The Wishing Trees

by John Shors

  Kissing her brow, Ian said, “Perfect.”

  “Daddy?”

  “What, my little question asker?”

  “Why do I . . . feel so close to Mommy here?”

  He put his arm around her, pulling her to him. “You know, Roo, I’ve traveled around the world, and I’ve seen a heap of lovely sights. I’ve seen mosques and temples. And churches as big as a city block. But the Taj Mahal, it’s the only thing I’ve seen that was made to celebrate love, to cherish love forever. That’s why I reckon you feel your mum here, because Shah Jahan understood love. It was the best and most beautiful thing in his life, just like it is in ours. And the Taj Mahal . . . captures everything we feel about love . . . and makes us feel closer to everyone we cherish.”

  She closed her sketch pad. “Is it as pretty when you’re standing next to it?”

  “It’s at least as lovely. You can’t see them from here, but millions of semiprecious stones cover the exterior. They form flowers and vines and . . . I think even lines of poetry.”

  “I want to see them. And where the emperor and his wife rest beside each other.”

  He pocketed the shell, took Mattie’s hand, and stood up. “Let’s go.”

  “One other thing, Daddy.”

  “What?”

  “I want to put my picture in a wishing tree, where Mommy can see it. But not near here. Can we find a good tree? Maybe tomorrow?”

  “India is full of good trees.”

  Mattie smiled, stepping toward the Taj Mahal, toward a source of beauty through which she could feel her mother. She started to increase her pace, eager to touch what her mother had touched, to see what her mother had seen. The Taj Mahal grew larger, a single jewel from an unknown stone, a dream of a dying woman, a sight so profound that Mattie wondered if it were real. She called for her mother quietly, looking up, above the great dome.

  After taking off her sandals, Mattie began to ascend the white marble steps leading to the mausoleum. She thought of Shah Jahan, of Arjumand, of her mother and father, of her father’s pain at having lost such love. She squeezed his hand and let him lead the way inside, into a place that would surely stir his memories.

  Please look down, Mommy, Mattie thought. Please look down right now and let Daddy know you’re here. He misses you so much. Just let him know you’re here and I think he’ll feel a little better.

  ABOUT SIX HOURS LATER, IAN AND MATTIE walked back toward their hotel. Though they were tired from a busy day, they didn’t try to catch a ride in a taxi or rickshaw, as the streets were jammed with traffic. Walking, it seemed, might be faster. They moved along the edge of the sidewalk, near the street, where they encountered fewer obstacles. This strategy was far from original, however, and countless locals hurried home from work via this same river of humanity. Even in the early evening, the heat was oppressive, and many of the men had unbuttoned their collared shirts to their sternums. The shirts might have been white at one point but had been yellowed by sweat and pollution. The vibrant colors that the women wore were more resistant to the elements, but mothers and grandmothers still sweated and wiped their faces, still turned the other way as buses belching diesel exhaust lumbered past.

  The crowds on the sidewalk were hard for Ian to navigate. He was taller than most locals, but being able to see ahead didn’t make it much easier for him to locate his hotel. Only in Tokyo had he ever felt such a press of people. And the crowds in Japan, while claustrophobic, were at least orderly, following long-established patterns of movement. Japanese walked and stopped as one. They waited in lines. In India, no such concepts seemed to exist. Businessmen, women in saris, beggars, schoolchildren, monks, and vendors darted this way and that, often cutting one another off. The horns and foul fumes from nearby traffic didn’t help matters.

  “Reckon we should hail a taxi?” Ian asked Mattie, who held on to his belt and walked beside him.

  Mattie tried to look around but could hardly see the road. “We’d just sit in that traffic jam. And I’m so thirsty. Can’t we find something to drink?”

  “At least we could relax in a taxi. Then we’ll wet our throats at the hotel.”

  “Let’s just get some water. I really, really need some water.”

  Ian nodded, reaching into his day pack to remove a guidebook. He flipped to a map of Agra and tried to get his bearings. They were near their hotel, he was certain. But despite the thousands of banners, signs, and posters touting nearby businesses, most of the streets were unmarked. Ian remembered how, during World War II, Russians had often removed their street signs to confuse invading German armies. He wondered if people in Agra might have the same mind-set when it came to outsiders.

