The Enlightenment of Bees Page 5

  I hesitate.

  “Besides,” she reminds me, “I know how much you admire your aunt Frannie and her dental clinic. You want to follow in her footsteps, right? Have that kind of impact? The heart is the same, isn’t it? You can figure out the details as you go.”

  “Hello?” Bryant and Stella are staring at our empty couch. Bryant reaches forward and taps the computer screen, frowning. “I think you’re frozen,” he says.

  Rosie punches the mute button off and pops back into view of the camera. “Sorry, y’all. We lost you for a minute. Mia?”

  I hesitate for a split second. I’m a truthful person. I don’t like to mislead anyone, but Rosie’s right, I have to offer them something concrete. I can’t tell them the pathetic truth, that I’m disoriented and brokenhearted and currently the only things on my life bucket list are perfecting my croissant technique, getting some stamps in my passport, and finally drinking an authentic cup of Indian chai tea. Oh, and figuring out my life’s purpose. That too. They’ll never accept me.

  I poke my head back into view and smile wanly. “Yes, that’s right. I think everyone should have access to free medical care, especially women and children.” Which is totally true, I just don’t happen to have any interest in personally providing that care.

  Rosie moves away from the camera and mouths, “You’re welcome.”

  “Well that sounds very promising,” Stella says. She leafs through what appears to be a printout of my application form. “I don’t see anything on here about medicine. Do you have any training?”

  “Um,” I stall, trying to think. “I volunteer with homeless women and children in a residential facility in downtown Seattle on a weekly basis. I did first aid training through my volunteer work there.” To be precise, I spent a stultifying Saturday practicing CPR on a silicone dummy and bandaging imaginary wounds with the other volunteers to gain that mandatory first aid certification. “And I’ve been thinking about getting further training after the trip, but I’m not sure yet what that will look like.” Since I’ve been let go from my apprenticeship, the thought of doing further schooling has crossed my mind. Not in anything medical related, but still . . .

  “I see. Good.” Stella and Bryant exchange a glance, and she nods slightly, then turns to me. “Mia, as you know, we recently had a female member of the team drop out for . . . personal reasons.”

  “Girl got caught being a mule for a Mexican drug lord—had a kilo of cocaine stuffed in her push-up bra when she came through US customs in San Ysidro—and now she is going to prison,” Bryant adds cheerfully.

  Stella shoots him a censoring look but doesn’t break her stride. “So while we normally have a longer and more thorough vetting process for applicants, we are willing to expedite the process in this case, especially since Rosie has provided such a glowing recommendation for you.”

  She exchanges another look with Bryant, who leans over and whispers something in her ear. They confer for a moment while I wait awkwardly. Finally, Stella turns to me with a frosty smile.

  “Mia, Bryant and I both feel you would be a great fit for the Humanitas Foundation’s Global Experience. You are officially accepted as the replacement team member. Welcome to Team Caritas.”

  I breathe a huge sigh of relief, breaking into a genuine grin for the first time in days. “Thank you!” I enthuse, pushing aside the twinge of unease about my somewhat untruthful claim. As Rosie said, it probably won’t matter in the long run anyway, right? I’ll straighten out the details with Stella and Bryant later when I have a clearer understanding of what I actually want to do. The most important thing is that now I have a chance to figure that out. It’s time to embrace my alternate life.

  Chapter 9

  End of April

  “I’ll be out in a minute,” Nana Alice calls through the bathroom door as I knock and slip into her studio apartment. “We’re watching European Cake Week, is that right?”

  “Yes, I think so.” It’s our last Bake Off viewing before I leave for my trip, a good episode to end on. I always enjoy the Old World splendor of “European Cake Week.”

  Sitting down at her tiny table for two, I notice a glass vase of pink roses and white gerbera daisies amid the litter of crossword puzzles and magazines. What are those for? It’s not her birthday.

  Curious, I sneak a peek at the card. It reads, “With great admiration, Albert.” I blink, surprised. Albert Prentice, the old flame in the trilby? Is something romantic sparking between them? I’ve seen him now and then in the few weeks since he moved in. He sits at Nana Alice’s table for meals, and she mentioned he joined her for bingo last week. A moment later Nana Alice comes out of the bathroom in her pink terry cloth robe.

