by Sadie Sumner
In the bedroom, Kavitha gazed at the two women on her screen. They were on a group Skype chat. “I am so pleased to find you,” she whispered, “I did not know a group like this existed.” She found the support group online. Before, she used the internet only for ordering supplies for the factory. Now she was proud of her new research skills.
“It does not exist,” Saanvi said. Her hair was tied back in a tight braid. “Under the rules, we are meant to be in the hostel, that way they can monitor our vitamins and behavior.” She spoke in Hindi.
The other woman laughed. “That is what the client pays for. But it is cheaper if we stay home. I’m Bala, by the way.” The pockmarks on her face spoke of a less privileged background, but somehow she still managed to be attractive.
“We are good middle-class surrogates, after all, very high-class wombs,” Saanvi said, and they all laughed.
“When are you due?” Kavitha bent close the screen. “Do you know where your babies are going?”
“Mine is to America, in 12 weeks. It’s a boy. Los Angeles, I think. I am with Planete Bebe,” Saanvi said.
“Mine is going to Germany in 16 weeks. I am with Sunshine Mama. I think this baby is lucky, she will speak such a strange language,” Bala said.
“Can we meet, in real life?” Kavitha asked.
“No,” both women chimed in together. “It is forbidden. They could subtract our fees. But soon enough at the hostel.” Saanvi ran her hand over her smooth hair.
Ria knocked at the door. “Ma? Are you coming out?”
“I have to go,” Kavitha whispered, “Could we talk again tomorrow?” She hung up. Late afternoon light angled across the landing and into her bedroom. All that was left was a mattress on the floor, and for a moment Kavitha watched the dust motes. She shut her computer and slid it beneath the mattress. She heard Ria call her again, and she struggled up.
In the kitchen, Ria gasped. “Ma. Oh my god. Look at you.”
Kavitha had forgotten her shawl, and her heart pounded. “I know,” she put her hands on her swollen belly and felt a swish of movement.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Ria said.
Kavitha held up her hand. “Hush daughter, listen. We lost our jobs.” She watched Ria’s face changed from shock to amazement.
“How? Why? How could you lose your jobs?” She held the photo of her father between her hands. “Is that why he left, to find another job?”
Kavitha took the photo of Arun from Ria. “We must sit, and I will explain.” This time she put her feet up. “They decided to off-shore the factory back to America.”
Ria jumped up. “It is disgusting. What reason? Are we not cheap enough for them? They treat us like slaves. We must do something.” Her hands jutted out from her hips.
“Hush daughter. There is more. They sent in a forensic accountant and realized the factory had been losing money and daddy, well, he took some of it.”
“But why? Why would daddy do that? They’ve made a mistake and are trying to pin it on him.”
Kavitha described the discrepancies in the books. “He did it to pay everyone properly. He took that very seriously.” As she spoke, she realized she was proud and angry at the same time. “You see, this is where you get your zeal from.”
Ria almost smiled. “Do you know where he is?”
“He said nothing, just walked out. And I could not find another job. Everyone thought I must have known about the fraud.”
Ria paced the tiny kitchen. “Why did you keep all this from me?” She opened and closed the almost bare cupboards. “When did he leave? How long?”
“Eight months.” Her voice all but disappeared.
Ria stared at her. “But this baby? When is it due?”
“In eight weeks.”
Ria stood in the light from the tiny window, and Kavitha knew she was doing the math. “But Ma, the timing. Oh god.” She froze. “What have you done?”
“This is not his child.” Kavitha felt the baby turn, its little fist jammed beneath her ribs.
Ria slammed her hand on the table. “Obviously.” Her voice dropped to a hiss. “Who’s baby is it Ma?”
“It is not my baby either.” It felt as though a blanket had fallen over them both, even her voice seemed muffled. “It is for a lady from Vancouver, Canada, and her husband.” The baby shuddered as though the truth spoken aloud was too much for it.
“A surrogate?” Ria’s face screwed up into an expression Kavitha had not seen. “But that is just for very poor women.”
