The Light of Hidden Flowers (30 page)

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

On the seventh day of January, Katherine and I boarded a jumbo jet to New Delhi, India. I had flown to Newark to “pick her up.” At the airport to see us off were Joe and Lucy, Olivia and Jake. There were concentric circles of hugs: Joe hugging Katherine, then me. Olivia following suit. Then Jake. I pivoted and held open my arms, without awareness that in front of me was Lucy. Her hug was tight but not warm: perhaps a warning; perhaps she was scared. It didn’t matter. What I’d worried about in the beginning—me, trying to graft myself onto a family that was already rooted—was no longer a fear. There were no promises in life. A four-year-old’s mother could be clobbered by an HVAC truck. A woman could spend two decades of her life without a love affair. Fathers died. Men went to war and were killed every day. Some came home changed. Marriages dissolved over much less. And girls around the world were disenfranchised in a variety of ways—lovely Katherine, so overlooked; the society of girls in India, so undervalued.

On the plane, Katherine and I buckled up. I made sure she had everything she needed: a blanket, a pillow, a bottle of water. On her lap was her Kindle, her iPod, her stuffed walrus.

Katherine looked at me expectantly. “Can I ask you a favor?”

“Anything,” I said.

“Would you call me Kate instead of Katherine? I’d kind of like to leave Katherine behind.”

“Of course,” I said, curious, but not wanting to pry.

She offered anyway. “My mom’s kind of famous for calling me Katherine. You know, three syllables Katherine:
Kath-er-ine!
Usually when she’s disappointed in me.”

I hadn’t expected Kate to be so forthcoming, and all of a sudden I wondered if I was equipped to be her adult chaperone. “Why on earth would your mother be disappointed in you?” I asked.

She shrugged. “My mom was hoping I’d be the ‘it’ girl.” Kate held back for a second. It seemed she was gauging my reaction. I nodded. “You know the one?” she went on. “The girl with the perfect 2400 on her SATs, homecoming queen, athlete of the year, all while volunteering at the homeless shelter every weekend?”

“Yeah,” I said. “We had one of those girls. It wasn’t me, clearly!”

Kate smiled. I wondered if she felt a kindred spirit in me.

“Your mom loves you to death, though,” I said. “I can see that.”

“Sometimes I feel bad for her,” Kate said. “She likes things ‘just so.’ She used to pose us for Christmas photos, and I have to admit, when Dad was in his dress uniform and the three of us kids were little, we looked pretty good. Then Dad lost a leg and I started to freak out over everything. All of a sudden, none of us were ‘just so.’ I think that’s why she took a job. To get away from us.”

I looked straight at her and willed my face to appear normal, even though I wanted to crumble. “No one would run away from you, Kate,” I said. “Your mom might have some of her own stuff she’s dealing with, you know?”

The flight attendant made her announcements, and soon we were in the air.

“Is this the time where we say good night?” Kate asked. Prior to the trip, we had talked on the phone and I had gone over with her my airplane routine, my fear of flying, the precision with which I had to follow my steps: Xanax, relaxation tape, breathing, counting.

“I feel like I’m okay,” I said. “Maybe I’ll skip the Xanax this time.”

“Don’t worry about me,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

I looked at her and grinned. Just being next to her, knowing in some sense she was mine—at least for this trip—filled me with pride. I knew I was only borrowing her. Joe and I might not work out; I knew that, too. But for the next six weeks, I had the opportunity to be someone to Kate. Plenty of people had been someone to me throughout my life—my father, of course. Jenny, Paul, now Reina. But could I honestly claim that I have ever been
someone
to someone else? I took the responsibility seriously. Kate was in my hands, and I wasn’t going to let her down.

