Bodies in Motion (24 page)

Would they have stripped her of her clothes and dragged her through the streets? Would they have proclaimed her shame to the village, to the kingdom, to the world? What did her mother think? Did she lead the procession?

 

MINAL GOES ALONE TO THE WOMEN
'
S CLINIC.

She tells them about the broken condom—it is hard to say the words. They want to discuss the situation; all she wants is for them to be silent and to please just give her the pills. Finally, they hand them to her, and a woman who does not believe that Minal speaks English repeats the directions over and over and over. Two with a meal. Two more later. She goes back to her room and takes off her coat. Removes her boots and places them carefully at the foot of the bed. Lies down, eyes open. Stares at the digital clock as the minutes click by. It is two hours until dinnertime. It is surprisingly cold in her room today, but the blanket is at the foot of the bed, too far away.

Twenty minutes before dinner, Rose runs in and out again, in a flurry of words. Among them, “I grabbed your mail too—looks like a letter from your mom! Here y'are! Gotta go!”

 

AND SO, I WRITE LETTERS TO MY AUNT THAT I WILL NOT SEND. I STARE
at the now useless pills, left too late because I am a confused, weak-willed fool. They are enshrined in a small green glass on my desk, a testament to stupidity. I write notes to Diego and tear them up again. I look at the photo my mother sent. He is not bad-looking, this doctor. His skin is fairer than Diego's. Maybe I should write to him and ask him what I should do. Maybe he will volunteer to perform the operation himself, and then we will be married, and all will be well.

At least I have learned something out of all of this. I have learned that while I like Diego very much, and I like his body even more, I do not love him.

THAT NIGHT, WE WERE DOWN AT THE LAKE, CLAMBERING ACROSS THE
shattered rocks at some hours past midnight, dodging the spray as the waves came crashing up, laughing. I don't remember being cold as we danced on broken stones.

Diego was standing quite still when he did it, though. He stopped still on a rock and I stopped, facing him. He caught my hands in his and tipped his head back and shouted into the night, “I love you, Minal!” A great shout—his voice was usually so soft—I hadn't known he had such a sound in him. And a blaze of warmth in my chest, and I was shouting too, shouting like an idiot into the night, shouting that I loved Diego. Laughing and then running across the rocks, chasing each other until he slipped and fell and bruised his side, and it could have been so much worse, there on the sharp, slippery rocks. That sobered us.

We went quietly back to the dorm, and down to the empty piano room, the only public room in the dorm that could be locked, and
there we made love, very carefully at first, and then less so, burning in our fierce desire.

That night.

 

SHE PUTS DOWN THE PHONE, SLOWLY. THE CLINIC HAS TOLD HER
that they can do nothing right now. That she must wait until late January, at least. That she should come in and talk to a counselor. That they can schedule the appointment now, if she's sure. That there are other options. She was polite to them, though absent. It seems that some part of her brain is accepting the data, processing it, even though she cannot think about it at all.

It startles her a little, how competent she has been about it all. The pharmacy, the purchase of the little box, the ripping open of the packaging, the careful following of directions. The disposal of the final, damning results.

It is Friday. Exams are over and her roommates are gone. Diego leaves for Puerto Rico tomorrow. She leaves Sunday, to spend Christmas in Massachusetts. Raji Aunty has written, saying it is not nearly as cold there as it is in Chicago, and that there will be another guest at the house as well. That almost shook her resolve, but surely there will be a time when the guest is away, out Christmas shopping perhaps. Minal will talk to her aunt then. She will ask her what to do.

 

ONE MIGHT THINK THAT UNDER THESE CONDITIONS I WOULD BE LESS
fond of sex.

This is not true.

Was it greedy of me, not to tell him until morning? To take one last night, with his hands between my thighs, stretching me open for his tongue? To spend hours licking every inch of his body, yes, even those inches shyness had kept me from before? My mother always said I was a greedy child. I took more than my share of caramel pudding, of
milk toffee. Well enough. I do not regret that last night. I will remember always the surprised look on his face when I took him deep in my mouth, the groan he gave, the tensing muscles beneath my digging fingers. I will remember his hands, above his head, clenching the pillow as he arched. I will remember later the way my head fit so perfectly in the hollow of his shoulder, the slowing beat of his heart, his hand stroking my hair. Poor Diego.

In the morning, I told him I was leaving him. I think he had expected it. I hope so.

I didn't tell him the rest. Perhaps I am a terrible person. Perhaps I will write him a letter.

Perhaps not.

 

MINAL WAITED LONG HOURS IN THE AIRPORT, THROUGH ONE DELAY,
and then another. She paced, up and down the carpeted halls. The heating wasn't working very well—despite the crowds of people, she felt quite cold. And when she finally got on the plane, her neighbor insisted on turning his air jet so it hit Minal too. Her right side slowly froze. She asked for a blanket, but there weren't enough. She used her coat as a blanket and unbuttoned the top of her long skirt, sliding her fingers inside. It only warmed her a little.

When she finally arrived, past two
AM
, her aunt bundled her quickly into bed, with a hot water bottle for her feet and extra blankets. There was no sign of the other guest, but Minal was too tired to talk. The morning would be soon enough. Her aunt patted the blankets one last time before she left, turning out the light as she went. Minal curled into the blankets and quietly cried herself to sleep.

