The Story Hour (3 page)

She looked up at the clock again and then picked up her cell phone. Peter answered on the first ring. “Hi.”

“Hey. It's me. Listen, something has come up at work. I don't think I'll be able to do dinner. I'm sorry.”

He hadn't said a word and yet it came through, his acute disappointment. It flattered her, this unspoken need. Then he said, “Is this just an excuse? To get out of having dinner with me? Because you don't have to do that . . .”

“No. Really. We got a late admission. I'm really bummed at not seeing you. Honest.”

“Well, why don't you just come by the house, then? When you get done. I'll whip up an omelet or something. Or we can go out for a late meal.”

Her stomach lurched at the thought of visiting Peter at his home. She shook her head violently to rid herself of the temptation that was already forming. “Not a good idea, Peter. How about if I call you in an hour or so? And we can decide where to meet?”

She heard the chuckle, just the tiniest, faintest sound, heard the triumphant note in it, heard that he had caught what she had not said: I don't trust myself to be alone with you. It irritated her, that sound, but it also thrilled her, made the connection between them suddenly feel electric and charged. “I'll call you,” she repeated. “Okay?”

“Okay, babe,” he said, and there it was again, the feeling that he was taking charge of her, possessing her, reeling her in.

She ignored the screaming in her head that told her it was a mistake to see Peter Weiss, even in a public place, as she ran her fingers through her hair and prepared to exit her office. She caught the elevator to the seventh floor of the hospital and walked down the hallway past the nurses' station until she got to Room 745. The door was open—patients on a suicide watch were not allowed to shut their doors. She glanced in to see a hunched woman sitting on the bed, hugging her knees, staring at the blank white wall. Even though the woman faced away from the door, Maggie felt a stirring of pity. She had treated immigrant women before—the loneliness, the sheer isolation of their lives, was hard to fathom. Though the fact that this woman supposedly spoke English was a good start.

Maggie flipped through the chart, gleaning the basic facts. Taken to the ER at ten-fifteen p.m. last night. Was found slumped on the living room floor by her husband. Had to have her stomach pumped and was treated for a large bruise on her forehead. The MRI for an internal head bleed had come back negative. The woman was a thirty-two-year-old immigrant from India. Her name was Lakshmi Patil and she was employed at her husband's restaurant. Reason for suicide attempt unknown. Patient was generally uncooperative.

Maggie Bose drew in a breath, knocked perfunctorily on the open door, and let herself into the dark room.

I
DOES NOT TURN
around when I hear my name being called. They come into the room every two-three minutes, asking this-question and that-question. One wanting to know if I needs anything, another offer me water, one says he's Dr. So-and-so and can he look into my eyes and do this-thing and that-thing. All of them have the questions, all of them want to know why I do such a wicked thing, though nobody except my husband say to me what I do is wicked. At this hospital, everyone is nice and kindly, everyone's face look sad and sorry, like they all wanting to being my friend. But I is knowing the God-truth: I having no friends. Bobby is the only friend I had and now he is lost to the California. No, in this hospital, in this country, in this life, I's alone.

“Mrs. Patil?” the voice say. “I'm Dr. Bose. Maggie Bose. May I talk with you for a minute?” I know it is rudeness but I don't turn around. I am liking looking at this wall, which look like myself from the inside—empty and blank. A big piece of nothing.

“Mrs. Patil,” the voice say again, and before I can think, this person come sit on the side of bed next to me. I am so surprise my head jerk up, and then I get the shock when I see her black face. I has never been so near to the black person before and I am so ascare I think I will do soo-soo in my gown. I push on my hands to move back in the bed, so my back resting on the wall.

The black's eyes grow big. “I'm sorry, my dear,” she say. “I didn't mean to startle you.” She get up from the bed and pulls the chair and sits on it facing me. I looks at the ceiling, floor, bed, her knees, everything but to look into that face again. My husband always say to never talk to the black. They liar and cheat, he say. Will rob cash register if you look away for one minute only. One time some college boys from place of Africa come to our restaurant, he give them such rude service, they complain. He look at them straight and say, “Then don't come back.”