I skipped the Xanax but went through my other steps. Before I knew it, we were soaring through the sky. Over the next five hours, Kate and I played cards, we raced each other on the Sudoku puzzle in the airplane magazine, I read a book off her Kindle—
A Long Walk to Water
, a book she had chosen because of its topical relevance—and she read the grant proposal that had secured us money through the One by One Foundation. We brainstormed names for the school, imagined what the uniforms would look like, talked about the curriculum. We ate dinner, we ate candy bars, we listened to music from her iPod, and then we discussed the schoolwork she was required to complete during her absence. Science and math were fairly self-explanatory: a few pages of math problems each day, a ton of worksheets to complete for science. History was basically reading, as was classics. The big project was for English.

“I need to write my own ‘hero’s journey,’” Kate said. “Ever heard of it?”

“Joseph Campbell,” I said. “The heroic monomyth.” I’d studied the hero’s journey in middle school, reading
The Hobbit
and
The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe
.

“Exactly!” she said. “Though it shouldn’t be too hard. Surviving middle school is kind of like going on a hero’s journey.”

“True,” I said. “And so is this trip. We’re definitely crossing the threshold into the unknown.”

Kate dug into her backpack and produced a visual representation of the monomyth. We looked at it together, traced the challenges and temptations that followed stepping from the mundane known into the unknown. How death and rebirth were the result of falling into the abyss. How transformation and atonement led the hero back home.

“Is it okay if I say I hope our adventure isn’t quite
that
eventful?” Kate said.

“If it is, your parents will murder me.”

With hope for an adventure, we fell fast asleep.

The next morning we landed in New Delhi, one of the largest cities in the world, with over twenty million residents. Our plan was to settle in, to adjust to the time difference, to let the jet lag slough from us gradually. After a night of rest, we’d take the train to the Taj Mahal before heading in the direction of the orphanage. Kate had been a real trouper on this long flight, but now she was showing signs of wear. I couldn’t forget that she was still a young girl in need of a good night’s rest. And most likely, she missed her parents.

Once we checked into the Marriott, Kate called her mother first, and then her father. When she finished with Joe, she handed me the phone. I watched her wipe her eyes and walk into the bathroom. She was jet-lagged, tired. She was homesick. This might be harder than I thought.

“She’s amazing,” I said.

“I can’t believe she’s there, with you,” Joe said. “This is a bit surreal.”

“We’re fine,” I assured him. “She’s tired, but all’s well.”

When Kate emerged from the bathroom, I asked her if she wanted to get into jammies and order room service. She brightened at this idea. “I don’t know why I’m sad,” she said. “I’m having so much fun.”

“Oh, honey,” I said. “It’s okay to be sad. You’re away from home. Please don’t feel that you need to be cheery for me.” I handed her a tissue. “Besides,” I said, “this is good material for your monomyth. ‘The road of trials’—the challenges you must undergo.”

Kate blew her nose, then nodded. “Good point! All heroes must fail some of the tests they’re given.”

“Not that you’ve ever failed a test for real.”

“I’m doubting you ever have, either.”

“Not an actual test,” I conceded. “But then again, I’ve never been on a hero’s journey before.”

“Same,” she said.

And then we crawled into bed and ordered room service—cheeseburgers and fries and Coke—as we flipped through the channels on the television. When we came across
The Wizard of Oz
in Hindi, we knew we had found the perfect hero’s journey to lull us to sleep. So long as we got there before the part with the flying monkeys.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

The next morning, Kate and I peeled our way through the breakfast buffet in the dining room of the hotel restaurant. Kate peeled an orange and banana. I peeled us two hard-boiled eggs. Peeling was our mantra. To peel away any contaminant. Just to be safe. While we were at it, we peeled at our own pollutants, picking at the parts that were tainted by suffering and struggle.

“My dad said you were supersmart in high school,” Kate said.

“Like you,” I said, skimming my knife under the skin of a mango.

“It’s just that”—she halted, then picked it up again—“schoolwork is easier than the other stuff.” Kate picked at the poison that covered her skin. The arsenic of bullies.

I nodded, slid a few pieces of mango onto Kate’s plate. “That’s how I felt, too,” I admitted. “Schoolwork I understood, but the social scene . . . well, that was like . . .”

We looked at each other, shrugged.

“Translating Greek!” Kate said, and then we both laughed and said “Nah” because translating Greek really wasn’t that hard.