Kavitha sighed. “We are poor, daughter. Look around. We have almost nothing left. If not this, then we would lose the flat. And you would have to leave the university.” Kavitha felt the nausea of early pregnancy return. She stood and placed her hands beneath the baby and tried to shift its position.
“Oh god, this is a nightmare. You did this for me?” Ria pushed past her mother and knocked over a chair. “It is shameful. I don’t know you. I can’t believe you would do this to me.” She paused in the doorway and glared at her mother, slammed the door and was gone.
Fourteen
In the kitchen, Monica took out vegetables and apples, washed them and forced them into the juicer. Each time a beet hit the grinder the machine jumped and spat at her. She wiped a streak of juice from her face and cursed the stain it made on her white top. She was worried about the surrogate and wished she had someone to talk to. The phantom baby appeared on the shelf above her desk, swinging its bare feet. “What if she’s eating meat?” her voice dropped to a whisper as she spoke to the phantom. “It’s like this baby will come to us perfectly wrapped but what about on the inside? I don't want to spend my life freaked out I love a ticking timebomb!” The phantom baby nodded and waved both fists. Monica laughed at herself and forced the last of the apples through the juicer. She turned back to tell the phantom she’d chosen the most expensive eggs to give her child the best chance, and then India for reasons beyond the financial, but the apparition had disappeared.
She clicked on a YouTube video on her laptop and leaned on the counter to watch a portly Indian woman as she laid out a strip of fabric that glistened in the sunlight. The woman smiled at the camera as she spoke to her viewers in a singsong voice from a distant bedroom and showed them how to tie a sari.
India was always between her and Dotty, the place her mother escaped to, free from her responsibilities, free of her daughter. When she returned home, they lived surrounded by incense and spices. They ate only Indian food, and all meat was banned. Every time they moved house Dotty hung brightly woven fabric from the walls. She brought back carpets to sell, and the overflow kept their floors warm. Batik sheets covered their beds and Dotty wore long skirts and sold jewelry from a stall at the summer markets.
Gil came in and put his camera case on the floor, removed his muddy boots, picked up Dog and carried him to the laundry. They had a separate lowered counter especially for Dog, with a deep sink and a spray hose. Monica watched Dog stretch and smile in the warm water as Gil washed him down. When he wrapped him in a towel and rubbed him briskly, the dog made small noises and nuzzled his face.
Monica went back to the clip and took up the five and a half meters of red and gold silk. With each step, she became more entangled.
“Is that one of Dotty’s?” Gil asked.
Monica nodded and tried again. The secret of the baby growing in India caused a ball of anxiety in her chest.
Gil laughed. “Clearly not easy. You could start a trend. Wedding saris for white women.”
Monica saw a flush appear at the base of his throat. He was baiting her. The flushing, a sign of pleasure; a small tell that she kept to herself like an ancient hieroglyph only she could decipher.
“Am I cleaning all this up?” he asked. The kitchen was a mess with cups in the sink and toast crumbs on the board. A coffee ring had soaked into the porous soapstone counter top.
“Sure, if that will make you happy,” Monica said.
The phantom baby reappeared, on the c
ounter next to Gil, its skinny legs draped over the edge. It glanced at him and smiled at Monica like they shared a private joke. Gil was utterly unaware of the presence beside him.
Monica thought about the calendar hidden at the back of the napkin drawer. Sperm collection night stood out, marked in red. Rather than an illegal harvest, in her mind, it had become ‘baby ground zero’, a day she would always celebrate. The creation of the embryo and flight details for its trip to India and the day of conception were all marked in red highlighter. The expected delivery date was colored in pink.
For a moment Monica wondered how they would explain all this to their future child. While they both lied by omission every day, editing themselves to fit the ideal of their marriage, this was the first time she’d committed such an act of deception.
Her head began to throb. “Did you get the hors d’oeuvres for tonight?” she asked.
“Ah, shit. I’m sorry.”
