The Unexpected Son (30 page)

G
irish shifted uncomfortably in his chair and tried to nibble on a slice of pizza. Arya was frowning at him across the kitchen table, condemnation written all over her face.

The pizza had turned to cold leather. Since Vini's departure for India, Arya and he had mostly been surviving on takeout food—pizza, Chinese, Thai, sushi. Neither he nor his daughter had any talent for cooking. The house was a mess, too. No one had cleaned it since Vini had left.

“How long are you going to torture yourself and Mom?” demanded Arya, pushing her empty plate aside and folding her arms.

His daughter had a direct way of facing an issue—a trait Girish had always admired and encouraged. But at the moment that very characteristic was making him squirm.

“Thanks for buying the pizza,” he said. He didn't have the heart to tell her it was one of the worst he'd had—undercooked crust and overseasoned sauce. It was some kind of organic and environmentally friendly whole wheat product that fit into Arya's latest fad.

“Don't try to change the subject, Dad. I know the pizza's awful—and I don't give a damn about it.”

“Who said anyone is being tortured?”

“You're not eating much, you're up at all times of the night, and either pacing or working on your computer since you returned from your so-called business trip.”

“How do you—”

“You think I'm blind and deaf? I know everything that's going on, Dad,” she interrupted curtly. “I know you miss her like hell. I know you were worried sick when you heard she came down with malaria. You've never looked this lonely before.”

“Of course I miss her,” Girish admitted with great reluctance. “We've been married a long time.”

“Twenty-four years, eleven months, and two days.” She wore a smug look.

“I'm capable of doing the math,” he snapped.

“And yet you're behaving like an ass.”

“How dare you talk to your father like that!” Girish dropped the pizza on his plate and pinned her with his sternest glare.

Arya didn't flinch, and held his gaze without a smidgen of alarm. She'd never been the kind of child who feared authority. “What else would you call a man who loves his wife and misses her, and yet pretends he has no feelings left for her?”

“I didn't say I don't love her.” Arya was way too meddlesome and perceptive for her own good.

“Then why don't you tell her that?” She let him ruminate on that for a second. “Poor Mom is miserable.”

“Serves her right for lying to me…to us…all these years.”

“Don't you think
I
was hurt and confused when I found out the truth? But I got over it. If you look at it rationally, she was only a kid when she made that mistake. Vishal-mama and everyone else forced her to lie, and she did.”

“But she was a grown woman when I met her. She could have made up her own mind and told me the truth.”

“But telling the truth could've had you running. She couldn't risk that. I think she liked you too much to lose you. Shouldn't that count for something, the fact that she fell in love with you and didn't want to lose the chance to marry you?”

Girish picked up the half-eaten pizza once again and took a bite. He hadn't really thought of Vinita's actions in that light. He knew she loved him. Deeply. But had she developed strong feelings for him right after they'd met, just like he had for her?

She hadn't said anything about it to him. But then, neither had he. Expressing love had come after they'd been married a few months, after the awkwardness had passed and they'd reached a certain level of comfort.

“You honestly think that was her reason for hiding the truth?” he asked after a pensive bite or two.

“Of course it was. She went against her own conscience and hid the truth for a reason.”

Girish mulled it over for a couple of seconds. “She told you that?”

Arya nodded. “She said she was lucky to meet a man like you when she didn't deserve to. Apparently she didn't want to lose the one decent man who'd finally come into her life.”

“She didn't tell me that.” He was discovering a few things about his wife. And himself.

“Maybe not, but she's proved it to you all these years. Isn't that enough?”

Girish rose to his feet and dumped the rest of his pizza in the trash. He wasn't hungry anymore. “I need some time to think about it, Arya. I really don't know what to make of all this.”

Arya got up from the table and put her plate in the sink. “Dad, you've had plenty of time to brood. How long are you going to punish Mom for a mistake she made so long ago?”

He rinsed both their plates and placed them in the dishwasher. “You think it's that easy to forgive someone?”

Arya stood with both hands planted on her slender hips. “If you ask me, it's you who needs forgiving. You've been behaving like an ass instead of supporting Mom when she needs you the most.”

