“Clover, my dear—I was just thinking that it’s been more than a month since I heard from you.”
The tinny connection robbed Grandpa’s baritone of its usual rich timbre, making me miss him even more.
“I’m sorry, Grandpa,” I said, soothed by the sound of his voice. “I should’ve called sooner.”
Even over the bad connection, his deep chuckle was as endearing as ever. “I figured you had plenty of other things occupying your brain than your old Grandpa.”
“You’re always in my brain—even if I don’t call often enough to tell you.” I’d been so caught up in exploring the world this past year that I’d let our regular phone calls become sporadic.
“Don’t worry, dear. When I don’t hear from you, I know it means you’re enjoying yourself. And that makes me very happy.”
I closed my eyes and envisioned him sitting in his green armchair, one leg crossed over the other, the steam of his evening coffee dancing in the glow of the reading lamp.
“So then,” he continued. “Tell me what you’ve learned from your studies in Cambodia.”
I switched the phone to my opposite ear, trying to get comfortable. “It’s quite different from the Western world.”
“Ah, yes, the Buddhists and their reincarnation.”
“Right, and so the actual dying process is super important to someone’s rebirth in their next life.”
“Intriguing—how so?”
“Well, they often have a monk present when someone’s dying to help them prepare for the next life.” I was proud to be the one to teach him something for once. “And some people believe that after the soul exits the body, it often lingers in the place where they died. Sometimes the soul is confused or frightened, so the monk needs to be there to calm it and guide it onward. It’s quite beautiful, really—the idea of helping usher someone into their next life.”
“Yes, it is,” Grandpa said. “What a privilege it must be to be able to do that for someone.”
* * *
The bus lurched to a halt outside a gas station surrounded by rice fields. The reprieve from our stifling purgatory on wheels—intended for bathroom breaks and quick snacks only—would last twenty minutes. The thought of dealing with food or a squat toilet made me even more nauseated, so I bought a bottle of sparkling water and stood in front of a small desk fan that was half-heartedly circulating stale air.
Kios Intanet read the neon-pink cardboard sign taped above the old computer monitor next to the fan. The hostel WiFi hadn’t been working the past few days, so I hadn’t checked my email in a while. I slid the requested two thousand Cambodian riels across the counter to the gas station clerk, earning me ten minutes of infuriatingly slow dial-up internet access.
Six emails sat in my inbox. One was a reminder of my flight on Thursday. The second was an email from a student I’d studied with in France, requesting my input on a research paper. And the remaining four were from Charles Nelson, a longtime colleague of Grandpa’s at Columbia University.
The sight of Charles’s name made my pulse stutter.
I read his emails in the order he sent them. The first few were variations of “Please call me as soon as you can.” The most recent one, sent only an hour ago, was painfully to the point.
Clover,
I know you are traveling abroad, and I regret having to do this via email, but your grandfather passed away yesterday.
Please contact me when you receive this, as arrangements need to be made.
Regards,
Charles Nelson, PhD
My nausea became dread. I fumbled in my travel pouch for my international phone card and stumbled over to the pay phone, dialing the cell number in Charles’s signature.
Three rings, then a connection.
“It’s Clover,” I blurted out before he’d even spoken.
Charles cleared his throat. “Ah, yes, hello, Clover—I see you received my email. I’m very sorry for your loss. And to be the bearer of such bad news.”
The oppressive humidity made my panicked breathing worse. “What happened?” I managed to squeeze out the words, but they materialized as only a whisper.
“Stroke, they think.” Charles had always been matter-of-fact, but in this moment his brevity felt callous. “He’d been working late in his office on campus and the janitor found him slumped in his desk chair.”
I rubbed my sternum, willing myself to find a single, slow breath. “He died … alone?”
“’Fraid it looks that way—very sorry.”
Outside, the bus blasted its horn as my fellow passengers filed miserably back on board. Somehow, amid my internal chaos, I found a flicker of pragmatism. If I was going to make my flight to New York tomorrow, I had to get on that bus.
“Charles, I’m really sorry, but I’m in the middle of nowhere and my bus is about to leave. I’ll call you back as soon as I get to Phnom Penh.”
Charles cleared his throat a second time. “Okay then—safe trip, speak soon.”
I soon found myself wedged back in with the same two passengers, the cage of chickens squawking next to them. But now I was numb to the unbearable heat, the cacophony of sounds, the stench of sweating bodies. All I could think about was that dark, cramped university office at the end of the corridor. The one I’d visited hundreds of times since I was a kid.
The place where my best friend met his death alone, with no one there to guide him through it.
40
I regretted abandoning the road trip with Sebastian at this particular gas station. Nothing but single-lane highway and winter-lorn fields stretched in both directions. The breeze carried the salty, fetid smell of coastal marshland and a chill that found its way into every crevice of my clothing.
Facing the entrance to the gas station, I focused hard on my phone until I heard the hum of the rental car diminish into the distance. When I finally turned around, the only presence in the parking lot was a lone brown pickup whose dented doors had copped someone’s wrath more than once.
Sebastian had really left me.
My armpits prickled with sweat. I hugged the duffle close to my body.
What I would give to talk to Grandpa right now. In panicked moments on my first backpacking trip in Latin America, I’d called him from a pay phone just to hear his calming, rational voice for ten minutes before my credit ran out.
“Your sympathetic nervous system is just manipulating you,” he’d tell me matter-of-factly. “A classic biological fight-or-flight response. All you need to do is take back control. Close your eyes to eliminate external stimulation. Then take a long, deep breath and release it slowly.”
Though he’d given the instructions years ago, I stood outside the gas station and did what I’d been told.
Eyes closed. Breathe in. Breathe out.
“Now, instead of focusing on all the things that have gone wrong,” Grandpa would then say, “think about the next right step forward you could take to move things in a positive direction.”
The glass door to the gas station swung open. A hefty, corn-raised type in buffalo plaid strode through it, stuffing a packet of Parliaments into his breast pocket. Sweat stains rose above the brim of his trucker’s cap like tide marks on a beach.
“’Scuse me, love,” he barked at me and my large bag blocking the doorway. As I stepped aside to let him pass, I caught the combined mustiness of stale tobacco, spilled beer, and questionable hygiene habits.
One small step forward.
I considered the stranger and his battered pickup.
Catching my eye, he winked, grin wide but lacking warmth. “Need a ride?”
On second thought, he didn’t look like the type who was headed toward New York City. “That’s very kind of you.” I tightened my grip on the duffle. “But, no, thank you.”
“Suit yourself,” the man said, an unlit cigarette now loping from the corner of his unsettling grin.