 

I HAVEN
'
T BEEN IN MY AUNT
'
S HOUSE BEFORE. IT
'
S EMBARRASSING. I
know my mother would want me to write and tell her all about it, but what do I say? That my uncle's medical sketches of the human form are hung up right next to my aunt's lush oil paintings? That while either might be innocent separately, they are clearly lascivious together? That when I sat in the kitchen drinking my breakfast tea, waiting for my aunt to wake up, a nude reclined before me, a brown-skinned woman basking in the sunlight, her sari a discarded crimson puddle around her, her face caught with an unmistakable smile? Oh, Amma would love that.

Raji Aunty comes down, Vivek Uncle behind her. Is his hand on her back, or her buttocks? Is that faint scent perfume, or her own musk? Must I see sex everywhere? Is there something wrong with me? He says it is good to meet me, and that he is sorry he has to rush. We'll talk at dinner. Then it's a kiss, a long kiss, for his wife, and it's off to the hospital. That's it—I'll ask
him
to perform the procedure. That's perfect—just keep it all in the family!

Ah, one of these days I'll say the wrong thing and get myself into real trouble.

There is no sign of another guest. I ask my aunt when they'll be arriving. She tells me, with a little smile, that the guest was already here. She's pregnant, it seems. She had been having a little joke with me. They just found out. The baby is due in July.

If there are gods, they must hate me.

 

RAJI AND MINAL SIT AT THE KITCHEN TABLE, SIPPING MORNING CHAI.
Raji's eyes are sharp, focused on Minal's face. Minal is sure she is noting each new line, realizing that it has only been a few months since they last met.

“Are you well, Minal? You look a little tired.”

Minal bites her lip before responding; it has been bitten raw. Her fingers tap the table, click click, click click. “Well enough.” She tries to smile but does not manage to pull it off.

“So. Your mother has written to me, about this doctor. A brilliant match, I hear.” Raji's tone is careful, inquiring. Minal's lips purse, just slightly, but enough. Raji nods and says, “Your mother…she's a passionate woman. But she isn't good at admitting when she's made a mistake. Ever since she moved back to Sri Lanka, she's become more Sri Lankan–than–thou.” She pauses, but Minal says nothing. Raji continues, gently. “Maybe it's the right thing for her; she does seem to love it there. Even your father's behavior wasn't enough to bring her back home. But maybe you aren't ready for marriage, or at least for a traditional arranged marriage; maybe Sri Lanka isn't the world for you…?”

Minal's fingers tap, but her eyes are fixed on the tabletop, and her lips stay shut.

Raji falls silent as well. They continue drinking their tea, and after a while, she reaches out for a pen and a long pad, starts to scribble on the paper—a shopping list. Cauliflower, eggplant, fresh chilies, more paper, Cadmium Blue. She asks, “Do you think we need anything else?” Minal hesitates, then takes the paper away from her aunt and writes something on it. She pushes it back, and Raji reads it. Pickles and ice cream. She laughs. “I haven't been craving either of those, but thank you for the thought.” Minal doesn't laugh. She says, quietly, “I have.” Raji stops laughing. They are silent for a while. Minal counts to a hundred in Spanish, and then back down again. She wishes she'd learned more of it. Her chest is aching.
O, mi corazón!

Then her aunt leans forward and whispers, “Pickles and ice cream? Really?”

Minal starts to laugh. “No, not really.”

“Well, good. That's something, anyway.” Suddenly, they are both laughing. This may turn out all right.

They compare dates. Minal is perhaps three days later. They agree that that's something, at least, though they're not sure what. Then a little silence again, and then Raji asks the dreaded question.

“What do you want to do?”

 

I COULD DRAW A CHART. THE BRANCHES: TELL MY MOTHER, OR NOT;
go back to Sri Lanka, or not; have an arranged marriage, or not; have a baby, or not; be a doctor, or not; tell Diego, or not; marry Diego, or not. Some options exclude others. I don't really think I can have a baby
and
an arranged marriage. And I'm not even sure I can tell my mother
and
have an arranged marriage. There are many things I'm not sure of, but there is one thing I do know, sitting here with my aunt the painter, looking at her nudes beside her husband's medical sketches.

“I don't want to be
just
a doctor's wife.”

Raji Aunty nods. She knows what I mean. I want to stay here and study, which means no arranged marriage back home, which means I'll have to write my mother. Amma can't make me go back, not with the scholarship supporting me here. Small blessings.

“And I don't want to marry Diego.” That part is also clear, and has been for some time. He is sweet and kind and lovely in bed—but I don't want to marry him.

“School?” she asks. I nod. Definitely school. Only two choices left to make. This is going faster than I'd expected. I feel a little dizzy—or perhaps that is the baby.

“If you want…”—She says it slowly—“I could help you raise the baby. You could transfer to Yale, and I could tell people I'd had twins, at least at first, if you wanted.”

“That's too much.” It is too much, and yet I know she'd do it. Family. She was family, after all. Even if she had had an arranged marriage, even if I hardly knew her.

“Or, I could ask Vivek to recommend someone.”

“No!” I couldn't stand him, a stranger, my uncle, knowing.