  A large man with a thick beard bumped into Ian, almost knocking the guidebook from his hand. Ian muttered to himself, glancing again at the map, trying to avoid what seemed to be an onrush of people. He walked another twenty paces before putting away the book. “I reckon we’re almost home, Roo,” he concluded, twisting toward her.

  Only she wasn’t there.

  “Mattie?” he said, turning around in a full circle, his heart thumping like a series of fireworks. In every direction, Indians hurried past. Ian jumped up, looking toward where they’d come from. “Mattie!” Only horns and the confused stares of passersby answered him, and he hurried over to a pile of slabs of broken pavement, climbing up, holding on to a streetlamp. “Mattie!” he shouted, spinning on the cement, peering in all directions. He ran his hands through his hair. “Oh, God. Please don’t do this.”

  He shouted her name again and again, continuing to look for light hair amid the sea of locals. Swearing, he scrambled down the pile of cement slabs and began to retrace their footsteps, bumping into passersby, asking if anyone had seen an American girl. As soon as people shrugged or looked around, he moved on, running now, jumping over obstacles. He hopped onto an idle bus, climbing up the ladder at its rear, rising to the roof, and looking again in all directions. “Mattie! Mattie, I’m up here! Look up!”

  A nearby Mercedes honked, and the bus edged ahead. Ian slid down the ladder and jumped to the street. He ran back to the sidewalk, tripped over a shredded tire, and hurried toward where he’d last been with her. Arriving at the approximate spot, he called out her name again and again, asking nearby vendors if they’d seen her. People seemed eager to help, but no one recalled seeing her walk past.

  “No, no, no, no, no!” Ian muttered, spinning around, jumping up. He continued to retrace their steps, peering into shops, wiping sweat from his eyes. “Mattie, luv! I’m here! Right here!”

  The city seemed to grow louder—honks and screeches and distant jackhammers blending together to form a constant assault on his ears. Ian ran along the edge of the sidewalk, climbing higher when possible to get a better view. His stomach began to ache, filling him with a pain that normally would have doubled him over. But he paid this pain no heed. Instead he tried to corral his scattered thoughts, to formulate some sort of plan.

  Realizing that Mattie had money, he wondered if she might have hopped in a taxi and gone to the hotel. Normally, she’d do just that, but he had a hard time recalling the name of the place they were staying—the Hotel Amar Yatri Niwas. Would Mattie remember that?

  Deciding she might, he turned and ran toward the hotel. He moved from the sidewalk to the street, darting around idling cars, trucks, and buses. His day pack was banging against him, slowing him down, and he reached inside and tossed out his guidebook and a bottle of antacids. Running faster, he tried to ignore the distress of his body, but had a harder time doing so. Not only did his stomach ache, but his vision had begun to blur. He couldn’t seem to get enough air, coughing as he inhaled the stench of diesel fumes.

  Ian rushed to an intersection, saw their hotel, and ran into it. The lobby was small and nondescript. He thought he might find Mattie by the door, but she wasn’t there, and the sight of that emptiness made his heart tumble. Cursing, he hurried to the front desk. The sole receptionist, a balding man who wore an old suit,
looked up from a passport. “May I help you, Mr. McCray?” he asked.

  “My daughter. Have you seen her?”

  “I . . . I do not believe—”

  “Have you seen her?”

  The man shook his head. “No. Not since this morning. Is she missing?”

  Ian closed his eyes, leaning against the wooden counter, the room threatening to spin. “I lost her. Ten, fifteen minutes ago. We were walking together and I lost her in the crowds.” He slammed his fist against his thigh. “Bloody hell! She’s gone!”

  “We will find her, Mr. McCray,” the receptionist said, pulling out a map of the city. “We are here,” he added, pointing to the middle of the map. “Now, where were you when you lost her?”

  “She’s all alone.”

  “Where were you? Sir, I must know where you were.”

  Ian ran his hands through his hair as, squinting, he studied the map. “Here,” he answered, putting his finger near the receptionist’s.

