Beyond Molasses Creek (26 page)

Yes, my hands are softer now after some time away from the quarry. I reach for the door and enter the lovely hotel with its arches and flowers and statues on tables of gods of comfort. I feel as if I never want to leave this place. It has become my home. My American mother is already here, already in this place. I feel her in the Shambhala Garden and in the pool built of bricks and tiles, in the birds and in the flowers. I hear her heartbeat as I lay in the soft bed, a bed all my own, one I do not have to share. I see her face in the mirror after bathing—
her eyes, are they blue as mine?
I wonder.

I think of the reddened eyes of Amaa. They once were bright but now drag and wrinkle. She is scorched by weather and years of living with rocks and with Buba. A deep longing grows fast as a shoot of bamboo and strikes my breast.
Amaa
. My heart is aching. I miss Amaa. I know that what she and Buba did was not right, but I do know that she has loved me. Now that I'm gone, she has nothing at all.

Perhaps I do not need to find this other mother. Perhaps I need to rescue Amaa and let her come live with me here at the Shangri-La Hotel forever. The son of the cruel man will have taken over the business. They will indebt my parents for my running away.

Perhaps I should simply go home. Back to the quarry.

I sit at the little desk in my room and look at myself in the mirror. There is a woman on the television telling about the Indra Jatra festival coming soon, eight days of dancing and feasting by Hindus and Buddhists in honor of Lord Indra, the god of rain. But I do not feel like celebrating. I put my head in my hands and feel the table under my elbows, the hair in my fingers. The stillness of my soul. I am in an in-between land. Not here or there.

I think of taking a nap now that I am clean. I lay my head down on the soft pillow and let my mind wander. I see darkness and then glowing blue light. I am remembering a fortune-teller on the side of the road today as I was walking from the US Embassy. She was an old woman, dressed in a yellow sari, clouds in her eyes. She grabbed my hand as I walked past her and I pulled away, fearful. But I saw that she was blind and I stopped, and the woman said to me, “You have come a long way, child. You are searching and have found yourself. If you shout to the sky, do the birds not scatter? Shake the dust from your feet and you will journey over the mountain.” I looked up and saw the snow-covered mountains behind her where Amaa used to point and say I was born.
Up on the mountains with the gods
, she would say. I think of the Book of the Gods, of the images ingrained in my mind. Of the stone angels and rivers and faces. I have memorized them all and yet the image I retrace now is of her.

I rest in peace, but just as I drift away there is a loud noise. It frightens me and I sit up quickly. There is a light on the telephone on the table in my room. Someone is calling me. Who would call but Mr. Assai with news of my mother? No one else knows I am here. My skin crawls. I put my finger to my mouth and bite hard so I won't have to scream. Slowly I lift the telephone to my ear and somewhere between my heartbeats I whisper, “Yes? Namaste.”

FIFTY-THREE
The Call

Mount Pleasant
Ally

I
GO TO GRAB THE PHONE AND SEE THE STOVE OUT OF
the corner of my eye. I have to do a double take because I thought I saw something. I think I was hoping to see Vesey again, making okra and rice. But there's nothing but my sadness lingering like a ghost. I am half a woman now, depleted, soul gone off to who knows where. I pick up the receiver on the gazillionth ring expecting to hear Margaret maybe. I'm surprised to hear a man's voice. It's a voice with an accent and I feel as if I'm having déjà vu. I can taste certain things and smell certain things I once did. The man says, “Is this Ms. Alicia Green of Mount Pleasant, South Carolina?”

Oh great. I run in here for this? What's he going to sell me, a website in India or maybe—I go to hang up but something stops me. “Yes, it is.” I'm cold and ornery.

“Good, very good. This is Theodore Assai, consulate officer with the US Embassy in Nepal.”

Nepal.

“I—I'm following up on the case of your missing daughter, madam.”

I cannot speak. My mouth is wide open, but nothing is coming out. The blood is draining from my head and my limbs and I feel my way to Daddy's La-Z-Boy chair. I sit carefully and hold my breath. I cannot take any more bad news. God, if you are real, please, what do you have against me? Am I that terrible of a person? Am I some sort of Job?

“I—okay.” It's all I can muster.

“Ms. Green, I realize what you must have gone through many years ago with the loss of your daughter, and I want to convey my sincere sympathies.”

