Bindi

by Paul Matthew Maisano

  In the meantime, she was moving forward with her plan. She would still go to India. No, it wasn’t advisable, said Dr. Shah, but that was mostly because of Nayana’s mental state; if she took care not to overexert herself, and to hydrate, she’d likely be just fine. The truth was Nayana couldn’t rest in London. She couldn’t rest in Ramesh’s presence. In the presence of so much guilt and uncertainty. The results of the test would arrive soon enough and when they did he would understand why she’d left. Only then would he be in possession of all the facts. Only then could he determine whether he wanted her back at all. It was cowardly and one more reason to despise her own weakness in the face of someone so good. Her only justification was that he deserved the truth, except the words wouldn’t come from her mouth, and she didn’t trust herself to leave if they did; he would never let her, even if it broke his heart. And this, above all, she could not bear to witness.

  Poor Ramesh tried to care for her in this state, but he was at a complete loss as to why it felt like they were mourning when there had been no miscarriage. He was the one averting his eyes now; Nayana was watching him. Really seeing him gave her the will she needed. She wanted to recover, if only to find the strength to set him free. But this is what scared her: being without him. Not just feeling alone but also being alone. And so she had forced herself to see Ramesh’s suffering, to privilege it over her own. The best reason to leave him was also the most painful. It was his being there in front of her, day after day, wondering why they weren’t quietly celebrating instead. This is what I can do for him, she thought. This is what I must do.

  He was in the kitchen again. She heard cupboard doors open and close. What was he doing for her now? There was the sound of metal scraping against the iron burner grate, the ticking as he lit the range. His footsteps were quiet in the hallway as he approached. He stopped at their bedroom doorway. She felt him watching her from a distance. She pretended to sleep, on their new sheets. When she and Aditi were girls, they would pretend to sleep in an effort to put their telepathy to the test, but each always knew when the other was faking. If Ramesh knew, he didn’t say. He retreated just as silently only to return a few minutes later, quietly saying her name. Like a question. As if he were asking the woman in his bed—excuse me, miss—if she had seen Nayana, his wife. He carried with him a tray of food.

  “Please, jaanu, will you eat something?”

  The pitch of his voice betrayed how desperate he’d grown. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe it was crueler to deny him the emotional support he needed now, regardless of what happened later. But she worried this would make her too weak, too dependent on him to finally walk out the door, which she honestly believed was the greatest kindness she could offer him. She could no longer see a way to happiness in their life together, not until he knew and perhaps not even then. She could eat. That was something she could do. Put his mind at rest, if only about her physical state.

  She took the tray from him. It was plain broth and buttered toast again. She didn’t want a sick person’s food anymore. She wanted a rich and creamy fettuccine Alfredo from the Italian restaurant she loved. Perhaps it was what they both needed, to get out of the house. She could admit to him in that place of happy memories that she would still leave for India. He would be distraught, of course, terrified something would happen to the baby. Angry, perhaps, that she would even consider the risk. But she had no choice.

  The phone rang, and Nayana felt a momentary spark. The broth swirled in its bowl. Was it a call from her sister? Aditi would have received her letter by now. Maybe even have had the phone installed. She’d be wondering when Nayana was coming. What day was it, anyway? Was it a Saturday? No, Ramesh was still in his work trousers. It was probably just Tahira checking in again. Besides, if Aditi had a phone installed, it would no longer matter what day it was.

  She ate a piece of toast and sipped on the broth. She felt like having a cup of tea. She felt like going for a run in the park. She wanted to keep running and never look back. She lifted the bowl and drained its contents in two big gulps. She could hear Ramesh saying good-bye. It wasn’t Aditi. In the room again, he couldn’t hide his surprise that she’d eaten so much and so quickly. He even smiled, and she realized how long it had been, how unfair she’d been to keep him from smiling his handsome smile.

  “Who was it?” she asked, though she didn’t much care.

  “It was Beth.”

  “Is she pawning off Felix again?”

  “No,” he said with a laugh. He’d like that, she thought. Perhaps he’d get a cat if she stayed gone. “Apparently she moved to Edinburgh. I take it you didn’t know, either.”

  “No, I didn’t. I mean, she left that bottle of wine, but you said it was just a thank you for cat sitting.”

  Ramesh removed the tray from Nayana’s lap.

  “She says she’s found a letter from India. It got mixed up in her held mail while she was away.”

  “And she’s just calling now?”

  “She was apologetic. Extremely, in fact. She said with the holiday and moving, she’d only just found the time to sort through it all; she called as soon as she found it.”

  It was a relief of sorts to know Nayana had been wrong, that Aditi hadn’t given up on her as she had supposed. That December’s letter had just not found its way.

  “So will she send it?”

  “Yes. She promised she would drop it in the post first chance.”

  Nayana suddenly feared the letter would contain Aditi’s decision to finally join them in London. Now, when things here were so precarious for Nayana. Once again, she would disappoint. Perhaps they could take Birendra to Delhi instead, return to their childhood home. Nayana could teach there, surely. At the graduate level, even. She pushed the sheets away, not wanting to be in the same room as Ramesh while imagining a future without him. He moved to help her when he saw she was getting up.

