“I think I might have gotten knocked up,” Raji admitted.
“Shhhhhh!” Beth hissed, and she sneaked around the end of the row of lockers, looking to see who might have overheard. She came back and put her head right up next to Raji’s, whispering, “Was it that Alexander Astor guy from the masquerade? He looked hot. I mean, you couldn’t tell because he was wearing a mask, but he looked hot. Yeah, I can see doing him.”
“I lied. That wasn’t ‘Alexander Astor.’ That was Peyton Cabot.”
“Oh my God. Please don’t tell me that he’s the bassist guy, the fucking musician?” she hissed.
“Yep!” Raji tried to sound cheery about it. “The musician.”
“Of course, he knocked you up. Did he lie about using a condom?”
“No, things got rough, and neither one of us noticed the damn thing had broken.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet that’s what he said.”
“No, I believe him. We’ve been dating for over two years—”
“Jesus, Raji. I didn’t think you’d let it go on this long.”
“Yeah, well, we were just meeting and having fun. It’s not like we were living together.”
“Is he being a jackass about it?”
“No, he was perfectly supportive. Told me that he supported whatever I wanted to do. It was my body. All that stuff.”
“Well, that’s good. With all those weird Internet things going around, you can never tell who’s gotten stupid.”
“Yeah, he was pretty much perfect. He offered me any support I needed, financial or otherwise.”
“Is he going to drive you to the clinic and take care of you? Or are you going to have it done here? Dr. Jorgensen over in OB/GYN handles these things quietly for staff and faculty members. You can see her within an hour if you tell her what’s going on.”
Raji whispered back, “I’m not quite sure what I’m going to do yet.”
“What the hell do you mean?” Beth almost shouted. She looked around and then crouched down to whisper to Raji again. “You’re not going to throw your residency away over this. I won’t let you do it.”
“I mean, I’m not quite sure what I’m going to do yet.”
“I won’t let you marry him and drop out of the program and be a frickin’ housewife. That’s not you.”
Raji snorted. “I will not fuck up my life by getting married.”
“You can’t be a single mother and do your residency at the same time. Vanessa tried it, and she washed out to internal medicine in just a few months because she couldn’t handle the hours. I won’t let you do something stupid.”
Raji shook her head. “I’m not going to be a single mom. There’s a thing, in Indian families, an alternative. It’s kind of weird.”
Beth crossed her arms. “Go ahead. Hit me.”
“So I’ve got this cousin in India named Aarthi. She had an arranged marriage to a guy four years ago. It seemed to be working out. They liked each other pretty well, and everything seemed to be going well between the families. But then, when the time came to ‘complete the family,’ she couldn’t get pregnant. She hasn’t gotten pregnant even though they’ve been trying for three years. They’ve done IUI. They’ve done in vivo. They’ve done in vitro with a donor egg and donor sperm, and she’s still not getting pregnant.”
Beth asked, “Please don’t say what I think you’re going to.”
“It’s a caste thing. She can’t just adopt any baby out there. There are all sorts of taboos about it. The priests wouldn’t know what kind of pujas to say over the kid and stuff. They had an arranged marriage, so you know both sets of parents are very traditional.”
“I don’t like where this is headed at all, Raji.”
“So, in Indian society, if someone can’t have a baby, then her sister or sister-in-law has a baby for her. It’s normal. It’s expected.”
“Open adoptions always seemed weird to me.”
“The problem is that Aarthi doesn’t have any sisters, and the guy’s sisters aren’t up for it. So, she’s stuck. If I mentioned this to her, she would be all over me.”
“You can’t just up and go to India for nine months until you pop. You can’t take that long of a leave of absence from your residency.”
“I would stay here and do my residency until as close to the thing happening as I could. Then, the baby would be born there, and we could do an Indian adoption, which involves me just signing the papers because she’s family. No questions. No problems.”
“So, what? You would fly to India when you’ve got one week left? Or two? It’s not safe to go on such a long flight when you’re that far along in a pregnancy or so soon after a delivery. Can you imagine being at thirty thousand feet over the Atlantic Ocean and going into labor? Or if you had another problem? There’s nowhere to land!” She shook her hands like she was trying to fling off the anxiety of just thinking about it.
Beth had always been a nervous flier. On their high school senior trip to Washington, DC, Beth had been a basket case and insisted on holding Raji’s and Andy’s hands for the entire two-hour flight.
Raji said, “Look, I haven’t worked it out yet. It’s just that I have another option where other people wouldn’t.”
“What about Peyton Cabot?”
“What about him?” Raji asked.
“Have you told him about this adoption thing?”
“Not really.” Raji stared at the blue papery booties covering her sneakers. “But he said he’s okay with whatever I want to do.”
“Oh,” Beth said, her voice dropping in disappointment.
“Yeah,” Raji said. “Oh.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
The Indian Option
* * *
Raji sat at her breakfast table in her silent apartment, gathering her courage.
Her tablet was propped against a stack of medical school textbooks. She had been reviewing a biochemical pathway involved in muscle contraction, which concerned calcium concentration and ionic dynamics.
