The Object of Your Affections

by Falguni Kothari

  Linda and my yoga master in Mumbai were going to be so mad that I’d forgotten how to breathe.

  “One of the baby’s feet is pressing against your kidney. Room is getting tight in there, and the munchkins are fighting for space. See there? They can move their legs now. Stretch out. Kick around. They’re a little bigger and heavier than a good-sized cauliflower right now. Perfect,” she continued to give us a breakdown, sounding extremely pleased, and not worried at all.

  I let out a long groan with the breath I’d been holding.

  “If you have trouble going to the bathroom, let me know immediately. We might have to coax the foot away. Other than that, just rest. Try to stay off your feet until the pressure eases off. Then you can resume your regular exercise and activities. Sometimes, getting on all fours in a cat or camel pose, or lying down on your side, will ease the pressure. Sit on a chair or a balance ball and gently rotate your hips in figure eights. Also, massaging her lower back will help.” She said that to Neal.

  With those instructions tucked into his head, Neal took me home. To his and Paris’s home. “Yer not sleeping at Liam’s anymore. Yer moving in with us. And no more cooking or anything. We’ll get someone to come in and cook Indian food for you. No more eating out.”

  I was in no state to argue because right that minute the pressure on my kidney was making me light-headed. And too right, I wanted to be pampered. I wanted my mother. I wanted not to remember my own baby. I wanted not to cry.

  Ignoring my wants, tears dropped down my cheeks as my whole body became one giant ball of hurt.

  “I’m sorry.” I’d conned this lovely man into trusting me when I had bad karma. Bad mojo. I couldn’t carry one baby to term, how would I manage two?

  He made me sit on the foyer bench, hunkering down in front of me to take off my slip-on sneakers. “Quiet, now. Nothing is wrong. Dr. Kapoor said so, aye?”

  I wiped my face, but the tears wouldn’t stop. I wasn’t even crying anymore. “I’m sorry.”

  He brought me water, and I drank half a glass like Dr. Kapoor had instructed, so I’d pee. Then Neal helped me up and into his bedroom.

  “Here?” I asked, shocked as he flipped the covers and helped me lie down on my side. Shudders racked my body as if I had the flu.

  “There’s more room in here and the bathroom is closer. And—” he waggled the remote, smiling “—there’s no TV in the guest room.”

  Good point. Still, it was weird sleeping on their bed. It felt too intimate.

  Then I promptly forgot my discomfort and worry when he switched on a Bollywood comedy for me. I loved bhankas movies. They cracked me up, and within minutes I was smiling if not laughing outright. Neal got into bed next to me, his knuckles kneading my back. It felt so good. I was pretty sure he was trying to hypnotize me through my spinal cord.

  The combination of slapstick humor and a soothing massage began to work its magic. And the babies loved my reaction to the antics of Varun Dhawan and Shah Rukh Khan on the screen. My stomach went taut like a drum under the blanket. Then it heaved and settled, heaved and settled, as my two starlings began to perform their own item song.

  Neal was fascinated. “What does it feel like? Does it hurt?”

  “No. It feels peculiar. Surprising. Miraculous,” I said, breathing exactly as Linda wanted me to. Relaxation breaths.

  “May I?” he asked, and when I nodded, he placed his hands on me, gently, so reverently. He always, always asked for permission before touching my stomach. And he always, always wanted to touch. Unlike Paris.

  Tears pearled in the corners of my eyes again, but I welcomed them this time. I wasn’t ashamed of them this time. They were happy tears.

  “They’re safe,” I promised. Or they would be once I did what I had to. I’d been selfish and foolish about so many things of late, and I couldn’t afford to ignore it anymore.

  The twins seemed to like the direction of my thoughts as they began to perform gymnastics in my womb. Perhaps to show off for their father. “They’re dancing. Can you feel it?”

  “Aye. Aye, they are.” Neal smiled at me in wonder and gratitude.

  Paris was truly crazy to be missing out on this, I thought, as I closed my eyes and gave in to pure joy.

  chapter twenty-one

  Paris

  I sprang out of the taxi even before it screeched to a halt in front of Liam’s Bar. I ran into the building, clattered up the stairs, cursing myself for ignoring my messages all afternoon.

