My Last Love Story
Page 8
Krishna was known as the Complete Man in Hindu philosophy. He was a prankster, a flirt, a diplomat, a musician, and a great orator. If ever there were a classic example of God’s influence on His believer, Lord Krishna and Nirvaan were it.
“Well,” I said, flipping through the glossy-paged book, “the artwork is beautiful.”
It was. The artist had done a brilliant job of creating the village of Mathura and the forest of Vrindavan where the Lord and His flock of female devotees danced and flirted through the night.
I gave the Om-shaped incense stand a cursory glance. True, my mother-in-law would light incense sticks every morning in their home temple as part of her daily prayer ritual but…
“Give her the book. You chose it because the renderings of Krishna look like Nirvaan, didn’t you? Apart from the skin tones,” I guessed shrewdly.
Lord Krishna was always depicted as a blue-skinned deity.
“That’s why I wanted a second opinion,” said Zayaan, giving me an adorable squinty-eyed grin. “I thought I was being fanciful. Like you.”
Fanciful. Yep, that was me.
I shook my head, letting him know he wasn’t being fanciful. The book would please my mother-in-law. In truth, I fancied it would bring her immense succor to see her son’s face in her Lord.
They said faith in God could relieve us of pain. It was a good thing I had no faith then because I didn’t deserve to be free of my pain. Ever.
I spent Sunday morning doing laundry.
It being Mother’s Day, we women had been banished from the kitchen for the day. The guys were making breakfast—and creating a holy hell of a mess they’d better not expect me to clean up—and had plans in place for a late barbeque lunch, after which my in-laws would pack up and leave for LA. I’d brought up the fact that I wasn’t a mother and should pitch in for my mother-in-law’s day of honor, but the guys wouldn’t hear of it.
“May as well start practicing,” Nirvaan had murmured for my ears only.
I kept an ear to my bedroom curtain, surreptitiously checking on the show going on in the kitchen, as I folded a stack of T-shirts on the bed. Occasionally, a breeze would lift and flap the curtain up to reveal the unfolding chaos.
My father-in-law stood in his pajamas by the kitchen island, directing the show without getting his hands dirty. He was disheveled from neck to feet, but not a hair was out of place on his head. I grinned as he bossed about, eliciting major grumbles from the younger men.
It went on like that for a while until the good-natured rumblings suddenly suffused with tension.
Were they arguing about Kutch again?
No.
I sat up, straining my ears to catch the words. It wasn’t Nirvaan and my father-in-law, but Nirvaan and Zayaan at it this time.
“I live in London, for God’s sake. How much help do you think I’ll be? I think you should…” The words blew in with the breeze.
“Doesn’t matter where…I want you…” Nirvaan said a lot more, but that was all I caught.
What? What were they talking about in front of my father-in-law? They couldn’t be discussing the guardianship of the baby, could they?
Before another thought chirped in my head, Nirvaan shouted for me to come out.
Crap. He’d told them, hadn’t he?
I mouse-crept out of the bedroom and stopped by the sofa where my in-laws sat, a sheaf of documents spread out on the coffee table in front of them. Zayaan stood by the fireplace, his shoulders tense, his eyes stormy, while Nirvaan flipped grilled cheese sandwiches in the kitchen, looking just as unyielding.
“Simeen, come sit by me. You need to go over some papers,” said my mother-in-law.
That was nothing new. I’d been signing papers and checks since I joined the Desai clan. When your husband’s business was transaction-based and vast, there were always papers to sign. I signed above my printed name without reading the document. I didn’t need to read it. I trusted Nirvaan and his family.
But I got nervous when they asked Zayaan to go over the same documents. He did so while shooting evil looks at Nirvaan. He read through the papers as if he meant to memorize them for an exam. Only then did he sign them.
It belatedly occurred to me that maybe I should’ve read them, too.
What did I just sign? My hands and feet went cold. Had Nirvaan drawn up a contract appointing Zayaan as our baby’s godfather?
