A Walk Across the Sun (11 page)

They entered the foyer and Tera doffed her coat and scarf. Underneath, she wore a red turtleneck sweater, a gray skirt with dark stockings, and a string of large pearls.

She walked into the kitchen and looked around. She had never been inside before.

“I love these old brownstones,” she said. “You did a nice job with the space.”

Thomas went to the wine cabinet and selected a bottle of burgundy. Retrieving the opener from the drawer, he drew out the cork. His motions were mechanical, his heart at war with itself. He couldn't help but be drawn to her.

He poured two glasses of wine and handed one to her. They took seats in a nook by the living room window and watched the snow fall.

“You seem withdrawn,” she said. “Are you all right?”

He took a sip of the rich, earthy wine, relishing its calming effect. “I suppose.”

“I'm sorry you didn't get assigned to the appeal.”

He debated whether to tell her about Junger, then decided against it. He shrugged.

“The partners do what they want.
C'est la vie
.”

She looked at him strangely. “Something happened. I can tell.”

Something is an understatement
, he thought.

“I'm okay,” he said, preferring a bald-faced lie over the alternative.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

She seemed stymied and sipped at her wine, her earrings sparkling in the lamplight.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked.

“Doing what?”

“Why are you here with me?”

The answer seemed obvious: she had waited for him outside his home. But he sensed that the question had a deeper meaning.

“I don't know,” he said. “I like your company.”

Her eyes flashed, but he couldn't tell whether it was melancholy or anger.

“Do you want me to leave?” she asked quietly.

There it was, the question of the hour, a question that had no definitive answer. Yes, he wanted her to leave. No, he didn't want her to leave. He wanted his life back, but his life wasn't coming back. He wanted to be free of the haunting he felt in this house. He wanted to feel the warmth of skin on skin, to feel the unity of love transmuted to passion. But the face in his dream wasn't Tera's. It was Priya's, as she was before. The girl who had stolen his heart in the lecture hall at Cambridge while her father, the Professor, talked about quantum physics. The woman who had conceived and borne his child.

Tera put down her glass on a side table and moved toward him. She sat down in his lap, her face inches from his.

“I don't want to leave,” she whispered.

She kissed him then and he didn't resist. He forgot about Junger's ultimatum. He forgot about the ghosts of his wife and child. His mind went blank, his heart tranquilized by desire and despair. Only his body was left to act.

But for the moment, his body was enough.

He lay in darkness, Tera asleep beside him. Above them, the ceiling fan swung in lazy arcs, barely stirring the air. He remembered accidentally bumping the switch when Tera had pushed him into the room. He remembered the rest, all of it, with extraordinary vividness, but he couldn't think about it. His conscience had returned, calling him names he deserved.

He slipped out from the under the covers, threw on a sweatshirt and flannel pants, and went downstairs. The lights were still on in the kitchen and living room. He turned them off one by one. The only illumination came from a streetlamp that cast a pale glow on the polished wood floor. The snow had stopped, but the ground was white, and he guessed that three inches had fallen. He glanced at his watch. The luminescent hands showed that it was after midnight.

He stood perfectly still, listening to the street sounds. Then he went to the door to the basement and descended the steps. He knew where the box was. He had hidden it himself after she left. He returned to the living room and took a seat in the chair by the window. He could still smell Tera's perfume in the air. He set the box on his knees and lifted the lid. The photographs were in disarray. His objective had been to erase the memories, not curate them.

The first photograph showed Priya in her wedding gown. She was in a garden beside a bench surrounded with flowers. There was an ease in the way she stood, a comfort in her own skin that he had always found appealing. Her eyes were brown, her olive skin a contrast with the white of her dress. She was smiling at something in the distance. Children had been playing on the lawn nearby, he recalled. She had always adored children.

They had married at River Farm, a sprawling estate on the Potomac south of Alexandria. The ceremony had been the sort of cross-cultural spectacle that had satisfied no one except the bride and groom. After the traditional Christian rites, they had completed their vows with the
saptapadi
, or Seven Steps, around a ceremonial flame. Priya had recited the blessings in Hindi and given herself over to her new life. She had married Thomas over her father's objections. He wondered now whether the decision had cursed them in some way.

He set the photograph aside and picked up the next one in the box. The grief returned as if it had never left. The photograph showed Priya holding a three-month-old Mohini at Rock Creek Park. The little girl and her mother were smiling at one another. It had been their favorite picture of the baby. Her soft skin, blotchy for the first two months, had cleared. Her chocolate-brown eyes were open and she was effervescent with life.

The tears began to flow, but he didn't wipe them away. He thought again of that dreadful morning in September when they had found her. He remembered the shrillness of Priya's scream, remembered running up the stairs and wrestling Mohini from her grasp. He remembered the clammy chill of the baby's face and the intensity of his fear when she didn't respond to CPR. He could still hear the wail of the ambulance pulling up to the curb; he could still smell the antiseptic odor of the emergency room; he could still feel his anger at the sterile efficiency of the doctors as they poked and prodded Mohini's tiny body, searching for the explanation they would never find. The coroner's report had called it SIDS—Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. Mohini had died while they were asleep. Cause unknown.

The resident physician had allowed them to spend fifteen minutes with their baby before sending her to the morgue. Alone in a bare room, Priya took the little girl into her arms and chanted to her in Hindi. Listening to his wife whisper-singing over their daughter's body only heightened Thomas's sense of loss. Eventually, Priya laid Mohini down on a white sheet and kissed her a final time. She turned away and did not look back.

