Rosalie leads her down the hall, past the framed array of black-and-white photographs, a gallery of family joy. As they walk, Rosalie is almost ashamed of her tremendous fortune, and feels a shiver of gratitude for who she is, for what she has been given.
In the girls’ bedroom, Nayana opens her suitcase, revealing a compact mound of clothing, and pulls out a pilled pajama set the color of mud. Rosalie waits outside the bathroom as she brushes her teeth, or completes whatever cleansing rituals she has learned at home. Before the rest of the family has finished eating, she is under her generic pink blanket, asleep.
In bed, Michael remarks, “She’s quiet.”
Rosalie stiffens. “Well, that’s to be expected.”
“I know. I was just making an observation.”
She lets a beat pass. “It’s going to be a great experience for the kids.”
“I’m sure it will be. You always do wonderful things for them.”
There is, Rosalie thinks, a sardonic inflection in his voice, passing beneath the words like a water moccasin. What is wrong with doing wonderful things for her children? This is an argument not worth having before bed. She has every confidence that, by inviting this girl into their home, they will all learn about the world. They have not traveled since Ethan was a baby, when they’d visited Mexico and Rosalie had gotten sick from the water. Now that they are a family of seven, now that Michael’s work has intensified and airfares have risen, now that places like Mexico have dropped into the quicksand of crime, it makes more sense to stay home and bring the world to them.
The agency had allowed her to choose the nationality of her student. To Rosalie’s dismay, many of the available students seemed to be from Middle Eastern and North African countries. Muslim. Rosalie had to admit she felt unprepared for that. She was more open-minded than most, but as a Christian and peace-loving American, she had mixed feelings about certain tenets of the Islamic faith. Not to mention that she was uncertain as to how her own community, having lost so many husbands and fathers in the terror attacks, would react to such a youth in its midst. And what would such a youth have in common with the Warrens? Wouldn’t she feel uncomfortable, out of place, in her burka, or face veil, or whatever covering she was required to wear? Rosalie had to be honest with herself: it would make her uncomfortable to share space with a veiled child. She was afraid she might slip and say something that might offend the girl, defame her culture. It was one thing to host a foreign student, another to incite a political skirmish.
So she’d chosen a girl from a Hindu region of Bangladesh. A little less obvious than India, a little more exotic. She taught her children to find the country on the map. They took out books from the library to learn about the customs and habits, dress and language. Rosalie emphasized that this was a thoroughly poor country, devoid of glittery urban pockets and mirrored skyscrapers. There was no question that they would be hosting an underprivileged child, introducing her to the dizzying freedoms and opportunities of American life. She pointed out that only a minority of Bangladeshi children have a chance to learn English in addition to their native language—the implication being that her own children, in their fortunate circumstances, should be grateful for their grade-level Spanish. Together, they learned about the Hindu religion, the meaning of the gods. Her children were entertained by the idea of so many deities for so many oddball things.
It’s a thrill to bring Nayana on Sunday to outdoor church services at St. John’s Chapel in the woods. The possibility flits through Rosalie’s mind that mere exposure to such a parish, so humbly and effortlessly in harmony with Nature, will be enough to snap the girl out of her yoke of archaic, superstitious beliefs. At the end of a wooded path, the congregation is seated upon log benches facing the young pastor beneath his rustic trellis. The Warrens usher Nayana onto the wood-chip path in her white cotton dress like a shy debutante.
The pastor begins the service by announcing the presence of a special guest from afar, whom he is confident everyone will treat as an honorary member of the congregation. Faces turn and smile at the Warrens, and Rosalie feels lifted by the collective tide of goodwill. It is so strong, she thinks, that Nayana must feel it, too, the pure force of decency in these people around her. The pastor then leads the group in song, and Rosalie lifts her voice to meet the others, twisting and braiding in the air. Rosalie glances at Nayana and wonders what revelations might be occurring inside her brain at this moment.
Back in the car, Rachel asks, “Nayana, what is your church like at home?”
“They don’t have church,” Noah calls from the far backseat.
“He’s right,” Jonah says from the middle backseat. “Don’t you remember? They have temples and icons. They paste silver foil on rocks and paint them orange.”
Rosalie intervenes. “Why don’t we ask Nayana what she thought of the service?”
There is a pause, then the girl’s voice lilts, “I thought it was very nice.”