“You don't understand what—”

“Dad”—she cut him off again—“no more excuses. Mom's been very ill. She's depressed because she can't donate her bone marrow and her son is dying. She's devastated because she thinks you hate her so much you're going to file for divorce.”

Girish turned from the sink and scowled at Arya. “What gave her
that
idea?”

“You did.”

“Me?” How and when the hell had divorce come into the picture?

“You haven't answered her voice mails or e-mails. What else is she supposed to think?”

“But I…didn't say anything about divorce.”

“Not in words, but certainly in the way you've been treating her. I'm surprised she still feels the same way about you when you've been so horrible to her.”

“I haven't said
one
word to her, Arya.”

“Exactly my point.” Arya put away the leftover pizza in the refrigerator.

Girish contemplated for a while. Had he been punishing Vini for her deceit? If it could be considered deceit. Was it time for him to stop acting like a wronged child? His wife was clearly going through a difficult time. Very difficult.

Arya wiped the table with a damp paper towel and threw him a sidelong glance. “If I were you, I'd start thinking about how to make it up to her.”

“And I suppose you have some brilliant ideas on how I should go about it, too?”

“Your twenty-fifth anniversary's coming up,” she said, discarding the paper towel. “I'm sure you can think of something.” She swept out of the room, her expression smugger than ever.

Girish listened to the steady hum of the refrigerator and sighed. His daughter was a brat. She had a damn big mouth, too. But she was right about one thing. He was an ass.

“W
—what did you say?” Vinita dropped the blouse she was packing in her suitcase to stare at Sayee. Her sister-in-law had just walked into Vinita's bedroom and made a startling announcement.

“They found a donor for Rohit,” Sayee repeated, beaming, clasping her hands with obvious glee.

Vinita stood still. It couldn't be true, could it? She wondered if she was beginning to imagine things—a mother's heart dreaming of the impossible. She'd prayed for a miracle, but she'd learned that miracles rarely, if ever, happened.

Too overwhelmed to reply, she pushed aside the pile of clothes lying beside her suitcase and sat down on the bed. “So soon?” she finally asked.

Sayee nodded and beamed at Vinita.

“You're not joking, right?”

Sayee's smile vanished, like the sun slipping behind a cloud. “Would I joke about something like this?”

“No…no, you wouldn't.” Vinita put a trembling hand to her throat. “Who told you?”

“Uh…Dr. Panchal rang Vishal at his office.”

Vinita frowned. “I wonder why the doctor called Vishal and not me.”

“He thought you had already left for the U.S.”

“Of course.” She plucked the cordless phone from the bedside table. “I'm going to call Vishal and get the details.”

“Vishal just left his office to meet a client.”

Vinita put the phone back. “Do they know who it is? The donor, I mean.”

Sayee shook her head, disturbing the tendrils of hair that had come loose from her braid. “You know they don't give out that kind of information. It's against their rules.”

“Who follows rules in this country?” Vinita rolled her eyes. “The last time anyone followed rules was when I was about two years old.”

“This is different. Medical ethics, you see.”

“I suppose so.” Vinita absently folded the blouse once again and tucked it into the suitcase. “But I'm still puzzled. We had no donors until an hour ago. Now all of a sudden we have a mystery volunteer.” She gave it some thought. “What if this person is not a match?”

“But this particular donor does match. Apparently they did the tests and everything.”

Vinita tossed a pair of underwear into the suitcase. After a week of problems, she'd finally managed to get a seat on a plane from Goa to Delhi, and then from there to Newark. Now it looked like she'd have to stay here a while longer—once again postpone her return home.

Talk about wretched timing. No surprise there. Everything in her life lately was turning upside down. “I'd just finished getting my tickets changed,” she said to Sayee.

Sayee picked up a
salwar
and folded it, placed in on the bed, then reached for another one. “You don't have to alter your plans, Vini. Vishal and I are here for Rohit.”

“No, I
have
to be here if Rohit undergoes a transplant.”

“But you have been away from home and Girish for so long.”

