A House for Happy Mothers: A Novel (8 page)

“I don’t know. That’s what Raman wants us to do. But I don’t know what’s right for us. We have Manoj,” he said.

Asha wanted to dance in relief. “And his education is so important.”

“Yes,” Pratap said. “We need to send him to a better place. There is a good boarding school in Hyderabad. He could go there.”

A boarding school?

“But that would mean we won’t see him every day,” Pratap continued. “I don’t know if that will work. Maybe we can find a nice one in Srirampuram. Chinna, this guy I work with, was talking about the one his boss’s son goes to, which is supposed to be very good. They wear uniforms with ties and everything.”

“Yes, it would be better if he stayed home with us,” Asha agreed, feeling a load lift off of her. He was thinking about Manoj when he thought about the money. He wasn’t planning to barter his children’s future away to buy them a house.

They walked silently for a while; then suddenly Pratap asked, “Do you think it’s strange that you’re carrying these people’s baby for money?”

“Yes,” Asha said. “Very strange.”

“You know, it seemed OK when we all talked about it, but now that you’re pregnant, it feels . . . it just feels odd,” Pratap said. “Remember how much I touched your belly when you were pregnant with Manoj and Mohini? Now I can’t do any of that.”

“I can’t do any of that, either,” Asha said.

“I don’t know if I’d want you to do this again,” Pratap said. “So I want to be careful with the money we get and make some correct decisions. Raman wants Kaveri to do it again.”

“Kaveri said she wasn’t sure,” Asha said.

Pratap nodded. “Raman told me that after the baby was born, Kaveri cried all the time for a couple of months. They never told anyone about it. But she was very upset.”

Asha felt a shiver creep up her spine. That woman in the surrogate house who got attached to the baby, the one Kaveri warned her not to be like, what if that woman was Kaveri herself? Was that why Kaveri warned her not to get attached? Because she knew how hard it was to let go?

“Do you think it’ll be hard on me to give it up?” Asha asked Pratap.

“I hope not,” Pratap said. “And if we’re careful from the start and make sure that we both know that it is not ours, it should be fine.”

If only he could hear himself, Asha thought. Like it was that simple.

“Yes, we’ll be careful,” she said.

Pratap smiled and put his arm around her, and for that moment, Asha felt safe, forgetting for a few breaths her problems and the strange life inside her.

PART II:

FIRST TRIMESTER

CHAPTER FIVE

The conception date was January 10, 2013, which meant the due date was October 3, 2013. Asha was now, based on the pregnancy calculator, five weeks pregnant.

According to the website Priya was consulting, the embryo was in three layers. The outer layer would become the brain, nerves, and skin. The placenta was fully functional.

She and Madhu lay in bed. “You know, no matter how many times you look at that website, the baby’s size remains the same,” Madhu said as he flipped channels.

Priya had lost the battle regarding having a television in the bedroom, and Madhu had lost the battle of having a laptop in bed. They both had sound arguments that each had chosen to agree to disagree about. Priya believed that when you went to bed, it was time to read, have sex, or sleep. Madhu, on the other hand, didn’t read (Sush could still not believe that Priya had married a nonreader; it was a scandal) and liked to catch a cozy rerun while in bed. They had come to terms with this arrangement, and neither was bothered by it anymore.

“I don’t think you appreciate the amount of pressure I’m under here,” Priya said.

“Well, don’t kill yourself,” Madhu said, and leaned to kiss her. “I need to get some sleep.”

“Aren’t you jet-lagged?” Priya demanded. She had been cranky and drowsy at work the entire day and was now wide awake.

“Jet lag is for sissies,” Madhu said, and within ten seconds she could see the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

She smiled, watching him sleep. He fell asleep so easily and peacefully.

Instead of reading on her iPad, she browsed the Internet, garnering unnecessary information about surrogacy and its emotional toll, reading arguments again and again about how it was actually a good thing to impregnate a poor Indian woman with your embryo.

“Madhu?” Priya nudged him. “Madhu?” she called out a little louder.

“What?” Madhu asked, burying his face in the pillow.

“Do you think we did the right thing?”

Madhu turned and looked at her in what she could plainly see was disbelief peppered with irritation.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said. “You woke me up to ask me . . . what?”

Priya bit her lower lip. Maybe waking him up wasn’t such a good idea.

“Go back to sleep,” Priya suggested.

