My Last Love Story

by Falguni Kothari

  I gave Dr. Archer the gist of my medical history.

  He gave me a breather after the ultrasound and left the room with a brief commiserating squeeze of my arm.

  Dr. Archer was a good, gracious man.

  A nurse came in with a toolbox dotted with blood-drawing paraphernalia. She stabbed me twice—without compassion—before hitting the right nerve and drew several tubes of blood samples from my arm to check hormone levels, thyroid and pituitary gland functions, and infections. They needed to make sure I was in peak medical health and that nothing would hamper the fecundity of my reproductive organs.

  Martha came in and plied me with water, some ibuprofen, and a fresh paper gown.

  Then, the nurses left me alone for so long that, at one point, I cracked the door open to check if they’d forgotten I was in there. They hadn’t. They were waiting for the painkiller to take proper effect. I’d thought they’d given it to me to relax my muscles after the ultrasound, but Martha explained, it was to prepare me for the HSG, the hysterosalpingogram.

  I closed the door, took a deep breath, and blew it out in ten counts. To deny I was anxious would be fruitless. I hated medical processes. I especially hated procedures that couldn’t be done without me lying on my back with my legs spread wide and exposed. It wasn’t the pain I minded. In fact, I welcomed the pain. It kept me grounded in the here and now and not on past traumas.

  My shrink had shown me how to take control of my mind when all it wanted to do was flash to the past and panic. It didn’t always work.

  “You’re never going to forget what happened, Simeen. Just about anything will trigger a déjà vu or a panic attack. The way you take control is to remember it here—in this room, with me. Break it down, piece by piece. Then, rebuild the memory, and face it square. Control it. Understand that it was not your fault.”

  I hadn’t consciously brought up that night in a long time. I hadn’t needed to. I’d removed myself from all the things that reminded me of the rape—accidentally or on purpose. I didn’t live in Surat anymore. I didn’t draw attention to myself in public, not by dress or words or actions. I’d distanced myself from Zayaan and his family. I’d married Nirvaan, so all those things would be possible. I’d married Nirvaan, so I could safely bask in his glory, and no one would notice I lived in the shadows. No one would realize I’d stopped being brave.

  With care and precision, I’d placed those dominoes around me.

  But, now, they were falling.

  What we did for love.

  Wasn’t that a song, too?

  Dr. Archer began the hysteroscopy. To say it was painful was an understatement, even with the painkiller swimming in my bloodstream. I was used to the speculum, but then he injected a fluid inside me, a saline solution, and heaven help me, I began to cramp within moments. The slow stabs of pain were worse than the worst menstrual cramps I’d ever experienced, maybe even worse than labor pain. I wanted to curl up in a fetal position and cry like a baby.

  I closed my eyes tight, my thighs trembling, and concentrated on puffing out breaths.

  Dr. Archer was a constant stream of information, but I tuned him out. I didn’t care what, where, why, or how the procedure was going. I just wanted it to be over.

  After what felt like a horrendously long eternity, Dr. Archer patted my leg and stood up. Martha—I didn’t realize she’d come into the room—gently arranged the gown about me, helped me roll on my side, and started rubbing my lower back in soothing circles.

  Dr. Archer repeated some of the instructions and told me what to expect and what to look out for. I’d bleed, but if the bleeding were like a period, I should call him immediately. He didn’t foresee any changes or see any problems in my latest blood tests or any other tests, but they’d wait for the results. Once I was cleared, we’d dive into the IVF process.

  I was awarded with a personalized cocktail of fertility drugs, which I’d begin administering on the third day of my coming period at the end of the month. My egg retrieval would be about ten days after.

  The cramps were fading but not Dr. Archer, who prattled on about stimulating my ovaries and fallopian tubes and how we’d maximize the ovulation cycle.

  “Lastly…”

  Thank Khodai. He was almost done.

  I blinked and tried to focus on his face. He smiled at me like a benevolent Santa Claus but without a white beard and potbelly. Dr. Archer was a very handsome man, sexy even, with beautiful eyes, grayer today than the usual light blue. And so sweetly compassionate. Dr. Archer was a prime package, wasn’t he?

