The Object of Your Affections

by Falguni Kothari

  “Family courts are inundated with surrogacy cases gone wrong. Blackmail, extortion, abuse, outright theft—you name it and it’s happened. Legally, it’s a veritable shit storm,” said one of the panel lawyers.

  Surrogacy laws were too loose-ended. Everything was an issue—the legality of the terms of the contracts, the morality of the agencies that charged money. There was no precedent for a penalty for reneging on the contract. The courts had to intervene and the decision relied on the goodness, understanding and personal beliefs of the judge. There were also cases where surrogates had refused to give up the baby after birth. Yet intended parents had to place their trust and their baby’s health in the hands of a stranger, and vice versa. There were cases where intended parents had refused to accept the baby.

  “Can they even do that?” Naira looked visibly shocked as we stood at a light to cross the road after the seminar.

  We’d stayed until the end. We’d even spoken to some of the panelists, who’d been nothing but open and encouraging. They’d given us their cards and said to feel free to get in touch. One of the surrogates had advised Naira to join a potential-surrogate support group immediately. “You’ll see what the process is like firsthand. And you’ll get all the answers you need,” she’d said.

  Though it was a bright, sunny day, it was cold and we decided to head home, to the Spruce Street flat, and chill indoors for the rest of the day, and order takeout when we got hungry. Mostly, I didn’t want to dress up and go anywhere. I was in sweatpants and a thick Law & Order promo sweatshirt and no one was getting me out of those today, except maybe Neal.

  “Can they order up a kid like a milkshake from Shake Shack and then simply not show up to pick up their order? Apparently.” I seethed on behalf of a child I didn’t even know.

  “It sounds awful. I can’t believe someone would do that.”

  “Humans are awful beings, honey. We walk about the earth like we’re the only creatures entitled to do so. We twist and manipulate everything to our advantage.”

  I was feeling particularly vicious about certain specimens of humanity these days. “At work, we’re building a case against this family—well, it’s now an organization, but it started off as a family garment business that employed only women. These women were taught to sew, tailor jeans and shirts and such. Be self-sufficient. Then in comes this bad relative from somewhere and decides there should be a bigger profit. So, the abuse starts. Stricter working hours. Inhumane penalties for missing a workday or messing up an order. Sex in the workplace. All good intentions out the window. And you know what’s truly evil? That the women have been so brainwashed they don’t even realize it’s abuse.” I shut my trap, exhaling noisily. I never spoke about work after-hours. “I’m sure you’ve heard and read about many such stories in India.”

  Naira caught my arm, forcing me to stop and turn to her in the middle of the sidewalk. “You amaze me, Paris. What you do. Who you are.”

  I shrugged it off. “It’s my job. And the feeling is mutual.” I gave her a quick hug. “There are very few humans I can tolerate. So, consider yourself one of the lucky ones,” I added with a wink.

  We walked in silence for several minutes before we had to detour from our straight path, as the street up ahead had been completely dug up. There was always something going on in Manhattan. A road getting repaved, a building coming up. A law being broken, I thought as a couple of cop cars zoomed past us, sirens blaring, closely followed by three howling FDNY trucks.

  “Did you understand the legal issues the panelists talked about?”

  “Mostly.” Naira shot me a curious glance as we meandered through City Hall Park.

  I raised my eyebrows in askance.

  “I’m surprised you trust this process. It’s not at all...what I imagined. I mean, anything and everything can go wrong. Even legally.”

  I snorted. “I don’t trust it, honey. I trust you. Neal and I both trust you. And you trust us, right?” She rolled her eyes as if I’d asked a most ridiculous question. I gave her a faint smile. “I couldn’t choose a surrogate for the longest time, even though the whole thing was my idea. And now I know why. I can’t do this with a stranger.”

  “But why are you doing it at all?” she asked quietly.

  Why indeed?