  “Those are pretty.” I nod to the bouquet.

  “They’re from Albert,” she says, two pink spots of color staining her cheeks, matching the roses. “Isn’t that sweet?”

  “What’s the occasion?” I ask.

  “Oh, no reason,” she says vaguely. “We had dinner at Ivar’s Salmon House last night, and he brought me those flowers. I’m making chamomile tea. Do you want a cup?” She starts the water boiler and sets two mugs on the counter.

  “Sure, thanks. So is something going on between you two?” I ask, delighted by the thought of a late-in-life romance for Nana Alice. She’s been a widow for many years, since my Grandpa Harold’s heart attack when I was still a toddler.

  Nana Alice darts a sharp glance at me. “Nothing’s ‘going on.’ We’re just old friends.” She puts a tea bag in each mug and drizzles in some of our West Wind Farm lavender honey.

  “Old friends who go on dates to the Salmon House?” I prod gently.

  She waves off the insinuation. “It wasn’t a date. We were just . . . reconnecting. We’re too old for romance.”

  “You’d better tell that to Albert, then. I think he may be smitten with you.” I nod to the flowers.

  “No romance,” Nana Alice says firmly, pouring boiling water into the mugs. “It wouldn’t be fair. The poor man has lost a lot already in his life.”

  I start to argue, to try to convince her that it’s never too late for love, but then I decide to drop it. If Albert Prentice is half as charming as I suspect, he’s quite capable of wooing Nana Alice without my help.

  “Here, I brought you something to go with your tea.”

  I hand her a little white bag with a fresh Nutella brioche, a memento from my final visit to the Butter Emporium this morning to say farewell to my colleagues. I took Colleen’s advice and declined the new owner’s offer to work the counter again. I am starting fresh. Which is an optimistic way of saying I am currently unemployed. After the trip is over, I’ll figure out what to do.

  “Oh, this looks tempting,” Nana Alice says approvingly, peeking into the bag.

  “Good, I hope so.”

  Nana Alice has assured me that her tests and doctor’s appointments went just fine, but I’m still a bit concerned. Last time I stopped in at the dining room, her fried chicken and vegetable medley looked untouched on her plate. And maybe it’s my imagination, but she seems a little tired recently, not quite herself.

  Ensconced in two blue recliners facing her television, we start the “European Cake Week” episode. My favorite contestant, Chetna, is still in the running, but Nana Alice’s top choice, the down-to-earth Diana, has withdrawn due to health reasons.

  “Are you ready for your trip?” Nana Alice asks over the music of the opening credits.

  “I think so.” I’m excited and anxious, but mostly just relieved. I’ve not heard from Ethan since he officially called us off almost three weeks ago, and the days have stretched long and heartsore. The only bright spot is the impending trip. Tomorrow Rosie and I fly to Florida for a week of orientation before heading out internationally with our team.

  “Goodness me, it sounds exciting.” Nana Alice sips her tea. “I envy you, Mia, getting to do all these things when you’re young. What I wouldn’t give to be young again, full of such possibility and p
romise. You must make the most of every moment. I’m so proud of you, especially after what that boy did to you. After six years. Tsk.” She presses her lips together and shakes her head in righteous indignation. She’s still so angry at Ethan that she refuses to say his name. He’s been labeled and relegated to the “people we only allude to” category.

  After another humph of disapproval, she breaks off a piece of the brioche and bites into it. “Oh, this is perfect.”

  I’m relieved to see her eating. She’s naturally petite, but now I can see the knobs of her collarbone under her blouse. She reminds me of a sparrow or a finch, all bright eyes and brittle bones.

  We turn our attention to the episode. For the technical challenge, Chetna is attempting an orange savarin with cinnamon cream. Nana Alice’s new favorite contestant, sweet-faced young Martha, is opting for a dark chocolate and almond liquor savarin.