  Phones had to be switched off in court. But court had ended at four, and then I’d simply forgotten to switch on my personal cell as I headed to RiM.

  No, not forgotten. I’d purposely left it switched off because I didn’t want to see cutesy baby memes, or messages from Naira about the joys of pregnancy and all that rubbish. Stupid, so stupid of me.

  When I finally got around to checking messages, the fear that had choked me—God, I never wanted to feel like that again. Three messages from Naira about twinges in her lower back, then pain and contractions, and a dozen from Neal. The last one from him was brutal. And unfair.

  In case you begin to care. She’s all right. I’m taking her home.

  Of course, I cared. I wasn’t heartless. How dare he suggest otherwise, the absolute jackass. Just because I wasn’t good at emoting or blabbing nonstop about whatever, didn’t mean I didn’t feel things. I felt everything—the pain, the apprehension. It was a constant knot between my breasts these days. I was scared stiff for Naira and the bairns. How could he not know that? When had he stopped reading my mind?

  I pressed the buzzer on Naira’s apartment, fighting to catch my breath. I’d stopped thinking of it as Liam’s for a while now, though Naira insisted on calling it Liam’s flat. Her reluctance to get attached to the flat was the same thing I was doing with the bairns. There was no guarantee that they’d like me or I’d like them. What if I repelled them? They didn’t like it when I touched Naira’s belly, did they?

  God, it was complicated what I felt. What I didn’t feel. What I didn’t wish to feel. That was why I wasn’t saying anything, doing anything. I didn’t want to say the wrong bloody thing.

  Were they fine? All three of them? I pressed the buzzer again and beat my fist on the door when no one came to open it. No movement inside, either. I called my husband again. He wouldn’t have left her alone. He’d be inside. He didn’t pick up the phone. Neither did Naira.

  They were punishing me. I was sure of it. They were teaching me a lesson—one I was in no mood to appreciate. I finally concluded that Neal “taking her home” meant our home. So, there I went, hating that instead of reducing, my panic increased. He’d only take her to our place if she wasn’t okay. I didn’t want to think of the worst, but I couldn’t seem to help myself. This was why I didn’t want to feel or invest my heart. Not yet. My mind raced from one tragic scenario to the next as another taxi took me home.

  I raced inside the apartment, noticing that the living room was dark as I kicked off my shoes. I rushed into the guest bedroom and stopped short. It was dark and empty too. I looked around in confusion. Checked my messages again, wondering if they’d detoured to a hospital.

  Had she gone into premature labor? Oh, God. It wouldn’t be ideal for the bairns to come at twenty-three weeks, but it wasn’t hopeless. Six-month preemies had a 76 percent survival rate. Apparently, those were good statistics to work with—if that was the case. But Dr. Kapoor had assured me that wasn’t the case when I’d spoken to her a half hour ago. She’d said Naira had experienced what she called some “baby kicks,” that was all.

  I poked my head inside Neal’s office. They weren’t working.

  By then, my gut had worked out where my husband and best friend were, but my brain refused to consider it. So, I stalled. I went into the kitchen, drank some water. I cleaned the mess Naira had left in the kitchen from the cooking. She was always co
oking. I put away pots and pans in the cabinets, hoping Neal would hear the clatter and come out. But he didn’t.

  He was angry. I got that. He’d been angry with me for a while. I knew that too. But I didn’t know how to make him understand. How to make it right between us again. And I was angry too. Angry that loving him was turning me into a crazy person.

  After I’d given him plenty of time to come to me, I squared my shoulders and walked into my room. If the Indian paparazzo saw them now, forget the gutter-rags, even the Times of India would make them into a headline.

  They were both asleep on my bed, spooning. My husband had his arm curved around my best friend, his hand on her stomach that moved up and down as if it were alive. It was, wasn’t it? I stared in fascination and terror.

  I refused to acknowledge how much it hurt to see them like that on my bed.

