The Many Daughters of Afong Moy(103)

Dorothy bowed awkwardly as the woman walked away. Then she appraised the others in the room, a young couple with dreadlocks and matching backpacks, an elderly man with dark, wrinkled skin, whose mouth puckered inward for lack of teeth, a woman who rocked back and forth, eyes closed as though enraptured by something real or imagined, or merely lost in the desert of prayer. No one here would pay her much notice, but she still felt like a lonely person dining out solo, conspicuously seated at a table for one in a restaurant crowded with laughter.

Despite her apprehension, Dorothy found her way and sat on the cushion, her coat in her lap. The pose, the posture, reminded her of how she was never able to loosen up properly in a yoga class, let alone sit on the floor of her home and meditate, as many therapists and friends often suggested. The simple exercise of trying not to think had never been simple for Dorothy and always felt like a trick, an inside joke with a punch line that only other people understood. Or pretended to understand, the way people would talk about a classic novel at a cocktail party, in a florid, roundabout way, hiding the fact that they’d never actually read the thing let alone understood the metaphoric meaning, real or imagined.

She stared at the water bottle, remembering the medication Dr. Shedhorn gave her. She looked around, fished out the prescription bottle, opened the cap, and took out a capsule. Holding it up to the flickering candlelight, she examined the liquid inside, translucent, like a piece of amber with something unknown trapped within.

Calm your ocean.

She swallowed the capsule with a swig of water, unsure of what to expect, but expecting something eventually. She sat in the warmth of the hondo and contemplated what the bhikkhuni had said as she waited for the medication to kick in or at least grant her the ability to stretch out and fall asleep amid the ominous roaring of the gale-force winds outside and the deluge of horizontal rain lashing the building.

Instead she felt nothing.

She tried to remember a Buddhist poem, but all she could recall was one line: Impermanence embraces the new-born, like a midwife, first, and the mother, afterward. It was from an old Sanskrit story about a mother, filled with sorrow, sacrificing herself for her child. Dorothy thought of Annabel as she looked at the open pill bottle.

This is for you, Baby-bel.

Dorothy placed another capsule on her tongue and swallowed it.

She hesitated, her pulse racing.

This is for you, Ah-ma. I’m so sorry for the hurt I caused.

Dorothy swallowed another.

She felt hot and her hands were shaking as she stared down at the rest of the capsules. She pictured Dr. Shedhorn somewhere outside of the city by now, looking at her calendar, shaking her head and trying to figure out what to do with Dorothy.

Then all fell silent, peaceful, as though she were sitting in the eye of the storm.

This is for all of us.

Dorothy looked around to make sure no one was watching, then emptied the bottle into her mouth. She tasted the plasticky cellulose of the capsules. Felt the gelatin stick to the roof of her mouth as she chugged the rest of the water and struggled to swallow. She tried not to wretch or cough or gag as she felt a bitter gobbet stuck in her throat, the capsules collecting in her esophagus, slowly dissolving, burning into her gut. She quietly sobbed as though she’d consumed a lifetime of sadness and loss.

There’s no going forward without going back.

Dorothy sat on the cushion and tried to collect herself, even as the building shook and she could hear rain pounding the roof, the hollow banging of unknown objects flying through the air outside. Tumbling mailboxes? Street signs? Sheets of plywood? Uprooted trees and broken limbs? A symphony of catastrophe, careening off the brick walls.

It had to be done.

She could hear metal bending, glass breaking. She expected to hear laughter or crying or music, strange smells, new tastes, anything to indicate that the past was within reach. But instead her stomach churned and ached, she felt sick, dizzy, nauseous; her head felt heavy, throbbing as though lit up with a cluster of jagged migraines. She squinted, raised her hand to block the blinding light, then realized her eyes had dilated, and looking at the array of warm candles was now like gazing into the sun.

I’m sorry.

She felt something heavy hit the back of her head, then discerned through the sharp pain that she’d blacked out and was now lying on the cool, hard floor, her ears ringing as she stared up at the gilded ceiling. The ornate, decorative patterns, leafed with gold, moved in the candlelight as though they were alive, reflecting, flickering, changing before her eyes—if they were still open—it was hard to tell, because when she shut them she still saw things, shapes, figures swimming in the darkness.

Dorothy came here to find peace for herself and provide a better future, a better mother, for her daughter. She hoped to embrace the familiar, tidal pull of memory, to be sustained, to embrace her newfound hopes with open arms. Instead she found herself paralyzed, unable to move, as though someone were sitting on her chest, forcing the air from her lungs in explosive exhalations. She wheezed, gasped, without the ability to inhale, to breathe. She wanted to cry out, to scream for help, as her body jerked, convulsed. She shuddered uncontrollably, for minutes, then hours, then lifetimes. Until she let out a long, slow gurgle as a bubble of saliva burst on her lips. As her cold skin turned a mottled hue of bluish purple. As her eyes teared up then glazed over. As the clockwork of her life began winding down until her heart finally stopped beating.

Find me.