She threw Vinita a look that spoke volumes. Sayee was worried about her. Everyone in the family was. They knew Vinita hadn't spoken to Girish since she'd arrived in Palgaum. Although she hadn't said a word about it to anyone, they were fully aware. Every time Girish's name came up, they looked at her with anticipation, then dropped the subject.

Sayee pushed aside the heap of clothes and sat down beside Vinita. “Girish is all right, I hope?”

Vinita shook her head. Girish was not all right. He'd never be all right. Tears of self-pity welled up unexpectedly. Before she could say a word, they began to roll down her cheeks.

“Oh, Vini, I am so sorry.” Sayee gathered her in her chubby arms.

“I d—don't know what to do,” Vinita admitted on a sob.

“Shh, everything will be okay. I know it will.”

Instead of Sayee's soothing words making the situation better, they only served to worsen Vinita's sobbing. She'd held it in for weeks—the shock of discovering she had a son; the difficult decision to take leave from her job and make the long journey to Palgaum to save him, followed by her unexpected and severe illness; the frustration of finding out she couldn't help him—and the fear of losing Girish. The haunting fear of losing Girish.

Now it was all spewing out like froth from a shaken soda can, and she couldn't stop it. Despite telling herself not to let her hopes soar, she'd seen a tiny spark of hope when Arya had mentioned that Girish had been worried about her during her illness and the Palgaum shutdown. But once she'd recovered, the tensions had ebbed, and the town's routine had been restored, Arya had never mentioned Girish's concerns again. He'd obviously gone back to indifference, or loathing, or whatever it was.

Sayee handed a handkerchief to her. “There, you'll feel better if you cry a little.”

“I'm sorry,” Vinita mumbled.

Sayee rubbed Vinita's back. “It has been a very difficult time for you.”

“It's silly to cry when there's finally some good news, isn't it?”

“Sometimes good news can do that…especially if it comes so unexpectedly,” soothed Sayee. “You're entitled to a few tears.”

Pulling away from Sayee, Vinita tried to work up a smile. “How come you're so wise? You're younger than I am.”

Sayee smiled back. “Natural wisdom.”

Vinita couldn't help laughing. “I wish I'd been born with a bit of that.”

Getting to her feet, Sayee offered Vinita a hand. “Come on, enough of this depressing talk. We should be celebrating. Let's make something special for dinner today, shall we?”

Taking the offered hand, Vinita stood up. “Like what?”

“How about your favorite dessert,
bahsundee?
It's Vishal's favorite, too.”

“It's one thing I can't refuse.” Vinita loved
bahsundee
—milk boiled till it was reduced to a thick, rich pudding and garnished with pistachios and almonds.

Sayee led the way out. “Let's go make it, then.”

“Do you know when they're going to do the procedure?”

“No, but Vishal will find out before he comes home this evening. He promised to stop by Dr. Panchal's office.”

As she followed her sister-in-law out of the room, Vinita wondered about the mystery donor. It was all very strange.

 

That night, Vinita sat at her brother's computer and sent Girish an e-mail, like she did every other night. It had become almost a ritual, sharing her experiences with him, like she used to in person every evening back home, while they ate dinner together. If she couldn't talk to him in person, e-mail was the next best thing.

She doubted whether he read any of her messages. But she wrote to him anyway, felt a little better for doing it. It was her only connection to him.

Rohit sat in Dr. Panchal's office with his hands folded in his lap, feeling a bit light-headed—probably a side effect of his latest medication.

His mother sat on one side of him and his father on the other, pathetically protective as always, sadly naïve in their belief that together they would somehow protect him from doom. They looked as overwrought as he felt. His mother looked fragile, brittle enough to break. His father's arm was still in a cast, but his face was almost back to normal, except for a scar on his cheek, where the stitches were healing. Nonetheless he sat upright, the proud, relentless lion who would fight till the end.

Since they'd been informed by Dr. Panchal the previous day that an anonymous marrow donor had come forward, neither he nor his parents had been able to sleep. The news had left them exhilarated yet anxious. They had stayed up late into the night, talking about the unexpected development.

