The Wishing Trees (22 page)

Ian wasn’t sure why Mattie appeared to be doing better. She could be moody, but he didn’t know if such moodiness stemmed from her mother’s death or was normal in a girl her age. Though he couldn’t remember her emotions waxing and waning so much before Kate had been taken, he hadn’t been around her as much either.

In any case, Ian was reluctant to alter Mattie’s good mood, despite the temptation to open Kate’s note. After weighing the pros and cons of doing so, he set down his novel and turned to Mattie. “I reckon it’s time for me to see what your mum says.”

“Okay.”

“That’s all right with you?”

“Sure, Daddy. I was wondering if you’d forgotten.”

He reached into his pocket, his heartbeat quickening, his stomach tightening. As sweat beaded on his brow, he thumbed the lid of the canister for a few seconds, glancing up to see a man dressed in white robes make his way down the aisle. After the man passed, Ian opened the canister. Inside was another rolled-up piece of paper—one of Kate’s scrolls, as he liked to think of them.

Ian,

Thank you for traveling to Thailand, my love. I doubt it was easy, as we made so many memories there, but I hope you created some new ones that put a smile on your face.

As I lie here and think of India, I find myself in a state of flux. There is so much beauty and love in that country. Remember how we wandered around the Taj Mahal in awe? Like it was too beautiful to really exist? Will you tell Mattie the story of Shah Jahan and Arjumand? About how the Taj was built for love?

We found such joy in India, but we also saw such misery. One of my greatest regrets, and I have few, really, is that I didn’t do more to help people. I wanted to. That was my plan. But I ran out of time. I gave everything to our family and very little to anyone else. And that was a mistake.

Will you right that wrong for me, Ian? Please? My letter to Mattie is similar. I’ve asked her to find someone to help in India. But you’ll be the one who actually decides the form of that help.

I’m sorry, my love, that I seem to be pushing so many of my problems in your direction. I’m sure that I must sound awfully selfish. I sent you on this trip for yourself, for Mattie, and for me. There it is. I’ll be honest with you now, at the end. I sent the two people I love on this trip because I thought it would help them, but also because I knew it would help me.

I didn’t do enough while I was on this Earth. I was given so many gifts but shared so few of them. How did I make the world a better place? I didn’t, at least not very much. But maybe through your actions I’ll be redeemed. That is one of my many hopes, and it comforts me to know that you and Mattie will help someone in India, that our family will succeed in places where I did not.

I love you, Ian. So much. Now, as I’m writing these words, I’m thinking about how we held hands and walked through the Taj, in the footsteps of an emperor who lost his wife, in the footsteps of millions of travelers who loved and lost and loved again.

You can love again too, Ian. Don’t forget that. You deserve to have light in your life.

Always,
Kate

Ian carefully rolled the letter back up and put it in the canister.

“What did she say?” Mattie asked, her book closed, distant lights passing by the window.

“Yours should be similar,” he said, thinking of Kate’s last words. “She said our letters are alike.”

Mattie opened her canister, suddenly needing to see what her mother had written.

Dear Mattie,

What did you think of Thailand, my beautiful girl? Did you swim in the sea and watch a new world? Were you reminded of us snorkeling together at the YMCA? I had such fun tossing those coins into the pool and watching you dive down to pick them up. You made me so happy. You won’t know how happy until you have your own children. Then you’ll know. Then you’ll toss coins and you’ll smile.

Not long after you land in India, you’ll see that it’s a very different place. There is incredible beauty, but also incredible ugliness. There is infinite joy, but also infinite sorrow. India is a kaleidoscope of hopes and fears, strength and weakness. Most countries, of course, are the same. But in India these things can seem very pronounced. So be prepared, my sweet girl, to have your mind opened.

When your daddy and I went to India, so long ago, we met a homeless woman who couldn’t see well. She was filthy and poor and wonderful. She collected cow dung, patted it into pancakes, dried it out, and sold it as kindling. She crawled along the street, looking for piles of fresh dung. Because her eyes were so bad, she often cut her hands and knees on pieces of glass. Your daddy and I saw her get hurt, and later took her into a shop and bought her two pairs of glasses. She was so happy, Mattie. She was bleeding and hurt, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so happy.

Will you do something like that when you’re in India? Please find someone in need, and help them. Doing so will give you a feeling that you’ll never forget.

Some people don’t believe in helping the poor. They think that the poor are poor by choice, that they’ve decided not to work and shouldn’t complain when they suffer. And while that might be true on occasion, a woman collecting cow dung in Delhi works every bit as hard as the president of a huge company. Don’t ever let anyone tell you differently, Mattie. The people who say such things have never scooped up cow dung, have never seen their children go hungry. They haven’t suffered, and they never really stop and think about what causes suffering, about how we’re all the same, but how some are born into better worlds than others.

I want you to be happy, Mattie. And your daddy. If you can help someone else find joy, you’ll find it as well.

I wouldn’t ask so much of you if I didn’t think that you were good and strong and brave.

