Unwanted Girl

by M. K. Schiller

  “You seemed nice. I’m not usually this forward.”

  “I know.” He arched his brow. “It took you a year to talk to me. At least about anything more than the weather.”

  “You could have talked to me, too. Why didn’t you?”

  “I’m not really sure.”

  “We wasted time, didn’t we?”

  “Not really. I wasn’t the same person. I’m glad we stuck to weather reports. Anyway, besides being a teacher, what else?”

  “What else what?”

  “What else do you dream of?” She lowered her head. He leaned forward. “You can tell me.”

  “It’s silly. You’ll laugh.”

  “Your dreams are safe with me, Shyla.” Nick expected her to answer with future forecasts, including marriage outlooks and the number of children she’d have.

  “I’d like to write a book.”

  Nick crushed the juice box in his hand. “You’re kidding, right?” he asked with a slight annoyance.

  She narrowed her eyes. “Why do you say it like that?”

  “Everyone is thinking about writing a book.”

  She played with the plastic wrapping of her sandwich, smoothing it out against the table. “You must hear it a great deal in your line of work.”

  “I’ve heard it three times this week so it’s a little under quota, but yeah. What’s your book about?”

  “It’s a love story.”

  He laughed. “That figures.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You said it was your favorite.”

  She narrowed her eyes, her lips pursed. Nick cursed himself…not just for pissing her off, but because her angry look turned him on. “It’s not glamorous or even particularly pretty. It’s definitely not cliché if that’s what you’re implying.”

  “I’m sorry. I can be an assuming ass sometimes.”

  “It’s not a love story in the traditional sense. It touches on some heavy ideas.”

  “Like what?”

  “Female gendercide, for one.”

  Nick almost choked on his sandwich. “Female gendercide? As in the act of systematically killing female babies?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sounds like a real feel-good kind of book.”

  “I know you’re being sarcastic, but ironically it is.”

  “What do you know about the subject, Shyla?”

  “I’ve read and heard stories.”

  “So basically you know nothing.”

  She shook her head slowly, her long lashes fluttering over her chocolate brown eyes.

  “One of the most important rules in writing is to write what you know.”

  Something he said must have resonated with her, but not in a good way. She stiffened before she leveled her head, squared her shoulders, and met his eyes. “What experiences do you have with the Russian mob, Nick?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Well, if I recall correctly, and I think I do, in the Max Montero book I read, he infiltrated the Russian mob. I suspect you have some real world experiences in that area since you’re all about”—she paused dramatically, fingers in air quotes—“‘write what you know.’”

  The girl had gotten him. He bowed slightly, conceding to her argument. “Touché.”

  “You asked me my dream, and that’s one of the big ones. I have this crazy urge to write it. Like if I don’t, I’ll combust.”

  Nick understood better than anyone what she described. As a writer, when he came up with a story, it wouldn’t leave him alone until he put it to paper. Unfortunately, he had no more stories to tell.

  “How did you come up with the idea?”

  “I, too, have a character that speaks to me.”

  Nick fetched a yellow legal pad and his favorite cross-pen from his writing desk. “What’s the story?”

  “I don’t have it all worked out yet.”

  “Tell me what you have.”

  “Now?” she asked, looking around the room, as if someone else might answer her question.

  “No time like the present.”

  She yawned again.

  “Unless you’re too tired,” Nick added.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Would you like coffee?”

  “I brought some.”

  “You brought your own coffee?”

  “I always carry it with me.”

  To his horror, she reached into her knapsack and pulled out a familiar plastic jar. Nick’s gut clenched in revolt. He tilted his head, trying to keep his expression stern, but failing. “You insult me by bringing freeze-dried, instant coffee into my house.”

  “I only need water, and I can make it anywhere. It’s convenient.”

  He picked up the jar and chucked it behind him. It landed perfectly into the trashcan by his writing desk. “It’s crap. If there’s one thing I can teach you, it’s this. Not all coffee is created equal. I’ll make you a real cup.”

  Her mouth gaped, but before she could respond, he took her hand and led her into the kitchen. A part of him regretted the action because he understood her decisions were not based on preference alone. Even though he was no longer part of that class, he would never forget those struggles. Poor recognized poor. He couldn’t solve those problems for her, and he doubted she wanted him to, but he could damn well make her a real cup of coffee.

  He brewed hot water and grinded fresh beans like a professional barista, explaining each step to her.

  “What’s this?” she asked, gesturing to the glass mug with a silver lid.

  “A French press. I usually use my coffeemaker, so I’m giving it to you. I wanted to show you how to make it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because instant coffee sucks.”

  The skeptical look on her face melted as the rich aroma of fresh brewed coffee filled the room. “I don’t have a coffee grinder.”

  He opened a top cupboard and took out a silver package. He tossed it to her. “That’s already ground.” He took out the three spice jars in the cabinet. “Do you like chocolate, cinnamon…nutmeg?”

  “Isn’t it cream and sugar?”

  “Not the way I do it.”

  “You choose. I should be angry with you for throwing away my coffee.”