I knows they send this black woman here to make me ascare, to punish me from trying the suicide. I don't know what punishment for—for trying or for fail. “Please,” I say. “I never do suicide again. Please, beg your pardon.”

“Mrs. Patil, I'm not here to judge you. I'm here to help you. But I can't do that if you don't speak to me.”

I remember what the husband say: The black will smile sweet like a baby before he stab you and steal your moneys. That is why she is talking about helping me and all. But I has no moneys. “I has no moneys,” I say to her. “You go to the next room and try that patient.”

“Nobody's talking about money,” she say. “We treat people without insurance all the time. Please don't worry about this.”

This woman making me angry. She think we are charity case. “We have insurance,” I say. “My husband buy. We are having our own store and restaurant.”

“Good. That's good. So that's something we don't have to worry about, right?” Her voice get tight, like we on merry-go-round wheel and she wanting to get off. “So now that we've settled that, why don't you tell me a bit about how you've ended up here?”

I am not allowing me to hear her words. This is a game I play when I'm not liking people. Instead of hearing their words, I allows myself to hear the silence between each word they say. Or, this is what I hear: Whawhawhawha. This is what she sound like to me.

She ask something but I make myself hear only the Whawhawhawha. Her voice sound so funny to me, I begins to feel tickle with laughing. After few minute, she get up. Now I listens to what she say. “Okay, Mrs. Patil. Have it your way. I just want you to know, though, that by state law, we can't discharge you until we're sure you're not a danger to yourself. I hope you have a good weekend in here. I'll see you on Monday.”

She move toward the door and now I feel ashame for how I acting. She put her hand on handle and then she turn around. “By the way, we have something in common. My husband is from India also.”

“Liar,” I say, and then I look at ceiling, so she won't know the word came from me.

But she hear me. She come back inside the room and stand in front of the bed. “I beg your pardon?” And when I say nothing, say, “Did you call me a liar?”

I say nothing, but I'm thinking, Indian man never marry the black. I will tell the husband this story when he coming to visit me tomorrow. I wants to look at her face, but I ascare. So I looks at her hand, which wearing silver bracelet and is pushing, pushing, inside her purse. She pull piece of paper out and take one-two step near me. “This is my husband,” she say. “He teaches math at the university here. His name is Sudhir Bose. I'm sure he's shopped at your grocery store.”

I keeps my head straight, but my eyes moving on their own to look at photo. I see Indian man, tall and handsome, dressed in a kurta-pajama and sitting on sofa, his face smiling. But then my heart go thap-thap because I see his arm is around a black lady who is wearing long gold earrings and red lipstick. She is also having big smile. I feel like I do when I looks at
Stardust
magazine and see photos of Abhishek and Aishwarya or Shahrukh Khan and Gauri—happy and empty at same time. My husband only look with love at a woman one time. That woman not me.

“Where your mister from?” I hear my voice saying. “Bombay city?”

“No, he's from Calcutta. We were there just two years ago, to see his parents.”

My eyes grow big. They allow her inside Calcutta? And his parents know he marry the black?

“Where're you from? How long have you been in Burnham?”

“We not live in Burnham. We live in Chesterfield,” I say. “Far from here. That is where husband business is. We live in the apartment above store.”

She sit back on chair. I look at her knee, her feet, her fingers. But not the face. “Chesterfield, huh? I think I may have been in your store once, with Sudhir. He usually does the grocery shopping, since he's the cook in the family. Usually, he buys his masalas from the Indian store in Cedarville, where we live.”

This lady make me crazy. First she insult me by telling me her husband does the shopping at another store, our competitioner. Then she tell me her husband does the cooking. Why the man must cook if his wife not dead?

I decide to lock my mouth shuts, but then I again hearing my voice say, “That man who owns grocery store in Cedarville is big fat crook. All extra-extra he charges. You want to waste hard-earn money, you shop there.” I have heard my husband say exact same thing to customer.

