Madeline could breathe again, out of the taxi and returned to the comfort and mostly thoughtful design of her little seaside resort. After working herself up for days, and after the stress of actually visiting the orphanage, she would not have liked returning to the cold and sterile environment of the Ayurveda clinic where she’d originally planned to stay, the one Dr. Wright had suggested. In the end, she had been right to recognize and respect her needs and boundaries, to ask her assistant to seek out something pampering, something relatively luxurious. She’d earned it, after all. Despite the debacle in Barcelona, maybe she was getting a little wiser with age. It was this transformation, one indicating greater personal awareness, maybe even acceptance, that put a smile on Madeline’s face as she sank into a chaise longue beside the tiled pool at the courtyard’s center.
It wasn’t that she didn’t trust her nutritionist’s recommendation. Dr. Wright had called the clinic a place of transformation, which sounded perfect when they first spoke of it, when Madeline was desperate to be anywhere but where she was, far away from her home in Los Angeles and her romantic calamity in Barcelona. A stay at the clinic would have far exceeded the requirements for the lifestyle Dr. Wright was always pushing on Madeline: whole foods, yoga three times a week, daily meditation, infrequent alcohol, all of which seemed impossible to sustain in Los Angeles. But this time, Madeline had focused on the part of Dr. Wright’s pitch that recommended “tropical southern India.” And here she sat, seaside, in India, despite forsaking all Dr. Wright’s intended rigor. The orphanage had been her own idea. And now that she’d seen for herself that it was not the horror show of poverty and neglect she’d feared in the days leading up to her visit, she felt she could begin to sort through her feelings and make a decision.
Her eyes lazily wandered over the space, not even seeing anything she’d change if given the opportunity. Her lids grew heavy as she observed the peaceful, open plan of the courtyard, the clean lines and symmetry created by the purposeful placement of potted sago palms. In the covered areas, she appreciated the artful absence of inessential furniture, too, which allowed the intricate detail so prevalent in Indian design to embellish each piece of furniture and art, to stand in brilliant, if rustic, contrast to the innocuous taupe backdrop of the walls. And at the resort’s center, beside her, the electric blue water of the pool seemed to glow in the sunlight within its tile-framed edge. She thought of her current project, the house in Los Feliz she was running out of excuses not to get back to, its pool and the elaborate tile work she might imagine for it. Every inch inside the pool, not merely the perimeter, would be tiled and smooth to the skin’s touch. She saw it clearly in her mind’s eye under the dry heat of a Los Angeles sun. Beside the pool, a veranda, its latticework disappearing beneath the creeping vines of wisteria, purple and heavy, framing a covered area for outdoor eating. Beneath the surface of the pool’s water, she began to see more elaborate tiling, something abstract. Perhaps an om symbol. Her client, a yoga enthusiast, like Madeline’s nutritionist, would eat it up, impressed with how far Madeline had gone for her—first to Barcelona for the tiles, then all the way to India for inspiration.
She opened her eyes. Beyond the courtyard’s edge was the beach; beyond that, the sea. Antonio was probably splashing around with his children and wife at some other seaside resort, by some other sea, far away. She’d had to learn it all from the secretary, no less, completing the cliché and causing Madeline to flee from the humiliation. She had a perverse urge to get up from her chair and walk out onto the beach, to test the water and see how it felt with Antonio in mind. Whether it offered explanations as to why he’d lied to her about being married or why Madeline had never bothered to consider the truth. But she didn’t move. She didn’t actually care.
Mostly she felt relief. Even with so little hindsight, she knew it had been one of her most absurd plans. To time a last fling with Antonio so it coincided with her ovulation. She’d taken her vitamins, charted her temperature, and consulted fertility specialists. She’d known, even then, it was a ridiculous long shot, but she convinced herself it would work anyway. And why Antonio? He was no leading man. She’d fallen for his work first, big and bold furniture in black walnut, which obliterated the postmodern trinkets that seemed to dominate the market. She had used Antonio’s pieces top to bottom when outfitting Hollywood’s most infamously ruthless divorce-law firm. She liked to imagine it would inspire absolute confidence or fear, depending on which side of the table one sat on. The man behind the furniture was admittedly less imposing, but she’d liked his accent and the fact that he liked her. And perhaps the fact that he lived so far away most of all. It was that winning combination that later qualified him for the job for which neither of them had known she was hiring, not at first.
