“Hey, sleepy. We’re here.”
Olivia jolted awake to discover Chris nudging her and coaxing her awake. “Oh, my God! I fell asleep on the way to the market?”
“It’s the jet lag. You’re worn out. Aren’t you glad I brought you instead of a stranger in a rickshaw?”
Was she glad? Her mind reeled at the thought of how horribly she could have been taken advantage of by someone. She’d been unconscious. Totally out. And completely vulnerable. Wouldn’t Scott relish this turn of events if he knew? Wow. Smart. She shuddered at the thought and placed a hand on Chris’s arm. “Absolutely. Thank you so much.”
He glanced at her hand resting on him and beamed. “Anytime! I mean it.”
She blinked and shook her head, a bit disoriented from dozing off, then climbed out of the car. She admired her new sandals as they slapped along the concrete parking lot, trying not to think about the little shiver contact with Chris had prompted.
“What brought you to India?” Chris asked.
The question caught her off-guard. Chris had kept things light, and she preferred it that way. She didn’t want to share. She didn’t even want to think about it. The question cracked open the mental closet she’d stuffed all the awful memories into. Opening it and examining them, reliving them, sharing them with anyone—but most especially this guy she barely knew—would only make her miserable. Just considering his question opened the door enough that all the painful memories and past issues she didn’t want to think about oozed out, beckoning her to remember. Her dad’s drunken rages, her mother’s teary face, the struggle to escape it all. The hours of labor, a swaddled baby, a distant husband. She shook her head and frowned, slamming the door firmly closed again.
“Oh, you know.” She left it at that, realizing her vague response didn’t answer his question but hoping he’d let it go.
He didn’t. “I don’t know. That’s why I asked. You teach college classes, not young kids. I’m just curious what prompted the decision.”
The closet creaked open again, all the mess she’d crammed into it threatening to spill out. Why was he so nosy? Her heart hammered a bit. “Why did you come?”
He walked quietly for a moment before answering. “Some things happened. I wanted to get away and put some distance between me and some people. But I’ve also always wanted to travel and do something good in the world and this offered a way to do both.”
That wasn’t what she expected to hear. “That’s pretty similar to what brought me here. The distance part, anyway.”
“Have any siblings?” He seemed to understand that was as much as she wished to share. Maybe his emotional intelligence was higher than she’d first thought.
“No siblings.” Thank goodness. Her mom had struggled plenty trying to raise one child on her own. She couldn’t imagine the stress more children would have added. Besides, that would have been someone else her dad would have hurt. She shuddered at the thought and wondered how she would have reacted, watching him treat a younger sibling as he’d abused her. She liked to think she would have intervened, or at least tried to, as Mom had tried to protect her. When he really got going, though, sometimes nothing could calm him down or deflect his rage. She remembered lying in her bed one night, woken yet again by his screaming fury, accusing her mom of cheating on him. She’d curled on her side, stomach churning, terrified for her mother, listening for the smacking sounds that indicated he’d moved on from yelling to hitting—and hoping he wouldn’t come after her when he tired of beating Mom. That night, though, after a vicious verbal beatdown, after screaming at Mom what a terrible wife and mother she was, Mom cried and sobbed and pleaded, begging him to be quiet “before you wake Livvy.” Then she gave up and simply started agreeing with him. “Yes, you’re right. You deserve so much better than me,” Mom had said. And it must have worked. She never heard smacking or any thudding sounds to indicate he had grabbed her by the arms and was shaking her as he dug his nails into her arms and bashed her against walls and counters. Olivia knew the feel of those angry fingers digging into skin.
She’d relaxed when the screaming stopped and no hitting began. But then she replayed over and over her mother agreeing with him, lying and telling him he was right, that she was terrible and he deserved better. And that made Olivia’s blood boil. She knew her mom was a good person and a good mom. At the time she hadn’t even been old enough to understand the allegation of cheating but knew for a fact now how outlandish that claim was—he’d left them both at home with no car, wouldn’t give her access to the checking account, and Mom always took care of her. She’d never once seen her mom anywhere near another man. When and how she could possibly have cheated on him only a drunken mind could have imagined. None of it was ever true. Olivia had no idea what demons her father wrestled with that resulted in such misery and fury. But she knew neither her mother nor she had ever done anything to add fuel to the fire. They simply suffered the burning rage. Thinking back, she realized she wouldn’t have blamed her mom for seeking love and kindness from another man. Mom deserved better. She deserved love. But Olivia also knew Mom had never received the love she deserved—or ever sought it. After leaving her father, Mom devoted her life to raising Olivia in a safe, male-free environment.