“More like starring in the lead role of the school musical,” I said.

“Exactly,” Kate agreed. “That would be torture.”

“But then I met your dad,” I said, “and he was like my good luck charm. He thought it was cool to get good grades
and
star in the school musical
and
play sports.”

“I heard,” Kate said. “He was the ‘all-around guy.’”

“There wasn’t much he couldn’t do,” I admitted.

“My mom was hoping I’d be the ‘all-around girl,’ but alas . . . no.” Kate’s eyes drooped, as if she had swallowed a vial of shame. A toxin of a different source. From inside her own house. As confusing as a seemingly fresh glass of water infected with an invisible disease. How was Kate to process the notion that her mother wished her to be someone different?

“You have a giant heart, Kate,” I said. “I wouldn’t trade an ounce of it to be more ‘something.’ You have an amazing amount to offer. It’s still a little buried. Same as me. We just need to peel back our layers.” I lifted an orange peel for illustration.

She rolled her eyes at the heavy-handedness of the metaphor, but I could see she was with me.

“That’s what’s so cool about your dad,” I said. “He sees under everyone’s peel. He once gave me this Neruda poem that talked about ‘the light of hidden flowers.’ It’s easy to believe in people when they have it all together on the outside. It’s way cooler to believe in them when what they have is still a little buried.”

“Speaking of good luck charms,” Kate said. “We kind of need a talisman. If our hero’s journey is going to be complete. To aid us in our quest.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “Let’s keep our eyes out.”

After breakfast, we returned to our hotel room and went through our checklist, made sure our backpacks were securely zipped and locked, that our money and passports were safely strapped inside the waists of our shirts.

“We have to be on the defensive,” I said. “Some of the street people are very persistent.”

Once we were dressed in clothes that covered us from head to toe and rendered us as inconspicuous as possible, I checked the zippers on Kate’s backpack. I dug into the small zipper of my own backpack to make sure I had ready money so that I wouldn’t have to open my money belt in public. As I jammed my fingers into the small space, I felt something hard. I made tweezers with my fingers and pulled it out. It was the charm of St. Brigid! The patron saint of travelers! The charm Dad had given me that I was so sure I had lost. “Kate, you’re never going to believe this,” I said.

“What?”

“We found our talisman!” I held it out for her to see and told her about it, how my father had given the charm to me on my birthday with the hopes that I would take a trip, how I’d thought it was lost for good.

“It’s our talisman!” she said.

I reached around her neck and secured the clasp.

“You’re letting me wear it?” she asked, reaching up to feel it.

“I’m letting you
have
it,” I said. “If you want it. I’d love for you to have it.”

Kate lunged into my arms.

We were ready for our next step.

We bought train tickets to Agra and after a 220-kilometer ride, we exited the rails and headed toward the Taj Mahal. Immediately we were accosted by souvenir vendors, unofficial guides offering us private tours, and children selling trinkets. I took Kate by the arm and pushed through them. Protecting Kate was my priority. I had assured Joe and Lucy of my ability to do so, but now that we were here, I questioned whether I would have the skill to get us through these aggressive crowds. “No, thank you! We’re all set!” I pushed us forward.

We made it to the guards with the guns, who frisked us and checked our bags. After the guards passed us along, I reclaimed my grip on Kate’s wrist, a hold she tried to twist from every so often, trying to point at something, but that was
not
going to happen. Not on my watch. With my sunglasses perched atop my head and my money belt strapped tightly around my waist, I squeezed Kate’s wrist with one hand and the brochure in the other and read: “The Taj Mahal is the finest example of Mughal architecture, combining the style of the Persians, the Indians, the Islamic, and the Turkish.”

“Missy!” Kate said.

“Hold on,” I told her. “Listen to this. Construction began in 1632, and over the course of its building, over twenty thousand laborers worked on it.”

Kate tugged at my sleeve. “Missy! You’re missing it.”

