Traveling with Spirits (8 page)

  Monkeys screech from behind. Noises are different from the Delhi racket, yet just as loud. People arriving at dawn, chatting, chatting. Road construction outside the clinic. Frightening shrieks from orange and brown rhesus monkeys. Scarier are the plump black scorpions she saw snuggled in the doorjamb of her bedroom the first morning. Nothing lethal up here, Sister Catherine joked, except the automobile drivers. Then she mentioned her aunt who died of snake bite or scorpion sting in Bihar last summer. “We are lucky not to live in Bihar.”

  Monica accepts the new experiences one by one, offering up her confusion and fear. Praying for courage, patience, ingenuity, transcendence, whatever’s available. She’d hoped to move nearer to God, strengthening her newly recovered faith up here in the foothills. She thought the closeness would come from actual grace, useful actions. She didn’t anticipate needing divine reassurance about scorpions, monkeys and snakes.

  Pausing now, she savors the fragrance of the stately deodar cedars. Nothing like this scent in Minnesota, simultaneously sharp and sweet. Gazing down toward the streets of Moorty, she anticipates where she can spend her half day there next week. Father Freitas says there’s a new internet shop offering email connections.

  The patients are friendly and grateful. Also tolerant of, sometimes pleasurably amused by, her fragmented Hindi. The reserved but cordial Sister Catherine is a gem. Almost as radiant as Father Freitas.

  Just a few more feet to lunch. She wonders about Dr. Walsh’s conventional self-importance and Mrs. Dr. Walsh’s subservience. Did he drive away the Kerala doctors with his arrogance? And when will the mysterious Dr. Sanchez appear?

  The aroma of chilies and coriander drifts from the small kitchen. As she pulls open the creaking wooden door, she spots a letter from Beata on the white rattan foyer table. No, don’t get distracted. Focus on collegial lunch and talking about the out-patient clinic. The letter will be tonight’s reward.

  They’re all gathered at the table—Sister Catherine, Father Freitas, the Walshes.

  Quickening her pace, she slips into a chair next to Father.

  “Ah, finally, Dr. Murphy,” Kevin appraises her.

  How does Brigid cope with his superciliousness? And the others? Maybe she can talk with Father Freitas. A complicated relationship: can Father be friend, boss as well as confessor?

  “Good afternoon, everyone,” she stifles an apology. A minute or two late at most.

  “I believe it’s Mrs. Walsh’s turn to lead us in grace,” Kevin instructs.

  All bow their heads.

  Monica concentrates on Brigid’s sweet-sharp Irish intonation.

  “Bless us, oh Lord, and these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive. Amen.”

  Cook appears with a steaming, fragrant platter.

  Father Freitas leans over. “Cook heard that you enjoy vegetable
jalfreze
, so he has been working all morning on our feast. We owe you our gratitude.”

  “Lovely,” she bows to the small man in the plaid shirt and lunghi. “Thank you …” she wants to say,
Matthew
, but people call him
Cook
. A respectful term like
Sister, Father, Doctor
? Maybe she’ll get the nerve to say
Matthew
in a few weeks. “Thank you, Cook.”

  As the platter approaches, Monica notices how many vegetables in her special dish are carrots. She doesn’t remember carrots in
jalfreze
. She didn’t expect carrots in India at all. They seem such an American vegetable. She loves the sweet crunchiness of raw carrots, the way they sate hunger in the late afternoon. She hates, has always hated since childhood, cooked carrots. A miserable, soggy contrast to the refreshing raw vegetable. It’s puerile; still she also loathes cooked turnips, rutabagas, parsnips. Perhaps it’s a family gene, passed down from generations thinned out on roots wrestled from Irish soil. At home, she pushes aside the carrots, but her childish loathing is trivial in impoverished India. She gulps water after each dose.

  “Thirsty, Dr. Murphy?” Kevin Walsh teases. “
Jalfreze
usually is a spicy dish.”

