My Last Love Story

by Falguni Kothari

  Sure enough, they were there just before the attendant from radiology wheeled Nirvaan away for his tests. My in-laws went with him, insisting Zayaan go home and rest for a while. He looked completely worn out. But he refused to go, alternatively pacing the room, looking out the window, or sitting restlessly in a chair, only to get up a minute later and pace again. Sarvar took him out for a walk and got him out of my hair.

  “He’s had too much coffee,” I said, pouring a small cup of coffee for myself.

  I asked Ba if she wanted some tea. She did, and I handed her a steaming hot cup.

  After our stomachs were warm but not settled—I wondered if my stomach would ever feel settled again—she said, “He’ll need you, Simeen beta.”

  I sighed. “I know. I’ll make sure he doesn’t overdo the fun. That he sleeps and eats on time. No more gallivanting about town and bouncing on Jet Skis. And definitely no more beers.”

  Nirvaan’s doctors hadn’t forbidden him from drinking, but they’d cautioned that alcohol sometimes adversely influenced anti-convulsing medication. Nirvaan was always careful about the amount of alcohol he consumed, but our birthday party and recent nights of clubbing obviously hadn’t been good for him.

  “I don’t mean my grandson. Anyone with eyes can see how well you take care of him. I meant, Zayaan. You’ll need to be strong for him, too.”

  I was so dumbstruck by this that my brain got fuzzy. “Zai? Why, Ba, he’s the strong one. He’s been so good for us…for Nirvaan. He’s our rock.”

  I told her how he’d handled the seizure, how he’d been handling Nirvaan these last months.

  Zayaan had always been tough. At eighteen, he’d stepped into his father’s shoes, borne his responsibilities with extraordinary maturity. Nirvaan had kept me updated about Zai and himself whether I’d shown interest in their lives or not, whether I’d replied to his emails or voice-messages or not.

  No, Ba was mistaken. Zayaan could handle anything. It was me who couldn’t handle life. It was me who was weak and useless and forever needy.

  Isn’t it why Nirvaan asked Zayaan to come live with us in the first place?

  “Your Bapuji and I spent more than seventy years together, you know. It was a nice life; I won’t complain. But he had an ugly temper and not enough luck. In our times, families were large. Not this amey bey, amara bey or two-point-five children limit. I had six sons and three daughters. I lost some before I lost your Bapuji.” Ba’s brittle smile spoke of a long life and too much grief. “The point is, I’ve raised men and been married to one. So, I know for all their bluster and stoic fronts, they’re like babies when things go wrong. They need their women to hold them and nurture them and show them life might be a lot of trouble, but it can be good.”

  I wondered if all women past a certain age talked this way as my mother had said something similar to me a long time ago.

  “Your father used to bottle things up when we first got married and blast like a soda bottle when shaken. It took work, but eventually, I showed him that a good emotional release every now and then was good for the soul. I hope Suri and Savvy find women who’ll understand them,” she’d said.

  Surin had been dating a twit, in her opinion. That had been in his first year of junior college. And it’d turned out that my mother was right. I thought my mother would approve of Surin’s wife, Parizaad, and the way she handled my brother.

  Scrunching my nose, I asked Ba the same question I’d asked my mother. “Why is it a woman’s responsibility to show a man the way? As intelligent grown men, shouldn’t they know their own natures?”

  Ba laughed heartily. This time, her eyes laughed, too. “They should, but nature is as nature does.” She patted my hand. “You’ll be fine. You’re like me. You have strong instincts.”

  I wasn’t so sure about that and said so, “Do you remember the Indiana Jones movie we watched years ago with the disgusting tomb of vipers? My stomach feels like a pit of writhing vipers. I’m scared, Ba. I am so scared for Nirvaan.”

  She patted my hands again. “So, close your eyes, and jump, like Indy did.”

  The absurdity of our conversation should’ve amused me. Everything sounded funnier in Gujarati. And was I actually going to emulate Indiana Jones on Ba’s behest? Maybe I was.

  Several hours, doctors, and tests later, we were informed that Nirvaan would be in the hospital for three days. The MRI and CAT scans showed that two new miniscule growths had popped up around the first one, which was shrinking but not fast enough. He needed more radiation. Whether it would be whole head or targeted was being discussed.