Personally, I had many reservations about it, and obviously, Zayaan had them, too. I understood Nirvaan wanted his child—if there were a child—to have a father figure to count on. I also got that there was no one in this world he trusted more than Zayaan but…
If we had a baby—and that was a big bloody if—I didn’t think it would lack for father figures. I had two brothers, Nirvaan’s father, and his brother-in-law who would gladly step into those shoes. Our baby didn’t need some distant, absentee, and reluctant guardian.
I certainly didn’t want to be tied to Zayaan in such a way. I’d told Nirvaan it would be awkward and difficult and not only because the man lived an ocean away. Zayaan had his own life. He shouldered enough responsibilities between his mother and two sisters, and Marjaneh would soon join the pot. We couldn’t impose on him like this.
Nirvaan, of course, had scoffed off my reservations. He didn’t think of it as an imposition. “I’d do the same for him,” he’d pointed out.
My mother-in-law patted my knee. “It’s to safeguard your future, beta. Nirvaan’s stocks, life insurance policies, and property have been put in a trust for you. Your uncle and Zayaan will be the trustees. They’ll make sure you never have to worry about a thing.”
I stared at my hands, my cheeks burning. I didn’t think I’d ever been more embarrassed by my husband’s wealth before. I didn’t deserve it. I didn’t deserve him. He’d taken care of everything. He was even preparing to care for me from his grave and I…
How could I live here after he was gone? How could I take and take from his family without giving back in return?
I stiffened as it occurred to me that I could give them something back. Something that would be far more precious to them than a trust fund.
Much later, once my in-laws were gone and it was just the three of us again, we took the Jet Skis out as the sun sank into the horizon. The guys ganged up on me, repeatedly spraying me, as they zigzagged figure eights around me. The ocean was choppy, and I was unsettled. I got knocked into the water a lot. Every time I pulled myself back on the bike, I tried not to resent how cleverly Nirvaan had trapped me in his baby-making scheme.
But it was my body, my decision to have a baby or not, and I would not be bullied.
The next morning, Nirvaan and I started the day and week off with a relaxing vinyasa session conducted by our yoga instructor via video chat from LA since we hadn’t found a center or teacher that appealed to us in Carmel. I had several recommendations for both, group classes and private gurus, from reliable sources but had been too busy settling in to call and ask for rates, trials, or schedules.
I approved of the standard, familiar way of countrywide establishments. It made me feel less like a fish out of water when we moved, and we’d moved way too many times for comfort in my life. Surin called us vagabonds with no small amount of envy in his voice, but I didn’t care for the label. I would gladly stay put in one place if I had a choice. Sadly, our LA yoga center did not have a branch or affiliation with any chain gyms in Carmel, hence the need to find one. I also needed to find a mixed martial arts center and enroll in their self-defense program. I’d generally take self-defense classes twice a year to keep my reflexes sharp. I might look frail, but my body was strong. I would never be powerless again. Never.
Then, just as I’d psyched my mind and body into feeling empowered, Nirvaan sprang his coup d’état. I realized that, no matter how well I honed my physical strength, emotionally, I was a vulnerable kitten.
“We need to have an early lunch, baby. Your appointment with Archer is at one o’clock.”
Zayaan, who’d been working at the breakfast bar with several tomes and photocopied scrolls and sheets of scribbled pages spread in front of him like the sands of time, stood up to reorganize his makeshift desk to make room for our meal. He shrugged when I glared at him, indicating that he was as puzzled by this turn of events as I was.
“I don’t have an appointment. I didn’t make one yet,” I confessed, my hands suddenly twitchy. I set the jar down, flexed my hand a couple of times, and then picked it up again.
I’d meant to make the appointment. And I would next week. Or, sometime next month. I’d thought and thought about it since Thursday, and I was nearly convinced…
Damn it. Why can’t I just tell him how I feel about having his trust fund baby?
Nirvaan popped the lids on the containers and dumped the food into pans and skillets for heating. He turned around and smirked. “I made it.”
