“She’ll die, anyway. The question is do you want her to suffer? Old woman, you are in the wrong place.”
She struggled to find the right words to make him understand. “Will you take a report?”
“For what? No one wants her. No one will be looking for her. She is no one’s concern.”
Nalini patted her chest, as much to calm her raging heartbeat as to make her claim. “She is mine…my concern. What do I do?” she asked for the third time that day.
He dropped his voice, leading her toward the exit. “Salt works well. Put a pinch in the baby’s mouth. It takes little time, and there is no pain.”
Nalini staggered back, shocked by his words. The barrier between them had nothing to do with language. He continued, as if she needed more clarification. “Listen to reason, old woman. She can suffer her whole life or be at peace in one instant.”
She clutched the crate tighter as she exited the building with swift steps, trying to place as much distance from the devilish man’s suggestions as she could.
Confused, frustrated, and tired, she journeyed back to her home. The infant must have sensed her emotions because the crying started again. The cries turned to wails until Nalini stopped at the side of a dirt road that led to her village. She gently rocked the baby, trying to nourish her with words when she had no food to offer.
“Do not cry. You are a godsend. There are some girls who are blessed and cursed at the same time, and in many ways they are the luckiest because God gave them the strength to face both sides of life. There was another child once. His father and mother were imprisoned because his ruthless uncle, the king, was told through a prophet the eighth child of the couple would kill him and bring peace to the land. The child survived because his father snuck him from the prison and placed him in a basket on the banks of the river. That child was Lord Krishna.”
The child quieted. “Baby, no need to cry. You have to be brave like Lord Krishna.”
She looked down at the sleeping infant. What will I do? There are no village families who would take in a child, especially a girl child.
Then Nalini thought of the school where she worked. More specifically of the young nun with golden hair and eyes the color of emeralds who taught there. Nalini had never conversed with her. She couldn’t since they spoke different languages, but her friendly gestures conveyed the woman was nurturing and sweet. She was a woman of God. Maybe not her Gods…but all paths were pure. Surely, she would help.
* * * *
It was Saturday. A day Sister Sarah reserved for reading. The knock on the door of her small cottage surprised her. She prayed it wasn’t another hostile villager threatening her. At the same time, she was in no mood to receive a friendly villager offering gifts of sweets. She feared the former, but was happy to receive the later. Not today, though. Today, she craved solitude. Tomorrow, she’d make the announcement, but today was about coming to terms with her decision to leave her life here.
She let the first set of knocks go unanswered. They were heavy and urgent, signaling Sarah to be extra cautious. Who would have imagined a school could cause such controversy? Villagers either hated or loved it. Some said it wasn’t appropriate to have white foreigners teaching their children and possibly converting them, while others were grateful their children had an opportunity for education.
When she heard the woman’s voice call, she finally opened the door. Her spine stiffened at the sight of one of the cleaning ladies cradling a wooden box in her arms. Nalini spoke rapidly in her own tongue, not stopping even when Sarah held up her hand. But when she lifted the lid of the box, Sarah’s heart wrenched at the sight of the tiny baby with a shock of black hair and large brown eyes.
Sarah, a woman of action herself, set about bathing the baby properly and swaddled her in a clean blanket. She asked her house servant to fetch a translator and a bottle of rice milk. She held the baby, feeding her, while the translator, one of Sarah’s brighter students, sat between the two women. Sarah understood some Hindi, but not the Gujarati dialect Nalini spoke. She controlled the raw emotions of anger, shock, and despair as the interpreter translated Nalini’s explanation.
She looked down at the sleeping child, suckling a finger. Such a hard start in life. Sarah counted fingers and toes, surprised by how miraculously healthy the baby appeared. A child who had come into their care, much the way Moses had come to the Pharaoh’s daughter along the Nile River after being set afloat by his mother in an effort to save him when the Pharaoh ordered all male Hebrew children should be drowned in the Nile.
Sarah pointed to the box. “Perhaps someone put her in this vessel to save her.”
Nalini shook her head slowly. “No one was trying to save her.”
“No, look,” Sarah said, tapping the lid of the box, clinging to a shred of optimism. She ran her fingers over the small slits over the wooden lid. “Air holes for the child to breathe.”
Nalini regarded Sarah as if she were a child herself. Sarah’s heart rate increased as the older woman secured the lid back in place and made quick jabbing motions with her hand. Despite the tropical climate, a strong chill ran down her spine as the translator repeated Nalini’s explanation. “They placed the baby in this box and punctured it with a knife several times. The wood is soft enough to yield to a knife, but the blade wasn’t long enough. The sharp end didn’t reach the baby.”
Sarah choked back a sob, the idea of such brutality almost causing her to wretch. “Why?”
“Girl,” the older woman said in English. That one word spoke volumes.
Girls cost money, especially in the form of dowry. There were stories of parents going bankrupt to marry off their daughters. Contrary, boys brought in money and dowry. Sarah, horrified with the violent description, could no longer hold back her cries. She set the child atop a clean pillow. She wept openly and took Nalini’s weathered hand in her own. Nalini appeared surprised by the gesture and tried to withdraw her hand, but Sarah held it tightly.
