Unable to believe what she thought she’d heard, Olivia simply blinked, dumbfounded. Surely, she’d misunderstood. She glanced at Chris, who shrugged, apparently as confused as she was.
“You’re saying the building is for sale, but you won’t sell it to me?” She half expected the man to burst out laughing, then joke about her inability to understand English, the latest joke circulating the town at her expense.
Since she’d undertaken the project to fund and install a pad machine, she’d faced roadblocks, ridicule, and scorn in town. She understood how Mukesh had been driven from his village by gossip and threats.
On top of everything else, a visiting professor who presented to the older classes at the school wanted to meet all the volunteer teachers. They’d gathered for tea in the dining hall. Ms. Vanya brewed up her spiciest concoction yet, and Mrs. Gupta introduced them all.
The other teachers seemed to understand the professor well enough, but his thick accent garbled the words in Olivia’s ears and left her confused and shaking her head. “I’m sorry, what?” she asked again and again when he posed a question or comment to her. He grew weary of needing to repeat himself and still requiring Mrs. Gupta to “translate” for her and demanded, “Where are you from?” That question she clearly understood—the words at least, though not his intent.
“Where am I from?”
“Yes! Where?”
She’d looked around for help, but everyone else appeared equally baffled.
“America?” The word came out more question than statement. The answer seemed so obvious.
“No! Before America. Originally.”
“Before . . . I’m American. Born and raised in America. I’ve never lived anywhere else.”
“How can that be when you do not even properly understand English?”
The other teachers had snorted into their hands and Mrs. Gupta attempted to conceal a smile while Olivia’s cheeks burned with embarrassment. Rather than believe his clipped, broken, and marginal English the source of the language barrier, the man instead blamed her inability to understand. The story somehow—everyone present swore they didn’t tell a soul—spread through the little town like wildfire, turning her into the village idiot, basically. Everywhere she went, people pointed at her, huge smirks on their faces. At the market, vendors greeted her with smiles and eyes that danced with a joke. “The American who cannot speak English! Hello!”
She held a master’s degree in English for God’s sake. And now, with cash in hand, she sat before the property owner as The American Who Cannot Speak English, the village idiot, listening to this man, who most likely didn’t even graduate from high school, turn down her offer.
“But why not?”
The man narrowed his eyes at her. “You teach Aditi?”
There. The lifeline she needed. Now he would understand and sell her the building. “I did! Yes. And maybe we can help her get back in school. This building will mean a different life to the girls and women—”
“No!” He scowled. An emphatic hand gesture dismissed her.
“But—”
“I think he didn’t mean that in a good way, the way you took it.” Chris stood and gripped her elbow, encouraging her up as well. “Thank you for your time. We will go.”
On the street, she squinted, the vivid sun blinding her after the dismal darkness of the concrete building. They trudged back to the upscale shopping market where they’d left the other teachers browsing. She slumped with disappointment. “And now we’re back to square one.”
She’d sat at square zero for longer than she’d liked, trying to ensure that a non-Indian could in fact legally purchase Indian property. Someone at the bank had eventually quoted several laws and regulations, full of acronyms and lengthy numbers, assuring her that she could. But what could she do if everyone refused to sell to her?
“It’s okay. We’ll find another location,” Chris assured her.
“But that one was perfect. Right here by the shopping center where women gather anyway.”
“Maybe. Or maybe we looked at it all wrong. Maybe it’s good to be someplace less conspicuous, since they prefer to be discreet about it here. Ya know?”
Good ol’ Chris. Always eager to solve problems and find silver linings. He’d jumped at the opportunity to chauffeur her to a bank in Kochi to transfer funds to Mukesh for the machine and installation and take out cash to purchase a building in which to install it. She didn’t like carrying so much cash and kept it hidden in her room. Frankly, she was grateful to Chris for all the support he continued to offer, always accompanying her anywhere she needed to go and acting happy to do it. He kept the conversation light as well, which appealed to her. They hadn’t delved into personal information since he’d shared his mom’s issues. Maybe she should invite him to share more, ask how he felt, that sort of thing. But that would open the door for him to ask questions in return. She preferred the easy friendship they’d settled into. Keeping it light worked just fine for her. She’d moved past her suspicious belief that he must want something from her and accepted that he did nice things without demanding anything in return. Letting down her guard felt good.
They discovered the other teachers window shopping at a jewelry store. She joined in, drooling over the show pieces, marveling at the intricate details and the incredible craftsmanship they must have required.
Tisha stared at her expectantly before prompting her, “Well? How’d it go? Are you in business?”