  The team of doctors warned the epileptic seizures might get more frequent or less frequent. They just didn’t know. “The brain is such a complex piece of machinery, Mr. and Mrs. Desai.”

  If the seizures became worse, surgery was an option. But surgery came with its own set of risks. There’d be brain damage. Nirvaan could suffer anything from amnesia to mood swings to muscle or neurological dystrophy, which could cause blindness at best, or at worst, he’d go into a coma. They just couldn’t predict.

  Nirvaan was adamant that he didn’t want a chunk of his brain cut out. He wished to live a fully cognizant life or die. There was no middle option for him.

  Before I took Nirvaan home, I knew that I wasn’t pregnant. But I didn’t break the news for another week.

  Brain tumors weren’t like other cancers. In a sense, a patient could be well enough to go skydiving one week—not that he should—and in the next, he could wind up dead. Sometimes, you couldn’t even tell that the person was sick, more so in younger and relatively healthier people like Nirvaan.

  “All in all, I’d rather die from a brain tumor than the lymphoma. Death by tumor seems a bit more graceful, not to mention, dramatic,” said Nirvaan, contemplatively, about two weeks after the epileptic seizure.

  While he spoke of dying, I admired the living panorama before me.

  We were out on the deck again—our official lounging space—playing Rummy during a particularly pale sunset. The sun was like a scoop of orange sorbet liquefying into an orangey puddle. It was obvious that California and not Florida should be the Orange State. A sprinkling of clouds and birds, smudging the sky like caramelized nuts, completed the natural sorbet. That’s it. I was going to sign a petition for California to become the Orange Sorbet State.

  I was a teensy bit high, I realized, as my musings turned prosy and bizarre. I’d only taken one puff of Nirvaan’s prescribed pot pipe—at his insistence—but it had been enough. I was now in a happy orange state.

  The sunset made me vividly happy. A profound conversation made me happier and giddy with nostalgic.

  I couldn’t remember the last time I’d spoken to the guys from my heart. When was it? Oh yeah. Twelve years ago. No, no, don’t think of that night. Always messes things up. I waved good-bye to the past and shut the door in its face.

  “I second that,” I said, spreading my cards out like a fan in front of my face. My nails looked awful, bitten. Then, I blinked as my mind caught up with my mouth. “I mean, I don’t want you to die at all, but if you are going to anyway…this is better. No hospitals. No tubes going in and out of your body.” I shuddered, recalling how he’d looked during his lymphoma treatments. “This is much better. Here today, gone tomorrow. Poof.”

  Did I really say that out loud?

  “I’m glad the two of you are on the same page about this,” said Zayaan drily.

  Luck was on his side tonight—he was better at Rummy than at poker. I tried to sneak a peek at his cards, but he drew them close to his chest. Also, he hadn’t puffed on the pipe and was behaving oh-so snooty toward me.

  “Meanie.” I stuck my tongue out and fizzed with laughter.

  He shot me a shiver-worthy glare with his dangerous, gorgeous eyes.

  “Ooh. The killer look kills me every time. Uff.” I fell over on the lounger and spread my arms wide, wondering if I looked good dead.

  Zayaan shook his head. “She’s lost her
mind.”

  “Little Bo Peep!” I exclaimed, sitting up. “Let’s find Little Bo and enlist her help to find it…my mind. Find my mind.” I thought it a brilliant idea.

  Zayaan groaned, and Nirvaan chuckled.

  “Honey, I love your laugh. Laugh some more,” I sweetly begged.

  Nirvaan laughed again. “Nope, chodu. She’s finally telling the truth.”

  Truth, truth, truth, I mulled it over. Didn’t I always tell the truth?

  I scratched my fat, bumpy nose, staring at a cobweb on the lattice work on the porch’s ceiling. I bolted to my feet, and promptly forgot why I’d stood up.

  “What the fuck?” yelped Nirvaan, grabbing hold of the flimsy deck table I’d almost toppled over with my sudden spring jump.

  Both the guys stared at me in shock.

