“Of course. Gross Anatomy 101. You dissect a human cadaver, and no matter how close you look, you can’t find a soul. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t one.”
“But where’s the proof? Please, don’t misunderstand me, I’m not trying to attack your faith. I envy it, especially when I hear you talking to Shanti about Krishna.”
“I never chose to believe in Krishna.”
“Then how come you worship him?”
“I don’t worship him. It’s more like I feel he’s near.”
“Why? Talking to you, reading your work, I know you have a vast scientific background. How can you obey a deity that almost surely never existed?”
“Oh, he existed.”
“There’s no proof Krishna or Christ or Buddha ever walked the earth. You’ve read the arguments. All these god men—their lives are like carbon copies of each other. That’s because they were born of the same mythologies. You’re too smart not to see the pattern.”
“Krishna came first, five thousand years ago. Is it possible the other god men might have copied his life story?”
“Is that what you think?”
“It’s just an idea. I never met Christ or Buddha. I’m in no position to judge them.”
“But you feel Krishna’s just around the corner?”
I think of Paula and her son, John.
“He might be a little farther away than that. But I suspect if he was here, he’d tell you that you need to get into bed.” Lowering my voice, I catch her eye. Now is not the time for lengthy philosophical discussions. “Look at me, Teri, let me see your eyes. You look exhausted, you need to sleep. Lie down, let your head hit the pillow. That’s good, close your eyes and relax.”
Teri responds to my gaze and suggestions as fast as before, and soon she’s so deeply asleep she doesn’t feel the prick of my nail as I slice open the vein on her wrist. Seymour knows me well—I cannot help but give her an extra jolt of blood. This is, after all, the Olympics. The competition will be far stronger than it was in Oregon. Teri will need every advantage I can give her.
I’m finished in ten minutes and on the verge of leaving when she suddenly jerks in her sleep. It’s like she’s having a nightmare, which surprises me. I assumed she was too deep to dream. My surprise increases when she raises her arms over her body, as if trying to push away a rapist.
Yet I have underestimated the nature of Teri’s dream.
“Yaksha!” she cries softly, before her arms drop down by her side and she falls into a soundless slumber. I have never uttered his name around her, and yet she has just cried out to the creature who created me. I’m unable to tell if she cried out in fear or for help.
The final is scheduled for nine o’clock at night. The stadium is packed. I have spent freely on scalper tickets, and Matt, Shanti, Seymour, and I sit twenty rows from where the race will finish, at the end of the straightaway.
Unable to leave her teaching job, Lisa has not come with us to London. Nor have Teri’s parents. They feared they would add to her pressure. The four of us watch as Teri stretches and warms up. Coach Tranton is down on the field, but he keeps a distance from his star pupil.
We sat in the identical seats during her two heats, which were spread over the previous two days. In both races Teri ran hard, but far from wisely. In the first heat, she broke to the front of the pack and stayed there for the bulk of the race. No doubt the fire of my blood was partially responsible for her haste, but the pressure was equally to blame. She was a mass of nerves, and was chased down by two Africans on the straightaway and was lucky to finish third.
In the second heat, she listened to her coach and Matt and didn’t make a move until halfway through the race. But again she ran too hard for too long and was fortunate to again finish third. Yet the experience has helped her and Coach Tranton mold a strategy for the final. She plans to hold back until the final lap, and then let it rip. It sounds good in theory, if she is able to control her emotions.
“She looks tired,” Matt complains.
“She looks fine,” Seymour says.
“She has bags under her eyes,” Matt says.
“I don’t think many of these girls slept last night,” Seymour replies.
“I don’t like it. She’s been having nightmares,” Matt says.
“How do you know?” Seymour asks. “You’re not staying with her.”
“She tells me about them,” he replies impatiently. Matt and Seymour are not the best of friends.
“Nightmares about what?” I ask.
“She doesn’t say. But whatever they are, they’re awful. They keep waking her up.”
“It’s the stress,” Seymour says.
“She looks pale. She doesn’t look like herself,” Matt adds.
“She’s running fast, that’s all that matters,” I say.
“Is it?” Matt asks me.
The starter calls the women to their lanes. Since she barely qualified for the final, Teri is assigned an outside lane. Yet the starting line is curved to make up the distance, so it hardly matters. The starter is experienced and quickly lines up the women.
The starter raises her pistol in the air. At the last instant, Teri glances in our direction. I smile and she smiles back. Then she turns her focus back on the track. The starter fires her gun. The women leap forward.
The noise of the crowd is deafening. That is one thing that is lost on TV. We have to shout at each other to be heard over the roar. At least the others have to shout. Even with all the noise, I can hear the rhythm of Teri’s breathing, the sound of her footfalls. She’s running smoothly, and I’m glad. She’s off to a good start.
Teri comes around the track and completes the first lap at the back of the pack. That doesn’t bother us. The leader of the race is running too fast and is bound to fade. Also, the pack is tightly bunched. In reality, Teri isn’t far from the leader, at most five meters behind.
Teri moves up slightly. Now she’s running in the second lane, which forces her to run farther on the curves, but none of us can blame her. The African and European women are more aggressive than their American counterparts. They don’t mind pushing and shoving their way into a more favorable position. In Oregon, in the trials, we never saw a woman use her hands or arms against another runner. Here, the only person not fighting back is Teri.