Maple and Spice

by Moushmi Biswas

  The sounds of the car pulling up and the tread of male feet on the staircase eventually prised them apart. Amit Bastikar pulled the bedroom door open and saw the ladies sitting cross-legged on the floor.

  “What’s going on here?” he asked.

  Swati Das grinned like a Cheshire cat.

  “Nothing!” said Monisha.

  Leela Bastikar looked at her husband and shrugged her shoulders. Then a thought crept into her head, one she’d keep silent for now. If Monisha was going to have a baby, they would have to return to Vermont. That meant they could keep this house and raise their grandchild, where their own children had grown up, at twenty-three Adam Court.

  “Nothing,” she added, after some time.

  “I can see that,” said Amit Bastikar eyeing up the half-finished job.

  Leela Bastikar opened her mouth to say something, then held back in frustration. She couldn’t tell her husband to stick to E equals MC2. He had retired now.

  That afternoon, when Monisha reached her own apartment, there was one all-consuming thought attacking her brain like a virus. She was going to try for a baby.

  A baby! A baby! A baby!

  She opened up her cupboard and reached in the corner hoping to find a pair of jogging bottoms. Instead, she pulled out three Rolling Stones t-shirts, a pair of black jeans and a crumpled-up work shirt.

  Michael Wilton’s stuff was still in her house, reeking of vinegary sweat and negative energy. Ugh! It had to go, all of it. Right this minute.

  Monisha tossed his things into a carrier bag and made her way to the hospital.

  The ride took five minutes on a Sunday.

  The cardiac unit was packed with nurses and visitors. Patients on trolleys whizzed by. She inched her way through the crowd and headed for a side room. The nurses recognised her and let her pass. The door to Michael Wilton’s office was ajar. She knocked.

  “Come in.”

  His voice seemed friendly enough, but when he saw her, his eyebrows knotted together and his face reddened. He noticed the garbage bag and the black jeans sticking out from the top. Then he let out a gruff noise, a semi-roar, the kind of noise that an ogre would make in a fairy tale. An aggrieved, misunderstood ogre.

  Once upon a time, the noise would have unnerved her. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings. She would have apologised, and fumbled through an explanation about the family home being renovated and how she needed to clear out her wardrobe. Once upon a time she would have even said ‘yes’ to a coffee and a chat. But now she had to protect her body and her mind.

  Now she had to create a safe space for her baby.

  “Your stuff,” she said quietly, before slipping out.

  On her way back, Monisha glanced towards the nurses’ station. The girls seemed busy. One peered at a medicine chart, another one walked round with a phone hooked to her ear. She decided not to stop and walked past.

  Seconds later, several slow, thunderously loud clapping noises stopped her in her tracks and made her turn round. It was chubby Nina. She’d been watching all along.

  49

  The walls of Finchley Fertility Clinic were plastered with baby photos. Of newborns and toddlers, twins and triplets. Wrapped in blankets, dressed as bunnies, coming out of boxes and eggs. In pink, blue and green pastel colours, handknitted or with sewn on patchwork lettering. Monisha squinted to look at them one by one. There were no Indian babies.

  If this worked, hers would be the first.

  Today was implantation day. The day on which the magic could or might not happen.

  Tina had offered to come with her, but right now she wanted to be alone. So far, Tina had been great. They’d filled in the first questionnaire together, giggling at the irony. They’d trawled through the lists of men, in search of Mr Right Sperm, like her mother had trawled through the matrimonial columns once upon a time.

  They’d spent ages studying heights, occupations, hair colour and eye colour. Like kids at a candy store, they’d been captivated by the choices: sporty, musical, academic or all three. A computer buff who played the drums and ran marathons. A scientist who sang R ‘n’ B. Black hair, chestnut brown or blond. It was all too much!

  Ultimately, they’d decided that the child should look like the mother. And, because there were no Indian donors, they’d chosen a Hispanic donor. Moreover, as Monisha always wanted a doctor for a husband, they went for a medical student. His ice-hockey playing and taut abs were a bonus.

  The female doctors had waiting lists a mile long and they didn’t pull favours. So, she’d booked in with the man: thirty something, scruffy and laid back.

  But nothing had prepared her for the rollercoaster ride.

  At her first appointment, he’d taken her details and shrugged his shoulders. Her periods were regular, she could take a couple of shots at insemination. At a few hundred dollars a pop it would be cheaper; there’d be no drugs involved. And she might just get lucky.

