by Sadie Sumner
Fifteen
With Gil gone the house was full of noise, as if his presence had blocked the big city sounds of traffic and construction that now intruded on her thoughts. Monica opened the 3-D scan on her iPad and gazed at the image. She held her hand over the flat of her belly. She was exhausted, as if each milestone in the pregnancy, each update from Antoinette, sucked something from her. She had not realized how much she wanted the baby to look like her, and now she was due to meet Kavitha on Skype.
As she drove through the heavy morning traffic to Planete Bebe, the landscape appeared altered in ways she could not explain. The lights changed, and a car behind honked. In the months since she’d started the baby, time had taken on a different quality, as though she were a child again, hours contracting while the days expanded into endless minutiae, leaving her suspended between fear and joy. And something else she struggled to articulate, a creeping sense of just how easy it had been to detonate their lives.
Monica pulled into a parking space and crunched the rim of the tire and wished Gil were with her. She held her phone and considered calling him, then threw it back into her bag, slammed the car door and tripped as she caught the edge of the sari.
Antoinette greeted her in reception, hesitated for a moment as she took in the outfit and kissed her on both cheeks.
“I’m late. Sorry.” Monica was breathless. “My husband is delayed. We’ll have to start without him.”
Antoinette wore yoga pants and a matching t-shirt that showed off her toned body. “Kavitha is very excited to meet you.” Her short hair was early morning crumpled.
“Could she wait?” Monica asked as she almost ran to the washroom where she counted her breath in and out and imagined a white light flowing down like silken water from the crown of her head. The baby growing on the other side of the world touched everything in her life. Work had not been the same for months. Weddings no longer mattered. The brides were all unbearable, and every gown she designed was derivative. She popped a few drops of Rescue Remedy. “My feminine energy is beautifully balanced,” she said to her reflection. “I love and approve of myself.”
Antoinette knocked and opened the door. “Are you ready?” She was chummy.
Monica nodded. “Stressful day, just trying to fit everything in.”
“I love your sari,” Antoinette said. “Exquisite. Did you get it here?” A jacket lay over her arm.
“My mother brought it back from India, years ago.” She ran her hand over the glossy silk. Even Antoinette’s voice seemed to come from a distance.
“I’m not sure it’s quite the right look for your first meeting with Kavitha,” Antoinette said.
Monica felt a flush of irritation, as though she was back with Dotty and no one understood her. “Well, she is Indian.”
“But quite Westernized,” Antoinette replied. “Perhaps if you start off with this and see how it feels? Maybe save the sari for next time?” She passed the jacket.
Monica held it up. “Seriously? You want me to wear this?” It was from a cheap chain store. She gave it back and glanced in the mirror and saw only the lines around her mouth and the little pouch of skin beneath her chin. She followed Antoinette down the corridor to her office. Two mugs of fresh green tea sat by the computer. “I’m not myself.” Monica held the warm mug between her palms.
“That’s so normal.” Antoinette’s voice was soft. “How is your husband coping with the impending change?”
“Struggling.” Monica pushed away her anger at Gil. “I think we both are.”
Antoinette made small calming noises and shuffled the papers on her desk. Monica thought of all the clothes and furniture and flowers she bought each month. The breakfasts, lunches and dinners and the white linen on their oversized bed. And how the cracks in her life had become chasms.
Antoinette rested her chin on her fingertips. “Everyone feels nervous at this stage. It’s the fear of the unknown. Trust me. Everything will all turn out fine.” She stirred her tea. “I hope to meet your husband next time.” She pressed her lips together. The Skype ring interrupted them. “Are you ready?” Antoinette asked.
Monica pushed her hair behind her ears, smoothed the silk of the sari and touched her eye patch.
Kavitha waited for the mother of her baby to make an appearance. Usually, the heat was not a bother, but the last weeks had flattened her so that no amount of shade allayed her discomfort, and every sip of water made her thirst more intense. She had walked to the clinic through the evening humidity that filled her mouth with cotton wool and turned her feet to lead. She took to wearing a loose cotton tunic, as though she were an old man with a potbelly.
