of the store-front, the repairman took out his tools and looked closely at the camera.
Returning to the counter, the man spoke carefully, exaggerating each syllable. "Camera no problem," he said. "No problem."
"I'm a professional photographer," she told him. "PHOTOGRAPHER. I know my lens has a mechanical problem. My photos are BLURRY."
"No, Señora." He shook his head.
"Have you worked on Nikons before?"
"Camera no problem!" the grey-haired man repeated.
"But close-up shots come out fuzzy—FUZZY!" Sara explained again, wondering how much English he really understood. "The lens won't focus. NO FOCUS."
"Si. But CAMERA NO PROBLEM!" the man shouted. He put the Nikon on the counter, but she wouldn't take it. "Por favor, Señora. Por favor." He pulled keys out of his pocket, as if ready to lock up the store.
"Please, just look at it again," she said. "This is IMPORTANT!"
"¡Basta! Camera is good."
Slamming the door, she slung the camera bag over her shoulder and started walking. She would look for another repair shop tomorrow.
Pulling open the hotel's heavy lobby doors gave her a rush of comfort. Soon she would throw herself into the tub.
"Señora!" the woman at the front desk called. "Señora, I have an envelope for you."
Sara stopped and turned.
"It has been here all day," the woman said. "And this too." She held up a fax.
In the elevator, Sara scanned the page. It was an apology from her editor.
Look, I didn't mean to come down so hard on you. I've been thinking, maybe you should go home for awhile. You've been away a long time. Do what you have to do to change your ticket.
She crushed the paper with her right hand. She would think about it in the morning—after her trial photos had been developed. Opening the envelope she read, Meet me at four. Bring your camera.—Alvaro.
It was already after five.
chapter 2
With the window and the early-morning rush of Halifax traffic at her back, Sitara raised her hands from prayer to temple—elbows pointed down, palms pressed hard together. Balancing on one leg with the other tucked into half-lotus against her supporting thigh, her belly-expanding breath was deep and even. Standing in a self-made temple did more than calm her mind and regulate her breathing, it connected her consciousness with her body—something she needed now more than usual.
After moving through a flow of postures, she rested for a moment before sitting on a small Persian rug. With her pelvic bones balanced evenly on the ground and her hands upturned on her knees, she let her eyes softly close. The emptiness she searched for was beginning to fill her head.
Following a long period of meditation, Sitara stood up. In the bedroom, she slid off her black drawstring pants and looked for some jeans. After finding a pair that was fading from black to grey, she pulled a small black t-shirt from her drawer and slipped it on.
For breakfast she sliced an apple that was past its prime and dipped it in almond butter straight from the jar. To lift the sticky residue of the nuts and rinse away the mushiness of the fruit, she chased the meal with a glass of grapefruit juice.
Stepping into the bathroom she brushed her teeth with cinnamon and baking soda. It was dry and gritty and didn't leave her mouth feeling clean. Spitting it out, she decided to use the remainder of the jar on the grimy scum around the drain.
As she cast a quick glance at a belly-high mirror, she grabbed a book she had been reading the night before, and let herself out the door.
On the bike ride to her clinic, she cut off several cars and almost hit a pedestrian waiting at a crosswalk. Sighing, she thought, Maybe meditation doesn't work.
The sun flashed through twenty-four empty bottles before disappearing again behind a cloud. Jasmine, cinnamon, ylang ylang, cedar. The lavender was in her hand.
Three drops of oil fell into a shell.
There were two patients waiting in the lobby. Sitara was more than an hour behind. She set the shell on the windowsill next to the row of coloured glass and inhaled deeply from the bottle that was still in her hand.
Her father had bad timing. She'd always known that—her mother had reminded her every day. Parvati was forty-one when her husband made her pregnant. That was her opinion—that he'd made her pregnant, as if it was fully his fault. She'd married him on the condition that he wouldn't and, of course, he hadn't intended to. Even as the years went by, she accepted no responsibility for her baby's birth. Sitara was ill-conceived, and her mother never let her forget it.
Hearing the restless shuffle of clothing in her waiting room, she put the bottle down, smoothed the white sheet of her examination table and checked the bedside drawer for cotton swabs and needles. Then, opening her office door, she smiled intentionally and motioned for her next patient to come in.
Patrick sat down in the chair across from her, barely touching the wood. Like a bird, he fluttered every extremity. His eyes darted and fled. Every time he entered her clinic, he brought a wave of motion with him, but today it made her queasy.
Forgoing her usual pleasantries, she invited him to lie down. Glancing up at the Meridians of Chinese Medicine poster framed above the bed, she listened to the flow of blood through the veins on his wrist and legs and asked him a series of questions.
"How have you been sleeping?"
"So-so."
"How are your bowels?"
"Fine."
"What about headaches?"
"Same as usual."
"Why did my father choose today?"
Patrick started to fidget and Sitara looked away.
Sarasvati beckons to me with three of her four arms. I crawl into the kitchen cupboards to see her. She hides next to the sink, where my parents keep the spices. When I close the door I am surrounded by a darkness that is rich and raw with scent. I reach for the cardamom pods, thinking they are her favourite because they are mine. I try to crush them with my fingers, but they are awkward and tough. Instead I use my foot. Finally the papery shells burst open, and the strangely shaped seeds dig into my heel. When I find her, Sarasvati is warm and aromatic. She speaks to me in Sanskrit and I understand. It is our secret code. Holding the cardamom jar tightly in my hand, I ask her to sing. Parvati, my mother, has been gone for hours and I am alone.
Sitara rolled her shoulders back and straightened her spine. After she turned eleven she no longer fit into that cupboard, although she tried, by not eating, to stay small. For the next few years she hid in her room or locked herself in the bathroom. But her father always caught on. By age thirteen, her hiding places were no longer in the apartment—she slept in parks or on other people's floors. An old woman at the temple sometimes "forgot" to lock the door.