“A Spaniard?” her mother had exclaimed, either nonplussed or animated by gin or both, when Madeline first told her. “I hope you’re not taking him seriously, Madeline. He’s probably married with eight children.” Madeline had called her mother under the guise of needing a phone number, but there was a part of her that had wanted her mother to be happy for her, to acknowledge that she was not only successful in her work but also capable of finding someone, having it all, even if that wasn’t exactly the case. It was as if everything would always be a competition between them, one that Madeline was destined to lose. Thirty-nine and still desperate for her mother’s approval.
She closed her eyes and let Antonio’s image fill her mindscape. His crooked smile, those dark eyes in which she felt beautiful, even sexy sometimes. She’d really believed he was the key to her next great adventure, that he would open the door to motherhood, even if she passed through it without him. She wanted to believe it because it would mean she didn’t have to buy random sperm or resort to adoption. She’d never felt desperate about her single status or the “ticking clock” behind her growing desire for a family. She preferred to believe it was possible to be a successful woman in a man’s world, to not have to choose between a loving family and a satisfying career. Antonio clearly hadn’t had to choose! How many children did he already have? What did it matter? She looked down to see her ankles, still swollen from the long flights. The massage she’d booked would help. As would, she hoped, being this far away, farther than she’d ever ventured from home. She’d just close her eyes until it was time for her massage.
Intermittent beams of light flickered across her face, rousing Madeline to consciousness. She had drifted off without even realizing it. The sunlight passed through the narrow gaps of a vibrant green palm leaf that hovered a bit more than a foot above her face. She yawned and stretched and felt the heat of the sun on her forearms. The leaf, offering her face and torso shade, was held by a young boy. She thought she might still be dreaming. Wasn’t he the boy from the orphanage? Then the shadow on his face lightened, and she saw he was not the same at all. She remembered him from the day before. Younger and smaller than the boy at the orphanage.
She fished in her coin purse for a one-hundred-rupee note and handed it to him. The boy smiled a flash of white as he accepted the money, then ran off, letting the leaf fall from his grip when he hit the sandy beach just beyond the resort’s edge. Madeline noticed that another guest had arrived or returned to the courtyard while she was dozing. The woman was seated at a table nearby, staring pensively out to sea. Elegant, if leathery brown, she looked like an older Sophia Loren. She had propped her feet on a second chair and appeared as comfortable as she would if she were in her own backyard. Now she accepted a coffee from the waiter and caught Madeline’s gaze as she took her first sip. She nodded with a smile in greeting. Madeline said hello and introduced herself. The woman said her name was Simonetta. They were just close enough to speak to each other from their respective seats without awkwardness. Madeline asked if Simonetta was there alone as well. She wasn’t. Her husband had gone fishing. The words, in her thick accent, bounced and rolled from her lips with an Italian flair that sounded wonderful to Madeline.
“I think it’s an Indian girl he hopes to catch,” said Simonetta.
Madeline wasn’t sure if her allusion to adultery was a serious issue or the woman’s sense of humor. In either case, she’d wait a little longer to find out.
“This is my first time in India,” Madeline said. “Have you come before?”
“Your first time in India? And you found your way here?”
“Well, I flew into Delhi, but then came straight here.”
“Ha fatto bene. Kerala is the most beautiful part of India. It’s not so common for people to visit here first.” She sipped her coffee, searching her memory. “I don’t think I’ve ever met an American here, and we come most years.”
Madeline felt a sense of pride hearing this. As if she could tell this worldly, effusive Italian woman anything—everything—without fear of judgment.
“I came here to adopt,” she said, testing the words in her mouth.
