A House for Happy Mothers: A Novel (29 page)

Nursamma opened the doors for Madhu and Priya.

“Is everyone OK?” Priya asked in English.

“The baby is born and Asha is well,” Nursamma said in her thickly accented English. “You want to see the baby, I think.”

“Already born? So quickly,” Priya said.

“It was an easy labor,” Nursamma said as she walked them to the nursery. “Asha didn’t even take any pain medication. It went really fast.”

Madhu grabbed Priya’s hand.

The nursery was on the far end of the hallway where the examination and delivery rooms were. There was only one baby in one of the four cots. They had put her in a pink cap and a white onesie. She was asleep, a little pink burrito. On the side of the cot it read
B
ABY
R
AO
.

“Come, here she is,” Nursamma said.

Priya picked her up, awkwardly, not sure how to hold her, but magically, she thought, she knew. She put her palm under Ayesha’s head to support it; how did she know to do this? She looked at her in wonder and then at Madhu.

“She’s ours,” she whispered.

The baby opened her eyes briefly before closing them.

“She has blue eyes,” Madhu said.

“And dark hair,” Priya said.

“She’s . . . my God, she’s all here. Hello, sweetheart,” Madhu said, tears rolling down his cheeks.

“Hello, Ayesha,” Priya said, and hugged her close.

Madhu hugged both of them and dropped a kiss on Priya’s head. “I love you both,” he said. “I love you both so very much.”

“It was a very good labor,” Doctor Swati told Asha as she brought some Fanta for her to drink after they had cleaned her up and moved her from the birthing room. “Have some; you’ll feel better.”

Asha drank obediently through a straw, lying against soft pillows. She was in another room now, like a regular hospital ward. Sometimes the room had two or three women if they had all given birth at the same time. Doctor Swati had predicted that Asha would go into labor in a week or so. But nature had been in a hurry to part her from the baby.

“Why are you crying?” Doctor Swati asked.

“I don’t know,” Asha lied.

“It’s normal to feel sad after giving birth,” Doctor Swati said. “But you’ll get over it, I promise. Sooner than you think, you’ll not even think about it.”

“Priya and Madhu are here?” Asha asked.

“Yes,” Doctor Swati said. “They just came. They’re very happy to see the baby. Will you see them?”

“Yes . . . but without the baby,” Asha said. “I don’t want to see the baby.”

“OK,” Doctor Swati said. “You did very well, Asha.”

“Thanks,” Asha said primly, in English.

“She’ll see you, but she doesn’t want to see the baby,” Doctor Swati told Madhu and Priya when they met with her in her office.

Priya was still holding Ayesha, couldn’t imagine letting that warm weight go. Nursamma had already made a bottle of formula, and Priya found that she knew, just knew, how to hold Ayesha and how to give her the bottle as she talked to Doctor Swati.

Why had she panicked so much? Why had she worried that she wouldn’t know how to care for a baby? Yes, yes, the sleepless nights, the difficult days, they would come, too, but Priya wasn’t worried. Madhu was with her.

“Is it normal for the surrogate to not see the baby?” Madhu asked.

“Yes, some see them once and some say they don’t want to,” Doctor Swati said. “She just gave birth. There are hormones involved. Of course she’s emotional. But Asha is a strong woman and she did beautifully.”

“Is she OK?” Priya asked.

“She will be,” Doctor Swati said.

Priya put the empty bottle down on the table. Ayesha was asleep again.

“She’s like family. I mean, I know her family, her son, and . . . I had hoped . . . ,” Priya said, looking at Ayesha’s beautiful face. Asha had given this to her. Had given birth to this child just a few hours ago. She had pushed her out of her body, nourished her for nine months, soothed her when she fluttered in her womb.

“Look, she’s going to want to move on; this is normal. You shouldn’t pressure her for more than she can give,” Doctor Swati said. “Just because you sent presents and did all those things for her son, she isn’t going to be your friend or your family.”

Doctor Swati sounded snappish, irritated with them. It wasn’t overt; she was still as patient as she had always been, but there was an undertone.

“I can leave the baby with Nursamma,” Priya said reluctantly. “And then we can go see Asha.”

Nursamma took Ayesha to the nursery, and Doctor Swati took them to the room where Asha was. There were three beds there; two were empty.

She looked small in the white bed. This mop of black hair and black flesh, huddled, lying on her side, looking away from the door.

Asha couldn’t look at Priya or the father. She looked at the ceiling. Here, the paint wasn’t peeling. It was all white with no ceiling fan—one wasn’t needed, as the clinic was fully air-conditioned.

