“This wasn’t a simple love affair that broke up,” he reminded her in a tart tone. “That happens to lots of young women and men. But you had a son.”
“A son I thought was dead at birth.”
“And he’s been alive all these years. Come on, Vini, didn’t you think it was a little too convenient that he was gone by the time you woke up? How could a smart woman like you take your family’s word when they said he died?”
“That’s just it, I wasn’t a woman.” She picked up her own empty cup and rose to her feet. “I was a young girl, raised in a sheltered environment.”
“But even a girl would want to see her child, dead or alive. She’d demand some answers.”
Feeling weak in the legs, she sank back into the kitchen chair. “I know it sounds absurd, but you have to believe me. I was suffering from severe pneumonia when I went into labor. I had a burning fever. I couldn’t even breathe well, and the baby was breech. I had no strength to help deliver him, so they were forced to perform a C-section. I woke up from the anesthesia for perhaps a minute or two before I blacked out again.”
“You didn’t ask about your child, then?”
“Of course I did! That was my first and only question. I wanted to keep him in spite of my family’s wish to get rid of him. But I was too sick and helpless at the time. They clearly took advantage of my condition and took matters into their own hands. It was nearly three days before I was capable of having any rational thoughts.” She paused because her voice was cracking with emotion. Reliving that scene always brought back the ache.
“They told me he died in the womb,” she continued, despite the constriction in her throat, “that he was strangled by his umbilical cord because I waited too long to let them perform the surgery. They had to cremate him while I was nearly comatose.” She recalled those hazy days. “I almost died from the trauma myself.”
Now that she found herself explaining it to him, it did sound bizarre. How could a mother not know her child was alive and well? Where were her maternal instincts? The same instincts that used to wake her up at night when Arya was a baby and was sick or hurting. Even now, although Arya was an adult with a career and a place of her own, Vini could sense when her child was in trouble. How could she not sense her son’s existence in her bones?
“You may have been a kid, but I can’t believe your family lied. And then they encouraged you to lie, too,” he said, turning back to the sink to rinse off his dishes and place them in the dishwasher.
“I’m having difficulty with that myself,” she confessed. “They’ve been lying to me for thirty years.”
“So have you,” he said in a resigned tone.
“How many times do I have to apologize, Girish?” God, this was getting worse by the second. She’d never, ever seen him behave like he was spoiling for a fight.
He seemed to let her words sink in. “What did Vishal say when you talked to him?”
“Not much. He says he did what he thought was best for me back then.”
“What about your mother? Did she have anything to say about this?”
Girish had always held her mother in high regard. Vinita could see that was gone. He’d never feel the same way about any of them.
“I didn’t have a chance to speak to her.” Vinita rose from her chair again. “I’m sure she’ll give me the same explanation. She always went along with Papa and Vishal’s decisions.”
“You know what?” He stared at something on the counter for a moment. “I’m glad my parents are deceased. They would have been devastated by this.”
“You mean they weren’t devastated by your divorce?” she asked, tossing him a challenging lift of one eyebrow. She was just as capable of sarcasm as he.
“Of course they were. But the difference is they knew about it right from the start…from the time Nadine and I started having problems.” He rubbed his face with his hand, like he was trying to get rid of something foul from his skin. “I don’t know how I’m going to tell Rohini and Kishore.”
“Then don’t. I’ll tell them myself.” Rohini was nice enough, but she was extremely loyal to her brother. Vinita dreaded talking to her about this. Apparently Girish’s divorce had given Rohini a really bad case of depression. At least in those days Rohini was young and capable of handling bad news. Now she was in her sixties and had become more rigid in her ways.
“So you’ve decided you want to go to Palgaum and meet this…young man?” There was a quiver in his voice she’d rarely heard before. He hadn’t uttered her son’s name yet. She had a hard time getting used to it herself, despite practicing it all these days.
“Rohit is dying of leukemia.”
“How do you know it’s true? All you have is a cryptic, anonymous letter.”
“I spoke to Vishal. He introduced himself to Rohit’s adoptive parents as his maternal uncle and—”
“Was it a pleasant little shock for them as well?” Girish almost seemed to be enjoying his role of tormentor.
She ignored his barb. “Vishal discussed the issue with them. They confirmed the information contained in the letter. My son has acute myelogenous leukemia. He’s on maintenance treatment right now—but he doesn’t have long to live.”
“I suppose I should feel sorry for him,” Girish allowed grudgingly. “But why do you have to go to Palgaum? He supposedly has adoptive parents. It’s their job to take care of him.”
She noticed him shift away from her as she approached the sink. Already he was putting distance between them.
“I don’t know how to explain this,” she said with a sigh. “I wasn’t there for him when he was born. I need to be there now…even though he has parents.” And thank God for those parents. At least her son hadn’t been thrust into some cold orphanage where children were often treated like vermin.
“What exactly do you expect to do for him?”
“I’ve thought about nothing but this, for the last several days,” she said as she rinsed her cup. “Maybe…I can offer my bone marrow or something. At least financial help if nothing else. His treatment must be expensive.”