“What do we do?” Nalini asked once more.
“Pray with me.”
Sarah didn’t have an answer. The school had strict instructions not to get involved with the local residents. Their job was to educate and make the villager’s lives better, but there were directives, and any inappropriate behavior could result in a shut down.
For these reasons, Sarah decided she would not inform her superiors. They would suggest the orphanage some distance away as a place to deposit the child. It seemed the obvious choice, except it was all wrong. Rumors circulated the children were severely mistreated and even sold into prostitution. There was no proof, but Sarah would not risk it—not when it came to this baby.
She couldn’t explain it, except that some motherly instinct and responsibility had invaded her body. But what could she do? She was leaving this place, a decision she had prayed on for months. Now, all her certainty dissipated as she looked upon the tiny infant whose mouth curved into the most adorable gassy smile.
“She’s beautiful,” Sarah whispered.
“That she is,” Nalini agreed.
Although both women hailed from different corners of the world with different backgrounds, religion, and life experiences, somehow they communicated without the benefit of a translator or even words. They each bowed their heads.
Sarah prayed to Mary and Jesus and Nalini to Rama and Sita. Both of them hovered their hands over the baby. When the child wrapped her tiny fists around each woman’s finger, a powerful surge flooded Sarah’s heart.
Sarah lifted her head, meeting Nalini’s eyes, knowing what the woman would say before she spoke.
“I will keep her and raise her,” Nalini announced with complete conviction. “She will be my daughter. I love her.”
“Your husband will allow this?”
“He will not agree. He will show her little kindness, but a mother’s love is strong enough to overcome any obstacle.”
“I will help you raise her. I will make sure she has a good life,” Sarah added. “I will love…
I love her, too.”
“What shall we name her?” Nalini asked. Typically, a naming ceremony involved family and input from the grandparents, but in this case, Nalini’s parents were deceased as was all her family.
“What is the word for hope?”
“Asha,” Nalini explained, a genuine smile on her face. “That is a fine and fitting name.”
Sarah nodded in agreement, wiping away her tears.
For the first time in Sarah’s life, her feet felt steady on the path she’d chosen. Nalini, old and destitute, was in no position to raise a baby. Sarah, a young nun, who was not allowed to interfere, was also in no position to raise a baby. But together, they could both give the child everything she needed, everything they had to give. These two women, who would never associate with each other in any ordinary circumstance, formed more than a pact that day. They formed a connection, a friendship, and through Asha, they became family.
Chapter 7
Nick paced the room, his anxiety increasing with every step, while Shyla perched on his couch, reading his pages. Her brows knitted in stern concentration. One thing was for sure. She read at a snail’s pace, resulting in a kind of torture for him.
She put down the final page and wiped the tear before it could fall down her face.
“It’s so bad it made you cry?” Nick asked, his voice tense.
“It’s so good it made me cry.”
Nick expelled a long breath, one he’d been holding in since she’d arrived.
“I’m glad you like it. I wanted to show you a rough example of how you could write it.”
“It’s as if you were in my head. Yesterday, I gave you a brief description of the plot, but you added the emotion.”
“I tried to imagine what it must have been like for two women in that circumstance. I just colored in your outline, that’s all. I’m relieved you’re not angry.”
“Why would I be angry?”
He chuckled. “I didn’t want you to think I was trying to steal your story.”
“I would never think that. It makes sense that Sister Sarah would make the connection to Moses and Nalini to Krishna. You did some research?”
“A little in terms of the Hindu faith. I’m Catholic, so Moses is who I thought of when you told the story.”
Her lips parted slightly, as if his admission surprised her.
Nick cleared his throat. “These are just ideas. I don’t want to dampen your creativity.”
“What creativity? I have a string of events, but you made it a story. You brought it to fruition.”
“Easy Tolstoy. It’s one chapter. One chapter does not a book make.”
She leaned forward, pulling her legs under her. “I have a proposition for you.”
“That’s gotta be the scariest sentence in the English language.”
“What if we worked on this together?” she asked, arching her brow.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It’s your story.”
“But you’re the writer.”
“Shyla, this sounds like literary women’s fiction. That’s not my genre. In fact, I wouldn’t even read a story like this much less collaborate on one. Besides, I don’t work well with others.”
“I think we work well together. I’ll tell you the story, and you write it. Simple.”
“It’s not simple. It’s incredibly complicated.”
“Why?” she challenged.
“Well, for one thing, money.”
“Money?”
“Yes, if it gets published, how will we divide those profits? The story isn’t mine.”
“We’ll split it. Or you can take it all. I don’t care to make money on it.”
Nick laughed at her innocence. “You say it now, but I’ve seen greed firsthand. It changes people. And truthfully, I really don’t want to make a profit on this either. I wanted to give you a starting point, that’s all.”
“If neither of us is interested in making money, then why are we arguing about it?”