  I found their slack-jawed expressions extremely funny. I doubled over with laughter. “Oh God…your faces. Priceless. Crap. I have to pee now.” I dashed into the bathroom, shed my jeans and underwear, made it to the commode on time and let go. “Yes. That feels…so good.”

  I did my business and washed my hands. While at the basin, I splashed cold water on my face. I hadn’t really inhaled much smoke from the pipe, but it had been enough to shoot straight into my brain. Not for long though. My high was already coming down. I still felt an absurd urge to giggle, but I’d regained enough control not to give in.

  I walked back out into the living room, flapping my hand at the guys to indicate I was fine. I didn’t go out on the porch. Instead, from a closet by the main door that housed the washer and dryer units and the cleaning supplies, I selected an extra-long duster. I went outside then and set about to annihilating the cobweb I’d spotted on the deck.

  I’d always been compulsive about keeping a spotless home, but it had become an obsession of late. I hated insects in the house or dust or anything that might cause illness or an allergic reaction. Cobweb and its resident black widow spider—not really—dispatched to the netherworld, I returned to my perch on my lounger to find the poker chips and cards replaced by an empty Coke bottle on the deck table.

  Coke from a glass bottle tasted crispier than from a plastic bottle or a can. Coke in Europe tasted a lot less sugary, hence better, than it did in the US. I didn’t know why I noticed such things, but I did. We only ever bought glass-bottled Coke in this house because I was the only one who drank it.

  “Using a Coke bottle as a curio for deck furniture is innovative, to be sure. Did you fish it out of recycling?” I kept my focus on Nirvaan. I was trying hard, very hard, not to look at Zayaan, directly or indirectly. Dear God, did I really blurt out loud the effect his killer eyes have on me?

  Nirvaan’s mouth drooped into a pout of immense disappointment. “You’re not high anymore. Damn. Your system’s good. Don’t know whether to be upset or proud.”

  “Why, thank you, honey. I live to make you pot proud. But what’s with the Coke bottle? Please don’t tell me you’re going to try bonging or whatever with it. And, whatever it is, count me out.”

  “Bonging?” Nirvaan burst out laughing.

  “You know what I mean. That thing with the weed and a bong or bottle.” My knowledge of bonging existed purely from movies and vicariously from Nirvaan’s confessions about his wild college days. I pursed my lips, expectantly raising my eyebrows.

  “Spin the Bottle, baby,” said Nirvaan, still chuckling. “Rules are, a kiss or the truth.”

  There remained enough of the narcotic in my system to make shock feel like a power charge running through my veins. I wasn’t at all sure bonging wouldn’t have been a better option.

  “That doesn’t sound fun. Oh, I know. Let’s catch the new Dracula flick at the theater,” I said as if I’d just had the best idea.

  “Too bad you said we should stay home tonight. And you’re right. The flickering lights of a big screen could induce a headache.” Nirvaan parroted my earlier words with a wicked rascal smile.

  Crap. Those excuses had sounded genius this afternoon.

  I finally glanced at Zayaan, hoping he’d be the voice of reason. Long and lean, he was stretched out on the lounger with his dangerous dark eyes closed. I was getting really irritated by the torso flashing going on around me. Nirvaan, I got. My husband loved to flash skin, always had. But since when had Zayaan become okay with nudity—partial nudity? And when in the name of Ahura Mazda did he find time to muscle up between doctorates?

  “Zai’s sleeping. And I need to start dinner.” I was lying. I’d already made dinner this morning.

  “I can multitask,” said Zayaan, sounding amused. He opened his eyes. Glee danced behind his black-as-coal irises.

  “I hate it when you gang up on me.” I was sick of it, in fact.

  Both of them needed to be brought down a peg or two.

  “We’re not ganging up on you,” said Nirvaan, spinning the bottle sideways to test it. “We’re trying to loosen you up.”

  “I don’t want to loosen up. I want to be…” I bit my tongue before free flew out. That just showed they didn’t need to loosen me up. Apparently, I was loose enough.

  Nirvaan clapped his hand on the spinning bottle, abruptly stopping its motion. He looked up at me as I stared him down. I was very aware of Zayaan watching us.