She shook her head. “He wouldn’t sell.”
“What?” Melanie sounded as disappointed as Olivia felt.
“That makes no sense,” Delilah said. “Who turns down money?”
“Because you’re a foreigner?” Aubra asked, grating on Olivia’s nerves. The young woman’s continued belief she knew so much more about India really got on her nerves.
“Maybe? I don’t know.”
“He did mention that she taught Aditi,” Chris offered.
“What does that have to do with anything?” Delilah asked.
“Word is probably getting out that the American who can’t even speak English is trying to open a business and employ women,” Aubra said. “Combine trying to change their established traditions with an inherent mistrust of foreigners and no wonder you’re meeting so much resistance.”
She didn’t trust herself not to bite the insufferable know-it-all’s head off, so she simply shrugged.
“‘Do I dare disturb the universe?’” Delilah said. “T.S. Eliot. Olivia dares disturb. Don’t let them dissuade you, girl.”
“I know what you need to help you feel better,” Tisha said. “Jewelry shopping!”
“Yes!” Delilah agreed, looping an arm around Olivia’s waist. “‘Diamonds are a girl’s best friend!’”
“Not a literary quote,” Chris said. “I think you just like repeating other people. But you ladies should definitely treat yourselves. You won’t find better deals anywhere.”
“He’s right,” Aubra said. “We went inside when we—”
Olivia noted the obvious strain between them. They’d gone into a jewelry store as a couple? Had they looked at rings? Well, Chris had told her that Aubra had been pushing to get serious too hard and too fast. Maybe Aubra had dragged him in.
Diamonds weren’t her best friend, but she shrugged and followed the group inside. Might as well, rather than stay out in the heat, even if she didn’t want to buy anything. She wasn’t much of a jewelry person. She caught her thumb rubbing absently against her bare ring finger, still searching for her wedding band after all this time. Frustrated, she shook her hands and clenched a fist. Enough of that. She would just have to get used to the bare finger. Unlikely she would ever let anyone put a ring on it again. She made a point of not going anywhere near the rings and stooped to admire a necklace.
Chris nudged her with an elbow. “You know, opal is the birthstone for October.”
She stood and faced him, wrinkling her nose. “And?”
“How do you even know that?” Melanie asked.
“My birthday is in October.”
What was he getting at? “And you want us to get you something? With your birthstone on it?”
He threw his head back and laughed. “No, Olivia. I do not want you to buy jewelry for me.”
Was he suggesting she should wear his birthstone? He couldn’t possibly mean that. Sure, he had been a lot of help, and he always had something nice to say to her, and made her laugh when she felt down . . . No. She did not have feelings for him, and he couldn’t possibly be suggesting they were close enough to be discussing jewelry of any sort. She shook her head at him, still unclear what he was getting at.
Aubra apparently wasn’t sure either, judging by her still posture and determined gaze staring into a jewelry case but clearly not seeing anything.
He scrubbed the back of his neck. “Well, I was just thinking, I know my mom wears a ring with my birthstone on it. You know.”
“A mother’s ring! Of course. I think that’s a really nice idea,” Tisha said.
Were they honestly suggesting that she buy a ring to wear as a constant reminder that she had lost her daughter? What were they thinking? “I don’t know.”
But she allowed Chris to lead her to a display case where he pointed out a simple setting. “Opals come in all sorts of shades. You can ask to look at loose stones, and they will make a ring for you to mount it on. You could design your own any way you like.” When she said nothing, he waved over the salesman. “You have other stones?”
The man wobbled his head and went to the back to fetch them.
“The word opal is derived from a Sanskrit word. How perfect is that? A nice reminder of India, yeah?” Chris said. “Well, a Sanskrit word meaning ‘valuable stone’ and a Greek word that means ‘to see a change in color.’ And no two are the same, just like people.”
How perfect is that? She thought of the perfect name she’d chosen for her baby girl and the meaning behind it and could scarcely believe it. And now this birthstone? The two things seemed to align almost too perfectly, as though the universe had brought her to this point and clicked into place. The name, the birthstone, the sweet delight she knew in her heart her daughter would have brought into her life. But that couldn’t be. Her baby girl died. Everything aligned . . . so she could lose a child? That made no sense.
The shopkeeper returned with the velvet bag and poured the contents onto a velvet-lined tray, separating the stones with tweezers and encouraging her to evaluate each of the milky stones.
Chris pointed at one, flecked with pink. “Look at that one. It has a pink cast to it. How perfect is that?”