  Monica gazes at the crucifix hanging on the yellow wall behind him. “The lunch is delicious,” she speaks loudly for surely Matthew is listening behind the kitchen door.

  “Perhaps Monica is simply getting accustomed to our altitude,” Father Freitas intervenes. “When I first arrived, I drank gallons of water.”

  She nods, pleased to find only two carrots left.

  “Dr. Sanchez returned late this morning,” Sister Catherine reports.

  Monica has noticed the canny nun deftly shifting topics several times this week. They’ve all developed strategies for coping with Dr. Walsh.

  “Why is he not at lunch?” Brigid asks anxiously. “Is he unwell?”

  “No, no illness,” reassures Father Freitas. “ ‘Rattled,’ so he said. Exhausted from the journey. He’ll join us for supper.”

  Kevin Walsh clears his throat and begins a report about fundraising for the new hospital wing. “I’m contemplating another U.S. ‘money safari,’ that is if I can be spared, that is if Dr. Murphy can acclimate soon enough, that is—”

  “Dr. Murphy is up to speed already,” Father Freitas declares.

  “Oh, she is indispensable,” Sister Catherine agrees.

  “No one is indispensable;” Kevin Walsh retorts, “we are each God’s servant.”

  Moorty Chapel is a plain, wooden structure located in front of the refectory, sheltered by a stand of deodars. Monica appreciates the modest furnishings: an altar, twelve pews, no vestibule. In February, the church is chillier than most buildings. Shivering, she yanks the heavy wooden door, which, unlike all the other mission doors, isn’t weather warped. The low whoosh of the opening is almost reverent. As her eyes adjust to the dim light, filtering through simple stained glass windows, she realizes she’s not alone.

  A tall man in the second pew.

  Shaking his black curly hair, he looks upward, then rests his head on the forward bench. Dr. Sanchez.

  Sliding silently into the last pew, she gazes at the tabernacle. Making a visit to the Blessed Sacrament, as Sister Henrietta urged her fourth graders to do every week. She’s always felt closer to God sitting alone in a pew. Since returning to the Church, she’s discovered Catholic traditions of meditation, not unlike Buddhist practices.

  Dr. Sanchez doesn’t seem very serene up there, rocking back and forth, sighing heavily. He begins thumping his fist on the bench.

*****

  The compact white clinic has a reception area, two examination rooms, a pharmacy desk and an equipment pantry. She hears the low chatter of patients and checks her watch. No, she’s not late. Sister Catherine explained people arrive hours early.

  She meets the young charge nurse, Sister Melba, and nods at the people waiting on folding chairs. A pregnant woman; an old man with an arm oddly bandaged; an adolescent boy and his striking mother. The pair hold her attention—the kid’s anxiety; the mother’s calm, almost an ennui. Ten or twelve other patients in back rows.

  Panic rises. At Lake Clinic, she entered a side door after lunch. Patients were escorted to her, already weighed and measured and partially screened. Here she’s conscious of people waiting, endless lines of them.

  “Just a moment, Sister Melba, and I’ll be ready for the first patient.” She retreats to the tiny exam room, washes her hands, reminds herself she can only see one person at a time and says a quick prayer for guidance. All the afflictions of India are not her responsibility. She’ll do better if she concentrates on the person before her than if she frets about those on folding chairs.

  Sister Eleanor stations herself in the corner to help with translation. Monica likes the young nun, but looks forward to the time when she knows enough Hindi to see patients alone.

  The sun gradually drops lower and lower in the trees. It’s several hours before she can see the boy and his mother.

  The mother greets her in English, “Good afternoon, Doctor.”

  He follows shyly, “Good afternoon,
Doctorji
.”

  “I am Sudha Badami, a teacher at Walkerton School. This is Vikram, one of our finest students.”

  The boy drops his gaze.

  “Thank you, Sister Eleanor,” Monica smiles. “We won’t need translation for this patient. Would you like to take a break?”

  The nun regards her warily.

  “Really, Sister, we’ll be fine. Why not have a cup of tea and stretch your legs?”