Gil had forgotten her birthday again. She wanted to poke him in the ribs as though they were warring siblings, taunting him with his every inadequacy, but the words turned into the feel of wings that brushed her face and flitted away. “I think the juicer hates me,” she said, and the ache behind her eyes intensified.
“All juicers?” Gil asked, and she knew he was aiming for levity, to cover his lapse.
“Just this one. I swear it doesn’t want me to be healthy.”
Gil shook his head. “Now you’re anthropomorphizing a juicer? Or perhaps it’s possessed with the spirit of all the dead vegetables.” He took the dish brush and scrubbed the mesh from the juicer with small, deft movements. “A gallery called, a friend of Rufus who saw the photos in the bar. He’s offered me an exhibition.” The corner of his mouth lifted in a tiny smile.
Monica hugged him. “I’m so happy for you.”
“And I’m sorry about your birthday. I got caught up in taking photos. I wish you’d reminded me. Sometimes I feel like you set me up to fail.” He sprayed the counter to remove the beetroot before it stained.
Monica sighed. The warmth of a moment ago withdrew as swiftly as a spring tide. His endless childlike responses to the world exhausted her.
“I think our marriage is still in trouble,” she said and silently cursed her runaway mouth.
“Because I forgot your birthday?” he asked.
“Sure, it’s my first birthday as an orphan. But it’s everything.” They had not made love since the night of the collection, and she wondered if, on some level, he knew.
“Well, for one thing, we’ve not made love for how long? Ten months?”
Gil was immediately defensive. “It’s not as if we’ve ever been passionate, hot, crazy fuck bunnies is it?” he said.
“What are you talking about - crazy fuck-bunnies?” Monica breath came out in staccato puffs.
“You know what I mean.” He reassembled the juicer and stored it in the cupboard.
“I don’t. We’re mature. Sensible. We just have a touch of bed death.” She knew their irritations would pale and she would lose every high ground when he discovered her subterfuge. With each milestone, the deceit piled up, until it felt like she’d walled herself into a windowless room. The report on Gil’s sperm came back, and she didn’t tell him. The people in white coats had created the embryos with the donor’s eggs and selected the most viable, and she didn’t tell him. When they shipped the embryos to India in a chilled container, she’d walked her treadmill and followed the flight path online and didn’t tell him. When they verified conception, Monica sat by herself at the Greenhorn Café in Nicola St., chatting with a young mother about buggies and baby wipes. And still, she didn’t tell Gil.
“I have something to tell you,” she pushed her eye patch onto her forehead. The words came out of their own accord, and she made him follow her to the empty guest room. It had become their storage room, and he never went in. She pushed open the door. Gil leaned on the frame and took in the old suitcase propped in a corner and the rough stripes of test colors, pale green and cream, painted on the walls. Fabric samples lay across a broken dining chair.
“So, we’re finally renovating in here?” he asked.
“Sort of.” Monica clipped her speech. She now realized why it was so hard to decide on colors and fabrics and baby furniture.
Gil went to the suitcase and lifted the lid to reveal a dozen Barbie dolls in various stages of destruction. They all had shaved heads. Some had limbs hacked off; one had her eyes blackened and trickles of red pen, like blood, down her face. Another had curly brown hair glued to its face and genitals. Gil held it up.
“Yes,” Monica said. “My hair. I suppose I was ten or maybe eleven.”
“I’ve never seen these before. Rather monstrous,” Gil said. “And yet somehow profound. I could make a portrait of each one.”
“They were in the cupboard at Dotty’s. God knows why she kept them.” Monica selected the least damaged one. “Do you think she’ll be an angry teenager?”
Gil frowned. “Who?”
“Our daughter.” Monica stared at the doll’s piercings, drawn-on tattoos, and shaved head. A thick silence enveloped them.
“What daughter?” Gil held a hand over his throat, and Monica knew the burn of acid reflux was flushing into his throat, as it did when he was stressed.
“Ours.” She ran her hand over her face and smudged her makeup. “She’s due in five weeks.”