“Do you know what kind of treatment he’s getting at the moment?”
“Vishal was very vague. I don’t think he knows any details.”
“The boy may have already had a bone marrow transplant.”
“I doubt it. It’s a very costly procedure, as far as I know.”
“What about the boy’s…real father?” Girish hesitated, as if he was having difficulty uttering the words. “Isn’t he some fellow from your town?”
“He still lives there, I suppose. But he doesn’t know he has a son.”
“You lied to him, too?” The expression in Girish’s eyes went from pained disappointment to open contempt.
Vinita knew she was fast losing her grip on the only man she’d really loved. She’d never seen him look like this, sound like this, not even during their worst marital spats. “I told him when I found out I was having a baby, but he didn’t want to have anything to do with me. I begged him to marry me and then divorce me if he liked, but all he did was offer me money to have an abortion. He didn’t care.”
“So why didn’t you have an abortion?”
She glared at him. “How can you say that in such a casual tone, Girish?” He had always wanted a child and Nadine wouldn’t give him one. Besides, he doted on Arya. “I may have been a kid myself, but I didn’t want to get rid of a baby that easily. I’m no saint, mind you. I was seriously tempted to have an abortion many times, but in the end I couldn’t do it.”
“An attack of conscience, I suppose?” He started to walk away, his tone tinged with both hopelessness and revulsion.
Quickly drying her hands on her robe, she reached out and put a restraining hand on his arm. “Please, Girish. Try to understand. I need to do this. It’s my one chance to meet and make peace with my child.” The child she’d inadvertently abandoned so long ago.
Brushing off her hand, he continued into the family room. “
I don’t understand any of this. I just can’t.” He started for the staircase. She knew he’d probably go to the study and log on to his computer. It was the one place he found peace—the only place with some semblance of order in a chaotic world.
Unable to stop him, she watched him climb the stairs. He was hurt and angry and confused, and she could do nothing to prevent it or alleviate it. He was dressed in jeans and a faded navy sweatshirt. His belly had grown a couple of sizes since their quiet, simple wedding all those years ago.
But with the two of them, it had never been about physical appearance. Although there was plenty of fire and passion, it had been more about intellect, about heart and soul. Their union was almost spiritual, for lack of a better word.
Despite her sins, God had been generous in bringing a man like Girish into her life.
As director of an engineering group at a midsize corporation, he had a demanding job, often a thankless one. But he always came home to her for serenity, for security, for companionship. He considered her his island of calm in a turbulent sea.
He wasn’t the type who bought her gifts or flowers often, but he was a caring husband. He always kissed her good-bye when they both left for work. He discussed his day with her and asked about hers. He offered her suggestions when she had problems at her office. He helped her with the household chores despite his dislike for those tasks.
She’d learned from him that perfection wasn’t about having all fingers and toes and a riot of hair on one’s head. Perfection wasn’t even concurring on everything. In Girish she had found as agreeable a husband as one could hope to find in a rather disagreeable world.
Despite the expected ups and downs, their marriage was a satisfying fusion of Indian and American traditions. But now it looked like she was going to be the iceberg that would sink the stalwart ship Girish had built for the two of them and Arya.
A thirty-year-old secret could easily break up a perfectly good marriage. She couldn’t blame him if he wanted nothing to do with her anymore. God, what was she to do? She didn’t want to lose him. She couldn’t. She had most of her life invested in her marriage. If he’d just give it a little more thought and try to see her point of view, maybe he’d understand why she’d done what she’d done.
Of course, she had the choice of not going to India to meet her son, hoping Girish would eventually get over what he perceived as her duplicity and forgive her. But she couldn’t do that, either.
Since she’d received the mystery letter and spoken to Vishal, she hadn’t slept much. There were so many unanswered questions. Why had she been lied to? What did her son look like? How had he become so ill? Was it genetic—something he’d inherited from Som’s side of the gene pool? Or was it from her side of the family?
The thing she feared most was the boy’s death. To survive for thirty years, get a taste of life—and then die? She couldn’t let it happen. The mysterious letter writer was right. Modern medicine had come a long way. Maybe there was something they had overlooked, some new therapy that could save her son.
She’d done a little reading on leukemia treatments—specifically bone marrow transplants. If she was a suitable donor, and there was a high likelihood she was, maybe there was some hope.
Her son would live—if Vinita had anything to say about it.
Out of habit she tidied up the kitchen. It was a lovely room with tall cherry cabinets, wide windows that let the sunshine slide in on bright days, glass doors that led to the deck, sleek stainless steel appliances, granite counters, and ivory tile flooring.
The house was something she and Girish had always dreamed of: a roomy four-bedroom colonial in an upscale suburb, where their only child could attend one of the best school systems in the country.
They’d sold the modest home Girish had owned when they’d married. They had moved to West Windsor after Arya had turned six and Vinita had found a job as an accountant. By then, Girish had been promoted to technical manager and later to director.
