When she last saw him in January, he was waving at her from under the awning of the Oregon rehab center, coherent, returned to life, getting hold of his demons, and she had waved from the back of the cab taking her to the airport. He was pale then, his black hair cut ragged and short, and now it falls past his shoulders, and he is brown, and dressed like a local in the long tunic and matching pants. His feet are bare. He is a young, handsome Buddha, a vision in white.
It takes him no time to adjust, to realize the woman staring at him is his mother, and then he is walking down the long path, his feet slapping against the stones. His body is loose, his joy obvious, bright-eyed and eager, radiating good spirits, a calm inner balance, and she remembers when she was caught up in the early writing of Words, late to pick up the boys, racing down the hill in the old station wagon where Daniel and Eric sat waiting for her on the school steps. Even when she had forgotten about them and was late, they ran to her. She can still feel her palms cradled around their young heads. Like a synchronized team, they pressed their foreheads into her abdomen, requiring instant tactile contact, the swoosh of her beating heart traveling down to meet theirs, sliding their hands around each of her thighs, like baby monkeys ready to scale a beloved tree.
She knows instantly that Daniel has not confessed his sin to his brother. Eric’s radiant brown eyes reflect no sheltering secret. With his dark golden patina, his old recklessness has been smoothed away. The deep grooves between his eyes, the black circles he had just seven months ago are gone. He is alive and flourishing, standing on solid ground, without a trace of his time in Oregon. In her nightstand in Rhome are the notebooks Joan filled up each night after her days with him; pages splattered with the pain that leaked from his heart, that she saw streaked across his beautiful skin. She feels again the dichotomy that always did split her in two: aware that her son’s anguish had pulled not only at her maternal instincts but also at the dense writerly threads that formed who she was, still tied her together.
She sees the new peace on Eric’s face, feels the serenity that reaches to his core when he hugs her tight. He is lustrous in his composure, poised and graceful. He does not question his mother’s sudden appearance outside his rented cottage here in Dharamshala, says only, “How wonderful that you’ve come. I was serious when I told you and Dad you ought to experience this place. I’m glad you’re here. I hope you’re going to stay for a good long while.”
He wraps Joan’s hand in his and leads her up the walk. “Did you know that Dharamshala is a Hindi word, derived from Sanskrit, and translates into spiritual dwelling, or sanctuary?” Eric doesn’t need, or expect, Joan to reply.
He leads her into the cottage, into a large open room glazed by peaceful white light. The room is celestial, lightly anchored by bookshelves off to the right, a sunken white couch, a deep armchair in heavy white linen. Off to the left is the open kitchen, spices on the shelves, canisters of tea leaves, an orchid with snowy white petals dashed by drops red as blood. Running down the middle is a long wooden table, with its nicks oiled, that reminds her of her old writing table.
At the back of the cottage, French windows are ajar, and she sees the tousled backyard, ringed by tall, tapered trees.
Eric ushers Joan from room to room. His bedroom is simple. Whitewashed floors and furniture, a dark-blue rug, a neatly made bed with a white quilt and white pillows. A cloudy mirror hangs above a four-drawer bureau, reflecting the blue vase filled with bursting purple blooms, a type of flower Joan has never seen before.
The second bedroom is furnished similarly, just as simply, with dwarfed yellow sunflowers in a jade green column.
“It’s all lovely,” Joan says, the first words she has spoken.
“It is,” Eric says. “You’ll come stay here.”
Joan smiles but says nothing. The seven years at home, with him and the others, day and night, are enough to last her a lifetime. She does not intend to move in with her son.
In the main room, while Eric fills up a kettle and sets it on the stove to boil, she inspects the bookshelves. Lots of books about the history of McLeod Ganj, the Kangra valley, the Kangra Fort, Dharamshala, British rule of the area in the nineteenth century, partition in 1947, the tribulations of the Tibetans, about the pictorial art of Kangra, Pahari painting, a book about the Maharaja Sansar Chand Museum, guidebooks for hiking and trekking in the Chambra valley, across the Dhauladhar range, over the Indrahar Pass, a slew of books about the Dalai Lama, and books written by the Dalai Lama, books about the prayer wheels, books about the Tibetan monasteries, the Sikh and Hindu temples in Rewalsar, slim volumes by Indian poets, and more.
There are no novels on the shelves, which she wouldn’t expect, Eric was never a reader like Daniel, but there are also none of Eric’s computer coding books, his dog-eared bibles that were cherished belongings not long ago.
Joan realizes she does not know what he has done with his apartment in New York, if he has rented it, or has a Solve employee staying there, or if it stands empty, his bed unmade, everything where it was, the liquor bottles, the pills, the various drugs, when he overdosed, was rushed to the hospital, then flown by private jet to Oregon.
The kettle whistles and Eric turns off the flame, opens a red tin can, measures loose tea leaves. He prepares the teapot with ceremony, swishing hot water inside, pouring it out, filling it to the top again, before he gently drops in the tea ball. Steam arcs out of the funnel, vanishes in the white light of the room. Joan wonders if he remembers the after-school tea parties Fancy prepared for them, the way he abhorred tea unless Fancy filled his cup mostly with milk, spooned in tablespoons of sugar, the cupcakes and Bundt cakes she made, saving a small bowl for each boy to lick with his fingers. She wonders if he remembers eating dirt, sticks, pebbles, all those baby aspirin.
The cottage is graceful, proportioned so nicely, a mix of no color and pale dreamy colors. It feels to Joan like a place of perpetual happiness. She can’t imagine voices raised here, charging anger, disappointment, tragedy. A person intent on additional self-destruction would be discomfited by its calm, by the hope carried through the rooms on the slight breeze that travels through.
“Have you read all of these books?”