Beyond Molasses Creek (19 page)

I put my hands over my eyes and begin shaking although it is warm and dry now. The rains have stopped. “This will require a lot of work and time, and even more patience. So I will need your total cooperation, Ms. Kunari. I'll need you to stay here at the Shangri-La until I come up with further evidence. We will, of course, take care of your payments here. You will not incur any debt. May I count on your total cooperation, please?”

“Yes, of course,” I say. But inside, I feel strange, as if I have walked off and left a shell of myself sitting here. As if the ground is shaking and I am desperate to hold on. I have always been untouchable. I am Sunila Kunari, daughter of Amaa and Buba, master carver of stone. I am a Nepalese worker. I was born in debt. I am a member of the lowest caste in Nepal, a Dalit. I am not worthy to be sitting here in this hotel café with paradise within my reach. I am not worthy to have this man telling me that I may not be who I've always thought I was but am instead an American citizen. I do not know what this means.

Part of me wants to scream for joy. It feels right in my bones. But in many ways I need to run and run and run, all the way back to Amaa. I want to tell her that I forgive her. I want to lie in her arms again and listen to her singing. I want to go back and chisel the stones that have never brought me freedom.

I want to thank the gods for what is happening at this moment. But I am too confused to be sad or to be happy. I simply
am
right now. Torn.

“Thank you,” I say to Mr. Assai.

“We will get to the bottom of this, Ms. Kunari. Mark my words. Now please, let us have some food and then I'll need to take this book back with me. May I do that? May I take it with me?”

I grab at my chest and stare at Mr. Assai. It is more than I can handle. I am unable to fully trust this man, yet I must trust him. It is too late not to trust him. I realize I have come too far, crossed some invisible line, and now I must continue traveling this journey, for to turn back now would mean the death of me.

I am different now.

Somehow, I am different than before.

THIRTY-NINE
Steak au Poivre in Paris

Mount Pleasant
Ally

I
T'S VERY DIFFERENT NOW, MY ARTWORK
. I
T HAS TAKEN
on a sophisticated, exotic air it never had before. With the silk beneath my fingers and the smell of hot dye in my nostrils, I feel whole, as if my entire life has been to get to this moment, to making this batik, this scene of the river with indigos and blues and greens and bright sun yellows. When I look back on my life now, for just an instant, it all seems to make sense. When I am doing this artwork and engulfed in this creation, my life seems to have had a purpose—to get me here—the good, the bad, the people, the loss, all of it. Though I can't understand why I need to be here exactly. It's just a feeling.

Maybe I'm breathing in too many fumes. That's it. I go and open the window to let some fresh air blow through. Daddy would be pleased to see me in this room, making my way. I wish with all my heart he could see me now. He would say something like,
Ally, girl, just look at you. I always knew you'd come back, always knew you'd come to your senses. I hoped you'd move on with your life one day and realize you don't have to go traipsing all over the world anymore to find happiness. That she's been here with you, all along. There is a time and a place for everything under the sun, sweetheart. There is a time to search and a time to give up searching. It's time that you stay home
.

I stop. I put my brush down on the table beside my dyes. I should not have allowed myself to imagine Daddy's voice. It's too soon. I feel as if he might come to the door any minute now and want to see what I'm working on.

There is a scratch at the door. I go to open it and find Kat at my feet, eyes bright and purring. I smile at the little booger.

“I don't mean to shut you out, Kat. Come here, you old boy.” I bend down carefully and lift him up. The hip is so much better that tomorrow I'm going to walk that new bridge. I am. The cat and I go find Daddy's La-Z-Boy to sit in. We settle and I stroke his soft fur. He purrs and my soul just rumbles. I lift him up to me and rub my face on his side. I kiss the top of his head and rub his ears just the way Daddy used to do. Kat leans toward me as tears drop down my face, and he licks my cheeks with his dry scratchy tongue. It makes me cry all the more, having this little cat love me. I've never done anything to deserve his affection, yet here he is giving it to me freely. He's lonely too; I understand that.

