by Sadie Sumner
Twelve
Outside, frozen rain shredded the warmth of the bar. Monica listened to a message from Antoinette as she stepped back off the pavement to let a group of feral teenagers draped in old blankets pass. The vintage neon sign for the Vogue Theatre reflected in the puddles and struck Monica as beautiful. A group was pushing to gain entry, away from the weather. She knocked into a woman on the edge of the crowd and apologized, then asked what they were seeing. “Inuit throat singers,” the woman said. The smell and noise of the city surrounded Monica, and her breath was white. She faced the wind and thought how much Dotty would have loved that.
As she turned, an elderly woman in layers of ragged clothes rode towards her. Plastic flowers decorated the handlebars of her bike. The woman’s head was down, and she wove in and out of the people scattered across the road as if she was indestructible. As she drew level with Monica, she glanced over, turned her wheel too far and hit the curb, fell and slid along the wet street. Monica ran after her. The woman was soaked and blood streaked her forehead. She moaned and stretched her limbs and struggled to her feet. A hand rolled cigarette lay in the wet, and she picked it up and stuck it in her mouth. Her bike was nearby, and she pushed past Monica and howled when she saw the front wheel bent out of shape.
Monica felt somehow responsible. “I can help,” she said, “we can get this fixed.”
A ripe smell rose from the woman. Her eyes pinned, and she was oblivious to the rain. She took the wilted cigarette from her mouth. “Fuck you,” she said and spat at Monica’s feet. She mounted her twisted bike and wobbled away until the funnel of the night swallowed her whole. Monica hugged herself. The woman’s disregard clung to her like fear.
Gil came up behind her. “Well, that was a waste of my time. I don’t know what Rufus was thinking. No one even looked at my photos.” The neon washed him in blue and red, and they walked together through the jostling crowd.
“Who was on the phone?” Gil asked.
“Antoinette, from the agency.”
He turned sharply towards her. “So you’re going ahead?”
Monica nodded. She should tell him the egg donor had cycled. Instead, she thought of the girl from Saskatoon, her soft face twisted in surprise as they harvested her eggs.
“I don’t understand. You’re going so fast. I had no idea you were this far along.”
“I’m nearly 40, Gil, fast is all I can do.” Antoinette had told her they’d found a surrogate match in Kolkata. Dotty’s favourite place.
Gil hunched against the cold and strode off, so she had to run to keep up with him.
“Gil. Stop.” The pavement was slippery, and she worried she would trip. If he was leaving her, she knew she would have to act fast. When she reached for his arm, he shrugged her off. “We’re like fish that can’t see the water. Train wrecks, both of us,” he said and hunched over and sloughed away like an old man.
Monica watched him go, then realized she was outside an Indian restaurant. A sign, she thought, as she breathed in the spicy air that seeped from an extraction vent. Antoinette had requested Gil deliver a sperm sample that evening so they could process it immediately. Monica thought the doctor had been a little snippy on the phone, probably angling for her next payment. Rain found its way under the collar of her coat and her hands were frozen. She fumbled her phone from her pocket and snapped a selfie in front of the steamed up restaurant window. She was sure the spirit of the baby was close by, not yet conceived, but somehow more real than all the obstacles. She did not know how she would pay for the child, or convince Gil to provide his sperm, but she knew there would be a way.
When she got home, Gil was in the garage, still in his wet clothes as he worked on photos at the desk he’d installed along the back wall. In the bathroom, Monica stripped off and stood under the hot water for a few minutes. Her hair had puffed out to a frizzy halo, and she pulled it back into a band. Dog watched as she brushed her teeth. “I would be a good mother, wouldn’t I, Dog?” she said through the toothpaste, and the idea came to her, clear and distinct. Dog tried to wag the remains of his tail as she placed her handbag beside the bed and rummaged around in the back of a drawer, found her barely worn lingerie and put her robe on as Gil came in.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “That was unfair. I’m the train wreck. You’re quite together, and I have something to tell you.” He scooped Monica’s clothes from the floor.