It was just a video chat. It was just an informative exchange with an option. It wasn’t the final conversation they would have. No one needed to make a decision right away.
The lighting fixture glowed above her, the only source of light in the whole apartment. Somewhere in the darkness, her couch and the television sat in the living room.
A text message blinked into the side panel. Ready whenever you are.
Raji sighed and tapped the button to open the call.
On the screen, the video camera focused on a young woman wearing a traditional, wrap-around Indian sari and a whole lot of gold jewelry. The vibrant turquoise silk of the sari reminded Raji of Peyton’s eyes. “Hey, Aarthi.”
“Hi, Raji-ma. It’s good to talk to you after so long, cousin. How are you?” On the screen, sunlight streamed around Aarthi. It was almost midnight in California, but it was a bright, sunny morning in India.
Raji said, “Fine. I’m fine. How’s the baby problem going?”
Aarthi pressed her voluptuous lips together, and her hands extended forward like she was trying to reach through the laptop and strangle Raji.
Raji sat back in her chair to avoid Aarthi’s grasping hands, but the image on the screen blurred and froze as Aarthi carried the computer or tablet to another room.
The image steadied, and Aarthi’s face and large eyes, lined with black eyeliner, were much closer as she whispered, “Who put you up to asking this? Lalita-auntie?”
“No one.”
“Then why you are asking?”
“I’m pregnant. It was an accident, and I was kind of wondering if you would want—”
“Yes,” Aarthi said, her gaze intent on Raji’s face through the cameras and screens.
“But you don’t even know—”
“Yes,” Aarthi said again. “Thank the gods, yes. I will bless your name a thousand and one times and do archana puja every day for you for twenty and one years.”
Raji leaned closer as if someone could overh
ear her. “You should know, though. The father is white.”
“I don’t care,” Aarthi said.
“I mean, he’s really, really white. His eyes are blue-green. He’s blond. This kid could be the lightest half-Indian you’ve ever seen. It might have brown hair. Maybe even lighter.”
“I don’t care.” Aarthi emphasized every word.
“He is tall. He’s one hundred ninety-three centimeters.”
“Wonderful. Not necessary, but wonderful. Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?”
“It’s way too early to tell. Is that a problem?”
“No. It is no problem. I don’t care, one way or the other. I don’t care if the baby has physical or mental problems or is half-white or what gender they are or if there are two of them or if they have three heads or flippers or anything. I would like to know whether to buy little tiny salvar kameez or little tiny dhoti, but I don’t care which one I will buy. I mean it, though. I will bless your name a thousand and one times and do archana for you every day for twenty and one years if you give us a child.”
It would be kind of gratifying to help Aarthi, who so desperately wanted a child. It was going to be a tough sevenish months, but at least at the end, Aarthi would get the baby for which she had been praying for years.
Aarthi continued, “Thank you so much, Raji-ma. You will never know how terrible this has been for years, now.” Tears wobbled in her large, dark eyes. “You have made me so happy. This is everything to me.”
Raji’s heart dropped, and her arms wrapped around her still-flat stomach. “I’m so happy for you.”
Aarthi clutched the screen to her chest, sobbing, which meant that Raji’s screen showed darkness and occasional flashes of blue silk, gold jewelry, and boobs.
Raji got it, though.
She felt the hug.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Second Proposal
* * *
A week later, Peyton held his phone to his ear, cupping his hand around the speaker so that no one walking down the hallway or in the apartments would overhear him.
He asked Raji, “Will you marry me?”
Over the phone, Raji said, “Peyton—”
The way she said it, drawn-out and sighing with regret, made his heart clench. He said quickly, “I’m sorry I just blurted it out in bed last time. That wasn’t the proposal you deserve.” Peyton chuckled. “It certainly wasn’t a story we could tell our kids or friends.”
This was the story they could tell their friends and kids: that when she said yes to him over the phone, she would open her apartment door and find him right there on one knee, holding a ring.
“That’s not it,” she said.
He rushed to say, “We’ve been dating for over two years. Every time I see you, it breathes life into me. When I’m touring, the first thing I do every morning, before I even get out of bed, is check our shared doc to see if you’ve updated your schedule so we can find some time to be together. When we video chat—”
“Oh, my God. Don’t bring that up.” He could hear the laugh in her voice, a good sign. Peyton could always get her out of her head, either by making her laugh at his jokes or by dominating her in bed.
“—I love every minute of it. It’s almost like you touching me, and I love to see you touch yourself.”
“The hotels have porn. I don’t know why you don’t just watch that.” She was still laughing.
He laughed softly as he stood in the hallway outside of her apartment so she wouldn’t hear him through the door. “The tour just got back from Germany. You would not believe some of the German porn. Shocking, I tell you. Those repressed buggers are always the ones with the weird fetishes, right?”
He fished the ring box out of his pocket. The brilliant-cut center diamond flashed reflection speckles on the walls from the morning sunlight that streamed through the hallway window. He had bought it down in New York’s diamond district and had the setting crafted by a jeweler whom his family had used for years.