  Lucky Mrs. Archer, I thought inanely.

  “You might find intimacy with your husband uncomfortable and unappealing for a few days. It’s normal after an HSG.”

  I nodded, like he’d expected me to. But, inside, I became a hot, hot mass of shame.

  He didn’t know about my issues with intimacy. How unpleasant I found sex sometimes. How frightening. I’d been assured that it was normal for a rape victim to feel so.

  Nirvaan didn’t know about the rape. By the time we’d reconnected with each other again, after four years of not meeting and rarely speaking, I’d come to terms with a lot of things. I didn’t cringe when a man touched me anymore. I didn’t collapse in a panic attack. I didn’t shut myself in my room and pace until exhaustion claimed me. I’d stopped blaming myself for what had happened that night—mostly.

  And for all his hooliganisms, Nirvaan was a patient man and so very gentle.

  I’d tried hard not to let the rape affect our marriage bed, but there were times, especially when we’d begun dating, when I’d flinch if he held me too tight. Of course, Nirvaan wasn’t dumb. Short of full nudity and intercourse, I’d fooled around with both the guys all through the years of our friendship. He’d wondered why I was suddenly averse to—forget kinkiness—simple intimacy. I’d told him I’d been Eve-teased in Mumbai, touched inappropriately in buses and on the streets, and that it had scarred me. He’d believed the lies I’d fed him.

  Why wouldn’t he? I was his wife.

  Nirvaan had been so careful with me, so giving and undemanding, the first time we’d made love and every time after.

  I’m ashamed to say that I took it all for granted—Nirvaan, how he kept me safe and spoilt me, how easy it was to forget everything around him. I, a person who expected the devil at every turn in the road, had started to feel happy again.

  It’d been two years since I’d made love to my husband. His patience had finally run out. Nirvaan had begun needing a chemical aid to get erect and maintain the erection while I couldn’t get past being skittish in bed. He had also become weak and couldn’t frolic endlessly until I gathered the courage to gratify us both in some manner.

  The crossed wires had led to huge amounts of frustration and instructions and, eventually, tears and accusations of who’d done what wrong. It was easier not to bother with sex at all. We’d convinced ourselves that our love didn’t need sex to thrive.

  We remained convinced—for the most part.

  Again, I was left alone to recoup inside the examination room until I could sit up without wanting to vomit my insides out. The cramps didn’t disappear, but they got bearable, and I got dressed. I checked in with Martha at the nurses’ station just outside the exam room and asked if I was done for the day.

  I wasn’t.

  Martha handed me a personalized fertility folder complete with a thumb drive containing videos on how to prepare and administer injections. “Here, honey, so you don’t need to come back for this. It’s information on what the doc already told you and some he’ll go over now. How are the cramps? Better? Good. Remember, nothing strenuous for the rest of the day.”

  I smiled and nodded. Then, I shuffled into Dr. Archer’s office, which was beginning to feel like a second home. He wasn’t in the office, and I sat down to wait for him. I dug my phone out of my handbag and checked for messages. I’d missed several calls and two texts.

  Nirvaan had texted an hour ago.

 
Nirvaan: What’s going on, baby?

  I rolled my eyes. What do you think? Ugh.

  Zayaan was less vague.

  Zayaan: Are you okay? I’m waiting in the parking lot.

  No, I was not okay. I was anything but okay. Right this minute, I wished both of them to hell…or to a prostate exam. Then, we’d see how okay they felt. I considered not replying to either one of the concerned parties, but in the end, I couldn’t be such a bitch.

  I sent them both the same message.

  Me: Waiting for the doctor. I’m fine. Not long now.

  Dr. Archer bustled in ten minutes later. “Feeling okay, Mrs. Desai? How are the cramps?”

  “Better,” I mumbled, giving him a small smile.

  “Good, good.” He handed me several more sheets of printouts and a small brochure. “It’s some literature on IVF. Did Martha give you a dossier?”

  “Yes.” I touched the folder in question.

  “Good. It contains instructions on how to order and administer the injections. You can also come in for a live demonstration sometime next week.” After more general instructions, Dr. Archer outlined the coming month and a half and the costs involved.