Enjoy yourself in India. It’s a beautiful country. Sometimes you have to look beneath the surface, beneath the grime, but the beauty is there, just like it is when you put on a mask and jump into the sea.

When you gaze at the Taj Mahal, when you study its beauty, know that I love you as much as the emperor loved his wife.

Mommy

Mattie reread the letter, nodding as she came to certain parts, wondering what she would do. The train rolled on. She stared out the window and thought about the world she was born into, and the worlds that she had seen and knew were so very different.

THE RICKSHAW THAT CARRIED IAN AND MATTIE was a testament to the strength of steel. Basically a large tricycle, the rickshaw featured a forward wheel, a seat for the driver, and then a much larger padded bench for passengers. Beneath this bench were two wheels, complete with fenders. A colorful yet ragged canopy could be pulled over the passengers.

Ian thought that he and Mattie would be a significant load for their driver, but over the past few minutes he’d seen rickshaws encumbered with much more weight. One such contraption had carried a family of eight. The father had sat on the driver’s seat while the driver leaned forward over his pedals, somehow willing his rickshaw to move ahead. The mother and her children had been crammed together on the bench, sitting on one another’s laps, one girl poised over the side of the rickshaw, her legs resting on a fender. The siblings were dressed in typical fashion—the girls in red, green, and purple dresses, while the boys wore shorts and collared short-sleeved shirts.

Though dawn was not long past, the city of Agra already teemed with life. The streets were inundated with rickshaws, cars, trucks, scooters, bicycles, cows, oxen, and donkeys. Sidewalks were likewise filled with every sight imaginable—snake charmers who entertained tourists, men who sat on crates and had their faces shaved by enterprising barbers, turbaned fruit sellers who looked as worn as the wood of their decrepit carts.

Three-story buildings seemed to lean over the streets, which were littered with newspapers, plastic bags, and rotting food. The buildings were stained a shade darker than their original colors from pollution and the passage of time. Balconies dominated the front of nearly every building, level with one another, so that someone might jump from one veranda to the next. Below the balconies, canopies protected stalls from the elements. Wooden and steel signs advertised repair shops, restaurants, bookstores, post offices, and police stations.

Thousands of people seemed to occupy every city block. Hindu women wore colorful saris while their Muslim counterparts were clad in robes and head scarves. Schoolchildren were dressed in green and maroon uniforms. None of the men wore shorts, opting instead for light-colored pants and collared shirts.

The city was like an infinite supermarket, with vendors spreading piles of produce alongside the street. Women haggled with shopkeepers while men hurried past. Because cows were sacred to Hindus and had free reign of the city, one or two often rested in alleyways or sometimes even in main thoroughfares.

Ian and Mattie absorbed the sights as they had during the past few days. Ian often looked at his watch, wanting to reach the Taj Mahal when it first opened, before the hordes of tourists arrived. He and Kate had been lucky enough to see the Taj by themselves, if only for a few minutes. And he wanted Mattie to have the same experience.

The rickshaw driver continued to navigate the chaos as if he were a snake making its way through tall grass. Finally the driver eased in front of a bus and glided to a stop at what seemed to be a particularly dense and crazed part of the city. Ian vaguely recognized the area. He climbed out of the rickshaw, paid the driver, took Mattie’s hand, and led her toward one of the wonders of the world.

The main entrance to the Taj Mahal was a hundred-foot sandstone structure that resembled a giant red-and-white door. Dominating this door was an archway inset into the sandstone that served to please the eye, though it was solid except for a small arched opening at ground level. Above the main arch, semiprecious gems formed Hindu motifs—red lotus flowers, vines, and leaves. Verses from the Qur’an set in black stone and based on the work of the most famous of Arabic calligraphers paralleled the rectangular border of the main entrance.

Ian glanced at his watch again and was pleased to note that the Taj Mahal had just opened. He paid a nominal fee and with Mattie stepped through the main gate. Inside, everything instantly changed. Gone was the chaos of modern-day Agra. Instead, lush grounds—highlighted by rows of cypress trees—stretched toward the faraway Taj Mahal. The gardens were geometric in design, divided into squares by two marble canals. An inordinately long reflecting pool stretched toward the mausoleum, giving life to an inverted image of the Taj Mahal.

“Oh, my God,” Mattie whispered, squeezing her father’s hand.

The sky behind the mausoleum was surprisingly clear and blue, which made the white marble of the Taj Mahal seem to glow from within. The mausoleum, still blocks away, appeared almost like a mirage in the desert. The structure was too perfect and pristine to rest on the same soil as the shops outside. Though the Taj Mahal was the height of a twenty-story building and much bigger than Mattie had expected, it didn’t dominate her view by the sheer magnitude of its size. Rather, it entranced her with its grace and elegance. To her, the Taj Mahal looked like a dream, an illusion of light.

“It was built, luv, in an age of patience,” Ian said, walking slowly forward. “When architecture was spiritual in nature.”

Mattie nodded. Her father’s voice, which she normally adored, seemed somehow out of place in the presence of the mausoleum. She continued walking along the edge of the reflecting pool, wondering who had imagined such a thing, embarrassed by the pride she took in her sketches.