Bindi

by Paul Matthew Maisano

  “Sixteenth day of what, sweetie?” she said, but suddenly she understood. “Oh, you mean since my mother died.” He nodded. Was Bindi trying to set her mother free from purgatory or whatever the belief was? She wrapped her arms around him. “Why don’t you think it worked?”

  “No crows came when I clapped.”

  “I see.” Feeling him so close, safe and in her arms, she finally felt able to breathe. “Well, shall we try it again, maybe a little louder and together this time?”

  “But we’re late and it might not work in California,” he said.

  “Well, it’s worth a shot. Will you show me how?”

  They returned to the grassy ceremonial site. Madeline put her hands out as he had and began to count to three, and, watching each other, they clapped three times. A small bird alighted on the fence. She pointed it out, and he nodded. It flew away, and she shrugged.

  “Maybe they don’t know we’re here,” he suggested.

  “Could be. Or they’re shy.”

  “Crows aren’t shy,” he said.

  She didn’t even have time to say he was right about that because one swooped down and stared them off. When they’d backed away a satisfactory distance, the black bird plucked a rice ball until it broke apart, the grains scattering over the leaf.

  Later, when they were waiting for a pizza to arrive—she was still too frazzled to cook—she called Eddie and told him what happened.

  “Well,” he said, not at all impressed, “birds do like rice, and there are an awful lot of crows around LA.”

  Maybe he was right, or maybe he was still angry at her. In any case, she’d choose to think of the event as a minor miracle, the day Bindi set their mother’s spirit free. She took the phone in her office and closed the door behind her so she could mention the nightmare she’d had privately. Just thinking about it brought back the sound of the machine flatlining, and she struggled not to cry. If she’d been incoherent in recounting the dream, Eddie still found a way to understand; she could hear it in his voice when he said, “I see.” She knew she had to continue, to say the words aloud. She had to admit that in her haste and determination to adopt Bindi rather than one of the other children who were officially up for adoption, she had not obtained a health certificate for him. When Eddie remained quiet, she spoke for him, saying she knew she was blowing a bad dream way out of proportion, then she mentioned the letter from his school, which had certainly played its part, but the thought of anything happening was more than she could bear.

  “But what about his school? You must have had to show immunization records.”

  “He didn’t have any,” she said. “So we got him all the shots he required, but I didn’t think to get other blood work.”

  “And he’s had a physical and all that?”

  “I brought him to my nutritionist. She said he was in fine health. A little short for his age.”

  “That’s okay, that’s fine,” he said gently. “But you should probably take him to a proper pediatrician as well. And you’re smart to think about having his full blood work done.”

  She felt the constriction in her throat again, that feeling of not being able to breathe.

  “Oh, Eddie. I don’t even know how his mother died.”

  “Did you not ask?” He said it without judgment, but the words stung. “What about his school in India? Or his aunt in London?”

  What was he talking about? And why was he suddenly taking that tone? She felt she both knew exactly and didn’t have a clue what he was saying.

  “His what?”

  “You didn’t know, Maddy? Honestly?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Why did it feel like a lie? Silence. Please let him stay silent. Whatever point he was so intent on making, she would deal with it. But please not right now.

  “I’m sure if you just explain the situation to your doctor’s office, they’ll know what tests to run, perhaps even rule out some potential health threats and put us that much more at ease.”

  She was so grateful he’d said “us.”

  “Thanks, Eddie. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “You know, Maddy, I’ve been thinking. A lot. And this just makes me feel more resolved. We need to contact his family in London.” The words echoed back to Mr. Channar’s office. “I told you I’m going there.” The nape of her neck tingled with fear. What had he been planning? “It’s not the only reason, but I do want to try to find his family while I’m there. They need to know where he is. And we need to be made aware of anything there is to know, for his sake. You see that, right?” She saw nothing clearly. “Madeline?”

  XXIX

  Birendra lay on his bed, clutching the book close to his chest. He felt he’d lived it, already been in War Drobe. In Spare Oom. Met those strange creatures and even finally knew what snow felt like. Mama Maddy had barely spoken a word to him all week, and no matter what he said or did, he was sure his presence only made her unhappier. It was as though she could not even look at him without frowning and walking away. What had he said? Something to Uncle Eddie, perhaps? Or had he done something to upset Mama Maddy? So many times he’d tried to say he was sorry, even if he did not know what precisely he would have been apologizing for, but her silence was contagious. He never found the chance. And so he waited for her to come to him, when she was ready, hoping she would tell him what he’d done so he might never do it again, praying each night that she had not changed her mind and that he would not be sent away.

  Uncle Eddie had told Birendra that sometimes adults don’t know what’s best for him. It seemed to him that fixing things with Mama Maddy would be best for him. That way he could continue to go to his school, which would certainly be best for him. He got up from his bed now and put the book on his shelf. He could see Mama Maddy from the window in his room. She was outside working by the pool, in the chair where she often sketched. Maybe, he thought, if he just told Mama Maddy these things, what he wanted most, she would listen and understand. She had even told him it was okay to tell her when he wanted something.