“Ha!” The outburst was friendly, as if Madeline had told a joke. “You Americans are so creative.”
She tried to read the woman’s expression behind her oversize sunglasses and decided there was no condescension.
“That scarf is gorgeous, by the way,” Madeline said, nodding toward the sumptuous silk fabric. “You wouldn’t let a girl in on your source, would you? I’m in love with the patterns here.”
“Darling, I know every good place to shop in India,” Simonetta said warmly. “If you have time, you can join me today.”
With the invitation still floating before a delighted Madeline, Simonetta’s attention returned to the sea. Suddenly Madeline saw in Simonetta the woman she might like to become someday—a little eccentric, yes, but confident and wise. Alone and not alone. She wondered if Simonetta was a mother. Perhaps Madeline would make a friend in India, one who had nothing to do with work or LA connections. How long had it been since that happened?
Two hours later, refreshed after a massage and a long shower, Madeline met Simonetta near the entrance to their hotel. Simonetta pronounced that she never took taxis in India. They would have a car service for the afternoon. Their driver opened the door for them, and Madeline felt like she was on a date. With an easy smile, she resolved to follow Simonetta’s lead, to embrace her love of life, her easy acceptance of whatever was to come.
And Simonetta moved unfazed through the crowds and bustle of the streets in town. Madeline had expected to be taken somewhere posh, but the car dropped them off on a street full of storefronts that looked identical to a dozen places they’d passed getting there. She beelined through a passageway that led to another level of shops, and Madeline tried to keep up, but she was easily distracted by all the hanging fabrics in the windows and the people noticing them. Finally Simonetta stopped before the largest boutique, with a long wall of windows that framed numerous mannequins wrapped in exquisite silks of a quality and variety she’d not seen elsewhere. When they walked through the doors, a man seated in a far corner jumped up and rushed over, obviously thrilled to see Simonetta.
“My friend from Los Angeles wants to buy some saree, Signor Premji. Naturally, I brought her to you.”
“It will be our pleasure, madam.” Then, turning to Madeline, he asked if she had a particular style of saree in mind. When she stared at him blankly, he politely assisted her. “A special occasion, perhaps?”
“Not exactly. At least not yet. I guess I just think they’re beautiful,” she said, feeling embarrassed and childish.
“Poornima, show madam some items from our designer collection.”
Madeline was ushered behind a pair of plush plum curtains by a beautiful young woman. She admired the gold and copper threadwork of the elaborate embroidery, then the peacock print of the saree the woman was wearing. She had to stop herself from touching it. A second woman joined them, carrying a small, vibrant stack of silk that gave Madeline a thrill. The women were waiting for her. They wanted to help Madeline undress. She didn’t usually think of herself as a modest person. There was something about her disdain for certain parts of her otherwise slim body that eradicated modesty, as if an obstinate display of belly bulge or the spread and sway of inner thigh to another human were her way of punishing the undisciplined flesh. But these women were delicate in their handling of Madeline. If theirs had been the hands of a man, Madeline would have demanded something less intimate. As it was, she merely surrendered to them. They worked swiftly, and Madeline let them guide her arms and legs and waited for the contact of silk against skin. First she stepped her naked feet into a kind of low-rise corset, holding her breath and belly in as the women pulled the elastic tube into place. The flash of fuchsia on top was unfolded once, then again to reveal a waterfall of teal. It kept changing as the women opened it further. One woman brought an end to Madeline’s waist and tucked it into the front of the corset, while the other woman, like a magician, unraveled the fabric in her hands and let it fall to the floor. It must have been twelve feet long, and it finished with a black strip and then a shock of white, a stripe at the end, which was pleated and slung over Madeline’s shoulder to rest like the sash of a beauty queen. Four hands worked together to wrap Madeline in the fuchsia section, creating a floor-length skirt, which was then tucked and pinned into place, forming a V shape just below her navel. Then the fuchsia section was pleated and secured with another tuck and pin at the front. Two hands perfected the pleats from floor to waist, while two more gently pulled everything into place at the top. And finally the length of black fabric was allowed to drape down one shoulder and arm, creating the illusion of a stunning hourglass figure Madeline had never before seen in her own reflection. When they opened the curtain, Mr. Premji was there waiting. Simonetta, too, flipping through a catalog. Mr. Premji turned Madeline to face him, then made two adjustments so slight she could not feel his force, though she felt its effect as he stepped away. Her image rebounded in triplicate from the ornate mirrors that sectioned off the dressing area like a screen.
