Chitra Divakaruni - One Amazing Thing

For Mrs. Pritchett, one item in Jiang’s story had shone out like a lighthouse in a storm. It was the bakery-restaurant, the site of a slim, pencil-skirted girl’s first forbidden date with a boy whose shirt-sleeves were rolled up with holiday abandon. Flurys , she whispered to herself in the mirror, a delicious name that melted in one’s mouth like the lightest of pastries. Was it large and cool and old-fashioned, set inside a high-ceilinged colonial building with pillars and chandeliers, protected from the harsh sun by a striped awning? Or had it been modernized into gleaming metallic sleekness? She hoped not. If she got to India, she would somehow make it to Flurys and offer them her services. If they demurred, she would give a demonstration on the spot, baking for them-she’d carry the ingredients in her suitcase-her irresistible white chocolate-macadamia nut cookies.

CAMERON GAVE THEM A TERSE UPDATE ON THE SITUATION. HE didn’t sugarcoat the facts-he wasn’t that kind of man: the phones were still nonoperational; the water was rising, though very slowly; the air quality seemed safe; there was food for one more meal. People looked glum at his assessment, but Uma noted they didn’t press around him as they had earlier, bumping into one another like befuddled moths, demanding to know what would happen. When she asked if they wanted to continue with the storytelling, they returned to their chairs at once.

“Who would like to be next?” Uma asked.

“First I must tell you one more thing,” Jiang said, surprising them again. I left this out because I was embarrassed. But without it the story is not true.

“The first night on the ship, Mr. Chan and I lay on the floor. I could not stand to think of him as husband . Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Mohit’s face. That made me angry with myself. Mohit was not thinking of me, I was sure.

“The Lu family was on the bed, on the other side of curtain. We could hear them. Mr. Chan put his hand on me. I pushed him away. I felt like I would vomit. If he forces me, I thought, I will jump from the deck tomorrow.

“But he did not force. He put his hand on my head and stroked my hair. I realized he knew I had a boyfriend! Most Chinese men would not have married a girl who had a boyfriend. I started to cry. He did not say anything, not even tell me to stop. He just stroked my hair. For seven-eight nights it was like that.

“One night I kissed him. I thought, He is so kind to me, I must give him something. What else did I have to give? So even though I did not love him, we made love. I thought, It could be worse. It is possible to live without love with a gentle man.

“Finally we came to Chinatown. He could not be a dentist, even though he longed for it. Instead, we were working day and night in the grocery. Also, I was sick with the pregnancy. Some days we were so tired, we had no strength to say even one word to each other. There was no time to think of silly things, moon and roses and romance.

“Four years went like that. One night he was very sick. The flu had killed many people that winter, so I was worried. I gave him medicine. Put a wet cloth on his forehead. He was burning up, babbling nonsense. Suddenly he went stiff. His eyes rolled back. I thought, He’s dying. My insides turned cold. Don’t die, don’t die, I houted. I love you.

“Maybe he heard me. His eyes cleared for a moment. He lifted a hand. I clutched it. But he was trying to pull it away. Then I understood. He wanted to stroke my hair. I bent over so he could do it. Who knows why, next day his fever was less. In a week he was better.

“Later I thought I had said those words out of fear. Or because that is what they say in movies to dying men. But I had not been afraid. I knew I could take care of the store and the children, with or without a husband. And movies are foolish fancies. Then I knew I really loved him.

“When had it happened? Looking back, I could not point to one special time and say, There! That’s what is amazing. We can change completely and not recognize it. We think terrible events have made us into stone. But love slips in like a chisel-and suddenly it is an ax, breaking us into pieces from the inside.”

NO ONE SPOKE FOR A WHILE. MAYBE THEY WERE TRYING TO DECIDE if they had ever been similarly ambushed by love. Maybe they were wondering if they had it in themselves to be as honest as Jiang. Then Lily said, “I’ll go next.”

“Would you wait a bit, sweetheart?” Cameron said. The endearment sounded natural in his mouth, though it was the first time Uma had heard him use it. Sweet my heart, they would have said in Chaucer’s time, an expression that bound the speaker and the listener together, in one body. “We’ll need your story more after a while.”

Lily, who under normal circumstances would not have suffered anyone to call her sweetheart, flashed him a gamine smile. “What makes you think it’s that kind of story?” But she nodded yes. Her eyebrow ring must have fallen off during the tussle. Without it, she looked more vulnerable. But at the same time, as she leaned over to stroke her grandmother’s shoulder, she was more grown up. Then she said, her voice fearful, “Gramma’s arm is hot.”

When Cameron checked Jiang’s arm, his lips thinned into a line. He gave her two aspirin, though they all knew she really needed antibiotics. “Let’s get started with the story,” he said brusquely.

Mrs. Pritchett straightened her shoulders and drew in her breath. But before she could volunteer, Mr. Pritchett said, very quickly, “I would like to go now.”

In the boy’s earliest memories, his mother is always asleep, like Sleeping Beauty in the picture book she bought for him at a garage sale. And even though the boy loves his mother-loves her so much that sometimes he feels breathless, as when he’s trying to blow up a stiff, new balloon-already he realizes she isn’t that kind of pretty. She sleeps stretched out on the nubbly salt-and-pepper couch with a phone book wedged under the corner where one of its legs used to be. Her own legs are propped up on the frayed armrest because they tend to swell by the end of her shift, and when the boy is sure she’s fast asleep he sometimes presses down on her shinbone with a finger and watches the dip that forms. Her mouth is slightly open, its corners pulled down as though she’s just been handed a surprise of the less-than-pleasant variety. She snores softly. The sound comforts the boy, partly because it’s soothing and familiar, and partly because it’s so much better than those moments when she stops breathing and he’s afraid she’s died and left him alone.

Sometimes there’s a bottle of Hires Root Beer on the floor beside her outflung arm. Sometimes (but rarely, because this is before the days of serious drinking that are waiting around the corner) there’s a bottle of real beer, which smells and tastes so awful that he wonders why anyone would want it. But mostly there’s nothing, because by the time his mother gets home from Mickey’s Diner and Take Out she’s too tired even to make it to the fridge. She shucks off the uniform right there, by the couch-she has only two uniforms, and the washateria is too far away and too expensive for more than one trip per week. Besides, she doesn’t like doing laundry and waits until the last possible moment, a fact that will earn him certain unpleasant nicknames when he begins kindergarten next year. It’s his job to pick up the brown pants and tunic and hang them over the back of the couch. If the night is warm, she sleeps in her underwear. If not, he fetches her nightie for her. She wrestles with the worn cotton shift, which is getting tight under the arms. (His mother is involved in a long-drawn-out, losing battle with her weight.) Once it’s on, she thanks him with a hug for being her sweet boy. At those moments, her voice never fails to send a thrill through him. It’s the one part of his mother that’s more beautiful than Sleeping Beauty. Sometimes on the weekends, when she’s in a good mood, she sings to him about a lady with green sleeves, a song that she says is hundreds of years old. And, best of all, she reads to him.