  “Try this, and then tell me how angry you are,” he said, handing her a steaming mug. Their fingers touched briefly, making the exchange more awkward.

  She blew before taking a sip. Her eyes widened, and she ran her tongue over her full lips. The reaction so subtly demure and downright sexy, it caused Nick’s dick to twitch. She opened her mouth, but paused and took another sip as if trying to verify her appreciation.

  “Mmmm,” she whispered.

  “Yep.”

  “Touché, Nick Dorsey,” she said, clinking her mug against his. The best laughter came from the gut and worked its way up. And that was the exact laugh that came from him. One he hadn’t heard in a long time.

  Seated again at the dining table, half-empty mugs later, Nick waited patiently for her to start. “Shyla, we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I figured I could give you some advice and make up for being an ass.”

  “The coffee made up for it. It’s not that. I haven’t told anyone.”

  “Every single book starts the same way.”

  “What way is that?”

  “With an idea. Sometimes you can have a great idea and a piece of crap book or vice versa. I promise, even if you don’t write it, you will feel better for talking it out.”

  “I’m not sure where to start.”

  “Chapter one unless there is a prologue.”

  “No prologue. Here it goes.” She took a deep breath and pulled her legs up, encircling her arms around them. “Once upon a time, a very long time ago in a land very far away, there lived a village woman.”

  “What the hell are you doing?” Nick interrupted.

  “Telling you the story.”

  “Are you writing a fairy tale?”

  “No.”

>   “Is that how you would start it?”

  “Um…yes.”

  “Okay, let’s try something else. Tell me the story like you’re talking to a friend, not as if you’re reading it out loud.”

  “I am talking to a friend.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  Nick moved his chair closer to hers. There was still a distance between them, but he caught a whiff of her vanilla scent. It was subtle like her, but even more pleasant than the coffee aroma.

  She cleared her throat and began again. He jotted notes while she spoke. Soon though, he put down the pad and propped his head in his hands, listening to her lyrical voice. He wasn’t sure if it was the allure of her voice or the interesting story that held his interest—probably both.

  “I think you have something,” he said when she was done.

  “I don’t. It’s just an idea.”

  “Why don’t you try writing it?”

  “I’m not a writer. It comes off bland and emotionless on the paper. I want to do it justice.” She yawned again. “I should go. It’s late.”

  He walked her down, put her in a cab, paid the driver, and secured her agreement to come back the following night. He tried to go to bed himself, but sleep would not come. He either tossed and turned or studied the skylight over his bed. The window provided a framed visual of stars lighting the universe. He traced the scar across his abdomen. Finally, he closed his eyes, only to snap them open a few seconds later. The snippet of the tale she’d told replayed like a record set on repeat. She had the right words, but maybe not the adjectives and connectors to drive it home. Finally, at one in the morning, he flipped off the covers and staggered to the writing desk.

  Nick cracked his knuckles as he regarded his once friend and now foe—the blinking cursor. But this time, a new energy coursed through him. Before he could give the idea much contemplation, he began typing.

  Her story flowed through his fingers as they tapped and whirled on the keyboard in a frantic pace. The connection between his hands and brain lacked any hesitation. The words came effortlessly as they once did. She was the composer, he was the conductor, and the story was the music. It was a rough draft for sure, but he’d filled in the blank spaces and colored her outline. He saved it under his drafts with the working title Asha’s story by Shyla Metha.

  He swallowed, wondering what her reaction would be. Would she appreciate his help? Nick Dorsey had many critics. Perhaps they even outnumbered his admirers. His work experienced both hail and ridicule in some of the most prestigious media outlets by professional editors, passionate readers, and even celebrities, but he’d never been as nervous about a review as right then.

  Chapter 6

  Asha’s story

  Nalini Mistry hadn’t planned the long hike to the neighboring village to purchase vegetables, but she’d woken with one simple goal—to make her husband happy. The calluses on her feet throbbed with the extra steps she took, but it was worth it, because the farmer would have the cauliflower she needed to make Deval’s favorite dish.

  Their lives had taken on a dark depression since their only child, Dipesh, died the year before at the tender age of twenty. The image of her sweet boy caused a tear to slide down her weathered face. This would have been the year of the bride search. Now, she would never welcome a daughter-in-law into their home. Instead, Depal and she lived a lonely life, mourning their son and cursing the malaria for taking him away.

  As if the melancholy wasn’t enough, the burdens of heavy debt created further misery. They had called a doctor when Dipesh fell ill, draining their modest savings. Deval had purchased a new truck in preparation for his son taking over his route. In every village family, there was a passing of the torch where the sons go from beloved child to family provider. This was the time for Dipesh to take over his duties and for Nalini and Depal to enjoy old age. A time to welcome a daughter-in-law into their house and, most of all, grandchildren, more sons to bless their home.

  They had always lived in shades of poverty, but before they could manage to purchase nice things on occasion. A new sari for Nalini, a television a few years back, and tobacco for Depal, but now every day was a struggle. As if to cement her fears, she stepped into a pile of mud. Unfortunately, it wasn’t mud.