  Get ‘lucky’ – her?

  She’d almost choked to death at the suggestion. So far, she’d never got lucky. Never won anything: not the turkey in a Thanksgiving raffle, not even a furry toy at the arcade.

  And cheaper? Not when you factored in the cost of calming the craziness in her head. That constant tirade of ‘will it, won’t it?’, which required acupuncture sessions, zen yoga and chill-out CDs.

  They’d settled on two attempts at insemination. Both times, it bombed. There was no choice left but IVF. Expensive, uncomfortable IVF, with this scruff-hound of a doctor.

  She’d burst into tears and called Tina. She wanted someone else. She’d wait six months. The clinic in Boston was better.

  Tina had been her voice of reason. “No. No and no,” she’d said.

  The guy had a solid reputation. They should keep the travelling to a minimum. It was the process, not the clinic. The drugs were the same. These places were sprouting up everywhere now. You could have fertility treatment anywhere in the world!

  So, she’d stuck with the scruff-hound and taken on extra shifts at the hospital to pay him. Swanker had put in $1,000 of ‘unpaid rent’. And he’d even driven out in heavy snow to pick up a batch of injections. After all it was in his favour. With a grandchild to fuss over, his folks would stop ‘bugging him to get married’.

  Her mother had tolerated her hormone driven-mood swings, even though it was like having ‘teenage Monisha’ back. And it was Aunty Swati who’d taken the call from the lab technician with the results. When she’d been hanging off the edge of her seat, too nervy to speak.

  Ten follicles. Eight eggs. But only four good embryos.

  Four out of eight. Aargh!

  She’d hit the floor. Until once more Tina came to the rescue.

  “It only takes one good embryo, Monisha… just one!”

  And to remind her, she had the words printed on a t-shirt: ‘JUST ONE’.

  In fact, out of all of them, it was only her father who’d balked, after he’d searched the internet, and found out about failure rates and cancer risk.

  “But the biggest problem is that the child won’t have a father. And what happens when they’re eighteen and they want to find out?” he’d asked.

  She wasn’t bothered. Eighteen was light years away.

  “What are you going to do on Father’s Day every year?”

  That one freaked her. What was she going to do on Father’s Day?

  Draw a sperm on the card?

  Suddenly, she was wracked with guilt. She began to realise that it was not going to be plain sailing. That choices had consequences. And that bringing a fatherless child into the world was actually a huge, huge deal.

  But, right now, any consequence seemed better than a lifetime of childlessness. The slow dragging misery of having to attend birthdays, graduations and weddings of other people’s kids. And to enter the time tunnel of grief, like
Aunty Swati.

  So, she’d stood up to her father and looked him straight in the eye.

  “This was not how I wanted it, Daddy… It’s not ideal. But I’m thirty-six now. My eggs won’t last, and I can’t wait for a man forever.”

  Then she’d sobbed until it hurt.

  “And I can’t go on living if I don’t at least try.”

  When he saw his little girl in a flood of tears, Amit Bastikar quit his internet searches, shut down the computer and gave her his blessing.

  “Whatever makes you happy, beti,” he’d said.

  For thirty agonising minutes, she sat on the couch in the waiting room of Finchley Fertility Clinic, leafing through lifestyle magazines and reminiscing about the bittersweet journey through to implantation day. On her quest for happiness.

  Finally, the nurse called her name.

  “Ms Bastikar, are you ready?”

  Monisha smiled and nodded.

  She was.

  Moments later, she was in the treatment room, half-naked under a paper draw sheet. When the scruff-hound went off to gown up, she folded her hands in prayer and closed her eyes.

  A myriad of images flashed forth. Silently she mouthed the words.

  “Divine mother goddesses. Durga. Laxmi. Venus. Hail Mary, full of grace. Wherever you are. Whichever world. I beg you all to hear my prayer.”

  50

  A sprinkling of trout lilies and the sweet scent of maple filled the woods. After a long, arduous winter, spring was finally here. Even though nights were still freezing, and the gravel roads were layering up with mud. And even if those pretty, purple lilacs would show themselves for one week only. She was here. Glorious, triumphant spring.

  And this spectacular feat of nature happily coincided with the twelve-week mark on Monisha’s calendar. Now she’d made it to twelve weeks, she could start telling people about the twins. Her beautiful baby twins!