“It's you and me, Kat. Just you and me. Don't run off now, all right?” Another pang of sadness strikes my gut as I imagine Daddy here after Mama died, and me, flying off to anywhere-but-here. I left him all alone, didn't I? Was that selfish? Did he understand? “Thank you for being Daddy's friend,” I tell the cat. “I imagine you were just what the doctor ordered by the time you set up house here. You were a stray, weren't you? Little skinny, scrawny thing. Look at you now. Are you some sort of angel cat? Hmmm? Someone to comfort the afflicted?”

The words coming out of my mouth only bring more grief.
Where are you, Daddy? Where are those messages, the real ones you promised you'd send me when you got to heaven? What else did you tell me that was a flat-out lie? That my heart would mend after losing Constance? That I could get on with life and just forget about her? That I could forget I'd had my only child stolen from me and go on to live a normal, productive life?

“You were wrong, Daddy,” I say, looking out the window at the sunlight glistening on water. “I know you meant well, but you were so wrong about so many things.”

I lay my head back and close my eyes. I remember how wrong Daddy was about Robert Friedberg. Daddy believed him when he said he would marry me. He believed him like a fool.

I remember the night I told Robert about my pregnancy. It was 1972. We were having dinner by candlelight in my little Atlanta apartment. I had made his favorite, steak au poivre and pommes frites, although the potatoes were not fried but roasted. A pilot and stewardess need to stay fit.

I could barely eat a bite, but I watched him ravage his plate and tell me about the little café in Paris where he had the very best steak au poivre, and he looked at me, took my hand, and said, “We'll go there someday. I can't wait to take you to Paris.” After a while, Robert noticed I wasn't eating and asked if I wasn't feeling well.

I came right out and said it then, no pussyfooting around.

“I'm pregnant.”

Robert put his fork and knife down. He looked up at me. He bit his lip.

“Are you sure?”

I began sniffling and he knew I was serious.

“Oh boy,” he said. He wiped his face with his hand. His eyes darted back and forth across the table. “How far along are you?”

“About ten weeks.”

“Ten weeks?! And you waited till now to tell me? Is it . . . Whose is it? Is it mine?”

“Of course it's yours, Robert.” He was quiet for a minute, soaking it all in.

“Well, what are you going to do?”

I blinked at him. “What am I going to do? What am I going to do? I—I don't know. Why don't you tell me what you want to do?”

In the pit of me, I had dreamed of this moment, when I would tell Robert the news of our baby, and he would know that I was his forever and would confess his love for me finally. He would come round and sweep me off my feet and hug me hard and tell me how happy he was, how I should just forget the airline, that he would take care of me now. That I didn't have to worry about anything. That he would be the happiest man alive if I would just agree to be Mrs. Friedberg.

Instead of getting down on one knee, Robert got up and walked to the other side of the room. It grew cold around me. After a few minutes of silence, he said, “I know this place, in Paris, where a girl can go and . . . and not have to worry about having some quack without a license . . .”

My heart sank. In that moment, seeing Robert there, all the love I'd mustered for him fell down by my feet and I knew I was in this thing alone. I had already decided to have the baby. I had decided to love this child on my own. I would have to go home to Charleston with my tail between my legs and live with Mama and Daddy so I could raise this baby, but I was going to do it. I was going to give up the so-called glamorous life of travel and make my way back home.

Seeing me silent, Robert came to me and put his hands on my shoulders. “It'll be all right, kid. Don't worry. We just can't let the airline know or . . . or you'll be out of a job, right? And me, well, I doubt they'd look too friendly on me getting you into this . . . position.”

Into this position
. I wanted him out of my apartment. I wanted him out of my face. Any attraction I'd had to him before was gone and to look at him made me sick. “I'm not feeling well, Robert. You understand. How about we call it a night. I'll see you at work tomorrow?”

Robert studied me and faltered. “Oh, okay. I, um . . . so you're all right . . . with this? You're . . . We'll make plans to get you to Paris in a week or two. Just leave everything to me, all right? I know what I'm doing here. It'll be the best thing for everyone. And then we'll go to that little café and get that steak au poivre I was telling you about. It really is to die for.”