Three succinct words, spoken softly, but they hit me like a ton of bricks.
Like a robot, I finished pouring juice, set the table, and served lunch. I ate little, for I’d lost my appetite.
My husband didn’t trust me to handle this. My stomach hollowed with guilt. He was right to mistrust me. But did he have to be so high-handed all the time? Sudden anger churned my blood.
Lunch was over quickly, and the guys helped me clean up after.
As we were pressed for time, Nirvaan and I shared the shower. My dream of wallowing in a warm tub of water, followed by a siesta, evaporated along with my yogic calm. Neither one of us spoke or so much as smiled when our hips bumped or when our slippery, soapy skin made contact. It was telling in itself, for Nirvaan never passed up an opportunity to tease me about how love was best served naked.
Nirvaan knew he’d twisted my arm. He knew he was being irrational about the baby. Maybe we both were. Our silence was our stand and our apology. But neither one of us was willing to relent.
It took me longer than my husband to get ready. When I walked out of our bedroom, head high and haughty like a martyr’s, I found the guys in deep discussion by the door. I sat on the sofa to slip on my heels. It didn’t strike me to ask why Zayaan looked angry now or why my husband was still barefoot until it was too late.
Nirvaan claimed he was tuckered out and wanted a nap. “Was a long weekend, baby. And my head’s starting to hurt.”
He was lying about the headache. By now, I could tell with some certainty when my husband was tired or felt under the weather and how severe or mild those ailments were. I’d seen him in various stages of sickness for five years—more, if you counted the periodic coughs and colds and fevers we’d nursed each other through since our engagement.
“If you’re not well, Zayaan should stay home with you.” I touched his cheek. Nothing. It didn’t feel hot or cold or clammy. I was right. I could’ve called him out on it but didn’t think it was worth the aggravation.
I wondered what Nirvaan was up to. I didn’t think I could bear any more surprises that he seemed to enjoy springing on me these days.
He kissed my forehead, my nose, and gave me a brief peck on my lips. “No way. Blood and doctors freak you out. Someone needs to hold your hand for the tests and drive you back and forth. And I’ll be fine…once I sleep. I’m going to knock myself out with some NyQuil.”
I didn’t tell him it was his blood, his pain and suffering, that freaked me out and not my own. Nor did I point out that no one but a husband should hold his wife’s hand when her uterus was being examined—especially when the checkup was solely due to his whims and wishes.
Zayaan seemed to have developed a fascination with the car’s key fob, refusing to look at either one of us during this dialogue. His ears had turned red though. I knew if I touched his lobes, they’d be hot. They always grew hot and red when he was angry or embarrassed.
Without further ado, Zayaan and I got going, leaving Nirvaan to his NyQuil daze. I pulled up the clinic’s address on the GPS and turned the satellite radio to a top-hits station, raising the volume high to deter conversation. I didn’t want to talk about this. I was too busy fostering my anger and martyrdom into Hurricane Level 5.
Zayaan gave me a good ten minutes to cool off before he turned the volume down. “If you’re this against having a child, why don’t you tell him to piss off?” He sounded well and truly aggravated.
Not a pleasant sensation, was it, to have your arm twisted behind your back?
“Why haven’t you?” I asked calmly, staring out the window.
It was a lovely sunny day, crisp with light and a mild breeze and a potential for joie de vivre.
“Nirvaan didn’t want you to drive back alone. You’ll be light-headed…maybe have cramps?” Now, he sounded doubtful.
The question also confirmed that Nirvaan had discussed some things with him…private things. And I did not like it.
I hoped my expression was as serious as a heart attack when I looked at Zayaan. “I meant, why didn’t you say no when he asked you to drop everything and come live with us? Why didn’t you refuse to raise his child for him? How do you propose to do that? You live in London. And what makes you think I’ll allow it or even want it? We have nothing in common. Not anymore. Why make this more difficult than it already is?” Why don’t you just say no, so I don’t have to?
