Chapter 14
As usual, their evening with Ms. Wright continued long after they’d eaten the last of the chicken and rice. They debated the day’s headlines and critiqued their favorite films. Emma-Jean and Ms. Wright recited their favorite Mary Oliver poem, about gathering peonies in the early morning, and Vikram shared a most humorous story about his high school cricket team. A warm breeze blew through the open window, and Emma-Jean imagined a crowd of skunks and raccoons and woodchucks listening raptly just outside, laughing along.
They were sipping tea when Vikram left the table to take a phone call. Emma-Jean’s mother refilled their teacups, and began describing the garden she and Emma-Jean were planning for the backyard. Henri was peacefully asleep on her mother’s shoulder, curled up against her glossy braid. Emma-Jean stifled a yawn. She too was extremely tired. Perhaps her crush on Will was sapping her energy.
“Why don’t you go to sleep, Emma-Jean?” her mother said. “It’s getting late.”
Ms. Wright looked at her watch and gasped.
“Ten thirty! Where did the time go?”
Emma-Jean’s mother looked around at the serving bowls and plates, scraped clean but for chicken bones and apricot pits. “I think we ate it,” she said, much to the amusement of both Ms. Wright and Emma-Jean.
Emma-Jean stood up and said a reluctant good night. She did not like to leave such fine company, but she would need to be energized for tomorrow morning, when she would begin her investigation of the nine left-handed boys.
She had just finished brushing her teeth when she realized that in her state of fatigue, she had forgotten Henri, who would be most perturbed if she went to sleep without wishing him sweet dreams. She went downstairs and was heading toward the dining room when Vikram’s voice caught her attention. Something in his tone caused her to pause just outside the kitchen doorway. He was facing away from Emma-Jean, his phone pressed tightly to his ear.
“It’s an incredible honor for me, Dr. Markt,” he was saying.
Emma-Jean crept closer. Who was Dr. Markt? Emma-Jean had never heard Vikram mention this name before.
“No, I’ve never been to California, but I hear it is beautiful,” he continued.
California? Who was inviting Vikram to California? “Teaching at Stanford has been a dream for me for as long as I can remember.”
Stanford University?
“ . . . no, I haven’t spread the news to anyone.” Emma-Jean suddenly felt chilled, though the house was very warm.
“Dr. Markt, thank you very much,” Vikram said.
Emma-Jean crept away from the doorway and hurried back up to her room. Her fatigue had disappeared. She was now in a state of alarm, her eyes open wide, her breathing shallow and rapid.
Vikram was leaving them?
This question spun around her head, around and around until the words lost their meaning. Henri fluttered through the doorway. He sensed her distress and took up a position on her headboard. He stood up very straight and puffed out his chest.
Emma-Jean took her quilt from the foot of her bed and wrapped it around her shoulders. Her father had sewn it for her when she was born, and there had been only a short period in her life when it had not been on her bed. When Vikram’s mother had her heart attack, Emma-Jean had hidden the quilt in Vikram’s Pittsburgh Steelers duffel bag, hopeful that it would comfort him on the plane as he crossed two oceans to be by his mother’s side.
Emma-Jean had been concerned that the quilt might not survive the trip; its edges were torn and fraying, badly in need of repair. But Vikram brought the quilt back to her not simply intact but transformed. The tattered patches had been removed. In their place were hundreds of tiny squares of sari silk, sewn carefully together by Vikram’s mother as she regained her strength in the cardiac unit of Mumbai’s Bhagwati Hospital.
Emma-Jean ran her fingers across the quilt’s bright border as she considered this deeply disturbing turn of events. How could Vikram leave them? How could he plot his departure without telling Emma-Jean or her mother?
The dazzling colors of the silk seemed to light a pathway in Emma-Jean’s mind, and before long she had an answer:
Love.
As her mother had said, true love was one of life’s most powerful forces. In fairy tales, love could rouse a princess from death, or turn a frog into a prince. Love inspired poets to write and painters to paint and knights to perform their most heroic deeds.
But it was also true that love’s power was unpredictable. Emma-Jean had heard the term “madly in love.” Now she understood its meaning. Vikram was so deeply in love with her mother that he had temporarily lost his senses. He could not be trusted to make rational decisions.
Emma-Jean stood up, gripped by a sense of urgency. Luckily, her crush on Will Keeler had not significantly diminished her powers of logical thinking. She sat down at her desk, turned on her computer, and devised a plan of action.
She recalled the name of the person Vikram was speaking to: Dr. Markt. It took just a moment to locate him on the Stanford University website: Dr. David H. Markt, chairman of the department of microbiology and immunology. Emma-Jean read his impressive biography, which highlighted his laboratory work on smallpox and other pathogens. She studied his picture, focusing on his warm brown eyes. He seemed to regard her with curiosity and perhaps even a hint of understanding.
It took some time for Emma-Jean to compose a letter that achieved the appropriate tone. By the time she had finished, the sun had risen in the sky, and the smell of coffee and curried eggs filled their house.
“Emma-Jean?” her mother said, peering into the room. She was wearing Emma-Jean’s father’s faded terry-cloth robe and gripping a large mug of coffee. “You’re looking very focused for so early in the morning.”
Emma-Jean quickly closed out her computer screen; there was no need for her mother to discover Vikram’s misguided plan.
“I’m just finishing a project,” she said.
“It must be important,” her mother said, taking a sip of coffee.
“It is urgent,” Emma-Jean replied.
“Everything under control?” her mother said.
“I have done all I can.”
“You always do,” her mother said, smiling as she headed toward her bedroom.
Emma-Jean waited until she heard the rush of her mother’s shower, and then reopened the file and printed out her letter.
Dr. David H. Markt
Stanford University
Chairman, Department of
Immunology and Microbiology
Fairchild Building
300 Pasteur Drive
Stanford, California 94305
Dear Dr. Markt,
I understand that you have hired Vikram Adwani to join your faculty in the department of immunology and microbiology at Stanford University. It is understandable that you would wish for Vikram to join your department because he is a man of outstanding character and keen intelligence. And if you admire his work with DNA, you will be most impressed with what he can do with some curry and garlic.
Unfortunately, it is not possible for Vikram to work at Stanford. While Stanford is one of the finest universities in the world, it is 3,000 miles away from my mother, Elizabeth Lazarus, who is the love of
Vikram’s life. I regret that Vikram did not consider this before accepting your offer. I have concluded that Vikram’s love for my mother has made it difficult for him to think clearly. As perhaps you know, love can make people behave in irrational ways.
I have read about your work on smallpox and find it very fascinating. I hope you take the appropriate precautions with these dangerous pathogens, and wash your hands vigorously before eating your lunch.
Sincerely,
Emma-Jean Lazarus
Of course, there was no guarantee that the letter would resolve this matter. But Emma-Jean was hopeful. She sensed that Dr. Markt, a man of science, would see the logic in her message. And certainly Vikram would come to appreciate her intervention at this critical juncture in his life.
After all, there were many prestigious universities in the world. But there was only one Elizabeth Lazarus.