Page 284 - And the Mountains Echoed (novel)

pine. My insides shriveled up, and my first instinct was to turn around and walk

back out. Penny put her hand around my arm and squeezed. She looked at me
with great tenderness. I fought through the rest of the tour, bowled over by a
massive wave of guilt.
The morning before I left for Europe, I went to see Baba. I passed through the
lobby in the assisted-living area and waved at Carmen, who is from Guatemala
and answers the phones. I walked past the community hall, where a roomful of
seniors were listening to a string quartet of high school students in formal attire;
past the multipurpose room with its computers and bookshelves and domino sets,
past the bulletin board and its array of tips and announcements—Did you know
that soy can reduce your bad cholesterol? Don’t forget Puzzles and Reflection
Hour this Tuesday at 11 A.M.!

I let myself into the locked unit. They don’t have tea parties on this side of the
door, no bingo. No one here starts their morning with tai chi. I went to Baba’s
room, but he wasn’t there. His bed had been made, his TV was dark, and there
was a half-full glass of water on the bedside table. I was a little relieved. I hate
finding Baba in the hospital bed, lying on his side, hand tucked under the pillow,
his recessed eyes looking out at me blankly.
I found Baba in the rec room, sunk into a wheelchair, by the window that
opens into the garden. He was wearing flannel pajamas and his newsboy cap.
His lap was covered with what Penny called a fidget apron. It has strings he can
braid and buttons he likes to open and close. Penny says it keeps his fingers

nimble.
I kissed his cheek and pulled up a seat. Someone had given him a shave, and
wetted and combed his hair too. His face smelled like soap.
So tomorrow is the big day, I said. I’m flying out to visit Pari in France. You
remember I told you I would?
Baba blinked. Even before the stroke, he had already started withdrawing,
falling into long, silent lapses, looking disconsolate. Since the stroke, his face
has become a mask, his mouth frozen perpetually in a lopsided, polite little smile
that never climbs to his eyes. He hasn’t said a word since the stroke. Sometimes,

his lips part, and he makes a husky, exhaling sound—Aaaah!—with enough of
an upturn at the tail end to make it sound like surprise, or like what I said has
triggered a minor epiphany in him.
We’re meeting up in Paris, and then we’ll take the train down to Avignon.
That’s a town near the South of France. It’s where the popes lived in the
fourteenth century. So we’ll do some sightseeing there. But the great part is,
Pari has told all her children about my visit and they’re going to join us.