  Sister Eleanor smiles hesitantly and withdraws.

  “You speak no Hindi?” observes the teacher.

  “
Thora Sa
. I am learning.” Monica is embarrassed by the teacher’s challenge. “How can I help Vikram?”

  “Something is occurring in his eyes.” She tilts her pretty dark face, concerned.

  Monica notices that Sudha Badami is her age, mid-thirties—a poised woman wearing an elegant green silk sari. Saris make Indian women look older, more grown up. In comparison, Monica feels bleakly utilitarian in her brown skirt and black sweater.

  “Vikram, do you speak much English?”

  He glances uncertainly at his teacher.

  “He speaks more than he lets on. But if I may be permitted to translate, you both might be more comfortable.”

  Edgy lady. Focus on the patient.

  “How long have your eyes been red?” Monica asks.

  “He has suffered four days only.”

  Monica examines the boy’s shy eyes. “Vikram, you have conjunctivitis. Do you know what that is?”

  “No,
Doctorji.
”

  “There’s an infection in the membrane over your eyeballs and inside the lids.”

  Sudha Badami translates.

  Vikram’s face grows solemn.

  “We can treat this relatively easily if you take the medicine as directed.”

  She notices a flicker of reprieve in Vikram’s rich brown irises. She loves how examining eyes reveals patient’s deeper feelings.

  Sudha Badami sits back in relief.

  She hands him a scrip. “You can show this to Sister Melba in reception and she will direct you to the pharmacy desk.”

  Sudha Badami watches.

  “And Vikram, please keep your hands away from your eyes. Conjunctivitis spreads easily and before long your entire class will be ill.”

  “Yes,” the teacher complains. “We have much eye disease here. It’s the wind.”

  “It’s hygiene,” Monica says automatically. Too brusque; she needs a tea break.

  “Families do their best. Sometimes wells function. Sometimes not,” her voice simmers. “Indians wash more than any other people on earth. Here the dust, the dust…”

  “Indeed,” Monica’s voice softens. “I don’t mean to impugn. Still, there are certain precautions, even in this challenging climate…”

  Sudha Badami studies her. “I believe you are the perfect person to present a lecture about hygiene for my afternoon students. Do you ever get away from the hospital?”

  She pictures her half day, exploring Moorty and visiting the internet shop. However, she came here to serve. Wasn’t she discussing preventive programs this very morning? The invitation is a blessing.

  “I might come on Tuesday.” She leans against the wall, yielding to exhaustion.

  The teacher stares. “The cross hanging from your pretty silver chain, does that mark you as a member of the clergy?”

  She shakes her head. “I am a doctor.”

  “But the cross. Do you preach?”

  Is she baiting her? Is she confused? “Many Catholics wear crosses.”

  “So when you come to the school, you will not speak about religion?”

  How annoying can she get? First the woman challenges her Hindi, then usurps her half day leave, then accuses her of indoctrination. Monica waits for an apology.

  The teacher seems to be expecting an answer.

  Vikram sits tight and still.

  Too tired and busy for games, she speaks deliberately. “If I were to come to your school, I would speak as a physician on the requested topic. I believe you were interested in hygiene as preventive medicine.”

  Vikram shifts to the corner chair, his eyes alert. If he doesn’t understand every word, he’s catching the tone.

  The woman lowers her eyebrows, looking satisfied. “Tuesday it is. I will organize the room for 2 p.m. if that is acceptable.”

  “Perfectly,” Monica suppresses her irritation. “What age are the students?”

  “Between fourteen and eighteen. Why do you ask?”

  “They have had HIV/AIDS education?”

  “We do what we can. Be my guest, Doctor. As you know, the virus is spreading fiercely in this country.”

  She makes notes.

  “Vikram will come to escort you.”

  “Yes,” Vikram smiles for the first time. An attractive boy. “Tuesday,
Doctorji
.”

  Her heart lifts. One patient at a time. Vikram, not Sudha Badami, is the patient.