Sympathies. His sympathies. I lay my head back and push the lever down. I recline and roll over into a fetal position, the phone resting on the side of my head. It's happening. I have waited my whole life for this day. She's dead. Daddy was right. He wasn't lying about the heaven thing.

“Madam, are you still there?”

“Yes, yes, I'm here.”

“Well, what I would like to tell you is that we may have some evidence in that case. Some . . . Well, would you mind, if you don't mind, do you happen to remember what your daughter was wearing at the time of her abduction?”

My mind is shattering, a glass windshield in a rainstorm. I'm having to go back there. I don't want to go back. I've only just lost Vesey. I've only just lost my father. I don't want to go back, and yet there it is, as fresh as if it happened just yesterday.

I have just been to the Garden of Dreams at the Kaiser Mahal palace, billed as an “oasis of peace.” I carry my child and show her the beautiful fountain pool, the stunning architecture, the statues of elephants in the courtyard. She likes the elephants and reaches out to them. There are two matching statues of a mama and baby elephant together. I let her touch the baby as I say the word “baby.” She is happy with this and smiles. I am beginning to feel peaceful. I've realized in Nepal that with Vesey, ours is an untouchable love. It never will be. I am beginning to accept it.

I am sitting in the Malla Café nearby. I have just drawn the place, the waiters, the tourists, the umbrellas on the tables, the baby, and I am pleased with myself. I am so engrossed in my drawing. I tuck the sketchbook down into the bassinet, and I look at my child for the very last time. She is sleeping and I don't want to wake her. What I wouldn't give to have just picked her up. She is sleeping and has the sweetest little baby-doll face and hands. I smile and turn away, reaching for the menu. I am scanning it and turn when I hear a commotion. There are glasses breaking to the right of me. I watch as a waiter bends down to pick it all up and when I turn back around, something is wrong. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a very blank spot where the baby just was. There's nothing there. She's vanished.

I moan a little and whisper hoarsely into the phone, “It was a dress. My mother made it. It was tiny and frilly with stripes all over.”

“Yes, yes, and was there anything else, I might ask?” The man's voice sounds almost apologetic. I remember these embassy men. I remember them all with their kind voices and useless questions.

“A diaper for sure and a hat, I think. A little cotton hat. White. Very simple. I was afraid she'd catch cold if she didn't have a hat. My mother had ingrained it in me, and I promised my mother I'd keep one on her. I . . . had to promise.”

I hear a deep intake of air on the other side, and I feel my face grimace and tears start to stream from my eyes straight down into my ear. Daddy's note keeps going through my head:

Ally, sweetness, I've seen her. She's here.
Time for you to rest now.

Dad

Daddy, where are you? I need you now. I'm getting the call. After all these years, I'm getting the dreaded call.

“Ma'am, thank you for cooperating. I realize this has been difficult for you, but I wanted to be sure.”

“Sure . . . of what?” I am near death, I think.

“Well, madam, I wonder if you're sitting down? If you would like to sit down.”

I clench my jaws and then relax, my body humming. “Sir, nothing good ever came from a woman sitting down. I'll have you know I am lying down. Is that good enough? She's dead, isn't she?

She's dead? Get this over with. Please.”

“I apologize, but that is not why I am calling you.”

I stop. “It's not?”

“No, madam. I—” The man seems to be choking. He clears his throat. “I am very happy to tell you that I believe we have found your daughter. And your daughter is alive and well.”

I hear blood humming in my ears now. Sparks are flying in the back of my head and I worry I may be having a stroke.

“What did you say?” I ask.

“I said we have your daughter, and she is very well. Very much alive.”

“Constance? Are you talking about my Constance Green, missing thirty-eight years now?”

“I believe I am. Yes. Although she goes by another name now.”

“Another name? What is it?”

“Sunila.”

“Sunila?” The word drips from my tongue. I sit up slowly and my face tears apart from side to side. “Sunila? She's my Constance?
My
baby? Are you sure? My child is alive?”

“It appears so, yes.”

I begin to wail, a long, loud wail that comes up from years of darkness. I cannot stop. I cannot move forward. I am stuck in this longest cry that begins in my toes and explodes through me.

