Free Traveling with Spirits by Valerie Miner Page A

discussing preventive programs this very morning? The invitation is a blessing.
      “I might come on Tuesday.” She leans against the wall, yielding to exhaustion.
      The teacher stares. “The cross hanging from your pretty silver chain, does that mark you as a member of the clergy?”
      She shakes her head. “I am a doctor.”
      “But the cross. Do you preach?”
      Is she baiting her? Is she confused? “Many Catholics wear crosses.”
      “So when you come to the school, you will not speak about religion?”
      How annoying can she get? First the woman challenges her Hindi, then usurps her half day leave, then accuses her of indoctrination. Monica waits for an apology.
      The teacher seems to be expecting an answer.
      Vikram sits tight and still.
      Too tired and busy for games, she speaks deliberately. “If I were to come to your school, I would speak as a physician on the requested topic. I believe you were interested in hygiene as preventive medicine.”
      Vikram shifts to the corner chair, his eyes alert. If he doesn’t understand every word, he’s catching the tone.
      The woman lowers her eyebrows, looking satisfied. “Tuesday it is. I will organize the room for 2 p.m. if that is acceptable.”
      “Perfectly,” Monica suppresses her irritation. “What age are the students?”
      “Between fourteen and eighteen. Why do you ask?”
      “They have had HIV/AIDS education?”
      “We do what we can. Be my guest, Doctor. As you know, the virus is spreading fiercely in this country.”
      She makes notes.
      “Vikram will come to escort you.”
      “Yes,” Vikram smiles for the first time. An attractive boy. “Tuesday, Doctorji .”
      Her heart lifts. One patient at a time. Vikram, not Sudha Badami, is the patient.
              ***** 
      At five o’clock Monica peeks into the waiting room, distressed to discover six long-suffering people. She’s shattered, wants to sleep for twenty-four hours. Her stamina will build as she get used to the altitude, the language. Monica invites Sister Melba into the exam room.
      “No, Doctor. No critical cases. All can return tomorrow.”
      “Thank you,” Monica sighs.
      She exits through a newly discovered back door and heads for the residence.
      They’re serving cocktails in the refectory to welcome back Dr. Sanchez from Manda. She should attend. No, she needs time to herself.
      Still some natural light, she notices, making tea. Kevin Walsh has warned not to be profligate with electricity. The emergency generator is for hospital use. She collapses in the window chair, a blanket wrapped around her weary legs. Monica inhales steam from the hot tea as she opens Beata’s letter.

    Dear Monica,
      Great to get your letter from Delhi. What bureaucracy! And your visa is still insecure? I’m sending this to Moorty, assuming you have to be there now. Glad to know your health is fine. And nice to hear about running into Tina after all those years. More details on Ashok, please.
      She hasn’t heard from either since arriving in Moorty. Chances are, of course, that both Tina and Ashok have sent emails. Her heart sinks, remembering it will be another week-and-a-half before she can visit Moorty’s internet palace.
      I miss our talks. In fact, I’m looking into long distance plans that allow you to call India without losing your old age pension. I want to know about your patients, the other doctors? Is there a real spiritual community there?
      She muses about her own early quixotic hopes of landing with kindred souls sharing faith and work. Still, what can she judge after one week? Father Freitas and Sister Catherine are devout, humble, insightful. And she hasn’t met Dr. Sanchez. Glancing at the clock, she sees there’s time to finish Beata’s letter. She’s not going to be late for two meals in one week.
      We’re in that part of winter when I wonder why I moved back from Seattle after grad school. It’s not the cold;