Monica held her robe closed.
“I have been planning to leave. With Dog. The idea was to get a little place of our own.” He took off his wet clothes and stuffed them in the hamper.
“Oh,” she felt light headed. The reality stunned her more than overhearing it in the bar.
“I’ve been unhappy for a while now.” His eyes were bright. “But tonight I realized something. I’m mad at myself. I want us to stay together, but you know I don’t want a baby. I never have. And I’m too young.”
“But we’d be great parents. You’re creative, and I’m practical,” she said in desperation and realized the idea of a baby had been with them for the decade of their marriage, hiding almost in plain sight, just behind a door, like a guest who knows they will be unwelcome. “And we could have nannies. One for the day and one for the night.”
He shook his head.
Monica made herself breathe slowly. “So are you leaving? Or not?”
“I don’t know. I just want to be a successful photographer. If we have a baby, I’ll never get there.”
Monica felt a bloom of anger. “But that’s the whole point. You can choose career above all, and that makes you committed to your art. If a woman does that, somehow she’s selfish.”
In the mirror, she saw every crease and line. “Not to mention I’ve become invisible. I have no value in society anymore. While yours just keeps growing.”
“How will a baby change any of that?” He scratched at tufts of hair that grew on his chest.
“That’s not what I mean.” Monica felt her world shrink. “This has everything to do with a baby. A family would anchor me. Would anchor us. It would be something more important than us.”
He turned away from her. “God, you’re relentless. It’s like you literally can’t hear me. Let me explain it again. I’m just not the nurturing kind. You have to be nurturing to bring up a child. I think we both struggle with that.”
The word nurture hurt her. Dotty had thrown the same accusation on the way to the clinic when she was 16, and it had lodged deep inside. “I can be nurturing. I can.” She battled to maintain her composure. Her entire life hung on these few moments. “I know this is my thing. I know you don’t want it. I promise you I will respect that. I will.” She breathed deeply then loosened her robe to reveal the fancy lingerie, twists of stretch lace he’d bought for her years before, two sizes too small as if he’d never looked at her body. He stared at her in amazement as she forced herself to dance in a parody of sexiness. With her arms above her head, she twisted her body around an invisible pole.
Gil lowered his eyes. “Don’t do that. Please stop.”
His calm, reasonable voice enraged her, and she ripped at the lace and scratched her arms and shouted at him. “Even you think I’m not a real woman, that I can’t be nurturing!”
Gil left the room, and she sat on the edge of the bed, acutely embarrassed as she cried into her hands. The desire for a baby had snuck up on her until it permeated every cell, every waking moment and she saw her future as little more than the white noise of static on an old TV. There was no choice, and she swallowed her tears and washed her face.
Gil bent over the kitchen sink. Monica stood behind and hugged him. “I’m sorry.” She could smell the alcohol on him. “You’re right. I’ve been so caught up in the whole baby thing. I’ve lost sight of what matters most.”
He turned and enclosed her inside his arms. “Can we just not talk about babies for a few days, even a few weeks.”
“I can live with that. I’ve really gone overboard, haven’t I?” Moni
ca smiled shyly at him.
“I’ve been researching. I think you have a perimenopausal yearning. They call it the broody blues.” Gil’s voice was so light Monica wondered if he would break into song.
“Really?” She wanted to reply with sharp sarcasm but his casual dismissal, as if she was suffering from some biological malfunction, numbed her. Hold it together, she told herself. Be calm. “You might be right,” she smiled at him. “If I pull the plug, will you stay?”
“Can you cancel it?”
“I think so, yes.”
“Would you do that for me. For us?” He stroked her head, and she did not answer. “We could get a puppy.” He removed the band so that her hair sprung out and he buried his nose. “You always wanted one of those Labradoodles. I love your hair,” he said, and she heard the smile in his voice.
“Come to bed. We’ll figure it out tomorrow.” She took his hand and felt him shiver with anticipation as she led him toward the bedroom. “We still have to be careful,” she whispered. I had tests as part of the whole process. Amazingly, I’m still a bit fertile,” she wriggled her body to let him know she was keen. “Did I look really stupid in that lingerie?” she asked.