  “Ooh, Luis’s cake looks over-risen to me,” Nana Alice warns, setting the brioche aside, barely nibbled. “Careful, Luis.”

  The contestants take their cakes out of the pans.

  “Nancy’s looks a little flat, but Richard’s shape is perfect,” I observe, watching as carefully as if I were one of the actual judges. “Those slivered almonds baked in beautifully.”

  The bakers scramble to decorate their European cakes before the time is up. With one minute left, in the final flurry of frantic activity, Nana Alice sets down her mug of tea and turns to me. “Mia, there’s something I need to tell you.”

  There’s a gravity in her voice that snags my attention.

  “What is it?” I glance up.

  Nana Alice clears her throat. “I don’t want you to worry or cancel your trip, but I got some unfortunate news from the doctor this week.”

  My heart skips a beat. “What’s wrong?” I punch Pause, the screen frozen on a close-up of Nancy’s tropical-themed rum punch savarin with coconut cream and exotic fruits.

  Nana Alice sighs. “They did a pap test and then a biopsy. The results just came back. It looks like cancer of the cervix.”

  In the glare of the television, she looks tired and small. “I’ve got an appointment next week with an oncologist to discuss options.” She meets my eyes, her own sympathetic.

  I can’t breathe. For a moment I think I’m suffocating. “Cervical cancer? What does that mean?” I focus on the television screen, trying to right myself. The rum punch savarin is decorated with a colorful paper cocktail umbrella and a tinsel palm tree. It looks garishly festive, at odds with this terrible moment and its devastating news.

  “It’s good news, actually,” Nana Alice assures me, “as far as cancer goes. Cervical cancer is quite slow growing, and there are good treatment options for it. My odds are pretty high.” She seems unruffled by the diagnosis. Suddenly her comments about Albert make sense. She doesn’t want to enter into a romance when she’s already sick.

  I whip out my iPhone and type in cervical cancer, scanning the information from the American Cancer Society. She’s right. It is a very slow cancer, and the recovery rate is high. It’s one of the most successfully treated cancers, the website states. I slip the phone back into my pocket, slightly reassured.

  Nana Alice reaches over and takes my hand. “Mia, my girl, don’t worry. No matter what happens, I’ve lived a good long life. And I most likely have some fine years ahead of me yet. We’ll see what the doctors say.”

  “You have to beat this,” I say with conviction, although I’m trembling inside. “I can’t . . . we’re not ready for life without you. We’ll get you the best doctor in Seattle, the best care. Does Dad know? Uncle Carl?”

  Nana Alice shakes her head. “I haven’t told anyone else yet. I’ll call them both tomorrow. I wanted to tell you first before you go away.”

  “I’ll cancel the trip,” I say instantly. “Of course I’m not going.”

  Nana Alice grips my hand firmly. “Oh no, Mia. This trip is important. The time I lived in . . . women didn’t do the things you can do now. I made the best of what was available to me, but my one regret was not doing more with my life—more freedom, more adventure. I want you to go on this trip not only for yourself but also for me.”

  I look at her, caught in indecision. She’s neatly trapped me, and she presses her advantage.

  “It’s only a few weeks,” she reasons. “I’m not going to waste away while you’re gone. You’ll be back before you know it, and while you’re away I want to hear and see and smell and taste all of it. Please, Mia?”

  I don’t want to go. I want to stay by her side every step of the way, to keep her safe, to make sure that she is going to get well. But she is looking at me expectantly, her eyes bright with anticipation. It really is only nine weeks.

  “Go, Mia,” she urges. “Go on this grand adventure, for both of us.”

  In the end, there is really nothing else to say but a reluctant yes.

  * * *

  That night I dream of bees. A dozen are buzzing around my twin bed, alighting on the side table where my passport sits, empty and waiting for the promise of that first stamp on its blank white pages. But my passport is no longer empty. As the bees step gingerly across the pages, I glimpse dozens of stamps, the inked record of a globe-trotting life. The bees crawl across my visa for India, leaving dots of honey where they tread. I shoo them away, careful not to injure them, but they circle back and land again, crawling through the pages, over exotic stamps in a rainbow of colors. I sense that they are giving me their blessing, coming to see me off as I embark on this unanticipated alternate life.