His mother's buoyant expression had nearly brought tears to his eyes—something that didn't happen often. She'd clearly been dreaming of seeing him healthy again, perhaps even capable of giving her a couple of grandchildren in the future—before it was too late. Having been childless herself and forced to resort to adoption, her dearest wish was to see him have a family of his own.

It was a nice dream to have, no doubt. And yet he didn't dare to entertain such fantasies.

Until a day ago, he had been staring certain death in the face. Without a transplant, he could probably carry on for another year or two. The latest treatments had kept him functioning on some level for the past two years, and they could probably do it a while longer.

He'd been prepared to face a bleak future, where every time he faltered they would likely pump him with steroids, antibiotics, and some newfangled drugs. They would give him a few more months' extension on his contract with God. But despite the medical intervention, there would be no guarantees.

Now, all of a sudden, he had a chance to live. Or maybe not. His body could reject the transplant. Or the donor could back out at the last minute. Or he could end up with a fatal infection. The possibilities for failure were too many to count. He had done a fair amount of research on his condition. And yet he'd felt a quick surge of hope the moment the doctor had rung him.

One significant detail had plagued Rohit all night: Who
was
this donor? The person had apparently been tested and was found to be compatible, which meant he or she had come forward to help some days ago. When he and his parents had asked questions, they had been told that the individual preferred to remain anonymous.

Why had this person come forward so suddenly? Why now?

The doctor spoke to Rohit directly, disrupting his thoughts. “Rohit, we have to do a series of tests before we consider you fully ready for a transplant.”

“But all the tests were done some time ago,” Rohit's father remarked. He had on his most irritated frown. “Why do them again? Waste of time and money, is it not?”

Panchal heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Mr. Barve, those tests were done months ago, and for different reasons. Rohit has had some infections since then. Now we have to make sure that he is in good condition to accept the transplant. It is a complicated procedure and we need to be very careful. When—”

“All right,” Rohit interrupted, holding up a hand. He had heard enough arguing. His father loved a good fight, and the doctor was a thorough man who clearly left nothing to chance. “Whatever you have to do, just do it, Doctor. I'm ready. Do it tomorrow if you can.” He was profoundly tired. He wanted this to be over.

No doubt it was going to be too damned costly to get a transplant, but he was willing to go through with it. His parents were ready to borrow money if they needed to. In the end, he could still die and they would be in debt for the rest of their lives. But they would never let him back out if his decision was based on lack of money.

Besides, his real mother was insisting on paying for most of it. He didn't know if he should accept it, even though she could obviously afford it. It was charity. And yet it was tempting. He wanted to live.

“Tomorrow? It's not that simple, Rohit,” retorted the doctor. “It will be at least another week before we can do a complete round of tests to check on your heart, kidneys, and liver. We'll need to do a brain scan, dental screening, a spinal tap, and then we need to give you radiation and chemotherapy to prepare your body to accept the transplanted marrow…”

Rohit closed his eyes for a moment, shut out the doctor's endless list. He should have known it wasn't simple. Nothing in his life was simple. Right from the day he was born—in fact, right from the moment he was conceived—things had been complicated for him. He was a bastard child, borne in shame under a bleak karmic cloud. And he was a diabetic.

His stomach clenched at the thought of more chemotherapy. He could almost feel it now—the familiar attacks of nausea, the blinding headaches, the hyperactive bowels, the weakness in his limbs so intense that he could have sworn his legs were made of rubber, and his hair falling out in clumps—every blasted symptom.

And yet…if he cared to look deep inside himself…he wanted to live. Maybe there was a very remote chance that he would survive and recover, and perhaps scrape up the courage to dream of a normal life.

“Besides, don't forget you're diabetic. We have to take that into consideration every step of the way,” rambled the doctor. “Treatment has to begin days before the actual transplant.”

Opening his eyes, he nodded at Dr. Panchal. “Okay. Whatever you say, I'll do it.”

The doctor's bland face cracked a rare half smile. “We'll get you started on the tests right away.”