Walking along beside her, Chris shared a bit more. “I don’t have any siblings either. Anyway, I finished my degree, and some things happened that I kind of wanted to get away from. I figured before I started working on a career, I’d take a hiatus and go see the world. But once I got here, I stopped. The kids are just . . . wow. They blow me away. Have you traveled at all before?”
She glanced sideways at him. That was the second mention of “things happened” and she wondered if he wanted her to ask for details. She didn’t want to share her own, but he seemed to be opening the door. As for where had she traveled? Almost nowhere. She’d never been on a vacation at all until her honeymoon. Mom hadn’t been able to afford such a luxury. She and Scott had taken a few vacations, but never anything big. Work didn’t allow for lengthy time off and synching their leave never quite worked out. Even when they did manage it, it wasn’t far or for long. They’d always been saving for something or dealing with an unexpected expense and would decide they couldn’t spare the funds. Funny, she had more money after their divorce than she’d had while married. Not that it would last forever. Eventually she would want her own place again. She would have to get a full-time job. These were the things she didn’t want to worry about right now. Couldn’t Chris see that? Why was he relentlessly badgering her with personal questions?
Thankfully, the bookstore offered an out. “Here we are,” she said.
“Sure enough.” He opened the door for her. “I know you can open doors yourself. Not implying you’re weak. I open doors for all friends, male or female. I am a gender-neutral door opener.”
In spite of herself, she laughed. “Thank you. I appreciate it.” What had someone said to him that left him feeling defensive about being polite? It hadn’t even occurred to her to be offended. But someone in his past must have been. She opened her mouth to ask, considered how she’d just shut him out, and closed it again. Not fair to pry when she refused to share.
She stepped inside the bookstore and inhaled deeply, the scent of shelf after shelf of books relaxing her like nothing else in the world.
The shopkeeper called out to them and tapped his watch. Chris held up a hand and nodded.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“He wants to close soon. They don’t stay open as late as we’re used to back home.”
“Oh. I wanted supplies for tomorrow, though.”
“That’s fine. He’s not throwing us out. He just wants us to move along.”
“Fair enough.” She hadn’t made a list, but she’d thought back to what she could remember of kindergarten and first grade and knew what they needed.
She descended on the art supplies, scooping up scissors and packages of construction paper and glue. She grabbed pencils and erasers, crayons, colored pencils, markers. Something called pastels caught her eye and she decided her kids needed those too. When her arms were so full she couldn’t hold anything more, she dumped the armload on the counter near the register, then went back for more. Each trip, the shopkeeper’s eyes grew wider and wider.
Chris laughed and held out his arms. “How can I help?”
“Let’s go look at books.” The book selection did not disappoint. She found coloring and activity books. Penmanship books. Simple readers. Flipping through, she noticed British spellings and phrases. How cute. With each selection she counted out enough that each student could have their own, even if they wouldn’t have exactly the same books. The store wasn’t large enough to carry that many copies. Maybe the shopkeeper could order for her.
As she rested another stack of books in Chris’s arms, she discovered him watching her, eyes soft, almost quizzical, a gentle smile curling his lips. “What?”
He looked away, shaking his head. “For someone who worries about money as much as you do, you’re kind of going overboard in here, aren’t you?”
She lifted a box of pastels from a nearby shelf. “This costs a quarter. A quarter. For ten dollars, every student in my youngest classes can have their own. He doesn’t have that many on the shelf, but they can share. I’ll get more if they run out. I came to teach, and I intend to do a good job. If I spend a hundred dollars in here, which I doubt considering how cheap everything is, I will consider it an excellent investment. The kids deserve it.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Okay. Now I know why you came to India. And I’m impressed.”
She went back to the shelves. Impressing him wasn’t her goal. “You haven’t bought anything for your classes?”