  “Are you certain?”

  “Between those two streets.”

  “I will call the police. They will start looking in this area.”

  Ian shook his head, struggling to maintain his composure. “I’ve left her all alone. Oh, Christ, what have I done?”

  “We will find her, sir.”

  “No, no, no.”

  “Mr. McCray, she will be found.”

  “You don’t understand. Her mother’s dead. I need to find her. Right now.”

  The receptionist took off his glasses. “I am also a father, sir. I know what it is like to lose a child. And I will help you locate her.”

  Ian clutched his side, the pain finally dominating him. “I’m going back out there,” he muttered, writing down Mattie’s name and description on a piece of hotel stationery.

  “Wait, Mr. McCray,” the man said, putting his hand on Ian’s elbow. “Please take my business card. Call the number for the front desk if you need me. And here is my cellular phone.” The receptionist then held up his forefinger and went through a doorway behind the front desk. He quickly returned, pushing an old-fashioned bicycle beside him. “Please use my bicycle,” he said. “You can see much more of the city this way.”

  Ian grabbed the man’s hand and squeezed it hard.

  “Your daughter, sir, she will look for something familiar. And we have many Western restaurants nearby. If you see one—a Kentucky Fried Chicken or a Pizza Hut—you should go in.”

  Turning the bike around, Ian stepped toward the doorway. “Please hurry and call the police,” he said, and rushed outside. “Tell them she’s all alone.”

  Agra seemed busier than ever. Traffic in the nearby street was almost at a standstill. Ian ran to the edge of the sidewalk and hopped on the bicycle, which was too small for him. Standing up, he pumped the pedals, weaving between vehicles of every shape and size. He didn’t want to panic but couldn’t help it. The thought of Mattie alone and terrified was too much for him.

  “Mattie!” he shouted, riding near the sidewalk. A motorcycle suddenly pulled over to the curb in front of him and he almost crashed into it. “Mattie! Can you hear me? Mattie!”

  Please, God, he thought, please don’t let anything happen to her. Please, please, please. She’s so good. She’s been nothing but good her whole life and she doesn’t deserve any of this. Now, please. Let me find her.

  He passed a Burger King and jumped off the bike, then hurried inside. He called her name and asked patrons if they’d seen her, but everyone shook their heads. Grunting from the pain in his stomach, he ran back outside and started to pedal once again. He knew that child prostitution was a monstrosity in India, and the thought of someone getting hold of Mattie made him weep.

  His tears blurring his vision, he sped down the street, ringing a bell on the handlebars to warn pedestrians of his approach. “Mattie! Where are you?”

  A cow lay on the pavement before him, and he swerved into the curve to avoid it. People pressed against him from every direction and he realized that he’d never find her like this. He had to be more strategic, though reasoned, calm thoughts flew in the face of his panic.

  Where would I go, he asked himself, if I were her? I have money in my pocket. I could get a taxi, but . . . but I don’t know the name of my hotel. Would I find a police station? Maybe. Maybe not. What about a big hotel?

  Bugger this! Think! Use your bloody brain! Where would she go? To the American embassy? To the airport? Or to something she knows?

  Wait, he thought, gripping the handlebars, his heartbeat resonating in his ears. “The Taj,” he whispered. “She’d go to the Taj!”

  He jumped back on the bike and pedaled as he never had, passing rickshaws and taxis and trucks. Agra revolved around the Taj Mahal, and signs pointed in its direction. He stood upright, putting all his weight on each pedal as it crested, forcing it downward as if it were a demon he was trying to keep from rising upward. The city flew past, the sun dropping, vehicles turning on their lights. People who saw him seemed to sense his desperation and stepped aside to let him pass. Though Agra was a city of a million horns, no one honked at him, even when he cut them off.

  “Please, dear God,” he said, straining, smashing over a broken pallet.

  He turned to the right, saw the main gate to the mausoleum, saw her talking with a security guard. The bike fell as he leapt from it. Her name emerged from his lips. He ran ahead, sweeping her up in his arms, holding her tight, their faces pressing against each other’s, her tears falling to his cheek, his hands running through her hair. She wept and shuddered against him and he held her as if someone were trying to pull her away. Kissing her brow, he told her that everything was fine, that he’d never lose her again. She cried in his arms, curling up against him, wanting to be encircled by as much of him as possible.