  I was aware of what an IVF cycle cost, yet the number of zeroes following a primary number on my packet shocked me. There were drugs listed costing five thousand dollars a shot—to be paid out of pocket because none of it was covered by health insurance. This was money we should be spending on treatments in Kutch, not Monterey.

  I waited for the panic to set in as we discussed my future baby, but for some reason, it didn’t. My abdominal pain had used up all my adrenaline.

  “Any questions, Mrs. Desai?”

  “You know our situation, Dr. Archer,” I began, grabbing on to the last thread of practicality trying to break free of my hopelessly tangled life. “Do you think… I mean, I’m obviously stressed about everything. It can’t be good, right—to be stressed while trying to get pregnant? What I mean is, will it affect the outcome of the IVF?” I wasn’t about to waste good money on a doomed thing. “And don’t advise me to take up meditation and calm down because it’s not going to happen.”

  Dr. Archer gave an astonished bark of laughter at my abrupt show of temper. I supposed I had surprised him. I’d never been so chatty with him before.

  “IVF is stressful for most people, regardless of their circumstances, yet lots of couples get pregnant through it. Life is stressful, Mrs. Desai, on the best of days. Getting pregnant, even naturally, is taxing for your mind and body. Therefore, no, your emotional levels won’t have any effect on the IVF. It’s a simple matter of an optimal incubatory environment—and some luck,” he said.

  Then, he looked at me with his penetrating eyes, and I wanted to fidget like a schoolgirl who’d forgotten to do homework.

  “Mrs. Desai, I encourage you to see our in-house counselor.” He opened a drawer on his massive desk, took out a card, and slid it toward me.

  I picked it up. Dr. Eva Green, Family Counseling. “I…I already have a therapist,” I told him, my cheeks heating up.

  I hadn’t spoken to Dr. Asha Ambani in a while, not since Nirvaan’s remission, but she was still my therapist. And I kept her updated about my wellbeing with sporadic emails.

  “Good,” he said again.

  Was good his word of the day?

  “Talk to her or him. I want you to be one hundred percent sure before we start.”

  And that marked the end of the consultation. I guessed the good, kindly doctor had no patience for my wavering mind.

  I walked out of his office, mired in doubt again. In the reception area, lots of pregnant women sat or waddled up and down the room, waiting to see their doctors. I slid gingerly between them, trying to avoid bumping into the bellies, as if pregnancy were contagious.

  Did I want a child or not? And if I didn’t, if I absolutely did not, I needed to grow a spine and tell my husband.

  I shook my head. What was I thinking? The minute I reneged on the baby bargain, Nirvaan would cry foul and stop his treatments. No, I couldn’t tell him.

  I pushed the door of the clinic open. I had to do this…at least until the last of his treatments were done. And with any luck, the IVF wouldn’t…

  I stopped short once I exited the fertility clinic. Zayaan was standing by the door with a little brown-haired girl, no more than two or three, in his arms. My heart squeezed painfully to see him with a baby girl in his arms, even as laughter threatened to set my belly cramping again.

  “Wow. Is this clinic prolific or what?” I joked.

  Against my will, I thought of the day we’d drawn our family tree in the sand on Dumas Beach. Zayaan had wanted two girls with my hair, my smile, and, yes, even my nose. I’d wanted a miniature Zayaan or two or three, keeping me busy until my old age. We’d agreed two boys and two girls would make an ideal family—the Khan dynasty tradition. We’d been so young. Just under seventeen. Pathetically young to be so much in love.

  “Another good one.” Zayaan chuckled and patted the girl’s back when she whimpered against his shoulder. He glanced at the frosted glass doors of the clinic. “Scary in there. I’ve never come across so many pregnant women in one room before. It’s like an overdose of estrogen or something.”

  I didn’t want to be amused. “And who’s this?” I moved close to whiff the sweet, powdery stink of baby and run a finger down the tot’s chubby cheek.

  She was fast asleep in his arms, a pacifier in her rosebud mouth.

  “Thanks, man. You’re a lifesaver.” The gruff words came from behind me.

  I turned to see a tall man in a suit holding his arms out for his little girl. Somehow, the men transferred the sleeping baby without waking her.