  I switched off the TV, which was playing a stupid Bollywood movie that I’d never understand or ever watch. They had that in common too, a perverse attraction to senseless comedies. They were like two peas in a pod.

  Dr. Barr said it was natural to feel jealous in a situation like ours, and frankly it would be impossible not to. I wasn’t jealous of Naira, I told him. There was nothing to be jealous about because nothing was going on or ever would go on between her and Neal. I trusted them both in that. Dr. Barr had given me a long, quiet look. “I didn’t mean her. I meant the babies.”

  As usual, he was right.

  Was I competing for my husband’s affections with the babies? I was, wasn’t I? His love for them was unconditional. Unlike his love for me.

  I sank down on the bed next to Neal. I had to touch him. I needed reassurance, and I hated myself for it. I flattened my hand over his heart—my heart. Mine.

  He rolled onto his back, mumbling an endearment in Gaelic in his sleep. Was it for me? For the bairns? Or for Naira, the mother of his precious bairns?

  Ugh. What was I thinking? Why was I so abnormal? Seriously, who in their right minds would trust me with kids? I couldn’t even be trusted with adults.

  Blue-blue eyes blinked owlishly at me as his lips kicked up in a slow, sexy, utterly heart-stopping smile.

  “Yer home,” he mumbled sleepily. Then he curved his body into me and buried his face in my lap.

  “Yes. I’m home.” I sighed helplessly, kissing the whorls of dark hair on top of his head.

  * * *

  The foot-in-the-kidney incident triggered several changes in our daily life.

  Naira moved in with us. I started coming straight home from work, putting a pause on my volunteer nights at RiM. I only went in if it was urgent, and if I was the only human rights consultant they could tag. The days I had to stay till late at work—sometimes until midnight for the task force—I checked my messages without fail, and stepped out periodically to call home, and I didn’t care who or what I interrupted or pissed off while doing it. I hadn’t withdrawn my application for the assistant US Attorney position, but if they gave me trouble about not putting work first, I would. I’d lost interest in any cutthroat competitions anyway.

  Things with Lily were better in a way and weirder too since her revelation about her daughter. Every time we spoke, she told me a little more about Jessica Kahn. It was a new low for me, being jealous of a dead girl.

  Jealousy covered most aspects of my life these days. I resented Neal for lavishing attention on Naira, and through her the bairns. I couldn’t take it when he hopped about taking care of her, granting her every wish and whim, so I made jokes. Not that Naira demanded anything an enormously pregnant woman wouldn’t. At least, I didn’t think so. But what did I know of the needs of pregnant women? As Minnie was fond of pointing out.

  Minnie and Anjum Manral had come to New York after the Braxton Hicks scare. We’d canceled the baby shower—Naira’s half of it because she had become superstitious about it. We moved Lavinia’s shower to Karen’s apartment, and I gave her a big-ass baby gift for all the ruckus and upheaval we’d caused.

  The moms had planned a low-key seventh-month baby blessing ceremony, which was more or less a baby shower but with cultural context. That both Naira and I were considered the mothers-to-be had thrown the moms for a loop for about half a day. They’d regrouped and decided that the main blessing would be done on Naira as the ritual was mainly for the protection of the mother and child during gestation and for a safe labor. Clearly, I wasn’t at any risk, having played my part of the hen laying the egg, so I was asked to step aside.

  I did so gladly. Wasn’t a ritual blessing just a placebo like a horoscope? It was highly doubtful that some red-and-orange threads tied around Naira’s right wrist would protect her and the baby in some mystical way.

  “What about protection for after? Once they’ve popped out,” I asked, genuinely curious. “It’s equally hazardous raising children. At least, in there, they’re protected by a mother’s body and antigens. In the outside world, any number of things could go wrong, healthwise and otherwise.”

  I was told to shush and not mock age-old customs.

  Neal winked at me from across the room. He’d been ordered to stand behind Naira as her guardian angel. He looked the part too, decked out in traditional Indian finery. Everyone was wearing glittery clothes—the moms had insisted the function was as important as a wedding. Even the apartment smelled like a flower shop with garlands of white jasmine tumbling down from the walls and adorning the tops of doors.