Thomas closed the box of photographs. After a while, he climbed the stairs and opened the door to Mohini's room. The crib stood empty along the wall, the brightly colored mobile keeping watch over it in silence. Everything was as it had been when they put her down to sleep the evening before she died.

He walked over to the crib and rubbed the wooden railing with his fingers. He had built it himself. It wasn't money he had wanted to save, but Priya's opinion of him. He wanted to prove that he could do it—more, that he
wanted
to do it, that his long hours at the office didn't mean he wasn't interested in the baby. He remembered her smile when he had finished. They had made love that night for the first time in many weeks. Her swollen belly got in the way, but they managed. The release had been cleansing, an act of liberation. How different it was with Tera. Every time he touched her, he felt the noose tighten around his neck.

He knelt down before the crib and placed his forehead on the slats. In this posture of supplication, he sang the chorus from “You Are My Sunshine” as he had for Mohini every night of her life. He realized as he sang that the song was actually a prayer, a prayer to the God of children, a prayer for safety and peace. In Mohini's case, the prayer had gone unanswered. Tears came to his eyes again, and he whispered the words he never ceased to feel.

“I'm sorry, sweet girl. I'm sorry I didn't come for you. I didn't know.”

He left Mohini's room and entered his office. He powered up his laptop and opened his Web browser. He thought about Junger's two options. He ran a Google search for a Bahamian island he had read about in a magazine. The photos were inspiring. Beaches lined with palms, iridescent water lapping at white sand. He imagined himself with a piña colada, watching the sun set. Then he tried to imagine the rest. He would be alone. He couldn't spend all day reading. He would quickly tire of the resort life. As much as he hated to admit it, Junger was right. A vacation would be a black hole. He needed a reason to get out of bed in the morning.

He closed the window and saw that he had two new e-mail messages. The first message was from his mother. She had sent it a few hours before. The subject header was blank, but that wasn't surprising. Elena had never quite figured out her computer.

She had written:

Thomas, I had a thought today that you can take or leave. You said that Priya is not coming back, but you didn't mention divorce. If that was an oversight, then ignore this. If not, then consider: What if you followed her to India? What if you gave your marriage one last chance? I know it sounds crazy. She might reject you. You might come home a failure. But at least then you would have the closure I didn't hear in your voice. There is always time to build a career. Love is a much rarer thing. Your father probably wouldn't agree with me, but it doesn't matter. It was good to see you yesterday.

Thomas was astonished. The idea of following Priya had never occurred to him, and now that it did, he saw in it only potential for disaster. True, Priya hadn't mentioned divorce, but her exit had been so premeditated, so cold and devoid of feeling, that he had never questioned her intent. Indeed, it was that very sense of finality that had driven him into Tera's arms. And therein lay another problem. Even if by some chance Priya had meant to leave the door open to reconciliation, there was no way to undo what he had done since her departure. He had been unfaithful. Tera was asleep in their bed. His broken vows were an indictment against him.

He closed his mother's message and opened the next one. It was from Andrew Porter.

Hey buddy, I gotta say I'm still smarting from being so thrashed by you, but I deserve it. I always know I'm going to lose, but I keep coming back anyway. Listen, I hope you don't mind, but I called a friend of mine at CASE (she's the deputy director of operations), and I asked her whether they had any openings for legal interns right now. You'll never guess what she said. A slot just opened up in their Bombay office. Crazy, huh? Don't know if you'd be interested, what with Priya being there, but I thought I'd pass it along. Let me know if you want to explore this.

Thomas sat back in his chair and stared out the window at the night sky, aglow with light pollution.
Bombay!
The idea was absurd. Clayton's pro bono program was as wide as the world. Europe, South America, China, Africa—his options were unlimited. And even if he wanted to work with CASE, the organization had offices in fourteen countries. He might have to wait, but something would open up.
Bombay!
It was the last place on earth he should search for peace.

He left the laptop open and wandered through the house. He scoured the refrigerator for nothing in particular; he reorganized the wine rack by region; he watched a few minutes of a John Wayne rerun on television. After a while, he collapsed in the chair by the window and picked up the box of memories again.

He sifted through the photographs, finding the one he was looking for near the bottom. He had trimmed it to fit in his wallet. The photograph showed Priya at the entrance to Fellows Garden. They had met there many times during his summer at Cambridge, always in secret, away from her father. Priya smiled back at him across the years, her eyes sparkling with mischief and delight. Love had surprised them both. It had been such a weighty thing. Was there actually a chance that they could find it again?

Sometime during the wee hours of the morning, Thomas finally conceded. He stopped his pacing and walked slowly toward the stairs, compelled by a purpose he couldn't begin to understand. He returned to the computer and sent two e-mails.

To Porter he wrote, “
Set up a meeting. I'm free any time.
”

And to Max Junger: “
I've decided to take your advice. I'm thinking about going to India to work with CASE. I hope Mark Blake and Wharton are satisfied.
”

He entered the bedroom and looked at Tera asleep on Priya's side of the bed. Her back was to him, and her hair had fallen over her face. This was the last time, he decided. It wasn't her fault. She had been kind to him. But the charade had gone on long enough. He would tell her in the morning. She would be angry, but she would survive. He, on the other hand, was ready to commit himself. India? The fight against modern slavery? Facing his wife again?