  Part 2

  Sunbeam Key, Florida

  Chapter 10

  “Now this is traveling in style,” Rosie says approvingly, surveying the cavernous inside of the Hummer limousine as we whiz south down Highway 1 away from Miami International Airport. Thirty minutes ago we arrived on a direct flight from Seattle, ready for the orientation week at the Humanitas Foundation’s headquarters located somewhere outside of Miami. After gathering our luggage, we found this limo idling by arrivals and a driver holding a placard with our names on it.

  “It’s not what I expected.” I glance around the interior of the limo in puzzlement and take a sip of the rapidly warming glass of champagne the driver gave us before we set off. I was picturing a serviceable fifteen-passenger van with the foundation’s logo on it, with worn fabric seats and teeth-jarring suspension—like my summer camp experiences.

  The information we’ve been given about orientation week is scanty. A packing list for our trip, a confidentiality agreement and liability waiver, and a plane ticket to Miami. I’m not sure what to expect, but being picked up by a Hummer limo already feels like a curveball.

  I settle back against the seat and sip my champagne, determined just to enjoy the ride. My backpack is stuffed with all the items from the packing list. Nana Alice’s cottage has been sublet to a pair of naturopathic medicine students doing a two-month course in Seattle. I am currently unemployed and single, so after the flurry of shopping and packing, there was actually little to say goodbye to.

  “To adventure,” Rosie says, holding aloft her glass of champagne. We clink glasses and drink. The bubbles tickle my nose.

  “Ooh, look. A cheese tray and nut mix,” Rosie exclaims, inspecting the contents of the well-stocked snack bar. “Here.” She tosses me a packet of cheddar cheese squares and crackers. “Don’t let the champagne go to your head.” She peels the red wax off a mini wheel of Babybel cheese.

  Under her sophisticated polish, Rosie is still a cattle rancher’s daughter, born in South Texas in a hard-bitten portion of the state where the sun is relentless and conditions are severe. She was raised with a scrappy sense of self-preservation and an eye for scrimping and thriftiness.

  “Doesn’t this seem a little . . . extravagant?” I ask.

  Rosie shrugs. “Maybe they just want to pamper us before the rigors of the trip. I think it’s very considerate.”

  “Hmm.”

  “I can’t believe
we’re going to Lars Lindquist’s private island,” she says, giving a little clap of delight.

  “Who?”

  “Lars Lindquist, founder of the Humanitas Foundation. Reclusive billionaire heir to the Lindquist breakfast food empire?” Rosie searches my face for comprehension, but I am at a loss. “The man who is funding this entire trip,” she prompts.

  “Oh, right.” I remember Rosie and Stella mentioning him. “Lindquist. You mean like the microwave pancakes?”

  Rosie nods. “The same.”

  Lindquist microwavable pancakes are healthy, tasty, and brimming with maple-y goodness, at least that’s what the commercials from my childhood always advertised.

  “With a touch of maple syrup baked into every bite,” I sing quietly under my breath, the jingle coming back to me from long-past Saturday mornings watching cartoons. I remember the commercials, the happy maple leaf dancing beside a stack of pancakes dripping with golden syrup. Every childhood friend had Lindquist pancakes in the freezer and Lindquist golden maple syrup in its distinctive little yellow sunshine bottle in the pantry.

  “Apparently Lars Lindquist decided to use his money to better the world by starting the Humanitas Foundation and sending out teams internationally to help people in need.” Rosie nibbles her tiny wheel of cheese.

  “How do you know anything about Lars Lindquist?” I ask, polishing off another cracker. I suddenly notice that I’m famished.

  Rosie gives me a look of fond exasperation. “Honestly, Mia, do you live in a hole in the ground? I follow Lars Lindquist on Instagram. He’s got over a million followers.”

  “Oh.” I don’t have an Instagram account. I’m not a typical twentysomething since I’m pretty uninvolved with social media. I prefer personal interactions, face-to-face.