She watched Gil’s face grow red as he took in the information.
“So you stopped talking about making a baby because you’d already made one?”
Monica nodded.
“How did you do it?”
She went to the window. The view was dismal, just the brick wall for the neighbor’s garage and a graveled area in need of weeding. She told him how she’d stolen his sperm, straight from the condom into the tube.
“You could have bought some online or through that clinic.”
“I could, but I wanted yours.”
“Why?”
Dog sat in the doorway, watching them both, his head moving with their voices. Gil’s calm tone unnerved her. Every day she weighed her words with him, and today she was 40, and he had forgotten her birthday. “Because I paid the deposit on this house. And I pay more than half the mortgage. And all the other things we’re supposed to split? You’re always short. Except when we go out, then you make a show of paying, when others can see.” She lifted her chin. “You owe me. I paid for that sperm a hundred times over.”
“Is that right?” He took a step towards her. “And why did you chose a girl?”
“I don’t know Gil; I guess I couldn’t imagine you playing a sport or doing all that physical stuff you have to do with boys. And I don’t know anything about boys.” She breathed deeply and waited for the outburst, but he picked up her mutilated Barbie and ran a finger over the damaged face. He smiled and retrieved a duffle bag from a pile of luggage stored in the cupboard.
She followed him to their shared closet. She wanted to explain it to him, to sit with him and have him understand, but as she was about to speak he held up his hand.
“Not a word,” he said as he pulled t-shirts, jeans and jackets from hangers and stuffed them into the bag.
She hated how he smothered her anger. Now it spilled out in a fury of words. “You’ve never asked me why I want a baby. Not once. All you’ve made me do is feel bad for wanting one.” She was so tired of explaining herself to him, as if he was a stranger, their intimacy as empty and light as a balloon. “You’re so fucking passive and basically useless.”
Dog jumped at her raised voice and snapped at his stumpy tail.
“I know. I’m a very bad man.” He slung the bag over his shoulder and called to Dog and walked out.
“That’s right. You are. And a bad father!” Monica yelled after him as she heard the front door slam and distant whine of the garage door.
She returned to the spare room and sat on the floor. All the years spent in comfortable no-baby agreement now
seemed like a mirage. The need for a child was like a vortex buried deep, and only Gil was immune to its magnetism.
She scooped up the Barbie dolls and put them away in the case, then took them out again. The first time she cut one into pieces she was 12. The noise and banging through the wall meant she would have to stay in her room all evening, and there would be no dinner. The crunch of her scissors through the plastic was satisfying, and quickly there was a pile of body parts; hands and feet, elbows, knees and the head with its hair and nose removed. The next morning, she had got up early. Dotty’s new friend had left his jeans crumpled on the living room floor, and she found his wallet and took enough money for breakfast and lunch and crept from the house before they woke. At school, she placed the body parts in cupboards and on benches. The severed head she saved for her homeroom teacher. She smiled now as she remembered the squeal of horror. She still could not understand why the school took it as a threat. She’d meant nothing by it, just a joke, and a small gift. But they found the torso in her locker and suspended her for a week.
Monica put the Barbie dolls away and walked through the house in a trance. She imagined her daughter finding the suitcase and opening it. And if she would recognize herself in this child and if her good parenting could undo the past and if they would be alike in any way.
She was due at the Planete Bebe clinic tomorrow, and she opened her laptop and watched the sari-tying clip again. This time she mastered the drape and tuck and felt the caress of the silk on her skin. Without thinking she slipped a cushion beneath the layers. In the bedroom, she turned on her side and ran her hand over the bump of the cushion. The fabric collapsed into bunches around her waist, and she saw herself as a child on her mother’s bed as Dotty swathed herself in iridescent green for a party. She had put on slippers embroidered with gold thread and stuck a red bindi to her forehead. To Monica, her mother looked like a princess, and she had held that knowledge inside like a secret, a perfect defense against the concerned looks of the ordinary mothers at school. Monica played the video clip once more. No matter what, she would master the art of tying a sari.