“No, you looked funny. And sweet.” His voice was gentle, and he found the box of condoms in his bedside drawer. They slid under the duvet, and she kissed his neck and felt him respond. They had always matched each other in desire, and she was pleased nothing had changed.
After, she lay in bed and listened as Gil took the condom to the bathroom and prayed he would drop it in the wastebasket.
“I’m sorry I haven’t respected you,” she said the minute he returned. “I’ll work this out.”
“We’ll work it out together,” Gil said, “just not tonight. I’m so tired.”
“It’s been a difficult time,” she kept her voice light. “You sleep. We forgot about Dog. I’ll take him for a quick walk, be back soon.” She took her handbag to the bathroom and removed a small brown paper sack stamped with the Planete Bebe logo. Inside was a zip lock with a collection tube. She retrieved the used condom from the wastebasket and used her nail scissors to snip below the knot. Gently squeezing every drop into the tube, she clicked it shut, surprised at how little there was. She held the tube against her cheek and thought about the old woman on the bicycle and the madness that stalked Dotty, leavened only by her daughter’s presence. “We’ll be such brilliant parents,” she whispered to her reflection then kissed the tube and sealed it into the bag.
Gil was already asleep when she slipped out, Dog trotting behind her. Despite the cold, the city was still heaving with revelers as she walked up to the hospital on Burrard Street. Monica had explained to Antoinette that Gil was too busy to come into the clinic during the day and the doctor had arranged for them to receive her after-hours collection. “Look after my baby,” Monica said as a nurse took the bag and dropped it into a chiller box.
Thirteen
The rainy season was over and with it the daily cleansing of the streets. Dust particles lingered in the air and diffused the sun. Everything smelled bad until you learned to ignore the cow, dog and human feces, the exhaust fumes and the gut-wrenching stench of factories. Until you let it all disappear into the background.
Kavitha slogged through the heat with her head down, dressed in a salwar kameez, a shawl draped over her head. A scooter raced up behind her. The rider slowed for a moment and glanced toward Kavitha, then sped off, a bright orange hoodie flapping against her slim body. It was Ria. Kavitha watched, her heart leaping as a yellow taxi sprung out in front of the bike, and Ria turned sharply and disappeared towards their building. She thought of Ria’s embarrassment at where her parents still lived, a vestige of another time, stranded in the midst of the new middle class. She knew Ria could not understand why they stayed, especially once they had their jobs managing the factory. And she suspected her daughter would never live there again, mired in the crumbling concrete layers that teemed with nosy gossips. Grateful for the deep shadow of the large trees, Kavitha turned into the road that lead to their building.
Ria’s scooter was parked beside the handcart that had taken over their old carpark. The large skillet on the back of the cart glowed with hot coals. The elderly man who fanned the flames smiled at Kavitha.
“Your daughter did not approve of me here.” His Hindi was rough and punctuated by deep intakes of breath.
Kavitha ran her fingers over the cracked vinyl of the scooter seat. Ria was not meant to be home. Not for months. She was grateful she’d hidden the laptop from the company lawyer so they could skype each day. She’d told Ria the camera had stopped working so she would not notice how changed her mother was. Now she did not know how she would explain her condition or the apartment. Mr. Batra’s grandsons had come each week and taken another piece. Her favorite chair was gone, the comfy sofa and her grandmother’s faded hand painted sideboard. Their bookcase with all of Arun’s books was last to go. The boys had packed them in boxes and carried them on their heads. Somewhere nearby Mr. Batra owned a small warehouse. No one knew what was in it. Except that it held all their secrets. He had moved into the flats at the same time as her parents and began his business right away, loaning small amounts of money and holding precious items until his neighbors could pay back the loans. Kavitha went to school with his sons and Ria with his grandsons. Mr. Batra now spent his days on a stool in front of his door, but he was still as essential to the running of the flats as their water and electricity.