She wished he would stop saying “How perfect is that.” Nothing about this was perfect. She turned to him to say she had no interest in a ring to wear as a constant reminder of the baby she lost. But the gentle smile and the pure kindness she saw in his green eyes left her speechless.
What did he want from her? Why was he doing this? No man ever did anything for a woman unless he wanted something in return—to later be able to throw it back in her face how much he’d done for her, or to use it as leverage to demand she reciprocate, or to insist on getting his way. He must want something, no matter how nice he seemed to be, or how supportive or generous. She didn’t know what, and she didn’t like the offer of help when she didn’t know what the eventual cost would be.
She turned and left the store without a word, standing on the cracked concrete in front of the building, the sun’s rays baking her dry, browning skin as it baked the earth around her. She gulped deep, dusty breaths and fought the tears pooling in her eyes, refusing to let them fall.
She heard the door open and close behind her but refused to turn or make eye contact, determined to regain control of herself before interacting with anyone.
Tisha’s voice beside her, soothing, non-demanding, washed over her. “You know, I think his idea of a ring with her birthstone would be a really nice way to honor her. I’ve seen some parents choose to tattoo a lost baby’s name on their arms. People cope with grief in a lot of different ways. Most at least keep hand and footprints. What did you and your husband do?”
What had they done? They’d refused to discuss it, Scott’s silent accusations seeping into every crack and crevice of the house, bitter and musty, the decaying marriage rotting away. After a week of averting her eyes and gritting her teeth every time she walked down the hall past the nursery, she had disassembled the crib and cradle, dragging every piece of baby furniture and all the baby accessories and baby clothes out of the house and off to Goodwill. Then she had repainted the room back to the color it had been before she foolishly prepared for a future that wasn’t meant to be. She’d believed she could put it all behind her, out of her mind, go back to the way things had been before. What business did she have wearing a mother’s ring? She’d been a mother for less than twenty-four hours and in that time frame she had subjected her baby girl to pain and suffering, selfishly determined not to lose her. And then, to add insult to injury, she’d gone home and swept away every reminder of her existence.
The sound of the baby’s first cries still haunted her dreams. She couldn’t brush the memory aside the way she had hauled everything off to Goodwill. It remained firmly lodged in her mind, reminding her, over and over again. Just as her arms remembered the tiny weight of the swaddled body, the tiny little fingers and toes. How the sweet little thing had turned her head and quieted at the sound of Olivia’s voice—
She squeezed her eyes closed and her breath caught in her throat until she thought she might choke.
Tisha’s hand rested lightly on her arm. “Olivia, sometimes we do everything right and things still don’t go the way we want them to. We make the best choices we can with the information in front of us. Some things are out of our control. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Through clenched teeth, she managed to whisper, “I made her suffer. It was my fault.”
“No. You did not give her that birth defect. You had no control over that. A doctor told you she could live with a surgery to repair the defect, and you chose to pursue that option. You fought for your baby, with everything you had, trying to ensure your baby would have a life. Why can’t you see that’s exactly what a mother does?”
A sliver of a crack peeped open in her heart. She wanted to believe Tisha, wanted to believe she had done the right thing. “But I wasn’t really her mother. I barely even got to hold her.”
“I know a woman who lost her daughter at the age of four, to a medical condition diagnosed shortly after birth. The doctors warned her the condition would most likely be fatal, but she tried everything. Despite that, she only had four years with her daughter. And every year on the anniversary of her death, she and her husband take cupcakes to the grave and celebrate her birthday. Because she lived. She was their baby girl. Do you think caring for her daughter for only four years makes her less of a mother?”
“Of course not. But this is different.”
“It really isn’t. You are hanging on to misplaced guilt and refusing to grieve. Blaming yourself for things outside of your control. We don’t determine someone is a mother based on how long they care for a child. You had a baby and tragically lost her. You are still a mother. She is still your baby.”
Something painful burbled up out of the deep recesses of her soul, enveloping her in darkness. She couldn’t cope with it. Clamping her eyes closed, she crossed her arms across her stomach and squeezed, struggling for breath.
Tisha’s hand ran across her back. “It’s okay. You’re okay. Let’s breathe. Breathe in, one, two, three. And hold. And out again. Good. You’re okay. I promise.”
She wanted to believe she was okay, as much as she wanted to believe she’d been a good mother, if only for the briefest time. But while she stood breathing with Tisha and longing to believe in something good about herself, a voice kept chastising her, reminding her of every mistake she’d made in her life, swallowing the flicker of hope in its shadow.