“Bellissima,” said Simonetta, looking up from her magazine.
Madeline smiled at her reflection, flashing back to the disaster of her prom night, more than twenty years earlier. Her mother had forgotten to bring home a dress as promised, so Madeline went to Macy’s the day of the prom and, with the help of a woman on the selling floor, found something and charged it to her mother’s account. That dress, a mauve monstrosity with a deep V back and tulle at the chest and shoulders, was far from what one would expect the daughter of a leading Hollywood costume designer to wear. Her brother, Eddie, was eight years old. He looked up from his coloring book, without hesitation, and said: You look pretty. It was the only compliment she received that night.
Now, with little Eddie’s voice still echoing, she blushed at her image in the mirror. Yes, she was bellissima. One of the women approached with a raised hand.
“Excuse me, madam,” she said and reached toward Madeline’s face.
Madeline expected the woman to adjust her hair, but instead she felt a cool and gentle pressure at the space between her eyebrows. She closed her eyes. The sensation both calmed and invigorated her, as if a button had been found and pressed. When she opened her eyes to take in her reflection again, the small, sparkling jewel thrilled her, and Simonetta laughed kindly. She looked glorious, and she felt like a little girl dressing up as an Indian princess.
“There, madam,” said Mr. Premji. “With the bindi, you are now complete.”
They spent another hour selecting fabrics to take home. Madeline found two scarves and three other sarees she loved. On their way to a restaurant Simonetta knew, she spotted a stall selling ornate slippers and less expensive sarees as well as long embroidered men’s shirts. An idea for a party was brewing. By the time they arrived at the restaurant, Madeline was weighed down with bags and famished. They ordered white wine, which was refreshingly ice cold, and they quickly found a pleasant groove of intoxication. Madeline couldn’t remember a nicer day out shopping with a girlfriend.
“A bottle is a single serving,” she said, pouring the last of the wine into Simonetta’s glass and motioning to the server that they’d like another. When Simonetta excused herself to find the ladies’ room, Madeline took the opportunity to select a bindi from one of the sheets of bindis she’d purchased at Mr. Premji’s boutique. When Simonetta returned, Madeline reached over with it.
“Pazza,” Simonetta said, retreating and feigning embarrassed protest, but then she settled and let Madeline place the bindi on her forehead.
“This has been such a great day,” she said. “Thank you so much, Simonetta.”
Simonetta raised her glass silently; she wasn’t going to get sentimental, but she also wouldn’t hold it against Madeline.
“Do you have children, Simonetta?”
“Sì. Three boys. Grown now and making grandchildren,” she said and smiled.
“What do they do? For work?”
The oldest, she explained, ran the family business: fine silks. The younger two were both lawyers. The second bottle of wine arrived and was poured. Madeline was trying to imagine Simonetta as a grandmother, full of love and joy. She had a lot in common with Madeline’s once glamorous mother, a certain eccentricity and charisma. But it was the love Madeline had known from her grandmother that she granted Simonetta in her imaginings. Without Grandma June, Madeline would perhaps have no concept of the meaning of unconditional love, her mother having always focused on herself, her career, her men. Madeline could not let herself do the same, whatever she decided to do about adoption.
“Madeline,” Simonetta said, her voice tinged with compassion, as though she were being forced to gently disabuse a younger woman of some untruth. “You have a big day tomorrow, I know. We’re not just shopping today, eh? We are also taking your mind off a choice you must make. The thing you want but can’t be sure of. The thing you are afraid of. But allow me to tell you something. Being a mother is like anything else you do. It’s one part of you. You just have to give a damn.”
