“We’re perfect.”
chapter twenty-four
Naira
I woke in semidarkness to the beeps and hums of hospital machines, and the scent of antiseptic and antibacterial cleaning agents. It was weird, but I loved the sanitized smell of a hospital.
Groggily, I rolled to the left, my favored sleeping position, and came instantly awake as a burning pain shot between my legs because I’d jostled my episiotomy stitches. I sucked in a painful breath as sweat popped up on my forehead and along my lip.
I’d thought I’d known what childbirth would be like. I’d read dozens of birthing books, listened to firsthand anecdotes from surrogates and mothers. I’d devoured every single horrible story plastered on the internet about labor pains and birthing twins. I’d thought I was prepared in mind and body for a natural birth. I was wrong.
Let me set one thing straight: nothing prepared you for actual childbirth. It was an event one had to experience to fully appreciate.
I remembered cursing at myself during the pushing phase for refusing an epidural and a C-section. I remembered screaming for drugs. “NOW! Please. Oh, please, take the pain away!” But the utterly magnificent, most handsome anesthesiologist had explained it was too late to administer an epidural. Instead, he fed me oxygen through a mask and let me squeeze all the bones of his hand into pulp. He was my hero.
I shifted again, slowly, carefully this time, to a more comfortable position. I’d been instructed not to sit upright until the stitches healed, or didn’t feel as tender. I had to either stand or lie down, even while breastfeeding. Which was fine with me. I didn’t think I had the energy to move yet. My bones were soup, my muscles like spaghetti. Oh, I was a mishmash of emotions and aches from scalp to toe. But the worst, the deepest pain was in my soul.
What was I supposed to do now?
I touched my belly where the babies had lived for eight-and-a-half months. It was no longer round like a drum under the hospital gown, but sore and as squishy as freshly kneaded dough. I wanted to go to the babies. To see them again. Hold them.
My beautiful babies. So precious and sweet. They already displayed distinct personalities. Samyra had had to be coaxed into taking her first meal, the power-packed colostrum from my breasts in the OR. She was a light and fussy eater. I’d bawled, beyond honored and humbled that she had my name, and the Judge’s—Samyra Naira. I’d bawled when I fed Baby Liam too. The greedy little guy had stolen my heart as soon as he’d been placed in my arms. He’d latched onto my nipple and not let go until he’d had his fill. I’d have happily let him drain every ounce of nutrients from my body, but I’d been fighting to stay awake by then, and the OR staff had been in the process of shifting me into a regular maternity room, and the twins to the neonatal intensive care unit.
“We’d like to keep them under observation in NICU for twenty-four hours since they were born at thirty-four weeks. There’s nothing to worry about. They’re both in good health. The girl is nearly six pounds, and the boy is a solid six and a half. It’s strictly a precaution,” the pediatricians had explained.
All night, Paris and Neal had taken turns to peek in on the babies while I rested. I hadn’t seen the little ones since their second feeding just after midnight, when they’d been brought to me. I hadn’t been alone with them even once. Paris hadn’t left my side except to go to the bathroom or the NICU. Her commitment was wonderful in a way, but I was desperate for a few minutes alone with my babies.
But they weren’t my babies, were they? They were hers.
All of a sudden, sobs hacked my upper body and I had to bite my lip hard to keep from crying. I turned my face into the pillow to muffle the sounds of my weeping. Paris was sound asleep on the pullout sofa beside me and I didn’t want to wake her up. Didn’t want her sympathy or hugs or her apologies or reassurances. I couldn’t get yesterday out of my head. The awful stab in my soul when she’d said she should have adopted.
My tears burned away as a rush of anger blasted through me toward her and Neal. Why had she done it? Why had she said those things? Why had he smiled at me?
But she’d rallied in the end, hadn’t she? my conscience reasoned.
So what? Did it make it all okay? And what about the next time she got scared or offended or objected to something? What then? Had I really thought coparenting would work? And if it couldn’t work, what in hell was I supposed to do now?