She smile. I can tell from her voice. “I'll make sure Sudhir knows this, Lakshmi.”

How she know my name? How? I feel panicky, like pot of water boiling inside my head. I turn to look at door, to make sure it still open and I can run out, and in looking doing this, my eyes land on her face.

Her face look so soft and welcome. Her face dark as the mud but her eyes light brown, like honey, same-to-same color as Ma's eyes, and Shilpa's. And kind and gentle-like, and suddenly I thinks of Mithai the elephant. How he used to get same look in her eyes when I sing to him.

The black lady's smile gets bigger and now she shows her teeth, white and strong, as if she grow up chewing the sugarcane that grow in my village. “Hello,” she say softly, as if she just is walking in, and I feels shy. I look down at floor.

“What're you thinking, Lakshmi?” she ask, and I say, “About Mithai. How you look like him.”

Her eyebrow goes up and she look at me crooked. “Mithai? I look like a sweetmeat?”

And now I'm knowing for sure she marry to Indian man because she know mithai is name for the sweets we sell in the store. She think I calling her a halva and this is so funny to me that a laughing comes out of my mouth, like a bit of soo-soo that leaks down there sometimes, and then she shake her head, and that make me laugh more. I try to stop but nothing happen. I have not eat since yesterday and now I am filling my stomach with my own laughing.

Then I see she is worry, so I stop. “Mithai is my elephant,” I explain. “Not sweetmeat. In my village.”

She still look worry, like she want to take my fever. “You own an elephant?”

I nods. “He belong to landlord of my village. But Menon sahib hire me to take care of him. Mithai is my best friend.”

She look at me close, like she interest. “Where is your village?” she ask.

I tell her and she nod but I know she never know where to find my village. Maybe she will ask her husband if it near to Calcutta. I feel good that she will talk to him about me tonight. “It not near Calcutta,” I say. “Very far away from Calcutta.”

“I see.”

“I know where the Calcutta is,” I say. “I was first student in my class until eight standard. And I very good at maths. Landlord also hire me to do accounts for his shop.” I not know why I being show-off to this black lady, but it is as if the husband's liquor I drink the day before today is still burn on my tongue.

She pull on her lip. “Why did you stop being the first student in your class in eighth grade?” she wanting to know.

The shame and sad hit me so hard, it make tears to my eyes. God is punishing me for being prideful a minute ago. “I leaf my schooling in eight standard.”

“Why?”

“My mother become sick.”

She take deep breath. She look far away from me for a minute and then she say, “That's funny. My mom fell very ill when I was young also.”

I feel interest. “How is she now?”

“Dead. She's been dead for many years now.”

I feel like to cry. “My ma is also dead.” And again my mind go to Shilpa. How she cry as we watch our mother burn on the funeral pyre. How I made promise to always give my protection to her. How I kept my promise.

We sit chup-chap for one or two minutes and then she get up from the chair. “I'm glad we chatted today, Lakshmi,” she say quietly. “I'll be back on Monday to see you. You take care of yourself, you hear?”

I angry with myself for feeling alonely as she make ready to leaf my room. Monday not coming until Saturday and Sunday has passed.

She stand over me near the bed and then she touch my hair lightly. “Nothing is worth killing yourself over, Lakshmi,” she whisper. “Every problem has a solution. I want you to remember that, okay?”

I feel as if it is the priest at the temple giving me a blessing. “Okay,” I say.

“You promise?”

“Promise,” I say, but I don't know what I promising. My heart feel soft, like it do when I was a young child and still had a mother.

“Good,” she say, and then, like broken promise, she gone out of the room.

T
HE SHAKING STARTED
as soon as Maggie exited the room and stood in the hallway writing notes in the medical chart. She steadied her hand on the edge of the binder as she wrote, stopping to smile at the two nurses who walked past. “Patient responsive,” she wrote. “Eager to talk. Command of English and language comprehension passable. Need SEVA to do a home evaluation.” SEVA was the regional social service group that helped Asian immigrants who were victims of domestic abuse. She had sat on its board when the group formed seven years ago.