  Zayaan was the base of our triangle—strong, steady, immovable. I wondered what would happen if he shifted his stance. I mentally willed him not to shift the dynamic of our ménage.

  “What do you want, Simeen?” asked Nirvaan, suddenly very serious.

  In the fifteen years we’d known each other, he’d called me by my full name maybe a dozen times, no more. It startled me.

  “You never tell me what you want anymore. You used to in Surat, all the time. You’d demand things from us, demand our time, our undivided attention, but for the past eight years, you’ve never once expressed a desire for something…anything. You’ve never shown me what is in your heart.”

  My cheeks grew hotter with every word, every observation. I was dismayed that Nirvaan had seen through my silence. Horrified I was such a bad actress. And embarrassed that Zayaan sat between us, once again a witness to the inner workings of my marriage. But at the same time, I was glad he was listening. He needed to know where this could never go.

  “You’re being silly, Nirvaan.” I smiled it off, like I had for years. “I haven’t asked you for anything because you always anticipate my needs. You’ve always known what’s in my heart.”

  Nirvaan twisted his mouth, as if he’d tasted something sour. I’d disappointed him. Again. “Fine, have it your way. Let’s play the game. But, first, promise, you won’t cheat. Promise me when we ask you a question, you’ll give us the truth.”

  Many months ago, Nirvaan’s doctors had apprised us on what we’d be facing over the course of the next year. “Maybe a year. Maybe less, maybe more. We can’t predict time frames with any certainty with tumors.”

  We should expect seizures, headaches, incontinence, loss of appetite—thankfully, Nirvaan’s appetite was back with a vengeance—disinterest in life, discussions about death or meaning of life, making sure the family affairs were in order, balance and time lapse issues, confusion, anger. Not all together and not always, but we had to watch for these symptoms, which would get progressively worse as the cancer ate Nirvaan’s mind. We’d gone through most of these symptoms at least once.

  My husband wished for a peek into my heart, so I gave him the unvarnished stark truth. “You want to see into my heart? Into my soul? Here’s a glimpse. I want you to live. I want you to fight for us. For me. I don’t want you to let go of me so easily.”

  I wasn’t only talking about the cancer, and my husband quickly got it. So did Zayaan. No one had ever accused them of being dumb.

  “I chose you, Nirvaan. To be mine, as my mate. Now, you can either choose to be noble, or you can choose me back.”

  There were more great days in our household during the following months than bad, but it was the bad that stuck in our heads
.

  Was it because the bad brought a visceral reaction in our bodies, and we could easily recall the tight fear and gut-clenching tension? Or was it that we took the good for granted and as our due?

  The bad stuff was actually an anomaly, which was why it stood out.

  During one of our phone sessions, Asha Auntie asked me to plot out my life. I regularly phoned her these days and not only at Sarvar’s insistence. But I didn’t know how much it helped, talking to her or to Sarvar. On most days, I felt like a pressure cooker ready to blow.

  “Imagine someone has asked you to write a memoir,” she prompted.

  Immediately, I listed all of the bad that had marked my life and in detail. But the good moments—and I’d had plenty of those if I chose to gush over them—I only skimmed, as if protecting the memories.

  I felt like, if I mentioned the happy moments out loud, Khodai would set his evil eye on me again. Asha Auntie had tried to repair my relationship with God once before, but I wasn’t ready to forgive Him.

  Summer passed in the blink of an eye, yet time flowed with excruciating slowness.

  It was hideous, waiting for my husband to die. But it was what I was doing. It was what all of us were doing really.

  Some days, Nirvaan couldn’t see properly. He would see two of everything. The first time his vision had doubled, he’d been looking at me. He’d joked about his ultimate fantasy of having two of me in bed come true, but I could tell it scared him.

  As his mind failed, his anger and frustration began to manifest in odd places.

  We’d fought again this morning. It wouldn’t have upset me so much had his sister not witnessed our bad moment.

  It wouldn’t have happened at all had she not been there, I thought uncharitably.

  Nisha and her family had come up from San Diego for a two-week visit at the end of the kids’ summer vacation. By the second day of their visit, Nirvaan and I had fought three times already.