“That sounds swell,” I said, dismissing him. I smiled and pushed him out the door. He kissed me on the lips before he left and, honest as a heart attack, I felt nothing for him. Nothing at all. It was like kissing a brick wall.

FORTY
The In-between

Kathmandu, Nepal
Sunila

“I'
M AFRAID WE'VE RUN UP AGAINST A BIT OF A BRICK
wall,” says Mr. Assai. He is holding a file and tapping it.

“Please,” I say, “sit down.” There is a balcony outside my hotel room at the Shangri-La. Over the rail I can see the gardens and hear the water trickling in fountains. There are tourists to Nepal, Americans, sitting at a table below us eating lunch, and I want to run to them and ask them if they know my mother.

“I've spoken with the police about you. We have confirmed our records. In December of 1972, a woman by the name of Alicia Green worked with the embassy, with Kathmandu police, and with the Nepali military to try and find her baby. Flyers were put up all over town near the Malla Café where the alleged kidnapping took place. She and her father—apparently he came here after the event—offered a reward of one hundred thousand Nepali rupees to anyone who had any information that would lead to the return of the child.”

I straighten my back and shift in my seat. This is painful to my ears. I am picturing this woman and her father frantic to find her child. “And did anyone come forward?” I ask.

“No,” says Mr. Assai. “No one came forward. The money was never paid out. Nothing ever turned up. And I need to be honest with you. In the beginning of the search, the police suspected the mother was lying. So did embassy officials. You see, Americans are supposed to register themselves and their children with the US Embassy upon arrival for many reasons, for safety, mostly, but she did not. She admitted she was here in Kathmandu, running away from something in the US.”

“Running from what, exactly?”

Mr. Assai opens the file and flips through pages. He stops on one and looks at me before he reads. “Ms. Green claims to have come to Nepal for rest and to get away. When asked what she was getting away from, she replied, ‘A broken heart.' Then she erupted into tears.” Mr. Assai closes the file. “Apparently, this woman was troubled when she came here. Perhaps the father of the child had left her, abandoned her? There isn't much else in the file.”

“So the brick wall—is this the brick wall you mentioned?”

Mr. Assai sets the folder on a little table between us. He leans forward and clasps his hands.

“Actually, Ms. Kunari, the issue I'm finding is . . . Well, without speaking to your mother and father here in Kathmandu, without getting a confession from them, I'm afraid everything is just hearsay. There are no facts. Surely your story has merit and it certainly seems to be true, but I'm afraid that without some facts, everything in this case is coincidental. I certainly cannot try to contact Ms. Green in South Carolina—”

“Wait. You have found where she lives? You have found her?”

Mr. Assai's mouth falls open and he does not speak. Then he nods and says, “Yes, I have located this woman.”

“And she's still alive?” I ask, hopeful, heart racing.

“Yes. She is. Though her father is recently deceased. The one who offered the money for your return.”

“Deceased,” I repeat. I breathe in deeply and picture his ashes swirling up into the air, being released into the Baghmati River to flow along the water until transported to the holy Ganges.

I stand and look out over the trees. The sky is dark and bringing more rains. I do not want to cause more trouble for Amaa. I do not want her arrested. I am torn. I clutch my sari and feel my heart beating.

“Ms. Kunari, I must tell you that I have looked over this woman's sketchbook. I believe that she did indeed have her child stolen from a café in Kathmandu. I believe this woman has suffered immeasurable loss. As have you.” I turn to look at him and a tear escapes. “We need to gather some evidence, Ms. Kunari. We must now talk to your parents and get the truth from them. If your mother loves you, as you say she does, she will do this for you. Only then will justice be done.”

I know what he is saying is correct. I excuse myself, leaving him on the balcony, and walk into the hotel room. I splash water on my face in the bathroom and look at myself in the mirror. My cheeks are fuller. They have been feeding me well here. I do not look like Amaa or Buba. I look like her, the woman in the drawings. She, too, looked at herself in the mirror. Only she drew what she saw. She saw sadness and loneliness, confusion. I see it in my own eyes. Perhaps she saw me in the mirror the way that I see her in mine.