The lights from a Starbucks near the clinic glowed in the dusk. Kavitha ignored the cabinet of muffins, and the baby trembled as she slipped into the bathroom. She washed her face and peeled off her sweat soaked clothes. The top she'd worn with Ria was a hopeful floral pattern, the kind a young mother might wear, and she held it to her face and tried to remember that feeling.
They sat side by side in Dr. Devi’s small office. There was one framed photo on the wall behind them. A small blonde child, turned away from the camera, alone in a field of pale blue flowers. Kavitha knew it was meant to be a romantic image. But something about the solitary child struck her as inexpressibly sad.
“Sit up straight, dear.” Dr. Devi patted her hand as if she were her mother. “If you could just read from this script.” Her hair was perfectly smooth. “Answer her questions honestly. And be humble. This last part is especially important.” She handed Kavitha a laminated card with a list of bullet-pointed words.
“Really? Like at a call center? I must read from a script?” Kavitha wanted to ask her how old she was and why she’d chosen this field when there were so many in dire need of a good doctor. She twisted a plaited wool bracelet Ria made when she was small. Mr. Batra’s grandsons had found it down the back of the last sideboard when they moved it.
“Yes. I want you to read from the script. You have no reason to be antagonistic. Our clients like to keep it simple. We’ve built our reputation on customer satisfaction.”
She spoke only in English and Kavitha noticed how hard she worked at making her sentences perfect.
“Would you please turn up the air-conditioning?” She touched the bracelet and could not imagine losing it again.
The doctor initiated the call, and an older white woman appeared on the screen. Above her neck that hung in tiny folds, her face was smooth and almost free of wrinkles.
“Hi, Doctor, and how is our patient today?” The Canadian doctor’s voice was bright, and it struck Kavitha that when she was pregnant with Ria, no one called her a patient. It was as if women like her defied description.
“She is very well, thank you, Doctor.” Dr. Devi clicked her tongue as she spoke. “The latest scan reveals everything is perfect. We have no concerns at all. Baby is growing. She will be a good size and very healthy. Let me introduce you to Kavitha, our model patient.”
Kavitha saw how Dr. Devi controlled the shake of her head that was natural to every Indian. She hated the condescension in her doctor’s voice, and the baby shuddered. In her business life, no one used her first name.
The camera angle moved, and there was the intended parent. She wore diamonds set in silver, and a patch covered her left eye. Her curly blond hair escaped a band, and Kavitha could see a dark line of re-growth.
“Hi, Kavitha. Have I pronounced your name correctly?” She spoke as though Kavitha were deaf.
Kavitha nodded, her throat too dry to speak.
“I’m Monica. What time is it there?” Her earrings sparkled.
Kavitha looked at her watch. “Nine-thirty in the evening. Twelve and a half hours ahead of you.” She saw Monica turn to Antoinette.
“She speaks English,” Monica said in a half whisper.
“I do, yes.” Kavitha held the flash card just below the screen.
“I did not realize.” Monica touched the eye patch. “I’m unsure
how to thank you enough.”
To Kavitha, it sounded like she also was reading from a sheet. Dr. Devi touched her hand and indicated the card.
“You are most welcome,” Kavitha read, “it is an honor to do this for you.”
Monica smiled. “You’ve no idea how life-changing this is."
Dr. Devi pointed to the next line.
“I am only happy to be able to help you and your husband in this way. It is an opportunity for me also.” She wondered if Monica could tell she was reading or if she thought all Indians spoke in such a stilted way. She folded the card.
“Are you feeling well?” Monica asked.
“Thank you. Yes.” Kavitha could not imagine this woman holding a baby.
Monica coughed and put her hand over her mouth then glanced at the screen. “Can I see?” Her voice dropped to a whisper.
“Can you see what?” This was not on the card.