Madeline used Simonetta’s driver when she returned to the orphanage the following morning. She told him he could come back for her in two hours, leaving herself no chance of a quick escape. Now she was pacing before the entrance like a nervous building inspector ensuring that the lime-green walls were sound. There was a moment in the car when she’d felt close to certainty, but it was fleeting. She’d thought: Perhaps not being my biological child might give the boy a leg up, free him from the Almquist family hex. And this thought had turned out to provide an unexpected second reason for adoption, because she’d imagined a boy, and this reminded her that adoption meant she could choose. The door opened despite Madeline not yet having summoned the courage to knock. It was the same gentle boy from the day before, and the familiar face did wonders to calm her.
“Good morning, madam. Welcome back,” he said, opening the door wide. “Mr. Channar is on the phone. You may wait inside.”
She followed him into the dark hallway, then stopped, resting a hand against the rough wall, cool to the touch, until her eyes adjusted to the lack of light.
“May I use your restroom first?” Madeline couldn’t make out his expression, which remained in shadow, but she guessed at his confusion from his silent stare. “The bathroom? A toilet?”
“It’s down the hall,” he said and led the way.
It was spacious, and the floors were lined with thousands of tiny hexagonal tiles that climbed halfway up the walls. She ran her fingers over them and was soothed. She splashed water over her face, then asked her blurred reflection, “Do you or do you not want to adopt a child?”
She did. She really did. This plan for motherhood wasn’t perfect, but it was the best choice for her. And she was here. In India, at the orphanage, prepared to give a damn! It was time to find the nerve to act. She dried her face on the edge of a hanging towel. As she pressed it against her eyes she saw an image of her brother as a young boy. He turned out all right, and hadn’t she essentially raised him while their mother was off living her life? Didn’t that prove something? Besides, she reminded herself, she was under no obligation. She would go to the nursery and spend as much time as was necessary. If she felt a strong connection with one of the children, that she, in particular and not just anyone, was truly needed by another, she would know she was doing the right thing. If not, she would leave as she had come, alone.
The boy was waiting in the hallway under a framed print of a purple deity. His eyes were cast down in thought, beautiful lashes framing them. He had a cowlick that appeared to have been standing in perpetuity. And there was something about the awkward tuck of his shirt into his pants that made Madeline smile.
“What was your name again?” she asked.
He told her, but she still didn’t catch it.
“Say that again. Slowly.” She moved closer, bending to hear.
“Birendra, madam,” he repeated softly, shyly.
“Birendra,” she said, garnering a smile from the boy. “My name is Maddy. Are you Mr. Channar’s son?” He shook his head. She looked down the hall toward Mr. Channar’s office. Despite her pep talk moments ago, she wasn’t quite ready to return to Mr. Channar and his folders. She much preferred this quiet boy’s company. Perhaps it wouldn’t be inappropriate to ask him to take her to the nursery. She pressed two fingers against his unruly sprout of hair and tried unsuccessfully to persuade it down. “Would it be possible to see the children before I went to Mr. Channar? It seems he’s still on the phone.”
He, too, looked in the direction of Mr. Channar’s office, as though for permission. Then to another door, slightly closer, which opened as he pointed it out. A woman appeared and was obviously surprised to find Madeline and the boy standing where they were. She spoke to the boy in another language. Madeline could sense her affection for him, and this came as a relief. As the woman left them, she smiled at Madeline politely, shyly.
“Is that your mother?” She’d already forgotten how to say his name.
“No. Her name is Rani. She’s working here.”