She looked around her dream kitchen, including the small altar in the corner, where her silver idols of the gods and goddesses were displayed. Perhaps God had been too generous with her in the past few years. Maybe it was time to pay her dues, her punishment for lying about having had cancer. She’d lived the lie for so many years that she’d almost come to believe it herself—that she was in permanent remission. A survivor.
Maybe the lie had now turned into truth—only in a twisted sort of way—by attacking her son.
This was retribution. Everything in life came with a price tag.
The sound of the front door being unlocked and opened jolted her out of her grim ruminations. It had to be Arya. She had called her daughter earlier and asked her to come. Good thing Arya worked and lived within twenty miles of them and could drive over often.
Vinita owed her child an explanation of what was going on. And the sooner, the better.
She put down the cleaning sponge and strode out of the kitchen to meet her. One more hurdle to cross. One more dismayed and betrayed pair of eyes staring at her. One more heart to break. She braced herself for the assault.
“Hi, guys,” said Arya in a cheerful voice.
“Hi, sweetie,” Vinita said, and stepped into the entry foyer.
Her daughter always brought a smile to Vinita’s face. Today the girl wore tight, faded jeans and black boots with heels so high she looked nearly as tall as her father. She resembled him a great deal, but in a dainty and feminine way. Her long hair was twisted into an untidy knot at the top of her head. Her denim jacket was unbuttoned, revealing a hunter green pullover sweater. Her face showed no trace of makeup. She’d clearly left her apartment in a hurry and rushed over.
“I didn’t mean to wake you so early on a Saturday,” Vinita apologized.
Arya took one look at Vinita’s face and closed the space between them. “Mom, what’s wrong?”
Vinita caught her in a desperate hug, fighting the tears blinding her. “We have to talk, honey.”
Chapter 17
Girish sat with his hands clasped, staring at the computer screen on his desk. The screensaver was a collage of family photographs taken over the years. The graphic designer on his staff who had put together the collage as a gift had made it colorful, whimsical, a work of art. Ordinarily the picture brought a smile to his face, but today it was merely a jumble of images.
How could she! How could the woman he’d loved and trusted for a quarter of a century have lived a lie—and lied to him? How could he have been foolish enough to have trusted her? He’d always prided himself on being a reasonably astute judge of character. It was one of the strengths that had served him well in his career. But it had failed him in the single facet of his life that mattered the most.
For him, it had been love at second sight with Vinita. The first time he’d met her, she had seemed a little standoffish, the flicker of rebellion in her eyes clearly telling him she was not happy about him coming to view her as a potential bride.
At the time, he’d wondered if she was against marriage entirely, or just the fact that he was a divorced man with a deformed hand. Intrigued by her attitude, he had come up with the idea of talking to her alone, finding out more about the real woman behind the aloof façade. Then when he had taken her out to dinner the next evening, he had discovered that she didn’t seem to have a problem with either of his handicaps.
That’s when he’d come to the conclusion that her mother and brother had forced her into the bride viewing. He’d had no idea why they had coerced her—or why she was against meeting him.
It hadn’t been easy engaging her in conversation at first. She had been cautious, obviously wary of his intentions. He had respected that, even admired her careful way of assessing him while he had assessed her in his own fashion. He was a thorough and guarded man in many ways, and understood another’s need to study and probe and weigh and evaluate. They were the mark of an intelligent and analytical mind.
Eventually he had managed to thaw
her out. Later that evening, and over the next couple of dates, the more he’d listened to her talk, the more he’d realized that she was indeed a bright, independent woman with a great deal of ambition and tenacity. He’d liked those characteristics in her. Bashful, modest women—the kind many of his fellow Indians considered desirable—held no appeal for him. He liked a straightforward woman with a keen mind.
He had discovered that woman in Vinita. Despite her notion that she was plain, he’d found her to be a beautiful person—both inside and out. He’d fallen in love for the second time in his life. He’d grasped the opportunity with both hands—and tried to make it last this time around.
When Vinita had candidly divulged that she was a cancer survivor, despite the surprise he had come to value her honesty.
Only now he’d found out she hadn’t been honest. She had lied—about her cancer, about her past. About everything. She had hurt him in the worst way with her dishonesty. A few white lies were to be expected of everyone. People routinely lied about their age, weight, gray hairs, even on their resumes, but the kind of hoax Vinita had pulled on him didn’t fall within the realm of a white lie.
What he couldn’t understand was why she hadn’t trusted him enough to tell him the truth when they’d been introduced. He wasn’t the kind of man who would have held it against her. A mistake made in her teens would not have prevented him from falling in love with Vinita. Hell, he still loved her. And that’s what chafed so much. His beloved wife was a liar—and a clever one.
Then there was his daughter—his smart, pretty, and trusting Arya. While he’d been nursing his own hurt feelings, he hadn’t been thinking about his daughter’s. How was Arya going to face the truth about her mother? How much more devastating would it be for a young girl who thought of Vinita as the ideal Indian wife and mother, whose morality was unquestionable?
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