  Helen and I were asked to pour fistfuls of rice into the sari-clad hollow of Naira’s lap as she sat without back support on a low silver stool, facing some random auspicious direction in the middle of the living room. Dev was made to soak his palms in sandalwood paste and press them against Naira’s cheeks. He’d done the same thing to me at one of the ceremonies at my wedding, leaving a yellowish imprint of his hands on my face. He’d looked infinitely happier doing it to me.

  I’d parked my tush on a bar stool after I’d done my bit to watch and comment on the goings-on from a distance. Dev came into the kitchen to wash the sandalwood paste off his hands.

  “Inquiring minds want to know if you’re going to pursue my bestie on a personal level, once she’s done with...” I waved a hand, indicating the pregnancy madness going on in my living room.

  It was sad Naira and Dev had become a tad awkward around each other of late. But I had high hopes for them.

  “And how is it anyone’s business?” Dev wiped his hands on a towel.

  Then their love life—or lack of one—took a back seat because the moms had arranged Neal and Naira to sit side by side while they performed more ritualistic crap around them.

  “This custom celebrates the mother and father together—the giver of life and the sustainer of life,” Anjum explained to Lily.

  I did not like it. Not one bit. Naira kept shooting me flustered looks as if she too was uncomfortable with the whole thing. She even patted her side, inviting me to sit next to her so that we were all part of the ceremony. But I refused. It was all a bunch of hocus-pocus anyway.

  As Helen explained, usually, the ceremony was on a much larger scale where dozens if not hundreds of women were invited to bear witness and give their blessings to the pregnant woman, who symbolized the goddess of fertility. Due to our outlandish circumstances, the moms had decided this one should be a private affair, just for the immediate family. Lily had been invited though, and she was in her element, dancing from one side of the room to another taking pictures and asking questions and exclaiming, “Mazel tov!” like a broken record.

  Finally, it was done. Neal rose to his feet and beckoned me over. From behind the coffee table, he brought out two identical velvet jewelry boxes tied in a profusion of curly ribbons and bows. The one in gold ribbons he handed to me with a peck on my lips. Then, with a mischievous flourish that made the moms beam, he handed the silver-ribbon box to Naira, bussing a kiss on her head for luck. If his lips l
ingered a beat too long on her forehead, I told myself I’d imagined it.

  I put a stone over my heart and opened my box. He’d fashioned a custom case for my phone using a kind of metal and plastic alloy. On the back was a textured golden basket full of eggs—yes, the symbolism did not escape me. The belly was engraved with the date of my egg retrieval and an I Love You woven into a Celtic infinity knot. Affection flooded my veins as I caressed his thoughtful and beautiful gift. I’d been looking for a new case for my phone. My husband hadn’t forgotten how to read my mind or fulfill my desires. I turned to him, to hug him and kiss him, but I was a split second too late.

  “I can’t accept this!” Naira squealed like a cheerleader, tears ever ready to spill from her eyes.

  She thrust the box back to Neal. She’d become big enough that she couldn’t stand without help. She couldn’t even sit without a struggle on a sofa, much less on a stool that barely supported her tush. She teetered on her seat, and Neal immediately knelt in front of her, closing his hands over hers.

  “Ye can and ye will.” He took out two diamond-studded bangles from the box, and slowly, carefully he slid one over her wrist, like he’d done for me a hundred times.

  He’d made her matching bangles for the rose pendant, which she wore today with a traditional red-and-gold sari and a halter-neck blouse that seemed obscenely snug around her boobs. They’d ballooned like her ass. Dozens of stylized petals made of rose gold and diamonds had been bunched together to form a bangle and arranged to look as if they were strewn across her still dainty wrist.

  The bangles were possibly worth a hundred thousand dollars each, at least, as they were a Neal Singh Fraser custom design. That was a lot of starving stomachs we could have fed. But for once I didn’t get snarky. I couldn’t look away from the tableau they made even though I wanted to, even though I should have. They looked so happy; weepy pregnant lady and an over-the-moon dad. They looked so right together.