“My baby.” Monica’s good eye blinked rapidly.
Kavitha felt a flush of humiliation, and the baby twisted and poked her ribs. The client wanted her to show her flesh, to reveal herself to the screen.
“I cannot do this.” She said in Hindi. She tried to stand, but the doctor gripped her knee and closed the laptop.
“You must stay; it is a breach of contract if you leave this room without my permission,” she hissed at Kavitha in Hindi.
“Why would she humiliate me? Is this not enough? And what is she wearing? She is mocking me in her cheap sari.” Kavitha felt her throat tighten and the first prick of tears behind her eyes.
“How dare you. That woman is the mother of this baby.” The warm and friendly doctor was gone.
The baby swooped in a long dive. Kavitha placed her hands over her stomach. She could hear the baby as easily as the wind in the trees. “You cannot take away my dignity.”
“Dignity? Oh, my dear. You misunderstand. You signed a contract to deliver a service.” She smiled as she spoke, and her voice was soft again. “Your husband might be about to hang himself to get out of debt, but your feelings or personal circumstances are irrelevant.”
“It is still my body,” Kavitha tried, but the fire was gone.
As if on queue a steaming pot of chai arrived. The assistant was as young as Ria, and her body seemed to twitch with nerves. The doctor lifted the pot lid and stirred the contents.
“You contracted your whole body to the couple in Canada until one week after you deliver a healthy baby.” She poured the tea and handed a cup to Kavitha.
Kavitha sank into the chair. “And if the baby is not healthy?” She wondered why she had not asked this question in the beginning.
“Baby’s development is monitored.” The doctor was in her element. “Scan every month. If any abnormalities or problems are detected, all decisions to be made by the parents. You need to remember, Kavitha, you are the vessel. We have already made the exception to let you live away from the hostel, because of your higher quality living conditions. We will revoke your privileges and subtract from your payment if there is one more problem.”
“I will not pretend to do this for love.” She gulped the hot tea.
The doctor smoothed her perfect hair. “I understand. Life is never what we expect.”
Monica looked to Antoinette. “What happened? What did she say?”
Antoinette shrugged. “I don’t know, a bad connection? It’s India after all.”
Monica adjusted the sari. “Is it strange, that I need to see?” She slid her hand beneath the fold of the silk and spread her fingers over her stomach.
“Not at all. It’s your baby, and it will help with bonding. Of course, you need to know where it…” she paused, “…where your child comes from.”
“She can’t keep her, can she?” The fear was there, all along, and yet she’d not said it out loud before.
Antoinette chuckled. “Not a chance. It doesn’t work like that.”
“What if it’s me who’s not sure?” Monica whispered even though they were alone.
Antoinette glanced at the picture on her desk. “Your feelings are normal. I promise the minute you have your baby in your arms you’ll fall in love with her. You won’t even remember this part. Why don’t you go for a coffee? I’ll see if I can get her back on the line.”
Sixteen
The street was quiet. The longest summer on record coming to an end, the trees finally giving up their green. Monica walked along the narrow pavement overhung with thickets of wilting flowers from the roadside beds. On the other side old houses and three story apartment buildings from another era pressed against the concrete. At the Greenhorn café, bicycles leaned against walls, and Monica stepped around one with a baby trolley attached behind. She could not imagine Gil cycling the city with a baby in tow. A group of mothers sat in the sun on wooden pallet seats pushed up against the front window while their small children chalked patterns on the pavement. She tugged at the sari and ignored their stares.
Inside the tables were empty. Rufus called, and Monica did not wait for him to speak. “If you come now you can see the baby,” she said. The phone was silent was a moment.
“Where are you? Are you okay?” Rufus asked.