“My baby? My baby! Oh my, no, no, this can't be happening!” I know I must be scaring him to death, but I just can't stop. When the screaming dies down, I put the phone to my ear again. I am beginning to hyperventilate and feel faint. I may disappear at any moment. “Will she . . . is she there? Right now?”

“No, madam. Not at the moment. Sorry. But if you would like, I will contact her and we can arrange another phone call . . . together?”

I stand up and run to the kitchen drawer. I pull out a piece of paper and pen and with shaky hands say, “Yes, yes, I—may I have your number, just in case—”

“Yes, it is Theodore Assai, US Embassy, zero, nine nine seven . . .” I scribble in illegible handwriting on one of Daddy's prescription pads. I picture them falling from heaven all over me. And when I get off the phone, I am laughing and in some sort of strange euphoria that is oddly similar to grief. It's that same out-of-body experience. My spirit is still soaring up through the clouds, but there is blood rushing through my face, hot and wild. I'm sweating.

I run outside and look for somebody, anybody! I look left and right and run around the statues like a madwoman, then out onto the dock toward Vesey's house, but he's no longer there. So I lift my hands into the air and yell up to the sky, “Yaaaaaaaaa-hoooooooo, she's alive, she's alive, Vesey! Daddy, my daughter's alive! You hear that? They found her they found her they found her they found her oh God oh God oh God oh God . . .” A flock of birds scatters above me and changes direction as I fall to my knees. I cry like a baby then, and mouth just running I start praising a God I've never really known. I tell him how wonderful he is, how wonderful
this
is, how amazing, and how I can't believe it, and for the first time, even though Daddy and Mama aren't here and even though Vesey isn't here, for the first time ever in my life, I know that they are with me, and I feel loved. Wrapped up, snuggled up, warmed up, lift-you-up-in-the-air kind of happy—truly, wholly loved.

FIFTY-FOUR
Awakening

Kathmandu, Nepal
Sunila

“Y
ES
? N
AMASTE
.”

“Hello, Sunila?”

“Mr. Assai?”

“Oh, good, you are there. I was worried something had happened to you on your walk. I was afraid I . . . Sorry. Are you awake?”

“Of course. Yes.”

“Good. May I come over to your hotel and meet with you? I know it is late.”

I pause and swallow. I whisper, “Did you contact her?”

“Oh, Sunila.” Mr. Assai's voice cracks and I hear him trying to get the words out. I fear she may be dead by the sound of his voice and my heart sinks. My shoulders turn to stone.

“Sunila, I did indeed contact her. We have spoken, this woman and I, and I am quite positive that she is the same woman who lost her child at the Malla Café in 1972.”

I open my mouth and a tiny noise escapes. I take a deep breath and try to remain calm.

“I realize it is late,” says Mr. Assai, “but with the time difference, this . . . this would be a good time to call.”

“You would like to call her again?” I ask carefully. “Tonight?”

“Yes. I would like to. She is expecting us. She is overcome with joy, as you can imagine. She thought that you were dead, Sunila. She . . . she is quite overcome. I feel it is important to go ahead and speak with her as soon as possible.”

Tears are streaming down my face and I feel strangely as if I have been lifted up off the bed and am floating somewhere near the ceiling. I want to reach through the phone and kiss Mr. Assai. I want to wrap my arms around him. “Oh, thank you, Mr. Assai. I do not know how to thank you. I—thank you.”

“I am heading out the door now. Why don't you get yourself ready? I will be there in twenty minutes?”

“Twenty minutes.” I look at myself in the mirror beside the television and see nothing but a glowing blur of a figure. “Yes. I shall be ready. I—yes.” I break into a smile and then feel as if nothing could wipe it away. These feelings are truly foreign in me, as foreign as my own American mother. Yet at the same time, it's as if I've only just entered my skin. As if this is the feeling I have been destined. This must be what a child of the gods feels like every moment of her life.

Mr. Assai is wearing the same brown suit he had on earlier, but his tie is pulled down and his top buttons undone. His head is shiny and radiant, though his face appears much more tired than the first day I met him. He breaks into a smile when I open the door and he pulls his hand out from behind him. He is holding wild orchids and curly bamboo for good luck. I take the flowers from him and nod. “Thank you.” I have never had flowers given to me. Is it possible for a person to be as happy as I am now? It is almost frightening.