She had a point. He sat beside her on the couch. “Look, you can do this by yourself. I have faith in you.”
She shook her head. “I can’t. I’ve tried,” she said with a defeated frown.
“You can take classes. There are some great professors at NYU. I can recommend a course for you.”
“This is my last semester. It’s too late.”
“You can take online courses when you go home.”
She turned toward him. “Nick, don’t you understand we can help each other right now?”
“How so?”
“I have a story to write, but I don’t possess the skills to do it. You have the skills but no story.”
“I’m just blocked right now.”
“Yes, but obviously something in this idea spoke to you because you were able to create this,” she said, holding up the pages. “Maybe it will give you inspiration to write other things. Maybe Max Montero will start talking to you again.”
He tightened his hand around the arm of the couch, not wanting to admit she vocalized his own thoughts. “I know some other authors who write in this genre. They might be willing to work with you. I can talk to them.”
She shook her head vehemently. “I don’t feel comfortable with strangers.”
“I was a stranger, Shyla.”
“Yes, but now you’re my friend. That took a year of weather conversations to happen. I don’t have another year.”
She gathered up the pages and stood. “I should go.”
“Don’t be mad.”
“I’m not. I’m sad. Thank you for the pages. I’ll cherish them.”
Shit.
Nick never had envisioned writing that rough draft would lead to this. She was right. The story had sparked something in him—kick-started his creativity in a way.
He escorted her to the street and hailed a cab.
“I don’t want you to pay for my cabs anymore, Nick.”
“I worry about you walking home.”
“I’ll take a cab if it makes you feel better, but I can afford it.”
He shoved his hands in his pocket, fighting the urge to argue with her.
“Are you going to stop coming now?” He cursed the pathetic nature of his question, but the time he spent with Shyla was both precious and precarious. He didn’t want it to end.
A cab stopped, and he held the door open for her.
Her lips quirked in a half-smile. “Of course not, I’m your delivery girl.”
He tilted her chin toward his face. “You know what I mean.”
“Nick, I’ll invite myself to dinner as long as you let me in.” She smiled wider, just enough for the dimple to make an appearance. God, he loved the dimple. “I understand why you don’t want to work on this with me, but it doesn’t change the fact we’re friends.” She moved to get in the cab, but paused, her eyes level with his chest. “My time with you is the best time of my day.”
He swallowed, replaying the sentence in his head. “Me too, Shyla.”
“Be safe, Nick.”
* * * *
That night, Nick Dorsey paced so much he could have created a groove in the floor. The girl brought laughter into his quiet, lonely life. He missed her when she was gone. And yes, he was attracted to her, but he was careful to cloak those feelings around her. He craved her friendship most of all.
The next night she showed up complete with juice boxes and sandwiches.
Nick took the food and set it down. Then he led her to the couch. His digital tape recorder lay on the coffee table in front of her.
“I don’t understand,” she said, studying the device.
He remained standing. “Here are the rules. We do this until one of us no longer wants to. You tell me the story, and we write it together. If I determine it’s good enough, I’ll share it with my agent. If it’s published, you’ll get the lion’s share of the profits, and I’ll take a five percent cut.”
“Only five percent?”
“
Consider it my editing fee.”
“But you’re doing more than editing. You’re writing it. Surely, you deserve more.”
“It’s all I want. Those are my rules. Do you have anything to add?”
“It’s a very generous offer. One I can’t pay you back for. Thank you.” The girl didn’t understand. She was already paying him back. Or rather, she was bringing him back.
She stood and walked toward him. He staggered back, unprepared when she threw her arms around his neck. She didn’t let go, tightening her hug. Nick closed his eyes, took in her scent, and embraced her. He felt the curves of her body under the thick material of her clothes. His own body reacted.
Shit.
He backed away clumsily before she could decipher the non-verbal communication. He took the seat opposite the sofa and placed his notepad over his lap. “Ready?”
“I think so.”
He turned on the recorder. She sat with her legs beneath her.
“This is so I can remember without taking notes.”
She nodded and leaned down until her mouth was inches from the device.
He laughed. “It’ll pick up your voice. You don’t have to do that.”
She sat back. “Oh, okay.”
He punctured the top of the juice box. She did the same with hers. They didn’t cement the decision with a contract or a handshake. Instead, they toasted with colorful cardboard boxes.
“Before we start, I wanted to ask if you have a title?”
“Not yet.”
“Sometimes it’s better to let it come to you as the story unfolds.”
She cleared her throat and continued the story. He hung onto her every word, wrapped in the trance of her rich, seductive voice.
Chapter 8
Asha’s story
Sarah loved the child as if she were her own flesh and blood. Asha grew up headstrong and compassionate just like the two women who raised her. In the village, it wasn’t uncommon for a woman to turn up pregnant and have a child without the other villagers knowing beforehand. So no one questioned Nalini’s new baby. Truthfully, the birth of a girl was a rather unremarkable event and often yielded more sympathies than celebrations.
Unwanted Girl Page 6