A young mother angled an oversized stroller through the door. The baby’s hair was a mass of black curls like a wig. Monica’s phantom baby had the same hair, only blonde, and she wondered where it had gone now she’d learned to press her eye to make it disappear. The coffee grinder started up, and she shouted over it. “I’m fine. At the café, I’m going back to the agency. Come with me. She’s going to show us her tummy.” The grinder stopped abruptly. “We’ll be able to see, actually see, where the baby is growing, where she comes from.” She realized she was shouting.
“Monica, can you hear me. Stay there. I’ll come.”
Monica hung up and smiled as the young mother picked up her child as if to keep it safe.
“It’s okay, I’m having one too.” She patted her flat stomach. “Your baby is beautiful. Can I ask, was it hard to bond, or did it just happen, like magic?”
The woman frowned and turned away.
By the time Rufus arrived on his bike with Puffy in the sling, the mother had joined those outside as they individually turned to steal glances at her.
“Traffic.” Rufus affected a breathless air. “We are crazy busy. I wondered where you were this morning. We have that unbearable mother of the bride coming in before lunch.”
Monica scratched Puffy’s ears. “Rufus. Rufi. We’ve been friends for how long now?”
“Ten years. You made a baby, and you didn’t tell him. Or me?” Rufus sounded incredulous.
“I know. I’m sorry. All these months, it didn’t seem real. But you’re Gil’s best friend. Why is he so against our baby?”
Rufus unhooked the sling and held the rabbit away from his body. “Maybe because he always said he didn’t want kids. You remember that part, right?”
“It just sort of happened. He’ll come round."
“Mon, you sperm jacked him. I’m not sure stealing his stuff is something that just happened.”
“He resists all change. How could he not want his own child? She will be so good for him.”
Rufus sighed. “I want luxury and comfort. I want to be out on my bike in spring when the air is fresh. But you will have noticed how that bar draws me back with its sticky floors and washrooms that reek of unmentionable things.”
“I don’t get your meaning?”
“I mean that we almost never choose the things that are good for us. But you know I’m in shock. How could you not tell us?”
Monica nodded to the barista. “Gojichino to go.” She checked her watch. “Do you want one? We have to get back.”
“I’m going to work.” Rufus stuffed the rabbit back into the sling.
“No, no, you’ve got to come to the clinic with me. Chloe can manage without us for an hour.” Monica lifted the sari and tucked it higher. “Did Gil stay with you last night?”
R
ufus wheeled his bike beside her. “He did. He’s very upset.”
“He thinks it’s a whim. But I’m not like that. You know I’m not.”
It was coming up a year since Dotty died, and Monica remembered how the leaves crunched to powder beneath her feet as she left the hospice for the last time. “I know I’m a bit on the spectrum, but I’m sensitive.” She glanced over to get his agreement.
Rufus sighed. “This is a dilemma for me. I love babies, you know that. But sperm jacking, come on Mon, how could you?”
Monica tried to summon her earlier feelings, the sense that somehow he owed her and his sperm was fair payment for all she’d done for him. Instead, she felt tears rising. “You have no idea what it means to be infertile.”
“That’s true." Rufus softened. "Do you have a name?”
“Not yet.” Monica straightened the length of sari that draped over her shoulder.
“A name would make it more real,” Rufus said.
They passed a yard with an old crab apple tree spilling over the pavement, and Monica ducked beneath its bare branches. “We’re not good at naming things. Dog, for example.” She caught the faint smell of rotted fruit.
“Nina,” Rufus said, “I’ve always liked that name.”
Monica thought about it. “Maybe.” She said. “Is it anyone you know?”
He guided the bicycle by holding the seat. “No, no one.”
“I like that,” Monica said. “She gets to be a new, fresh person.” She paused to watch a cat on a porch that held her eye and did not blink. “I think she should have two birthdays.”
“How does that work?” Rufus asked.
“The day we collected her daddy’s, you know, material. And the day of her birth.” She saw a party with little paper hats and pink icing smeared on the walls.
“You’re going to celebrate both?”
“Why not. I want to keep it honest. It’s not like we will hide the facts. And we’ll get a cat. I like cats.”