  Not everyone was as ecstatic as she was. She’d fought tooth and nail with Susan Baxter to get the clinical stuff out of the way so she could sail through the rest of the pregnancy perched on a chair with her head behind a microscope, in ‘basic haematology’.

  And she’d dangled a carrot too. She offered to stay on longer and clear the backlog of unfinished projects that John Davidson had left behind. Initially he’d promised to collaborate, but between the work in Denver and looking after his children, he just couldn’t juggle it all. Especially now that there were three of them.

  Susan Baxter had jumped at the chance. A board-certified physician, on a research salary, who could cover a few on-calls if needed? She’d hit the jackpot! For Monisha, abandoning the clinical work meant less stress and more time at home, but money would be tight. Thankfully, the Dases would help with childcare, school fees and medical.

  For years, she’d waited in silent hope that, one day, Shailesh would pay back the $30,000 loan or dowry or whatever it was. The money never materialised. Her mother had heard on the grapevine that Shailesh had remarried. The lucky lady was a doctor and ten years younger than herself.

  Surprise. Surprise.

  When Monisha splashed the ultrasound picture of twin one and twin two onto Facebook, Riya immediately posted a comment.

  “Love the babies already! Mom doesn’t understand, but makes perfect sense to me. Lol. Congrats ur the 1st doctor in our family and 1st single-baby momma. Lol.”

  The twenty-week scan was on the day of Lilly May’s first birthday party. Monisha decided to call in on the way home. She surveyed Tina and Justin’s four-bedroom house from the outside; it was exactly what they hadn’t wanted: comfortable and convenient. They preferred a few acres in the countryside, with a swimming pool and mountain view, but, to Monisha, that all seemed plain dumb. Why spend two hours stuck on the I89 each day, away from their baby? Wasn’t it better to stay in Burlington in the week and buy a weekend retreat?

  As if to prove a point, Lilly May ended up in hospital with bronchitis, and Tina and Justin jumped on this house, a few streets down from the newly refurbished Adam Court, where the Bastikars now lived. And they actually congratulated Monisha for suggesting something so sensible, for a change.

  Monisha couldn’t help but giggle as she made her way in through their front door. Tina was in her element, flying round the kitchen in a pink apron, her strawberry-blonde curls whitened by the flour from last-minute baking.

  “So, come on girl, tell us what you’re having!”

  Monisha folded her arms and looked away.

  “The sonographer wasn’t certain.”

  Justin walked towards her, balancing Lilly May in one arm and a tray of cakes in the other.

  “Oh, come on… They must have said!”

  Monisha looked at the crowd of unfamiliar adults perched on Tina’s environmentally friendly dining chairs and the babies wiggling uncomfortably on their laps. It seemed strange to think that she would be part of this group one day.

  They all waited anxiously for her news, but this time there would be no big announcements. No ending up with egg on her face and a truckload of the wrong stuff.

  And her mother agreed. She was always complaining that, in this day and age, everybody knew everything. Too much of it. Too soon. And everyone’s secrets were out in the open: What they wore to bed, what they ate for lunch. Their baby bumps. Their stretch marks. Their Caesarean scars. Too much information! Or as they said these days: ‘TMI!’.

  Wasn’t there space left in the world for one joyous piece of unexpected news? A wonderful surprise, or, in this case, two?

  Monisha sauntered over to the bay window and lifted the voile curtain. She could just make out her mother hobbling down the path, clutching an enormous polka-dot gift box with both hands. Slung over her shoulder was a bag of knitting. With two babies to knit for, her mother and Aunty Swati had been kept quite busy.

  Monisha waved through the window and let out a contented sigh. Then she turned back to face her hosts.

  “Sorry guys,” she said with a smile. “I guess you’ll just have to wait and see.”

  Acknowledgements:

  I would like to thank Debbie Alper from the Writer’s Workshop for her invaluable teaching sessions on the art of novel writing. Thank you to Julie Evans for formatting the initial manuscript and to Merrill George for the final proof reading. I am grateful for the helpful guidance from my film-maker friend Jaya Macdonald and for the power, positivity and proof-reading efforts of my dear friend Wendy Hussey. Sincere thanks to my beautiful cousin Amrita Sen for letting me use her photograph and to Heidi Hurst, Hannah Dakin and the rest of the production team at Matador. And a hearty thanks to all you readers!

  About the author

  Moushmi Biswas is a physician in the NHS. She lives in Wales with her partner, her son and a naughty little dog. This is her first novel.