  The man smiled at us. “And good luck to you and your wife. Those doctors are miracle workers, and I know it.”

  “No trouble, mate,” said Zayaan, shaking the man’s hand. “She’s an angel.”

  I’d frozen with the words you and your wife. I couldn’t, for the life of me, return the man’s smile before he went into the clinic to be with his family.

  Zayaan tugged my heavy tote from my shoulder and onto his. “Nice guy. They have twins. His wife is inside with the other child. She couldn’t handle two sleeping toddlers alone, and she’s pregnant with twins again. Anyway, I offered to carry this one while he went to the loo.”

  I stared at Zayaan all through his explanation as we waited for the elevator. Wasn’t he the least bit affected and mortified that the man had presumed we were married? Why hadn’t he corrected the assumption? Why didn’t I? And if we had, wouldn’t it have raised more eyebrows than ironing things out?

  Was this a glimpse into my future? If I had this baby and Zayaan fulfilled his promise to watch over us, was this what we’d go through every time we stepped out?

  I moaned softly, and it had nothing to do with cramps.

  “Simi?”

  “I’m fine,” I said, walking straight into the elevator as it swished open. I leaned against its flaky side wall in support.

  The elevator lurched one floor down, and people crowded in, shifting to and fro for standing space. Zayaan’s arm came about my shoulders, and he pulled me close to him to make room.

  I could’ve easily laid my head on his shoulder. Barefoot, my ear fit perfectly over his heart, just like with Nirvaan. I used to say it was the reason we were so in tune with each other—because I had direct listening access into their very souls.

  Zayaan called Nirvaan from the car to tell him I was done and that we were heading home. I closed my eyes when Nirvaan called out my name over the car speaker. I didn’t want to get into explanations and arguments now. Before I could make up an excuse to hang up, Zayaan told him I was asleep and disconnected the phone, surprising me.

  “Relax. You need it,” he said gruffly.

  I could’ve kissed him then.

  The cramps wouldn’t let me relax though, and the parish exit came up faster than I’d expected. Once Zayaan took it, he didn�
�t take the road home, and I was deprived of seeing the pastor’s meme of the day. He turned the Jeep left instead, toward the town center. I decided he must have errands to run.

  Great. The longer I could postpone throttling my husband into an early grave, the better.

  Zayaan parked in front of the local supermarket. “Let’s go, Sims.”

  I blinked owlishly at the customers walking in and out of the market. “Huh? Where? Why? We don’t need groceries this week.” There were more than enough leftovers and fresh veggies in the fridge at home.

  “Trust me. You need this.” He came over on my side and opened the door, flashing his non-killer smile at me. It was the sweet, shy one.

  I got out, intrigued despite myself.

  We walked half a block to the Stone Cold Creamery, and Zayaan bought me a big, gooey sundae with all my favorite ice creams and toppings. I was in brain-freeze heaven with the first bite.

  The town square was littered with pretty benches and potted gardens. We sat on one such bench right by the Jeep, devouring the sundae between us. Over our heads, a grand cherry blossom dappled us in light and shadow as its leaves flirted with the sunbeams.

  “The wound is the place where the Light enters you.”

  I hadn’t heard Rumi’s beautiful words in a long time, but I recognized them. I looked at Zayaan without my usual reticence. His eyes weren’t on my face though. He was staring at the sunlit bandage hiding the puncture site of my blood test on my bare arm. A breeze riffled the wispy ends of his poker-straight hair, and my fingers itched to push them back into place, to gauge if the texture had coarsened over time or if it was as silky soft as before.

  “Talk to me, Simi,” he demanded, as if our friendship hadn’t suffered a dozen years of exile.

  And, suddenly, I was desperate to. I wanted to tell him everything. To share my troubles like I used to before his brother had destroyed us. I wanted to lean on him. To let him be the Light and the World, as he’d once been to me. To let him bear my burdens so that I could be free.

  I pulled back from him, even as I thought those things. I could never do that. If I hadn’t told him the truth then, there was no reason to tell him now. Rizvaan was dead. He’d been shot down by Ahura Mazda’s justice the very night he raped me. The creep was dead and shamed for eternity even though his mother persisted in endorsing him as a martyr.