I cried for a long time. I felt gutted. And yet, when the door opened and brought with it a profusion of sunshine, I forced a smile on my face and opened my heart to love. I’d been expecting the lactation nurse to roll in Samyra and Liam for their breakfast, and so was utterly dumbfounded when my sister walked in instead, carrying an Ernie and an Elmo soft toy and about a dozen pink and blue balloons.
“Surprise! And congratulations!” Grinning madly, Sarika bounced into the room in metallic Stella McCartney sneakers and a velour pink travel tracksuit.
My sister was a plumper, broader version of our mother, but was several inches taller than either of us. Of the three Manral women, Sarika had the best skin and hair—a peaches-and-cream complexion, and thick, lush tresses that fell to her waist in stylized waves. It swished about her shoulders as she looked around the room, trying to find a free spot for the soft toys and the balloons. Finally, she placed them in the corner by the windows and turned to me.
“What...are you doing here?” I couldn’t stop gaping at her.
“I couldn’t let Mummy come alone. Besides, postnatal care for one child is harrowing enough in the first few weeks, and you have twins. You need all the help you can get if you want to get any sleep,” she said as if it explained anything.
I’d called my mother when I’d gone into labor, and she’d meant to take the first flight out of Mumbai to New York. I wanted my mother by my side when I felt so vulnerable. I needed her help to do the right thing.
Neal was supposed to pick her up at the airport at 8:30 a.m. and bring her straight to me. Which meant it was later than I’d thought. With the curtains closed, the light was falsely diffused inside the room, making it seem like it was barely dawn.
Sarika bent down to kiss my forehead and give me a brief hug, her gaze softening when she saw my face up close. My eyes had to be red and swollen and devastated.
“Oh, choti. The pain and haywire hormones are going to make you crazy. Be happy at least the pain fades in a couple of days.”
Sarika had gone through natural childbirth twice and her boys had been nine and ten pound babies each. I guess she knew what she was talking about.
“I sent Mummy home with Neal. They’ll be back once she’s prepared the fattening food she’ll start feeding you for milk production and whatnot. Don’t eat everything she gives you or you’ll end up round like me, and there’s no getting rid of pregnancy weight. Trust me, choti.”
My mouth dropped open at her unsolicited advice. This whole scene was just...bizarre. “But...what about jiju? Our problems?”
That was when Paris woke up. We’d been whispering, not softly enough though. She blinked at Sarika in confusion for a few seconds before her eyes cut to mine and her eyebrows touched her hairline. Want me to boot her out of here? her expression read.
I sighed tiredly. “Paris, can you give us a few minutes? I want to talk to my sister.”
“Sure, honey. I’ll check on the bairns.” She rolled out of bed, stretching to wake herself more fully, and frowned. “Hey! Did the kiddos finish nursing already?”
“No. The nurse hasn’t brought them to me yet. Find out what’s going on?”
“Absolutely,” she said, marching out of the room.
The first thing Paris had thought of were the babies. She was going to be a fantastic mother whether she realized it or not. She didn’t need me at all.
Feeling pathetic tears prick my eyes, I looked at my sister again. “Why are you really here, didi?”
&nbs
p; Her smile fell from her face. “It’s come to this, huh? You don’t trust me even a little?”
Was she kidding me? I closed my eyes briefly and counted to ten. “Why are you here? What do you want from me?” What new pound of flesh did she and her husband want?
“I don’t want anything. Mummy told me what you want to do for Arhan and Sidh. Their college fund. I... Thank you,” she said, sitting down on the bed next to me and taking my hand in hers.
I squeezed her hand. “It’s nothing. I adore your boys.”
“I know.” She brushed my hair from my forehead with a manicured finger, her eyes glittering with regret and shame. “He’s my husband, Naira. I have to believe him, don’t you see? Our marriage won’t survive if I don’t.”
I flinched at her flawed reasoning because that was exactly what I’d told myself when Kaivan got in trouble, and the media crucified him. Had I been as big of a fool as Sarika?
“And I’m your sister. Your younger sister. You were supposed to take care of me, help me.” No, Sarika’s and my situations were nothing alike. Kaivan had protected me. I should not doubt it.
