Dr. Kumar seemed captivated.
“I think the bells on her horns sliced my hand. Then she just sauntered off. Have you ever noticed how well cows handle trauma?”
“Mom, the transfusion?” This time it was India who prodded.
Tara stared off into space, trying to remember. “I think it was the sliced hand. Oh, and the overturned rickshaw also cut my thigh. I don’t remember much more than the cow. But I did wake up in the hospital and there had been a transfusion. I think.” She chuckled, her eyes alight with the memory. A memory of something that might have made her sick thirty years later.
“You said the news wasn’t all bad,” she said finally, coming back to this moment.
“Er, well.” God, please could he stop smiling? “I think you might have hepatitis C, so I want to do the labs for that today and we’ll also need more imaging to confirm the extent of the fibrosis.”
“And what happens after all these tests?” How could their mother sound so calm right now? China looked like she was going to throw up. India reached over and took her hand.
“Let’s not jump ahead of ourselves, but Hep C is treatable now. And cirrhosis is not reversible but a transplant is always an option. Let’s wait to consider our options once we know more.”
A curtain of calm had fallen over Tara’s face. “How much will the treatment cost?” she asked, while her daughters sat there struck speechless. To think India had thought she was bringing her fragile mother here so she could be strong for her.
“Well, why don’t we wait until all the tests are completed before we discuss a treatment plan,” the doctor said.
“Do you have a ballpark?”
Finally India spoke. “It doesn’t matter, Mom. Insurance should cover it.”
Tara’s jaw worked. It wasn’t her way to contradict family in public, but the set of her face told India that she was going to fight this. What was there to fight? No matter what, Mom was getting treated.
India turned to Dr. Kumar. “And we can expect a full recovery?”
The smile he gave her this time was laced with sympathy. “Let’s get the results. It’s a long road. In the meantime, a lot of rest. It would help for someone to stay with her.”
“We live in the same home,” India said, more relieved than ever with the fact that she and China had never moved out. “We’ll take care of her.”
THE DRIVE HOME was barely a mile, but the silence in the car made it seem endless. It wasn’t like either China or Mom to be quiet, but they had barely said a word since they left the doctor’s office and waited with Tara as she made her way through blood draws and scans.
“I hope neither of you fed Chutney,” India said as cheerily as she could. “I fed her this morning.”
China hadn’t been home since yesterday, so she couldn’t have fed her virtually, and Mom had been in bed all day, but the mention of Chutney would snap everyone out of their funk.
“I did, uh-oh,” Mom said, a smile touching her lips. India should’ve known she’d get out of bed to feed their dog, when she forgot to feed herself most days.
“I thought Chutney was on a diet. Aren’t we supposed to cut back how much we feed her?” China spoke finally. “You two are going to cause her to die of obesity if you don’t stop being obsessed with feeding her.”
“We’re not obsessed. A dog has to eat,” Tara said simply.
“I’m gone for a few days and it’s like no one can do anything right.” China pulled the car into a parking spot in front of the studio. “What if she gains even more weight? She can barely move now.” Her tone was too harsh, too filled with guilt to have anything to do with their dog’s obesity.
“You are allowed to go out and do things,” Tara said. “This did not happen because you were living instead of babysitting me or because India had to come back and force me to go to the doctor.”
“But I was here. I was the one who should have done it. India shouldn’t have had to come back. And now you’re both trying to kill Chutney with food.” With those words she stormed out of the car and took off down the street.
“China, sweetheart, come back. Chutney is going to be fine,” India called after her.
“Let her go.” Mom leaned on the car. A sight so heartbreaking, India didn’t know what to do with it. She offered Tara her arm. How had the illness progressed so fast? “You know she likes to walk when she can’t handle her feelings.” It was how China had done everything from throwing tantrums to thinking through decisions. If she didn’t get out and walk, she started to act like a caged tigress, and that was no fun for anyone.
India punched in the security code and unlocked the studio. They had left the original turquoise-painted glass-paned door as is during the renovation but added electronic locks. The sign in the door was flipped to CLOSED. India wasn’t teaching a class today. She wasn’t on the schedule for the next two weeks because she was supposed to be in Costa Rica. Tomas—the instructor they had hired last year when they had expanded their schedule to help pay for the renovation—had a class at seven and it was barely four.
As they made their way across the studio to the apartment stairs, the smell of home—floral incense mixed in with the aged-wood scent of an old house no renovation could erase—seeped into India’s lungs. She grounded herself in it.
“It’s just this one lifetime,” Tara said, yanking her out of her peaceful place. “It’s going to start and end when it does. We’re just here to aid it along the best we can while we’re here. Worrying won’t change anything.”
As always, Mom was right, and India refused to transfer her own worry to her.
At their first footfall on the stairs, the familiar pattering of a four-legged dance began on the upper floor and Chutney’s scrunched-up face appeared at the top. Over the years the dance of excitement had turned more into a slow plodding roll. Chutney could no longer go up or down the stairs, but you could not enter the apartment and feel like it really happened without seeing her face at the top, and smelling her slobbery breath. She was the sound of their tree falling in the forest.
Despite the inducement at the top of the stairs, Tara’s climb was slow and it made a restless determination churn inside India. Mom was going to be all right. One step into the living area with its timber rafters and cozy furnishings, and Tara’s shoulders relaxed.
India pushed her into the couch and tucked a quilt around her. “I’ll make you some tea and then get dinner started. Soup sound good?”
The family room and kitchen were one continuous space and India watched Tara as she put the kettle on.
“Will you burn some of that kashi agarbatti?” Tara asked crossing her legs into the lotus pose.
India grabbed incense sticks from the ceramic jar on the tiled island. Holding them over the stove flame, she waited for the ends to light, then shook out the flames that left embers at the ends of the sticks. Twisted ribbons of smoke wafted up to the ceiling as she poked the sticks into an inlaid wood holder designed to collect the ash drippings. The kitchen filled with earthy scent.
Carefully, she chose vegetables from the fridge and laid them out on the cutting board. It was a good day for soup. Soft light filtered in through the rattan blinds. Barely audible sounds of Tara’s practiced breathing spun around the room as she settled into her meditation, connecting with the only thing that was going to get her through this, her indestructible inner self.