If their previous losses had weakened the foundation of their marriage, this recent scare was a wrecking ball. Nayana had not lost the baby, but she hadn’t come away unscathed. Its survival had a cost she was only beginning to make sense of in the days since leaving the hospital. There was too much relying on the fetus she carried, an insufficient mass to hold her there, on the ground, in her marriage, in England. She had simply been dehydrated and overly stressed; she’d worn herself out, according to Dr. Shah, and that, combined with natural changes in the cervix, caused an unfortunate confluence of events. Her doctor had been trying to reassure Nayana, but that wasn’t possible. Nayana remained terrified, and Dr. Shah would only understand the reason when Nayana returned to request a paternity test.
In the meantime, she was moving forward with her plan. She would still go to India. No, it wasn’t advisable, said Dr. Shah, but that was mostly because of Nayana’s mental state; if she took care not to overexert herself, and to hydrate, she’d likely be just fine. The truth was Nayana couldn’t rest in London. She couldn’t rest in Ramesh’s presence. In the presence of so much guilt and uncertainty. The results of the test would arrive soon enough and when they did he would understand why she’d left. Only then would he be in possession of all the facts. Only then could he determine whether he wanted her back at all. It was cowardly and one more reason to despise her own weakness in the face of someone so good. Her only justification was that he deserved the truth, except the words wouldn’t come from her mouth, and she didn’t trust herself to leave if they did; he would never let her, even if it broke his heart. And this, above all, she could not bear to witness.
Poor Ramesh tried to care for her in this state, but he was at a complete loss as to why it felt like they were mourning when there had been no miscarriage. He was the one averting his eyes now; Nayana was watching him. Really seeing him gave her the will she needed. She wanted to recover, if only to find the strength to set him free. But this is what scared her: being without him. Not just feeling alone but also being alone. And so she had forced herself to see Ramesh’s suffering, to privilege it over her own. The best reason to leave him was also the most painful. It was his being there in front of her, day after day, wondering why they weren’t quietly celebrating instead. This is what I can do for him, she thought. This is what I must do.
He was in the kitchen again. She heard cupboard doors open and close. What was he doing for her now? There was the sound of metal scraping against the iron burner grate, the ticking as he lit the range. His footsteps were quiet in the hallway as he approached. He stopped at their bedroom doorway. She felt him watching her from a distance. She pretended to sleep, on their new sheets. When she and Aditi were girls, they would pretend to sleep in an effort to put their telepathy to the test, but each always knew when the other was faking. If Ramesh knew, he didn’t say. He retreated just as silently only to return a few minutes later, quietly saying her name. Like a question. As if he were asking the woman in his bed—excuse me, miss—if she had seen Nayana, his wife. He carried with him a tray of food.
“Please, jaanu, will you eat something?”
The pitch of his voice betrayed how desperate he’d grown. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe it was crueler to deny him the emotional support he needed now, regardless of what happened later. But she worried this would make her too weak, too dependent on him to finally walk out the door, which she honestly believed was the greatest kindness she could offer him. She could no longer see a way to happiness in their life together, not until he knew and perhaps not even then. She could eat. That was something she could do. Put his mind at rest, if only about her physical state.
She took the tray from him. It was plain broth and buttered toast again. She didn’t want a sick person’s food anymore. She wanted a rich and creamy fettuccine Alfredo from the Italian restaurant she loved. Perhaps it was what they both needed, to get out of the house. She could admit to him in that place of happy memories that she would still leave for India. He would be distraught, of course, terrified something would happen to the baby. Angry, perhaps, that she would even consider the risk. But she had no choice.
The phone rang, and Nayana felt a momentary spark. The broth swirled in its bowl. Was it a call from her sister? Aditi would have received her letter by now. Maybe even have had the phone installed. She’d be wondering when Nayana was coming. What day was it, anyway? Was it a Saturday? No, Ramesh was still in his work trousers. It was probably just Tahira checking in again. Besides, if Aditi had a phone installed, it would no longer matter what day it was.
She ate a piece of toast and sipped on the broth. She felt like having a cup of tea. She felt like going for a run in the park. She wanted to keep running and never look back. She lifted the bowl and drained its contents in two big gulps. She could hear Ramesh saying good-bye. It wasn’t Aditi. In the room again, he couldn’t hide his surprise that she’d eaten so much and so quickly. He even smiled, and she realized how long it had been, how unfair she’d been to keep him from smiling his handsome smile.
“Who was it?” she asked, though she didn’t much care.
“It was Beth.”
“Is she pawning off Felix again?”
“No,” he said with a laugh. He’d like that, she thought. Perhaps he’d get a cat if she stayed gone. “Apparently she moved to Edinburgh. I take it you didn’t know, either.”
“No, I didn’t. I mean, she left that bottle of wine, but you said it was just a thank you for cat sitting.”
Ramesh removed the tray from Nayana’s lap.
“She says she’s found a letter from India. It got mixed up in her held mail while she was away.”
“And she’s just calling now?”
“She was apologetic. Extremely, in fact. She said with the holiday and moving, she’d only just found the time to sort through it all; she called as soon as she found it.”
It was a relief of sorts to know Nayana had been wrong, that Aditi hadn’t given up on her as she had supposed. That December’s letter had just not found its way.
“So will she send it?”
“Yes. She promised she would drop it in the post first chance.”
Nayana suddenly feared the letter would contain Aditi’s decision to finally join them in London. Now, when things here were so precarious for Nayana. Once again, she would disappoint. Perhaps they could take Birendra to Delhi instead, return to their childhood home. Nayana could teach there, surely. At the graduate level, even. She pushed the sheets away, not wanting to be in the same room as Ramesh while imagining a future without him. He moved to help her when he saw she was getting up.
“No!” she shouted, louder than she’d meant to. He backed away from the bed. “I can do it,” she said, calmly now. “Thank you, Ram. Thank you, but I can manage.”
She walked to the bathroom and closed the door behind her. She was pale and gaunt. She’d paid a debt, anyway. A debt of beauty. The prematurely gray strands that she’d once thought highlighted her youth appeared dull to her now, foreshadowing instead her transition to middle age. She thought of the moment when she would see her sister again, how youth and beauty would have been preserved in Aditi alone. That was how Nayana had always known she was beautiful—because she looked like Aditi. She sat down on the edge of the tub and closed her eyes. She was ready to hear her sister’s voice again. Ready to let it guide her. Maybe Aditi wasn’t wanting to come to London. Maybe she was saying: Come home; I will save you. Come home; I need saving, too. In any case, it hadn’t been the last letter in the end. How stupid Nayana had been to think Aditi would give up on her so easily. She could hear it now, not in words but in the silence, a repeated invitation, a song: Aditi calling Nayana home.