaving home, but you’re also going home. And when you get there, everything will be ready and waiting for you. I’ve tried to cover all bases, but you’ll let me know if I forgot something, won’t you?”
She began speaking aloud to herself about rooms and furniture.
“A desk beneath the window would work; the blue dresser opposite the bed; only primary colors, don’t you think?”
There was something about the way she talked to him, almost as if he were an adult and not a child, that he liked very much.
“I’m not scared,” he said. Once he had her attention, he added, “I always wanted to fly
in a plane.”
“Of course you’re not scared, you brave little man.”
She fastened her own seat belt now, then she suddenly seized the arms of her chair.
“My God, Christmas is only two days away,” she said. “I don’t even have decorations!” She turned to him. “You want a tree, right?” But again she didn’t wait for his answer. “And I’ll have to call everyone so they can meet you. Do we host a Christmas dinner? Would that be too weird?”
He wondered who “everyone” was. Maybe Mama Maddy had a big family. That would make his mother happy, he thought. He unhooked his seat belt and reached for his backpack, which he had stowed below. He placed it on his lap and admired the face of his new watch, which she’d given him after breakfast; his early Christmas present, she’d called it. He’d never had a watch before, but he knew how to tell time. It was 2:34, and the plane would be leaving in just eleven minutes.
“At school,” he said, “we learned about the twelve days of Christmas.”
“Did you celebrate Christmas?”
“I think so,” he said. “Not twelve days. Just one.”
Again, he almost told her that his aunt and uncle always sent him books, and that he wrote special thank-you notes on the backs of his mother’s letters, and that he and his mother always called them from town on the Saturday before Christmas. But again, he remembered Mr. Channar’s warning. He reached in his backpack and pulled out her present.
“For you,” he said, and she covered her mouth in surprise. He would make her something else for Christmas Day, maybe write down one of the stories he knew, with a drawing. He remembered what she’d called his watch, and he said, “Your early Christmas present.”
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