  “No!” she shouted, louder than she’d meant to. He backed away from the bed. “I can do it,” she said, calmly now. “Thank you, Ram. Thank you, but I can manage.”

  She walked to the bathroom and closed the door behind her. She was pale and gaunt. She’d paid a debt, anyway. A debt of beauty. The prematurely gray strands that she’d once thought highlighted her youth appeared dull to her now, foreshadowing instead her transition to middle age. She thought of the moment when she would see her sister again, how youth and beauty would have been preserved in Aditi alone. That was how Nayana had always known she was beautiful—because she looked like Aditi. She sat down on the edge of the tub and closed her eyes. She was ready to hear her sister’s voice again. Ready to let it guide her. Maybe Aditi wasn’t wanting to come to London. Maybe she was saying: Come home; I will save you. Come home; I need saving, too. In any case, it hadn’t been the last letter in the end. How stupid Nayana had been to think Aditi would give up on her so easily. She could hear it now, not in words but in the silence, a repeated invitation, a song: Aditi calling Nayana home.

  XXVIII

  Madeline pulled into the pickup zone at Bindi’s school, lining up with the other mothers and fathers—mostly mothers—and she marveled at the fact of being one of these parents picking up their children. Since she and Bindi hadn’t had his first eight years together, it wasn’t something she took for granted. It took these moments. His arms were full of books again, forcing him to waddle down the main steps. Between his schoolwork, the books he checked out from the library, and the damned encyclopedia set Eddie got him, she was lucky to ever find his head out of a book lately. There were worse problems, to be sure. Still, she worried. Kids could be cruel. He was already adopted from India. Could he afford to be a nerd as well? Maybe she should enroll him in a sport of some kind. Something that got him outdoors and active. He stopped at the base of the steps and was putting the books away. He must have noticed there was no taxi waiting in its usual spot. Madeline had sent Paige to meet potential clients, a commercial job she wasn’t thrilled about. Madeline picking him up would be a surprise.
When he heard her honking and saw her waving from the line of cars, his face lit up. She’d been waiting for that all afternoon, she realized. It was easy to doubt that she was doing a good job, doing right by him, especially after the tongue-lashing Eddie had given her the day after his party. She worried Bindi might not be happy, that he felt out of place in his new life. But the look on his face told her their connection was real and that she was clearly doing something right, at least some of the time.

  Blondie’s “Call Me” was playing on the radio. She turned it up and was already dancing in her seat. She had to shout over the music to be heard.

  “What are you waiting for? Get in.”

  He struggled to hoist his bag into the back, then sank into his seat beside her.

  “What have you got in that bag? A body?”

  “No.” He liked when she joked like this. “My books.”

  “Jeez Louise, did you already skip ahead to college?” He smiled. “Why are you out of breath?”

  “I ran to the parking lot.”

  “Why were you running?”

  “I didn’t want to be late.”

  “Oh. Well, you made it!” she said and pinched his cheek, then pulled out of line.

  She let Bindi put the top down when they stopped, then they zipped along Olympic. She heard Prince say “Dearly beloved” and turned the music up even louder, waving her hands at the open sky. Bindi loved it when she did her car dances and sang along to the radio. They stopped at the dry cleaner on Santa Monica, then she ducked into TCBY to pick up a frozen yogurt. He liked Oreo cookies and M&M’s. She couldn’t resist teasing him when he saw her holding it.

  “Not so fast,” she said, then tossed her dry cleaning in the backseat, next to his bag. In the driver’s seat, she ate a spoonful and threw her head back as if it were the best thing ever. “Oh, you don’t want this,” she said, preparing to take another bite. “It’s not very good.”

  “I do want it,” he said.

  “Are you sure? Wait.” She hovered the spoon in front of her mouth. “Let me just make sure it’s okay.”

  “It’s okay!” he squealed, reaching out again. “Please—”

  “Two bites is my limit anyway,” she said and handed it over.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  She started the car but didn’t move. She turned down the radio and watched him eat.

  “Is it good?”

  “It’s delicious.”

  “Good,” she said and put the car in reverse. “You know what today is?”

  “What?” he asked, chasing a blue M&M with his spoon.

  “It’s the day we celebrate! The lawyer called, and all the paperwork is done. It won’t be long now, Mr. American.”

  He was trying to be excited, bless him, but she could see it wasn’t quite computing. For him, it had all been sorted out back in India, no doubt, or perhaps upon arriving in California. For her, too.

  The house was empty. And Paige wouldn’t be back after her meeting. Madeline flipped through the mail and pulled out an envelope from Bindi’s school. It was a letter from his principal, which shocked her but also—inappropriately, she realized—gave her a rush as she imagined Bindi misbehaving somehow. In fact, he was not in trouble. The letter was a reminder of a meeting that would be held in a week’s time. It pointed out that parents were encouraged to attend in order to discuss suitable classroom reading materials regarding the subject of AIDS. Because of “the sensitive nature of the topic,” the letter advised parents to consider making arrangements to attend the meeting without their children.