“She looks lovely,” Priya said, holding Asha’s hand, sitting next to her. “She has blue eyes. It’s amazing.”

Asha didn’t want to hear about the baby, but she didn’t say anything. She had managed to contain her tears, fill her insides with them, for this last meeting. She started to hum inside her head to block out the sounds of Priya’s excitement.

“She’s healthy and perfect,” Priya said. “How are you feeling?”

“Good,” Asha said softly. She didn’t want to speak, as speaking made her tears come back.

“Madhu and I hope to see Manoj and Mohini . . . and your husband one last time before we leave for the States,” Priya said. “We were thinking of coming by in a couple of days with the baby. What do you think?”

Asha looked at Priya then, her resolve to hold back the tears failing. “No,” she said firmly.

Priya looked surprised. But then it seemed like she understood, and she nodded. She leaned down and kissed Asha on her forehead.

“You have given us the greatest joy imaginable,” she said. “I can’t thank you enough for your courage and your generosity.”

Asha wanted to say something rude—but she couldn’t. This woman had suffered, too, for years and years. Priya had told her all about losing her babies and not being able to get pregnant—Asha could imagine that pain. She knew women who couldn’t keep their pregnancies and some who could never even get pregnant. They were treated poorly by their husbands, their own families, everyone around them. A woman had to get pregnant, had to give birth—it was part of being a woman, as natural as having breasts and a womb. A woman who never became a mother was incomplete.

“Thank you,” the father said. He put an envelope next to Asha’s pillow. “Here is our phone number and address. If you ever need anything, you can call. I have written down how you can call for free from here. You dial a number and ask for our number, and you won’t even have to pay for the call.”

Why would she call them? Asha couldn’t imagine any scenario where she would call them for anything. They were no one in her life. There was nothing left for them to say to each other.

“If you need any help ever, Asha, please call us,” Priya said. “Madhu’s parents’ phone number is there, too, so you can call them and they will let us know.” Priya paused for a moment. “Doctor Swati said you don’t want to see the baby. I just . . . are you sure?”

Asha could only nod, her eyes becoming glassy with tears.

“We’ll write to you; will that be OK?” Priya asked.

Asha wanted to say no but nodded again. She would just throw the letters away without opening them.

“I’m tired,” Asha said. “I need to sleep.”

“Of course,” Priya said, and she stood up. “We’re sorry for bothering you, but we just had to thank you in person. Take care of yourself, Asha. And say hello to your family for us. I hope Manoj will enjoy his new school. Mona will be in touch with you.”

She had done that for them, and Asha knew that she would never be able to repay that debt. Priya had saved Manoj’s life and, in turn, Asha’s as well. Maybe Asha had given them a gift that they couldn’t get themselves, a gift they pined for, but they had given Asha an even bigger gift—a future for her son.

They were at the door when Asha finally gave in. “Thank you for Manoj,” Asha called out.

Priya almost stopped breathing, and then relief seeped through her. She turned around to look at Asha, into her eyes. Asha held her gaze for a moment and then turned her head and closed her eyes.

Through their social circumstances, their different worlds—they had touched each other in an irrevocable way. Their bond, not something that would be renewed, could nevertheless not be broken.

Their names meant “hope,” and they had given hope to each other, and this was what brought them together, closed that gap between them, eliminated the social and class differences, made them sisters, mothers—made them equals.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book would not have been published without my agent, Rayhané Sanders, who saved my life and gave me back what I had lost.

You wouldn’t be reading this book without Danielle Marshall from Amazon, who brought me into the light and gave my book a home.

My friends and colleagues who have become my friends helped me keep my chin up while this book was written, edited, and published. My thanks to: Fatima Aller for the many, many great meals and abundant love; Alice Verghese for her support and a sympathetic ear; Monika Gram Ritter for making me believe people are good; Valerie Soulier for scolding, encouraging, and coaching me; and Oliver Brunchmann for listening to me whine and telling me to shut up when it was most needed.

And, as always, gratitude, love, and amazement for my babies, Tobias and Isaiah, and my husband, Søren Rasmussen, who bring out the best in me, in good times and in bad.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Photo © 2015 Søren Rasmussen

Amulya Malladi is the author of six novels, including
The Mango Season
and
The Sound of Language
. Her books have been translated into several languages, including Dutch, German, Spanish, Danish, Romanian, Serbian, and Tamil. She has a bachelor’s degree in engineering and a master’s degree in journalism and works as a marketing executive for a global medical device company. She lives in Copenhagen with her husband and two children. She loves to connect with readers on her Facebook page at
www.facebook.com/amulyamalladi
and on her website at
www.amulyamalladi.com
.