  “I told you it’s for Neal. I want to give him his dream.” A bus hissed to a stop right next to us as if underlining my conviction. Or was it calling me out on a lie? “That’s the primary reason. But it slowly dawned on me that it wasn’t only a matter of giving him a child. If it were, I wouldn’t have any issues choosing any random surrogate, would I? The thing is I don’t only need someone to gestate and birth the kid—that’s the least of it. What I want...hope for is a...uh...a coparent.”

  “A what?” Naira stopped in her tracks again. If her jaw tilted any lower, it would hit the pavement.

  At this rate, we wouldn’t get home till evening. I put my arm through hers and hauled her onward.

  “I’m clearly ill-equipped to be a mother. If you didn’t have your financial issues, you wouldn’t even think twice about having kids. So, it’s killing three birds with one stone, really.”

  “Please don’t talk about killing birds, even figuratively. It’s upsetting.” Naira tried to tug her arm from mine, but I held on tightly.

  “Fine, fine. Let’s talk about fate, then. You coming to New York now is fate. Opportunity has come knocking on our doors. We cannot ignore it, can we?” I reasoned.

  “Can I ask you something? And you have to tell me the absolute truth, okay?” Naira looked at me quite seriously.

  I drew an imaginary X over my left boob. “Shoot.”

  “You seriously have no desire to get pregnant? You won’t resent the bond between the surrogate and your baby?”

  I felt like I’d already won with her question even though she’d tried to sound as impersonal as possible.

  “I won’t. I have no desire to get pregnant. There is no biological clock ticking away inside me. You know that. And legally, it will be my bairn—Neal’s and mine—so what’s to resent? Labor pains? No thanks. Believe me, I’ve thought long and hard about this and it is for the best. Imagine all my negative vibes and cynicism flowing into the kid via my umbilical cord. It will be born screwed up. No, this is for the best.”

  “It’s not quite so clinical, Paris. You’re failing to grasp how immense and instantaneous the connection between a mother and child can be. I know.” Naira pressed her hand to her stomach. She was clearly flashing back to her pregnancy. Perhaps imagining feelings that hadn’t really been there. Hindsight was always enhanced and tweaked by our brains. Another one of humanity’s follies—believing there was more to our existence than biology.

  When we passed the playground below my building, I decided to show Naira what I meant rather than tell. I detoured inside the playground full of kids and parents and au pairs even on a chilly Saturday morning.

  “Paris? What are you doing?”

  I held up a pointy finger, indicating that Naira wait and watch. I marched up to a chubby little baby gurgling happily at the world from inside his stroller, as his mother watched her older toddler play in the sandbox. I made small talk with the mother, exclaimed how cute her baby was, and then I began making cooing noises at him. The bairn promptly started wailing. His mother frowned, picked up the baby and buried his face in her neck.

  I quirked a smug eyebrow at Naira, who continued to look confused.

  “What?”

  “Keep watching.”

  I sat on a bench where a father fed apples to his twin girls. They were around two years old, I estimated. I did nothing else. Just sat there, smiling at the children. Within minutes, the girls got fidgety, then one got cranky and she kept shifting away from me, sliding closer and closer to her sister until she was nearly sitting on her sister’s lap.

  I scanned the playground,
my eyes settling on a grinning, toothless toddler on a swing. His mother stood behind him, pushing him gently. I played peekaboo like I’d watched Neal do a hundred times in the last three years. I didn’t even go near the kid—I did it from fifteen feet away. Not in the least entertained by me, the kid burst out crying and his perplexed mother ran over to pluck him out of the swing.

  I crossed my arms and looked at Naira, whose stunned face said it all.

  “Now do you get it? They know—the kids. They know in their gut that I’m persona non grata.”

  Naira’s jaw worked. “That’s just...”