Madhu groaned. He sat up and looked at her pointedly. “You need to calm down. You need to drink some wine or take a pill or something.”

“Oh for God’s sake, I just woke you up because I was upset.
Soooorrrry
. It won’t happen again, Mr. Grumpy,” Priya said as she closed her iPad and put it on the bedside table.

“You wake me up in the dead of the night and you’re angry with me?” Madhu demanded. “Are you fucking nuts?”

“You know what, you keep using that f-word all the time—but once the baby is here, you’ll need to rein that in. Maybe you should start now,” Priya said.

Madhu shook his head. “You need to see a shrink . . . no, not one shrink, you need a team of
fucking
shrinks.”

“Such colorful language,” Priya said. “Our daughter is going to look so cute using the f-word when she’s three.”

They looked at each other; Madhu was still baffled and Priya sighed. “So I’m upset and I’m trying to pick a fight.”

“As long as we agree on that,” Madhu said. “I’m going back to sleep. Do not wake me up unless there’s an earthquake . . . over six point zero on the Richter scale, and only if someone dies.”

He kissed her on the nose. “You’re crazy, but I love you,” he said, and rolled over and went right back to sleep.

“I love you, too,” she whispered back.

Priya counted leaping sheep, keeping time with each snore.

They had met outside the library on a hot August afternoon. They were both in the second year of their master’s programs. He was studying computer engineering, while she was getting a degree in environmental studies. She had been sitting on a bench under one of the trees, looking at her class schedule for the coming semester, and he had just walked out of the library. Their paths had never crossed before. He hung out with other Indians like himself who had come to the United States to pursue graduate school, while Priya belonged to a different crowd, one that had nothing to do with engineering or Indians.

He dropped a book as he was walking past her. It was more clichéd than a bad Hindi movie because the way Madhu told it, as he picked up his book and looked at her through his sunglasses, he fell in love. “Love at first sight,” he would always say.

“Hi,” he said to her as he straightened, picking up a book entitled
C++ Programming for Advanced Users
.

“Hi,” Priya said, not particularly looking at him.

“Are you Indian?” he asked, and Priya snapped up her head. Only Indians asked a question like that, and only before proceeding to hit on her. She was nearly Indian, what they called an ABCD, an “American-Born Confused
Desi
,” with
Desi
meaning “Country Person” in Hindi.

“Half,” she said, because she noticed he was good-looking. Usually, she would’ve said something about being busy and walked away.

“What’s the other half?” he asked.

“American,” she said. “But . . . I’m completely American. Just ethnically half-Indian. How about you?”

“I’ve been in the United States for a year, so I feel completely American, too,” he responded, and sat down next to her, which Priya had thought was optimistic of him. “But I’m ethnically fully Indian.”

“Oh,” she’d said, and started to put her books in her bag. It was time to leave.

“Can I buy you a cup of chai?” he asked. If he had said coffee, she would have left, but he’d said chai, and for some strange reason it had been charming.

“They don’t serve chai at the canteen,” Priya said.

“In that case, I can make you a cup of chai. I live just . . .” He stopped when he saw her lift both her eyebrows. Did he really think she’d go to his place after meeting him two minutes ago?

“On the other hand, I could just buy you a cup of coffee,” he said with a broad grin.

It hadn’t been love at first sight for Priya, but she had spent that entire day with him and then had ended up in his room for the night in the apartment he shared with a friend.

Priya had never slept with someone on the first date. She generally believed in the third-date rule, but something about Madhu had made her lie down with him. Their lovemaking had been just as charming as their impromptu date had been. He had been careful, kind, and gentle.

“Is this OK? Are you OK?” he said so many times that she’d had to tell him, “You’re not performing torturous surgery, you know.”

He’d laughed then. “What can I say, I’m new to this.”

“To sex?”

“Well, that, too, but I’ve never had sex with someone as beautiful as you,” he said, and winked at her.

And after they’d made love, Madhu had heated bowls of rice with dal and brought them to his room. They had eaten the Indian leftovers and drunk white wine from a bottle, and sometime during that night, Priya fell in love with him.

They were inseparable after that. Desperate for each other. There had been no doubt within Priya; she knew Madhu was the one. There was a clarity about this relationship that had never been there for any other. And even now, years later, she still knew that this was the only man she had ever met who could make her as happy as she was.