“You don’t need my help, choti. You always land on your feet. You get away with everything,” she said, her mouth twisting. And there. Jealous Sarika was back.
“You’re kidding, right? Get away with what? Sarika, you’re the one who has everything. I have lost everything, remember? My husband, my business. My whole life is gone. I’ve just given birth to two beautiful little souls...and I have to give them up too. They are not mine. They... I am not their mother. I’m... I’m...”
Nobody. Oh, God. My chest hurt as badly as if I’d cracked a rib. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing myself not to cry again.
“You are their birth mother.”
I froze. That...had not been my sister. My eyes flew open, met Sarika’s, who seemed to have gone still as a statue too. She looked over her shoulder and quickly stood up.
Paris stalked into the room, a pink-swaddled baby in her arms. She looked cross. Paris, not the baby. Little Samyra was sleeping, the sweetheart. My breasts started leaking of their own volition as soon as Paris set her down, ever so gently, beside me. My eyes drank in the sight of Samyra’s sweet face and rosebud mouth, like her mother’s, which was sucking on an imaginary nipple.
Paris straightened up and slapped her hands on her hips, her own pout out in full disapproving force. “Now then, are you going to stop doubting that we’re in this together, or shall I sue you for breach of a coparenting contract?”
I started laughing even as my tears slid out from my eyes, wetting the pillow. “Are you sure?” I asked. “I don’t want you to feel bad because of me.”
Paris lost some of her fierceness then. She took the spot Sarika had vacated and cupped my cheek in her hand. “I am sorry, Naira. For yesterday. For the last few months. Shit, for the last few years. Please forgive me, honey. Don’t you know you are my family?”
I nodded, sniffling. “As you are mine.”
Eleven months and three weeks later...
A scary sort of excitement gripped me as a private taxi pulled up in front of a grand mansion in the suburbs of New York City. A promenade of red and yellow leaves covered the driveway like a welcome mat. Fall had crackled into place here too, as it had in London.
I got out of the car while the driver took out my luggage—three of my trusted Briggs & Riley suitcases. My trip had extended longer than expected, but had been super successful. Fraser Bespoke was now officially launched in four countries around the world, and Deven had finally agreed we could, potentially, slow down the launch madness. Just a tad.
“Look who’s in time for the birthday party!”
I spun around, squealing as Neal came toward me, carrying a piece of my heart in his arms. Oh, the little lamb had had a growth spurt in the six weeks I’d been gone. His face was shaping up like his father’s, the promise of the broad Singh Fraser bone structure beneath the chub. Minus the blue eyes. The twins both had dark brown eyes from their mother or perhaps their grandmother, Minnie Auntie.
I kissed little Liam on his lollipop cheek, breathing in his syrupy baby smell. God, I’d missed them. Would they remember me after six weeks? Would they know me, know my smell since I was no longer nursing them?
“Welcome home.” Neal kissed both my cheeks. He looked as tired as I felt. The shadows under his eyes hadn’t lessened a bit. Our angels kept completely separate sleep schedules.
“Can I hold him?” I asked, afraid to simply pluck the babe out of Neal’s arms like I would’ve done a mere six weeks ago. I was petrified Liam would cringe away from me as if I were a stranger. The twins were turning one next week. They recognized faces, knew who was family and displayed clear preferences.
Neal quirked an eyebrow at my coyness, then he simply deposited the baby in my arms.
“Oh, be still my heart. I missed you, my little bunny rabbit,” I cooed as the weight and warmth of my godson, whom I’d brought into this world and nourished with my milk, settled in my arms.
And when he giggled at me, snuggling his head in the crook of my neck, everything disappeared—stress, anxiety, backache, my homicidal intentions towards Liam’s ruthless whip-master of an uncle, Deven. Everything vanished into the clear blue autumn sky, leaving only love and hope behind.