  She tried to scrape off the foul-smelling substance from her sandal, but it was no use. The smell followed her, taunting her misfortune. Finally, she walked to the river to wash it off.

  The river was high from recent rains. Its long channel flowed through several villages, providing an important fresh water source. Nalini washed the stench from her shoe. A memory of her son playing along these banks flashed through her mind.

  Why did you do this to me, God? The emotion of the question crumpled her composure. She wept tears so fat and salty they flowed with the same urgency as the water. Grief was an indulgence she could not afford. At home, she tried to be strong for her husband, but here alone with her solemn thoughts she was able to mourn freely. The pain poured out in her unanswered wails.

  Except she wasn’t alone.

  Another cry merged with hers. The voice, a loud screeching scream, silenced Nalini. She looked to the west and east along the riverbank, but didn’t see anything. Then she looked across from her. The invading sounds emerged from a small wooden box caught in the thicket. The kind of container they packed cashews in for export. She took off both sandals, lifted her sari, and waded across the river, trying to keep her skinny legs steadfast against the current.

  She ran her fingers along the crude puncture holes at the top of the box. She lifted the lid, saying a silent prayer for its occupant. The sight of the newborn baby nestled inside a dirty blanket wrenched her heart. Nalini carefully lifted the child. Who would do this to a baby?

  She lifted the material covering the child and confirmed her suspicions—a baby girl.

  An unwanted girl.

  Nalini rocked the baby gently and sang to her. The wails softened until the infant quieted completely. Then she carefully gathered water in her palm and cleaned the child as best as she could. She tore off a length of her sari. Carefully, she wrapped the child in it. She watched as the waters carried the dirty blanket downstream.

  What shall I do with you, precious one?

  Nalini wasn’t one to ponder for long. She was a woman of action. The city was even farther than the next village. She’d have to set the baby down to rest along the way. She didn’t want to take the wicked box, but leaving the baby on the dirty road was not an option either. She placed the infant back inside and cooed softly to her.

  She walked with the child for five kilometers toward the city. The stench of decadence and decay filled her nostrils, signaling she’d arrived. The place struck an unnatural fear in her with its fast traffic, crowded streets, and many dangers. There were beggars, including many children. One girl who couldn’t be more than eight wore a ripped frock and held a baby of her own. Although the infant was real, she carried it like a doll. That’s what it was…a prop to garner sympathy and additional coins. She gazed at the box in her arms. Would this baby suffer the same fate? Not if she had anything to do with it. This child would be raised in the suitable hands of someone who loved her.

  Nalini asked five pedestrians before an elderly woman pointed her to the local hospital. The formidable building hummed with activity as people moved with frantic speed. Everyone passed her, ignoring her inquiry for help. Some even shoved her. Her kind wasn’t welcome. She resembled someone who would more likely clean the hospital than be a prospective patient.

  She grabbed a doctor’s coat. He pulled away, his harsh look of disdain causing her to wince. “Doctor, sir, I found this baby. I don’t know what to do.” She spoke in a villager’s dialect he didn’t understand. His teeth clenched in frustration as he glanced at the baby.

  He pointed to a large desk in the corner of the room where a lady mid-yawn handed out badges to a long line of visitors. Shuffling slowly, she took in the huge sign above. Not that it did much
good since she couldn’t read. By the time she reached the front of the queue, the attendant didn’t even bother covering her mouth during the next yawn. Speaking without taking a single breath, Nalini managed to explain how she’d come into possession of the baby. At least the impatient young woman appeared to understand her.

  The woman stood up and peered down at the child from behind the counter. “She looks healthy. We don’t take non-paying patients.”

  “But she’s not mine. She needs a home.”

  “We are a hospital, not an orphanage.”

  The wooden box was getting heavy, and the muscles in her arms burned against its weight. Nalini set it on the counter for fear of dropping it.

  “Take it off! It’s filthy, and this is a sterile place,” the attendant yelled. Nalini complied at once. There was a certain order of respect, and among these people, Nalini belonged on the bottom rung. It was a fact she had accepted all her life, and like all the women before her, never questioned.

  “Where is the orphanage, memsaab?” Nalini asked, using the proper term of respect for a woman in authority.

  The attendant told her the name of another city, but it was much too far for Nalini to walk, and she couldn’t afford cab fare.

  “That’s too great a distance. What do I do?”

  The attendant sighed, a look of scorn taking over her pretty features. “Take her to the police station then.”

  After securing directions, Nalini carried the crate another kilometer in the crowded streets until she reached the station. Here, amongst all the harsh glares of men, she felt even more out of place than in the hospital.

  Thankfully, the officer who approached spoke her local dialect. His face shifted between the baby and her as she went through the story once more.

  He held up his hands to quiet the mocking laughter of his co-workers. “Her parents didn’t want her. You should put her back where you found her, Auntie.”

  Nalini wondered if perhaps there was a language barrier. “Officer saab, I cannot. She will die.”