But she wondered at times if he regretted their rushed courtship. Did he wish he had waited, married a fertile woman? Or a woman who wasn’t “baby crazy” like she was?

She knew Madhu didn’t want to hurt her when he called her that, but it wounded Priya all the same. He probably had no idea. By and large, Madhu and Priya shared a relatively dry, dark sense of humor and thick skins. But something about the phrase “baby crazy” got under Priya’s skin. It was probably like calling a lunatic a lunatic to his face—the truth stung.

“You hit thirty and suddenly everything is getting wider and going south,” Krysta complained as she and Priya got together for a coffee after they had sweated it out in a spinning class. They went spinning three times a week and, after some time in the sauna and a shower, ended up at the Starbucks on Castro Street, close to their gym.

“You hit thirty several years ago, and so did I,” Priya said to Krysta. They were the same age, and the big three-O had passed them half a decade ago.

“You’re married; you don’t count. You can have hairy legs,” Krysta said.

“So can you.”

“No. I have to be prepared at all times, because you never know when the opportunity will hit. I may meet a guy at Whole Foods, and then maybe we’ll end up at my place and . . . I’d need to have smooth legs for that,” Krysta said.

“You pick up men at Whole Foods?”

“That’s not the point, and yes, I once picked up a very nice BCG consultant at Whole Foods. He was cute, Romanian or Bulgarian or something, obviously didn’t go very far,” Krysta said.

It wasn’t like Krysta slept around a lot, but compared to Priya, who had been with one guy for an eternity, she seemed like a sexual superhero. Krysta could pick up men anywhere she went. Priya didn’t think she could pick up men quite that easily, even if she were single, but then again, being blonde, tall, and skinny probably helped Krysta a little as well.

“You can let your ass grow—and it probably will, considering your Indian genes—but I have to stay in shape,” Krysta said.

Among all her friends, Krysta was the only one who talked nonstop about meeting men, sleeping with men, and weight control. It wasn’t like Krysta was a ditzy blonde. She was a vice president at a big hotel chain, responsible for their sustainability department. It was her department that made sure everyone got those nice signs in the bathroom that talked about reusing towels to save water.

“My butt isn’t going to grow,” Priya said petulantly. “I spin.”

“Yeah, but you can’t fight genetics. And who says a big butt is bad? JLo seems to be doing just fine with the junk in her trunk,” Krysta said. “And speaking of JLo, I’m going to Rome next month for a conference.”

“JLo? Rome?”

“Didn’t she get married in Rome?”

Sometimes Priya wondered how Krysta’s mind worked.

“Who cares,” Krysta said. “Anyway, I’m going to Rome. You wanna join? Maybe Nina, too? I just have the conference for a day when I present, and then I’m all yours. We can, I’m told, find some excellent rooms at our five-star hotel.”

“I can’t just take off for Rome; I’m going to have a baby,” Priya said without thinking. As the words came out, she realized how foolish it sounded. She wasn’t even pregnant, for God’s sake.

“I’ll ask Nina,” Priya offered as apology. “But she may pull the whole my-children-I’ll-miss-them excuse.”

“Are you going to become like that, too?” Krysta asked.

Priya shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t know what kind of parent I’ll be. I’m just relieved at the possibility of getting a chance . . . you know?”

Krysta nodded, and Priya felt that weight she always did when she thought about the baby.

“You’ll be a good mother,” Krysta said.

“How do you know?”

“Instinct,” she said.

Priya shook her head. “Madhu says that I always need to have something to worry about. If it isn’t getting pregnant, it’s
Will the surrogate keep the baby?
, and if it isn’t that, it’s
Will I be a good mother?
I want to be a good mother. I want to be miles away from my own mother.”

“Hey, everyone has issues with his or her parents, but it doesn’t mean they didn’t do anything right,” Krysta said. “Your father is a good guy. I know, I know, he’s always on your mother’s side, but he’s been there for you. Your mother is batshit crazy, but she’s still in your life—she visits and makes you miserable, but she’s there. I hardly talk to my parents. They have no idea what life I live. I see them once a year and . . . frankly, they’re relatives but not family.”

Priya smiled at Krysta. “I’m going to be the
Woe is me
routine, aren’t I?”

“You sure are, but that’s what friends are for—to tell you the truth when you’re being a whiny little twit,” Krysta said, drinking her coffee.