  If it didn’t work, he would go to Uncle Eddie for help. But he’d have to hurry because soon Uncle Eddie would leave the country. He’d called and told Birendra he was going to London, and Birendra thought he meant forever, but he promised it was just a holiday. Birendra thought about all the days before meeting Mama Maddy when he believed he would be going to London, but this time he made sure not to say anything about that to his uncle. Then he remembered about Uncle Eddie’s friend from high school, and he asked if Uncle Eddie was going to see her. He said he was going to try.

  The sunlight reflected in quick flashes from the pool’s surface below. Aside from Mama Maddy’s big straw hat, he could see only the top of her sketch pad and a single foot, both of which escaped the hat’s brim. She had been working even more than usual all week. Paige had picked him up every day from school, twice in Mama Maddy’s car. Seeing it in front of the school the first day, Birendra rushed down ready to make up with Mama Maddy, but it was Paige, who told him that Mama Maddy had an important deadline, but he knew it was more than that. Paige stayed late most nights, and Mama Maddy was often away, avoiding him because she was angry, he thought, but he’d never found the courage to ask Paige if he was right.

  He changed into his swim trunks now and took a towel from the laundry room on his way outside. The door to the backyard was open, but the screen was closed. He slid it open quietly, trying not to make it squeak. He didn’t want to disturb her when she was working. He would wait until she acknowledged him, then go over and apologize. The pool water felt warm, like the sea in Varkala. He eased himself in as quietly as he could, one small step at a time. If she heard him, she didn’t turn to look. She remained bent over her sketchbook, with her back to the pool. Normally he would have gone to her side to see what she was working on. He liked watching her draw and was always amazed how the quick lines became a recognizable shape that floated on the paper. He rem
embered how his mother would, just as quickly, turn a few scraps of fabric and some stuffing into a cow or a monkey, or his Ganesh. He’d once seen a man do something similar with a balloon at the beach in Santa Monica. He hoped someday that he would be able to make something as they all could, something out of nothing. Maybe stories. He liked writing down the stories he knew, but he thought he’d like to make up his own someday.

  Holding on to the edge of the pool, with his chin bobbing along, he went hand over hand to the point where his feet no longer touched the bottom. If she looked up and over her shoulder now, she would be able to see him there. He continued to move himself around the edge. If she hadn’t noticed him on her own and said something to him by the time he finished his loop around the entire pool, maybe he’d go and sit beside her, see what she was drawing, and wait until she spoke to him.

  He felt the water ripple as he rounded the other side. He turned, but there was no one there. Mama Maddy’s chair was empty, too. Then a distorted shape in the water became a head emerging through the surface. Mama Maddy’s hair parted flat against her head, the red of it a dark auburn when it was wet like this. Her eyes opened and fixed on him, and he saw once again the Mama Maddy who’d gone away the week before. He was so relieved that he couldn’t think what to say, then she disappeared again under the water. A moment later he felt a hand pulling gently at his foot, tickling him behind his knee, and finally giving him a few quick squeezes on his side. He was ticklish and couldn’t help kicking his feet while holding on tightly to the pool’s edge. His feet hovered above the pool’s bottom.

  “Stop, stop,” he squealed, though she couldn’t hear him while she was under water. When she surfaced, he was breathless but begged her once more to stop. She smiled at him, then pushed herself off the side of the pool and floated on her back, toward the center. Her eyes were closed again, and the sun was shining on her face.

  “Maaaarco,” she called.

  He carried on toward the shallower part, calling “Poooolo” in the opposite direction, just as Uncle Eddie had taught him. But still she followed. He tried to move faster, but she was gaining on him.

  “Marco,” she said again, now just a few feet away.

  “Polo,” he responded, then inhaled a deep breath and pushed himself as hard as he could from the side of the pool, holding his nose tightly with one hand and paddling as hard as he could with the other. When he was able to right himself, his nose was just above the water, and he opened his eyes to see Mama Maddy reaching for him. He screamed and she laughed, with her eyes still closed and her arms outstretched. She called out once again.

  “Maaarco.”

  “Polo,” he said, and tried to run backwards against the force of the water on his heels in the direction of the steps, but he wasn’t fast enough and she caught him by his waist.

  “Gotcha,” she said.

  He stopped struggling and caught his breath, his head now completely above the water. Her eyes were a little red but sparkling from the light bouncing off the water.

  “Your eyes look like diamonds,” he said.

  “My little poet,” she said, beaming at him.

  At last ready to apologize for upsetting her, he cast his eyes down at the water lapping his chest. He opened his mouth, but she spoke before he got the chance to say anything.

  “Oh, Bindi. I’m so sorry.”

  “I’m sorry, too,” he exclaimed. “I didn’t mean to make you angry.”

  “Oh sweetie, you didn’t do anything! You could never upset me,” she said.

  “You weren’t mad at me?”

  “Not one bit,” she said, and pulled him close. “I just got so caught up and forgot to check in with you, too busy feeling sorry for myself and forgetting that my job is to take care of you! I’m still learning. Do you forgive me?” He nodded, smiling up at her, as though he were the one being forgiven. “Oh, how I love you, my little man.”