“I teach math, mostly to the older high-school-aged kids. Remember? We don’t color much. Besides they’re all boys. No interest in crafts. I think the other teachers may have bought some things. Not this much though. You know the school has a supply closet, right?”
“Mrs. Gupta showed me. They have a nice supply of plain white paper and white chalk. Which reminds me . . .” She added colored chalk to her growing pile. Glancing at her watch, she indicated to the shopkeeper she was nearly done.
He bobbled his head in a figure eight. “No, lady, no. Okay. Okay.”
Chris grinned. “That means take all the time you need. For you, he’ll stay open as long as you’d like.”
“I really am nearly finished. I think.”
“You’ve bought nearly everything in stock,” Chris joked.
Why were his classes all boys? That seemed weird. Maybe the school segregated the genders at a certain age. That would make sense. She’d ask who taught math to the high school girls and offer to buy anything they might need.
But for now, she needed to finish what she was doing. Her middle-grade classes posed more of a challenge. The ten-to-fourteen-year-olds were much too advanced for crafts. Especially Aditi. She needed something to challenge them. Without a defined plan and with no personal teaching experience to draw from, once again she thought back to her college Spanish courses. Those had been presented in units, which they’d spent a week or two covering and learning. She made a mental list of the units she could remember off the top of her head—foods, travel, health and illnesses—then brainstormed for more. Anything that might help with that she and Chris picked up—magazines and newspapers, stickers. When she spotted a set of food stickers, she decided to start with that. What could be more fun than talking about foods and comparing their cuisine to what she ate back home? She grabbed as many lined notebooks and composition books as the store had on the shelves, plus activity books that seemed age appropriate. Once she ran out of ideas for units, she could shift over to reading YA books.
She picked up a copy of the first Harry Potter book. “Do you think they’d enjoy reading this? I wonder if he can order twenty copies for me.”
“I think he will gladly order anything you ask for,” Chris said. “But we can also drive into Kochi if you need to. It’s a big city and will have everything. It’s a drive but I can take you.”
She looked through the shelves but kept coming back to the Harry Potter. She’d heard good things about it and kind of wanted to read it herself. Maybe the kids would enjoy it too.
Okay. She surveyed her spoils, and nodded with satisfaction, feeling quite accomplished. She asked the shopkeeper to order twenty copies of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone—the British title, she realized, which made sense since everything imported came from England—and added one copy to her stack. After all, she needed to read it herself to prepare.
The total cost of her supplies left her feeling like a thief and the shopkeeper looking like he’d just won the lottery. She even paid in advance for the twenty books he agreed to order.
Chris helped her tote the bags to the car and load them into the trunk.
She climbed in and breathed a sigh of relief. “Now I’m ready for tomorrow. Thank you so much for bringing me.”
“Anytime. I can’t wait to see Mrs. Gupta’s reaction.”
“She’ll be happy, right?”
“I think so. Although now your classes will have a huge advantage over others.”
That thought had never crossed her mind. How would the other children feel? She didn’t know exactly how many children attended the school, but she knew she didn’t see all of them. “If this causes a problem, I guess she can dock my pay.”
“Ha! Good one.”
“Actually, if it causes a problem, I’ll come back here and buy supplies for all the other classes too.”
She meant it. She’d never been one to donate to charity. She’d been the recipient of charity. She knew most of her Christmas gifts growing up had come from donations to angel trees and that her mom had depended on food pantries and free lunches from the schools. Why hadn’t she and Scott ever adopted a child from an angel tree? Just been too tied up with their own lives and plans? They weren’t rolling in cash, but they could have helped a child with less. Maybe it had simply never occurred to her that she could turn her life around and be the one giving instead of receiving. Now that it had occurred to her, she would make up for it. These supplies would make a major impact on her students’ lives.
Charity is for chumps. You’re going to need that money. Smart people don’t—
Shut up, Scott!
The sum of money in her bank account back home combined with the incredibly cheap prices here left her feeling wealthy for the first time in her life—and it felt good. She could buy without stress, without guilt, without wondering if this purchase would impact a greater need later in the month. Without Scott asking her if she really needed it. Yes, she wanted to scream at him. Yes, she really needed this.