Throughout my little speech, Zayaan kept shooting me brief glances, as he couldn’t fully look at me while driving. He didn’t say a word though. Not during, not after.
Too soon, the GPS announced we’d arrived at our destination.
“Please drop me at the front,” I instructed when he would’ve turned into the parking lot. “Merci beaucoup.” I tried to soften my words with horrible-sounding French. I’d been reading a lot of books on Napoleon and had now progressed—in my reading but regressed in time—to the reign of Marie Antoinette and Louis XVI, the Dauphine and Dauphin of France. Today, my head, aside from all the other rubbish, was swimming in an eighteenth-century French court.
I couldn’t help but compare Nirvaan to Napoleon, both tenacious little plotters.
Zayaan pulled the Jeep near a set of wide automatic doors. Of course, he replied in blemish-free French, “Pas de problème. I’ll park and come find you.”
I shook my head. “Nirvaan isn’t here. We don’t need to pretend, Zai. You and I both know that neither one of us wants to be here.” I got out of the car and held the door open. “I’ll be a couple of hours at least. Go away. Do something…somewhere else. I’ll call you once I’m done.”
“Simi.” He looked confused and frustrated, en garde to argue.
“Zai, please. I’m embarrassed enough for both of us. And I have to do this alone.” Without waiting for a reply, I shut the door and turned on my heel, walking through the automatic doors and into a waiting elevator.
Sooner or later, I would be alone, so why not start acclimating now?
After jumping through the familiar hoops of medical formalities at the front desk of Monterey Bay Fertility Clinic, Martha, a pudgy nurse in blue hospital dregs, guided me into an examination room with a pit stop to the restroom where I peed in a cup.
She weighed me, took my blood pressure, and asked if there’d been any changes in my health or medications since the last time she’d seen me three days ago. “Have to ask, honey. That’s just the way it is,” said Martha with a naughty eye twinkle. She handed me a green paper gown and requested I change into it. “Take off everything.”
“That’s Just the Way It Is” was the title of a ’90s song by Phil Collins. I had a sudden vision of my mother singing it—or rather, humming it. I couldn’t have been more than six or seven, but I remembered her singing so clearly with her soft, wavy hair, her pretty smile, and peaches-and-cream skin that smelle
d like rose water. If genetics was to be believed, I had the DNA to be a good mother even if I didn’t have much luck with life.
When Dr. Archer came in—a smile teasing his countenance, as usual—and asked how I was doing and if I was ready to roll, I asked him if he knew the song. He did, fondly. After those pleasantries, he told me what was on the menu today. He really said menu, as if we were ordering a box of à la carte goodies from Godiva instead of a bunch of tests to determine the best way to get me pregnant.
We started with the ultrasound. I had the image of my mother in my head as I lay down, but it vanished when chilled gel was squeezed across my stomach to the pelvic bone. I sucked in a breath. My abdomen quivered, and so did the glob of jelly on top of it.
“Sorry,” Dr. Archer mumbled automatically. “Try to relax.”
Why was he sorry when he’d do it over and over until he got the right images? And why should he be sorry for doing his job? If anyone should apologize to me, it was Nirvaan. Had he really expected Zayaan to hold my hand in here? God, how embarrassing.
I winced as the probe pressed against my empty bladder.
“Does this hurt?”
I sucked in a breath. “No. Just some pressure.”
“Mmhmm,” the doctor hummed and continued with the probe.
I craned my neck toward the monitor. My insides looked like a nebula of exploding stars in black and white and sounded like it, too, with the accompanying erratic beeps.
“You said your cycle is irregular?”
“That’s right.” I tensed up but more from what had flashed through my mind than the probe pushing at my ovaries.
I hadn’t always been irregular. For the first two years after my menarche, I’d bled every month like clockwork. Then, after the night of my eighteenth birthday, I’d had to go on the pill. I’d begun to lose weight I couldn’t afford to lose. I’d become emaciated and depressed. The birth control pills had exacerbated my hormonal imbalance and mental state, messing up my system for good.