  “Do you know anything about this, Bindi?” she asked.

  “What is it?”

  “A letter from your school.” He shook his head. “Don’t worry—you didn’t do anything wrong. There’s just a meeting for the parents. And a reminder about”—she read to the end and cleared her throat, hoping it might help her accent—“les vacances de février? You have another week off?” He shrugged. “A whole week? Okay, I guess I’ll try to schedule work around it somehow. I don’t know how people do it.”

  He stared at her a moment. When she saw he wanted to speak, she thought it might be to venture an answer, and she felt bad about it but also curious what he might come up with.

  “May I make some rice?” he asked instead.

  “You’re hungry? Already?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  She was confused, but decided not to probe. There was most likely a message in there she’d learn soon enough. It was often his way to be indirect. When he learned about Watts Towers, for instance. He’d wanted to go, but instead of just asking her to take him, he’d drawn her a picture and made her get it out of him. She’d finally had to sit him down and tell him it was okay to ask for things.

  “I think there’s some Uncle Ben’s in the food drawer. Be careful, and don’t forget to turn off the stove when you’re done.”

  “I won’t.”

  As she read the letter again, the serious tone and subject matter hit Madeline. It would be her job to impart to this little person all the values she’d come to take for granted. The letter was serious. And this responsibility would require careful consideration. He was young and innocent, but what if he also came with preconceived notions from his own mother, or from his old school, or from India, for that matter? What if he’d been taught that AIDS was a punishment for homosexuality, as the idiot fanatics on the news said it was? How would she counter that? How could she tolerate it?

  She should work a little before making dinner. But the house was quiet, aside from Bindi’s rustlings in the kitchen. She moved to her chair in the sunroom. She would close her eyes, just for a bit.

  The peel was lying on the counter, its brown spots spreading like a disease. She heard the front door close. Bindi was off for another day of school. Her eye moved now to the knife, still coated in peanut butter, the honey lid next to the jar. She ran to the front door, but the taxi had already left. She got in her car and chased after it. Up ahead, it pulled into the emergency lane at the hospital. A nurse had lifted Bindi from the taxi and was carrying him inside. Paige was crying hysterically, saying he couldn’t breathe. Madeline followed the nurse into a hospital room. Her mother was lying on the bed in front of her, bloated and pale, asking for Madeline’s help. The nurse took Madeline by the arm, guiding her deeper into the room. Her mother called after her again. Madeline pulled back the curtain. There he was. The skin of his skull had sunk and constricted around the dark circles that stained his eye sockets, like bruises, making his big brown eyes appear dim and small. The nurse was saying he’d gone into anaphylactic shock. Did he take any medicine that morning? Had he eaten something? Did he have allergies? She knew he did. So how did this happen? “Bananas,” she said. The doctor and nurses struggled to revive him. Then she sat by his bed and watched his tiny body, already frail, dry up even more. She begged them to do something, anything. “Why is this happening? Why doesn’t he improve?” But the doctor shook his head. Eddie shook his head. Even Paige—Simonetta had come, too—they were all shaking their heads at her. It was too late to do anything. Just like that, he was dying on a hospital bed right before her eyes. “But I won’t forget ever again.” She promised. She begged. They shook their heads. Then two more doctors entered. They spoke to Eddie, ignoring her. “The virus may have come from the mother,” said one. “It’s a miracle he lasted this long,” added the second. And when she turned back to Bindi, she heard the steady beep, and she saw that life had already left his body behind. “It was your own damn fault.” Who said that? She turned, but there was no one there. They’d all gone. The voice spoke again. “What were you thinking?” It was coming from the other bed. Madeline walked toward the voice as the beep grew steadily louder. She covered her ears, but it made no difference. She couldn’t breathe. She awoke, gasping for air and still crying, half asleep. She sat up and listened for Bindi. Everything was quiet. The pot was there. The stove was off. The kitchen was empty. She tried to tell herse
lf it was a dream, an awful dream, but it didn’t help.

  He was outside on the grass. He’d cut a leaf from the heliconia and placed it on the ground. She panicked. Was it in the same family as banana plants? The leaves were similar. She wanted to rush to him and make him wash his hands, but what was he doing? He placed a ball of rice onto the leaf, alongside two others, then stepped away. He clapped once. Then again. And a third time. It appeared to be a prayer or ritual of some sort, but she’d never seen him do this or anything like it before, and, after her dream, the sight disturbed her.

  “Bindi, sweetie?” The sliding door stuck, and she left it open. “What are you doing?”

  “Pind daan,” he said, as if that meant anything. He seemed disappointed, his head hung low.

  “I don’t understand, Bindi. What does that mean?”

  “I don’t think it worked. I should have done it yesterday.”

  She approached and took his hand, leading him away from the leaf. They shared the center section of a chaise longue. She couldn’t make sense of anything he’d said, and she questioned if she was still dreaming.

  “What didn’t work? What are you trying to do here? Help me understand.”

  “Yesterday was the sixteenth day. I counted earlier, when we were in the car, and you asked if I knew what day it was. I remembered on the sixteenth day we had to do pind daan, and I clapped three times and the birds came.”