I looked up and saw that we had passed through the archway, and what stood in front of us—our first peek at the Taj’s dome—was otherworldly. White marble so pristine its purity seemed ethereal. The sun beamed gloriously on the unspoiled palace. Just then, a clump of clouds shrouded the brightness, and in its shade, the Taj mellowed to a dreamy pink.

Kate and I stared at each other in wonder.

“It says here that the white marble often looks as though it’s changing colors, depending on how the sunlight and moonlight hit it,” I said.

“Kind of like getting away from school,” Kate said. “Everything looks different in a new light.”

I gawked at her. “You
are
just fourteen, right?” I joked, nudging her, this little mystic who seemed to have it all figured out. The fact that she almost let a group of middle school girls derail her cut me in half.

“I’m totally serious,” she said. “Just getting some distance—being here—I already feel totally more equipped to go back, you know?”

I knew we were only a few days into this trip and that it would take time for Kate to find the strength and confidence to weather the storms of her teenage life, but this—getting some distance, gaining perspective—was as good a first step as I could hope for.

The next day we boarded the train back to New Delhi. The minute we stepped from the train there, we were crowded by beggars. I pulled Kate through the train station and when I saw her eyes focused on a group of children—a few of whom were deformed or missing limbs—I pulled her close to me and told her she needed to be prepared, that she was about to see more sadness than she had in her lifetime. I had already told her about the multitude of orphan children, many of whom had been abducted by crime rings and mutilated so that they would appear needier when sent out to beg. An entire society of orphan children spent their lifetimes—barely out of infancy—working for others, every day, long hours, for very little food and wage. Though I had already told Kate about the horrors of India, I watched her face grow pale. She could not look away from the band of children.

I took Kate’s arm and led her inside the train station and sat her on a bench. I pulled out our bottle of water and gave her a swig.

“These kids,” she said, grasping for words, her solemn eyes glued to mine. “Their problems . . .” She covered her face and began to cry. “I feel so stupid. So selfish, complaining about . . .”

I hugged her. “Kate, no,” I said. “You cannot make comparisons. Each person has her own struggles. Your struggles were . . .
are
. . . real. Don’t minimize your feelings just because we’re staring at kids worse off.”

“Still. There has never been a day of my life when I haven’t had my basic needs met: food, clothing, shelter, love. I’ve never been too hot or too cold. I’ve never been forced to do anything against my will.” Her shoulders bobbed and she cried some more.

I planted a kiss on her forehead. “Oh, honey, thank God that’s true. And yes, it is true. We’re First World girls with First World problems. But we’re here now to help these Third World children with their Third World problems. We’re going to make a difference, Kate.”

“I want to help them,” Kate pleaded. “We have to help them.”

“We will,” I said. “And meanwhile, we can definitely say we’ve ‘crossed the threshold’ on our hero’s journey, right?”

“Good point!” Kate said, wiping her eyes. “We have definitely left the known limits of our world and are venturing in a realm where rules and limits are not known.” She pulled out her journal and poured her heart into three pages of notes.

A half hour later, I was greeted by a vision far more beautiful than the Taj Mahal. In front of me was Reina—golden-ray-of-sunshine Reina in cheerfully red capris and a skintight T-shirt, not the least bit concerned with looking conspicuous. And the fact was, Reina blended in anywhere; she belonged everywhere. She didn’t need to cover up to meld with the local culture; her attitude did it for her.

“That’s Reina,” I whispered to Kate.

“Wow,” said Kate.

We stood and I wrapped Reina in a giant hug, then stepped aside. “And this,” I announced with ceremony, “is Kate Santelli.”

“There ought’a be a law,” Reina said, hugging Kate, “against being this gorgeous.”

Kate beamed.

There were gleeful moments of hugging and touching and appreciating each other, incandescent smiles filled with joy, admiration for haircuts and clothing choices, backpacks and jewelry. Just as Reina was complimenting the matching friendship bracelets Kate and I had made on the flight over, Kate pulled out a third one and handed it to her.

“We made one for you, too.”

Reina lit up, rolling it over her wrist, and then walked to a street vendor and purchased three colas.