  “Coincidence? More like a contagion. It happens all the time. It’s like I’m covered in a natural kid repellent. So, getting you and Neal to coparent any bairn of mine is actually a coup.”

  chapter twelve

  Naira

  I loved Liam’s apartment. It was cozy and enchanting, stuffed with mismatched sofas and wall-to-wall shelves that groaned with books and strange, wonderful objects from faraway lands. The bedroom opened onto a concrete terrace with wrought-iron furniture that had been arranged between hundreds of potted plants. I had my morning chai there, weather permitting. Sure, it was a messy place, but there was a difference between messy and eclectic. Liam’s home was a testament to a life well lived and traveled. An adventurous—fearless—life and I hoped some of it would rub off on me.

  Not that I had time to run off on an adventure. I was busy as a bee these days, my routine chock-full of activity. I exercised daily to keep my endorphins on the up-and-up. Then there was the move and the settling in; the discussions with Neal about ateliers and Fraser Bespoke; the discussions with Paris and Neal about surrogacy.

  We went over it and over it from every angle and I still had doubts. So did Neal. But not Paris. She was so confident, so sure that everything would magically fall into place exactly as she planned. So I played devil’s advocate and tried to shatter her delusions. What if I couldn’t carry the baby to term? I had miscarried before, after all. What if our coparenting styles were poles apart? Who’d get the final say in it?

  “We’re talking about nature and biology. Neither can be controlled,” I pointed out in exasperation as we huffed and puffed on neighboring ellipticals in the building’s gym one Saturday afternoon. Neal had gone swimming in the heated indoor pool one floor above us.

  “I know that.” She rolled her eyes, her face dripping sweat. “We try. If it doesn’t work...” She shrugged.

  If it didn’t work, it was up to me to try again or not, she added. If not, they’d go with Martha—if she was still available.

  Could it really be as simple as she made it seem? Was I overthinking it?

  “What if I get too attached? What happens then, Paris? What if I can’t give up the baby? What if I turn into one of those psychos who kidnaps babies from their cradles?”

  Paris laughed in my face. “Yeah, no. If you had some crazy-ass personality disorder, I’m pretty sure you’d have exhibited it by now. Besides, you’re going to be a part of the kid’s life so why would you?”

  Paris truly didn’t understand the bond between a mother and a child, did she? Maybe, just maybe, I could show her what it was about.

  A week later, I was still at a crossroads about everything. Suddenly, there were too many directions I could take, and having all these choices and options after having none for so long was confusing.

  Then Deven Fraser came to town, and life went from “hardly any time to think” to “no time to breathe or sleep.”

  Neal’s younger brother was a swarthier, more serious version of him. With a dastaar—a turban wrapped around his head—he’d look as Sikh as his maternal forefathers, no question. His eyes were a deeper blue than his brother’s, an intense midnight color. Nothing escaped his attention, and he weighed every word before uttering it. Frankly, I was a little terrified of him even though we were roughly the same age. He was just a few months older, having already turned thirty while my birthday was coming up next week around Thanksgiving. He was totally the shark Paris claimed he was.

  In the days leading up to Thanksgiving, we talked shop during the day—Neal, the Shark and I—and once Paris came home from work, we went out on the town. Neither Neal nor Deven seemed to need any downtime between work and play or sleep. We went to the movies. We went clubbing. We ate out all the time. And every night, no matter how late it was, we always ended up at Liam’s Bar for a nightcap.

  Tonight was no different. Except, I felt different. I was drunk. No...no... I was pleasantly tipsy. Slightly uninhibited—no, no. A lot uninhibited. I hadn’t a care in the world. New York was my shield, my sanctuary, my salvation.

  I’d finally chosen my future path. I wanted to be a part of Fraser Bespoke. I wanted to spearhead the setup for the North American pop-up stores. It hadn’t been decided if we’d launch in New York or LA first, but they wanted to start the process immediately with a target for a soft launch in late spring to early summer. We needed to start hiring people, building relationships with local and nonlocal vendors, getting a portfolio ready, merchandise samples, drawing up marketing plans, assisting in developing and overseeing the web presence. In short, I’d be doing everything I’d have done for the atelier, except invest my money. However, I had a caveat—no, no, a request before I accepted.