  Over the previous year and a half Ian had spent so much effort hiding his true emotions from her, his feelings of grief and fear. But now, as she held on to him and wept, it was as if he were standing on a stage and the curtains had been pulled up in front of him. He was exposed, rendered naked by the spotlights. His joy and relief at finding her eclipsed his strength to remain levelheaded, and he began to shudder, disintegrating beside her like a glacier warmed by too much sun. While parts of him toppled, he clung to her as much as she did to him, his tears incessant. He kissed her again, telling her how much he loved her, that though she might have been missing, he was the one who was lost without her.

  The sky continued to darken. Ian’s stomach still ached, and he thought that he might vomit. Now that he’d found her, his nausea and pain were much more pronounced. Trying to slow his breathing, he stroked the back of her head and whispered reassurances. He looked up and said silent prayers of thanks. Never had he been so thankful. Not even on his wedding day.

  He thought about how the trip was a mistake, how he was insane to take her to Asia. She could have been kidnapped, he told himself. Some mongrel could have grabbed my little girl. An image flashed in his mind of Mattie being forced into a truck and the landscape began to sway. He closed his strained and aching eyes, rubbing them.

  “Do you want to go home?” he asked quietly, hoping that she would nod. “Back to all the beautiful things in America? Back to—”

  “No.”

  “Why not, Roo? After what just happened?”

  “Because . . . if it was time to go home, Mommy would send us home.”

  Mommy is gone, he thought, kissing the top of Mattie’s head. She’s been gone for nineteen months. “But, luv, Mommy doesn’t know how hard this is. She doesn’t—”

  “No! I don’t want to go home. Stop talking about it. Please stop talking about it!”

  He pulled her back toward him, cradling her once again. “Easy on, luv. Easy on. I’ll stop yammering about it. I will. But . . . but you can always change your mind.”

  “I won’t. So stop your yammering.”

  “Just think about it.”

  “No.”

  Ian sighed, remembered the
hotel receptionist, and called the man using his cell phone. He explained everything, hearing the happiness in the stranger’s voice. Ian thanked him repeatedly before hanging up. “His blood’s worth bottling,” he said to Mattie, putting the phone back in his pocket.

  “Who?”

  “The receptionist at our hotel. He called the police, and gave me his phone and bicycle.”

  “He did? That was nice of him.”

  “It was bloody wonderful. He was bloody wonderful.”

  “I’m glad, Daddy.”

  Ian kissed her head again, smelling sweat in her hair, continuing to shelter her with his body. “Reckon you know how much I love you?”

  “How much?”

  He pointed to a slice of the sky between a pair of old buildings. The sky was infused with the hues of the setting sun, as if it were a tapestry dyed in the most beautiful of Indian colors. “When I look up there,” he said, “I see a lovely sky. I see something that reminds me of you.”

  “What?”

  “I still hurt, Roo. From your mum’s death. You know I do. But I can also see beauty in the world. And that’s because of you. That’s the gift of you.”

  “It is a pretty sky.”

  He saw that tears had dried some of her lashes together and he gently rubbed her eyes. What would make her feel better? he wondered. What would give her the comfort of home without taking her home? “That bicycle is fast,” he said. “A real storm in the bush.”

  “It is?”

  “It’s a beaut, Roo. And there’s a bar on the back of it, and you can stand while I pedal.”

  Mattie looked at the busy street. “Should we go back to the hotel?”

  He lifted her from his lap as he stood up. “I think I passed an ice-cream store a few blocks back. How about a big, fat, dripping scoop of cookies and cream? Something to cool us off?”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.”

  Taking her hand, he led her toward the bicycle. He thought about losing her, about how she was the light of his world. Suddenly he needed to feel her again, and so he lifted her up, kissing her cheek as her arms and legs wrapped around him. “I love you so much, Roo. That was hell for me, to lose you like that. I was dropped straight into hell. I’m so bloody sorry.”