Kavitha trudged up the stairs and nodded to Mr. Batra and her neighbors. Since Arun left, they were vigilant, keeping tabs on her coming and going. Their soft mumblings flowed behind her like a tide retreating. She pulled the shawl tightly around her head and across her body.
“Ma is that you?” Ria called from the kitchen. “I thought it was you just now, on the street, but...” She stopped short as Kavitha entered the kitchen.
“I know, I know.” Kavitha held up her hand. “I look bad. I’m sorry.” She glanced up at her daughter but did not try to hug her and she took care to hide her belly in the folds of the shawl.
“Not bad,” Ria said, “just different. I’ve never seen you in a salwar kameez.” She poured the tea she had made.
“You also look different, daughter.” Kavitha sat down.
Ria ran her hand through her newly cropped hair. “Do you like it?”
“No,” Kavitha said. “It is a boy’s haircut. And you have put something purple in it. What will you father say? What will the neighbors say?” She tried not to let her thoughts wander to the indignities heaped upon their family and the silent witnesses along the landing. She knew somewhere deep down she would survive this by the strength of her mind only.
Ria laughed. “Ma, you’re so old-fashioned. They will dissect every aspect of our lives no matter what we do. And where is our furniture? Are you finally modernizing, buying everything new?” Her voice was hopeful.
Kavitha shrugged. “Why are you here daughter? You’re meant to be at university.” She decided to be matter-of-fact.
Ria began to cry. “Oh Ma, it is the worst. You know my friend Salaam?”
Kavitha sniffed. She did not approve of Salaam. “It is not like you to cry. What is the matter?”
“He was going to ask me to marry him.”
Kavitha wanted to hug her daughter. Instead, she let out a snort. “And you know this how?” They knew years before that Ria would not stomach an arranged marriage and they had almost reconciled themselves to the fates of love.
“He told me.” Ria blew her nose. “Or he asked me if he could ask me.”
“And you said…?” Kavitha sipped the tea Ria made her. It was all she could do not to put her aching feet on the other chair.
“I said he could, but only after he asked my parents.”
Kavitha sighed. “So I do not see a problem. I will say no. You will cry and plead with daddy, and he will eventually give in, and you will marry Salaam.”
“But you d
on’t understand. Salaam has to marry Angel.”
Kavitha was confused. “Your best friend Angel?”
“She’s pregnant.” Ria wailed.
Kavitha spilled her tea and felt a renewed fury at Arun for deserting them. She did not want Ria to see her state, and she hated herself for wishing her only child would leave.
“Hush daughter. You can solve this problem. It is a good loss. If he strays now, he will always stray. I have something to tell you.” Kavitha felt the baby move, a small flutter as if she was running her fingers over the inside of her belly. “Your father is gone.”
Ria sat up straight and sniffed back her tears. “What do you mean gone?” She was practical, like her father, ready with a solution almost before the problem.
“Lost, missing. I do not know. Swallowed up, somewhere out there.” She waved her hand.
“Mama, where is Daddy? What are you saying? You are acting crazy!” She stood up and stalked the flat and came back into the kitchen.
“Did you sell everything to Mr. Batra?”
Kavitha nodded.
“But why, why would daddy go away? He loves me. He loves you.”
Love was not a word they often used. Kavitha sipped the last of the tea. Her daughter had never looked so miserable.
With Arun, everything had to be perfect. Ria’s grades, her clothes, her hair, even her bed made precisely each day. Kavitha thought of his crisply ironed shirts, his hair trimmed weekly, so not a strand was out of place. He thought of himself as embracing the future, but she understood it was just his way to keep the chaos of the world at bay.
From the next room, she heard the Skype ringtone. “I have to take that, it’s business. I will explain after.” She hoped Ria would not notice her hesitation. She picked up the framed photo of Arun. Since she’d sold the sideboards, the photo lived on the table. “Here,” she said. “Tell Daddy all your problems.” She thrust the picture at Ria and rushed to take her call.