Madeline stopped him from opening the door, which had a lite at eye level she could peer through and locate the three children Mr. Channar had mentioned before entering the room. She could see another woman attending to a baby, who was wrapped in a sheet and nestled in the woman’s arm. Though the woman looked tired, Madeline could imagine the profound sense of peace that came from holding a tiny baby tightly in her arms, wet eyes staring back at her with absolute trust, unconditional love. But bottles, bibs, diapers, and toilet training? Sleepless nights? Is that why she abruptly suggested an older child to Mr. Channar the day before? She still had a business to run in Los Angeles. Of course she would rely on her unflappable assistant, Paige, for help at first. She relied on Paige for everything. But she didn’t want to have nannies. She didn’t want to be one of those moms. And she didn’t want her child’s life to be anything like hers had been.
One of the little girls Mr. Channar had mentioned came into view. She might have been the four-year-old. She wore a simple dress, and her hair was flat against her head, her bangs carelessly cut. Madeline imagined her in a white dress with pink embroidered flowers, something from her own childhood, a gift from Grandma June. The girl’s hair hanging in delicate curls above her shoulders, pulled back at the sides in barrettes, two rows of tiny teeth smiling back. A swift movement shattered Madeline’s fantasy. The girl snatched away a toy that a younger girl, the three-year-old, had been playing with and was now teasing the crying child, who was clearly terrified of her. Suddenly the dress and curls were gone, and Madeline saw a smoking, cursing teenager wearing too much eyeliner and an ugly snarl despising a haggard Madeline at fifty.
“It’s okay,” said the boy beside her. “You can go inside. Everyone does.”
She shook her head and was about to retreat from the door when she remembered the boy, the four-year-old she’d wanted to locate. Was he the one Mr. Channar had described as shy and quiet? Of course it would be a boy, since she could choose.
“Thank you, Burenda—did I say it right?” He rocked his head and flashed a crooked smile. Perhaps not quite. Who was this adorable boy? And what was he doing here at all? He wasn’t in one of Mr. Channar’s files. “Are you related to Mr. Channar?”
He shook his head and dropped his chin, but his eyes remained on Madeline. He seemed to be studying her, perhaps determining if she were a worthy confidante. She tried to show that she was, waiting patiently for his response with a sympathetic smile. He looked away before he spoke.
“My parents are gone,” he said. “I’m working here.”
She felt her heart constrict and ache. His parents were gone. And he was alone. Her first instinct was to hate Mr. Channar for employing a boy so young, but she’d now seen enough to know it could have been worse. There were children wandering the streets of the city like feral cats. It was so devastating that she had to look away. But this sweet boy, clearly educated, so helpful and considerate, alone and working in an orphanage when he couldn’t have been more than nine years old. When he’d so obviously known love. Why hadn’t his name been on one of those folders in Mr. Channar’s office? Was it only a matter of time? Or had that time come and gone?
“Do you know where California is?” He nodded, either with interest or relief at having the subject changed. “You do? Well, aren’t you a clever boy?” This made him smile wide. “That’s where I live. In Los Angeles.”
“Is there a good school there?”
“The very best schools,” she said, utterly charmed.
But the boy sighed heavily at this news. “I miss school very much.”
Madeline had to blink away the gathering tears. The depths of his dismay had taken her breath away.
“I bet you do, you sweet boy.”
Her certainty rushed in and consumed her completely. It expressed itself in her uncontainable smile, in the overwhelming sense of, yes, joy. It was undeniably joy. She had to laugh just to let some of it escape. The poor boy looked at her, perplexed, and this made her laugh even more, until they were both laughing, neither one sure of the reason. Except that Madeline did know the reason. She couldn’t say why or how it had happened, only that she had arrived right where she was supposed to be. From Los Angeles to Barcelona and on to tropical southern India and to this particular orphanage—right here, in front of this beautiful boy. This boy who just wanted to go to school. This boy whose parents were gone. This boy who already felt familiar to her. That thoughtful gaze, perhaps, a gentleness not unlike Eddie’s. The light entering from a high window at the end of the hall became brighter: the sun had shifted and was now in view. She placed a hand on the boy’s head, where the light was brightest, reflecting off his black hair. Whether it was hormonal, biological, cerebral, or cosmic, she didn’t care. Here, in front of her, was the small soul whose fate she would align with her own. This was what it felt like to start to be a mother.