  He could feel it. It felt warm, like a hug, like the sun.

  “I love you, too.”

  She did a little pirouette, splashing him in her wake. Then she took his face in her wet hands, gave him a big kiss, and swam away, ready for another round. He closed his eyes and began to count to ten, his smile so big he could hardly keep his eyes closed. Everything was quiet, the sun was bright against his eyelids, and it was her job to take care of him. The water lapped gently at his chest and shoulders. He got to ten and listened carefully for Mama Maddy. Then he called out to her.

  “Maaaarco.”

  After lunch, Mama Maddy asked if he would like to see the big house in Los Feliz. She’d had an idea and needed to check something out. He was excited to explore the inside, because that’s where she did all her magic, as she called it. At a stoplight on their way, she reached into a box in the backseat and pulled out a magazine. She handed it to him and said, “Look inside: your Mama Maddy’s famous.”

  He turned to the table of contents and found her name near the bottom: The Interiority of Madeline Almquist. He tried to say the word to himself first so he could ask her if it was another way of saying “interior design.” But he tripped on the word’s many turns.

  “Does this word mean ‘interior design’?”

  She looked down to the place where his finger pointed on the waxy page. She chuckled and said it was a play on words, but it essentially referred to how she thought about the way she works. He flipped through to the page indicated and began to read. It really was all about Mama Maddy. They had blocked off some of her quotations. He read them each twice, then once more aloud:

  I love invading a big space. The trick is then collapsing it, forcing it into a display of intimacy without making it feel cluttered. It’s what everyone wants: big and impressive on the outside, cozy and intimate on the inside.

  If people want to say I’m not an artist, that I’m a designer because I’m not an architect, then so be it. But I’ve talked to enough artists to know we share a process. We all get lost in our canvases. My canvas is space.

  “Like outer space?” he asked.

  “No—the space here.” Mama Maddy waved her hand between them. “And inside houses in particular.”

  “Something out of nothing,” he said, remembering that this was precisely what he’d seen her do so often.

  “Yes, that’s exactly right. You really are clever, Bindi.”

  Inside the big hourse, it felt more like a palace, or many houses that happened to be connected by passageways and big doors that led not outside but to more of the inside. It was the largest house he’d ever been in. Though he’d gotten used to seeing big houses in many parts of the city, he still struggled to believe that each house was home to just one family—in this case, one person. He thought he would feel lonely there, but Mama Maddy said her client had many friends. She had told him that her clients had such big houses because they could and not because they needed to. He’d asked her why they would do what they didn’t need to do, but it wasn’t quite the question he meant. She said, “Do you need to eat frozen yogurt?” He didn’t need to, but he liked it. “It’s the same for them. It makes them feel larger than life.” He felt small in the big house, following her this way and that. They went into one bedroom and then another. There were bathrooms as big as his bedroom. And a library with so many empty shelves that he wondered if it might be big enough to fit all the books at his school. She told him to have a seat or wander around if he preferred. She had a little work to do. He thought he would get lost on his own, so he climbed onto the giant leather sofa. Mama Maddy took a seat on the floor in the sunlight that was coming in from the window. He’d never seen her so quiet, so still. In the interview in the magazine, she explained that she was often guided to a decision by the angle of a window to the sun or the way an interior wall abruptly gave way to nothing: a line in the wood flooring suggested the placement of a piece of furniture, as did the shifting sunlight as it touched down throughout the day. She listened to what a room had to tell her. He looked at her again. Perhaps she wa
s listening now.

  Birendra might be an artist, too. Mama Maddy had told him so on more than one occasion. When he was younger, in Varkala, he and his mother talked about what he might be when he grew up, but they’d never come up with that possibility. She had told him he was like his aunt; if he worked hard, he could be whatever he set his mind to. They’d made a list after his aunt’s last visit. His mother had written Doctor at the top to get them started. He thought that might be nice, helping people get well. He suggested Engineer, like his uncle in London. Then he’d asked, “Anything? Even a pilot?” Her eyes grew wide with concern, but she nodded and said, “Of course. Anything. But maybe something closer to the ground so your poor mother won’t worry all the time.” Because he liked writing, and his English class, he said maybe he could become a journalist. “A journalist,” she repeated. “Yes, I think you would make a wonderful journalist.”

  Mama Maddy spun herself around, still seated in the middle of the room. She was smiling, and she stretched as though she’d just woken up from a long nap.

  “So what did the room tell you?” he asked.

  She stood and dusted herself off, even though the house was cleaner than any house he’d ever seen.

  “The room told me it wants a rug, unfortunately. And a big one. And that you and I should go for another swim in the big pool. How about that?”

  “I didn’t bring my shorts.”

  “Well, lucky for you I came prepared.”

  She picked up the magazine and studied the cover, then set it down and took his hand. They wandered through the hallway, into the entry, then through the dining room and kitchen, where they stopped for something to drink. She said he could have an Orangina if he liked and could change in the bathroom by the door or in the one by the pool.

  “Do you really think I can be an artist, too?”

  “I think you can be whatever you want to be, Bindi.” That she said it, too, meant it must be true. “Is that what you want to be?”