  “What if they refuse to hear me out?” I stared at my reflection in the large mirror above a round metal sink. I looked a fright with my raccoon eyes and tired hair, like I hadn’t slept well in days. Which was about right. But, the question was would I go into business with someone who looked like me right now?

  Shit. I bent and splashed my face with ice-cold water until I felt a bit more alert.

  “Just march out and spill it before you make yourself sick. Rip off the bandage. Do you want me to ask?” Paris said, refreshing her lipstick.

  Paris and I had squeezed ourselves inside the single unisex bathroom for a tête-à-tête.

  I patted my face dry with a paper towel and sighed. “Thanks. But, I have to fight my own battles.” Stand up for myself like I’d done when I wanted to study. Like I should do with Vinay. Like I should have done with Kaivan.

  I took the lipstick from her and swiped it over my own lips. Not that it made a difference. I still looked drunk. But, I had to do this now. In the bright sobriety of daylight, I’d accept whatever terms Deven boxed me into without a squeak and I’d be miserable.

  I marched out to the bar—luckily it was mostly empty as it was close to one in the morning. The two Fraser sharks were hovering in front of the TV, their sharp teeth flashing, absorbed in the intense one-day international match being played between India and Pakistan in Mumbai. This was an important ODI because it was the first time in several years that the Pakistani team had been allowed to travel to India and play. Tensions between the two countries were still high, I didn’t think they’d ever lessen, but this was supposedly an iconic match to show both nations that even if we were on opposite sides of the political fence, we could still “play” together.

  My grandmother had once compared Sarika and me to Pakistan and India. She’d said that though we were products of the same environment and gene pool, somewhere along the way, we’d split into two warring countries. My grandmother had been partial to me, but she’d also expected more of me. You are smarter. More sensible. It is up to you to mend the rift, she’d said.

  I was bloody tired of being sensible and forgiving and sweet.

  A triumphant roar rose from the TV as India scored four runs. For a second, I missed it—my city, my people, even my family. I stared at the screen as it panned out to the stands, trying to see if my family—cricket crazies, all of us—were in the audience, watching the match live. My family had year-round box seats at Mumbai’s Wankhede Stadium.

  “I want a partnership in Fraser Bespoke,” I blurted out after Virat Kohli, the captain of the Indian cricket team, o
nce again swung his bat and thwacked the incoming ball in the air.

  This was it. I’d either hit a six like Kohli or I was out.

  Deven’s impatient eyes cut to my face, then back to the screen, then back on me as the ball landed in the crowd for a six. The whole stadium went mad with excitement. Neal turned to face me, sliding his hands into his pant pockets in a deceptively relaxed posture.

  I flapped my hand, clarifying, “Not globally. I don’t have that kind of money to invest, obviously. But I want a small...um, wee share in the US venture.”

  That was my condition. If they wanted me to set up and run a concept store, then I wanted a stake in it. I wasn’t going to put myself in a position where they could fire me on a whim. I came from a business family. I knew how such things worked.

  Kohli thwacked the ball again, three for three. It arced high in the air maybe for another six runs, but my gut didn’t think so. The ball plummeted straight into the cupped hands of a Pakistani fielder. The crowd erupted again, this time booing and not cheering. Kohli had been caught out before his century. But, he’d played well at ninety-two runs. India still had a good chance to win.

  Neal and Deven studied my face for what seemed like an eternity. They were trying to intimidate me, see if I caved. They looked at each other when I didn’t back down—thank you GFC for the Dutch courage—and some mental communiqué passed between them. Deven flicked a glance at the TV screen, noticed he’d completely missed the catch and flared his nostrils looking rather peeved.

  “Fine. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  I was so shocked that he’d actually agreed and so quickly that I gaped at him until he raised his eyebrows high. They wanted me that much? Eek!