As he had predicted, his parents had waived any pre-proposal meeting when they had heard that Raji was doing her residency in cardiothoracic surgery. His father had been particularly pleased that Peyton had managed to find a fiancée without a whiff of gold digger about them. Some of their friends’ heirs had recently been testing the strengths of their prenups, a sad situation.
He said, “I could take you to Germany and show you the really weird stuff. I figured out a couple of drinking games to go along with them.”
“Oh, God. Peyton. I can’t. I couldn’t.” Panic sharpened her voice. “That kind of time—”
“It’s okay,” he said, trying to gentle her. “I know you don’t have the time. Andy quit her residency, but you don’t want to. It’s important to you to be a cardiothoracic surgeon—” He had heard her say that so many times over the years that he pronounced it perfectly, Cardio. Thor. Ass! Ick! “—And I support that in every way.”
“I’m glad,” she said, “and that’s why—”
He spoke over her, desperate to get everything out before she made up her mind. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve thought about quitting Killer Valentine. Most of the time while I’m on the road, I’m trying to talk myself into staying. Joining the band was an accident that I fell into. I’ve been looking for a reason to leave. I’ll make inquiries with the L.A. Phil to see if they have room for a soloist next year. If that doesn’t work out, I can talk to the Colburn School about whether they need yet another piano performance professor. I can work in California and be with you. Let’s get married.”
“It’s not that easy. In another couple of years, my residency will be finished, and I’m going to need to find a job. It might be anywhere. You’re not going to want to dump everything and go to some podunk city in Arkansas or Minnesota that needs a heart surgeon.”
He paused at this new information. “Are you sure it’s going to be Minnesota or Arkansas?”
“No. It could be Florida or Texas or Connecticut.”
“Nah, there is fucking nothing in Connecticut,” he said, laughing.
Raji laughed, too. “Even New Jersey is better than Connecticut.”
“We can manage,” he said. “We’ll figure out how to make it work.” He sank to one knee and held the ring box with one hand in preparation.
“Peyton, you’re an amazing musician, and your original songs are incredible. You’re not going to be satisfied with your life if you’re living in some god-forsaken middling town somewhere with no symphony, no orchestra, no conservatory, and not even any rock concerts, but that may be where I have to go. This idea is doomed.”
“Doomed,” he repeated, feeling the slow ache of decay in his heart.
“Let’s say we did get married and you moved here to California. In seven months, we’d have a newborn baby. And then what? It goes to daycare all day and night for hours and hours while we both work? And then we go home, sleep, and drop it back off at the nursery? That’s not having a life together.”
“But, you will get maternity leave,” he said.
“I can’t take more than two weeks off my residency without having the time extended.”
“Two weeks? That can’t be enough time to heal from giving birth.”
“Yeah, well, that’s how it’s done. That’s how everyone does it. Guys usually just take the afternoon off, and that’s relatively recent. The older attendings grouse about emotionally coddled men who can’t wait until their on-call is over to see a baby because they all look the same, anyway.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Peyton said.
“No, it’s punitive. It’s meant to punish people who have distractions and make it pretty much impossible to have a family during your residency because that’s what being a surgeon is like.”
“It must dissuade some very bright people from becoming surgeons, if they have to give up having a family.”
“It’s like being a rock star, Peys. When you’re on the
road like that, you can’t have a family.”
“Actually, Killer Valentine is taking a six-month break, starting in June, because Xan and Georgie are having a child.”
“Georgie’s pregnant? Are you okay with that?”
“I’m fine with it. I’m happy for them. They had a tough time. Georgie had a miscarriage a few years ago, and it messed them up for a while. Georgie even cried with me, so I know she must have been truly heartbroken. Also, have you spoken to Andy lately?”
“Yeah, I know she’s knocked up. I didn’t mention my predicament.”
“Even when we do resume touring, we’re all slowing down. The tours will have longer breaks and shorter legs. We already have two kids on tour: Emily and Valentina. As soon as we land at a tour stop, while the technicians are unpacking the set and lighting rigs, Cadell and Tryp take the kids to the nearest park until the sound check. We’ve figured out how to make it work.”
“But I wouldn’t be going on tour with Killer Valentine. I will not quit my residency like Andy did.”
“I understand, but if a rock band that is lorded over by an insane, monomaniac frontman can make it work, anyone can.”
“Once I’m done, we would probably see each other less. I’ve been switching shifts around like a crazy woman to fly to meet you or to be home when you come here. You’d get tired of it, Peyton. You would want out. The divorce rate among surgeons is crazy-high, like eighty percent. Probably worse than for rock stars. Even we surgeons know it’s no way to live. It’s not fair to ask anyone else to live like that.”
“I’m asking you to let me share your life and to marry me,” he said. “I l—”
“You don’t even know what you want in life, Peys. You don’t know whether you want to stay in contemporary music or go back to classical. You don’t know whether you want to teach in a conservatory or to perform with the L.A. Phil or with Killer Valentine. You’ve been wasting time with Killer Valentine and hanging on Georgie Johnson for almost two years.”
A Billionaire for Christmas Page 16