Neal took my bags inside, and I bounced Liam into the house. I crossed the threshold, and removing my shoes in the bright, sky-lit foyer, I quickstepped my way into the family room that had been converted into a playroom. It made Liam laugh so I twirled him some more, coming to a dizzy stop.
The playroom had already been colorfully chaotic when I’d left on my business trip, and it was even more so now. Princess Samyra was fast asleep on the Blue’s Clues floor mat, her cuddly giraffe by her side. I wondered if she still loved playing peekaboo, and would shyly hide her face in her mother’s long hair until I coaxed her out with silly faces and love. I blew her a kiss, then quickstepped over to the kitchen.
I found Paris there, hands on her hips—not cooking as usual. She was supervising the sanitizing of baby bottles and nipples and standing on the cook’s head as the poor woman stirred an organic breakfast broth for the little still-toothless wonders.
“You’re home. Finally.” She gave me a hug, looking harried. Then, she gestured to the charming mess of her domicile, which included her husband, son and sleeping baby daughter. “Your turn. I’m going to shower and head to work.”
“Hear that, my peach? It’s just you and me on this playdate,” I said, smooshing another wet, noisy kiss on Liam’s chubby cheek.
We walked out of the kitchen and crossed the playroom together.
“How’s the family?”
I gave Paris the classic Indian head nod, a weird side-to-side movement that denoted both yes and no and so-so.
My father-in-law was slowly moving toward oblivion. My mother-in-law was learning to cope. My father was still miffed with me. My mother was still trying to marry me off, and had roped my sister in on the mission. My nephews were getting snarky. And Vinay...was no longer my problem.
Paris paused on the first step of the stairs that led up to the bedrooms. Mine was on the far right of the landing.
“I heard you went on a date?”
I blushed, thinking of Vikram Cooper’s thick beard and teasing wit, and Deven’s outright rudeness when Vik had come to pick me up at Fraser Bespoke and I’d introduced them. “Not exactly a date, but kind of. And I didn’t figure Deven for a gossip. Anyway, long story. Come back early and I’ll share, especially as I think you’ll want to meet Vik too for RiM. Big philanthropist.”
“Ah. And will do,” she said, dashing up the stairs. “Or, meet me in the city and we can gossip over Girlfriend Cocktails,” she yelled down from the top of the stairs.
“That sounds even better,” I hollered back, making Liam giggle again. Clan Frase
r did not startle easily. “And we’ll round up Auntie Lavinia and Auntie Karen too!”
I went back into the playroom. Neal had woken his daughter up from a nap, and was trying to jiggle her into a good mood. He was semi-succeeding.
Princess Samyra hated having to suffer one of the most senseless rituals of the world—breakfast, early in the morning—and she was letting her opinion be known.
Oh, but it was good to be home.
* * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from My Last Love Story by Falguni Kothari.
acknowledgments
Let me begin by thanking Niyati V Reddy, who shared her surrogacy journey with me and answered all my questions with candidness and generosity.
Thanks also to Regina Kyle for opening up the daring world of US prosecutors to me. Although I’m bummed that law and order IRL doesn’t really play out like Law & Order.
To Stacey Agdern and KK Hendin, thank you for helping me distinguish kvell from kvetch.
My forever gratitude to Lisa Wexler, friend, artist and sounding board, for her uncanny ability to see past the first nonsensical draft of a story to the gem within.
It is every writer’s dream to work with an editor who not only champions her work but gets the heart of the work. Allison Carroll is my dream editor and I am truly privileged to work with her. Thank you, Allison. None of this would be possible without you.
Thanks to the entire Graydon House Books/Harlequin team for their kind, enthusiastic and timely support. Tahra Seplowin for your boundless cheer; Linette Kim and Shara Alexander for showing me an amazing time at PLA; Pamela Osti for answering all my silly questions. And Lisa Wray, there are no words to express my awe for what you do. Thank you so much!
HarperCollins India for the gorgeous covers and support.
Many thanks to my agent, Andrea Somberg, for tirelessly opening doors for me to waltz through.
Kathleen Carter, thank you for expanding my world of “possibles.”
The Object of Your Affections Page 32
