My Last Love Story (20 page)

We were all mutually enraptured by the friendly baby seal. I named him Tickles, as Jason was sure the pup was male. And Tickles got so comfortable with us that, at one point, he heaved himself onto my lap. Imagine, I had a three-foot-long, two-feet-wide, two-hundred-pound pinniped in my lap.

As I was sitting in Nirvaan’s lap, his, “Holy fuck,” adequately described my sentiments, too.

The other guys were in splits by this time, cracking jokes about lap seals.

Then, the seal belched, setting everyone off again. He’d smelled fishy to begin with, but when he opened his mouth—
ugh
. You didn’t want to be near a seal when it opened its mouth, trust me.

Sarvar said, “
Ka-pow.
He’s a male, all right. That was a five-star belch.”

“He’s probably lost. Some species of seals come ashore in spring to molt for a month or two. This one seems to have broken from his herd, or maybe he’s just a rebel, looking for his own turf to flop in the sun.” Jason was a fount of marine life information.

His commentary made me bold enough to pat Tickles on his back. He was surprisingly warm to touch. His fur was silky smooth where it was still there, and his skin was mottled where he’d already begun to shed in patches. Just like Nirvaan. I felt absurdly maternal toward the baby seal—and my husband—at this moment. I wondered if he’d let me hug him.

But the minute I placed my hand on Tickles’s head, he slid off my lap and wiggled toward Zeus, who yelped in fright.

“No, no. Not here, buddy. Fuck. What the hell is it doing? Get away from my nuts!”

Tickles buried its nose between Zeus’s legs, grunting and sniffing. It was such a comedic sight that I wondered if we’d ever stop laughing. The guys, of course, were making extremely crude jokes to the utter horror of Zeus.

The enchanting episode lasted for a good half hour. At the end, Tickles slid back into the water and swam away without so much as a backward glance. We watched his head bob up and down in the water, moving farther and farther away from us.

I felt blessed to have experienced this at all, yet I felt horrible because I’d never see Tickles again. I started crying. “It’s just a baby…just a lost sweet, little baby…”

Nirvaan rocked me in his arms, murmuring inane words of comfort, telling me over and over what a great mother I’d be. He was having a hard time holding his own tears in.

The enormity of the experience hit us all. We sat there for a long time, not talking, not laughing, staring out into the ocean where Tickles has disappeared. I hoped with all my heart that it would find his way home. When I finally stopped crying, we rose and lumbered back to camp.

Nirvaan fell asleep right after a dinner of hot canned soup and sandwiches that Sarvar had bought from his favorite bakery.

My sandwich was pesto, ham, and cheese on focaccia. It was delicious, definitely gourmet, filling, and prepackaged for longevity. My stomach was a happy camper, not so much my head though.

I wasn’t sleepy at all. With Nirvaan settled in bed, I took a quick shower and changed into pajamas. I sprayed insect repellent all over me and went out of the cabin.

Forest regulations didn’t allow campfires, so electric lanterns or the cabin’s porch light lit pockets of our camp.

To me, camping was like landing on an alien world, not a dangerous one but a peaceful one, despite the buzzing darkness and a Freddie Mercury song.

The guys were playing poker on one of the picnic tables. Music wafted out of someone’s phone—Sarvar’s, if I guessed correctly, as the playlist was the hits of the ’80s.

I avoided looking at Zayaan. I’d tried to avoid him all day. I’d kept a minimum of six feet and a slew of other men between us, but it hadn’t worked. It was like he was the sun, and my senses were orbiting planets.

I declined the guys’ invitation to join the game. Instead, I fished a beer bottle out of the cooler and made my way to the cliff’s lookout point. I sat, dangling my legs over the edge, and watched the water rippling in the breeze while slowly enjoying the beer.

When branches snapped beneath someone’s boots behind me, I wished with all my heart that it were Zayaan coming to me. I wanted to talk to him. About Tickles. About Nirvaan. About us. About a baby.
Am I really suited for motherhood?

I wanted to kiss him. I wanted him to kiss me.

My brother tugged my braid. “What a day, huh, Sissy?” He plopped down beside me.

It was an old nickname my brothers had for me—Sissy. It meant sister when they were full of love for me. But if I’d annoyed them, it meant pain in the ass.

My brother put his arm around me and stole a sip of my beer.

I supposed it was good that it hadn’t been Zayaan. It was good my brother looked out for me and kept me grounded. It was very good Tickles had found us today.

“A magical day, Savvy. One of the best days of my life,” I whispered, resting my head on his shoulder.

But like all days, even good ones had to come to an end.

All too soon, it was our birthday weekend.

We drove into LA on Thursday, three days early, to help with the last-minute frenzy of the party. We hadn’t even stepped out of the Jeep, and we were accosted by the event planner, Neelu Patel, regarding last-minute details, changes, and glitches. Then, there were people to greet, caterers to meet, and guests to receive at the hotel. Dozens of rooms had been blocked off for the out-of-towners at the Desai hotel closest to the house.

Hari Disco Patel had set up camp in the sunroom, summoning specific groups in a never-ending parade to perfect the dance moves they’d learned via videos. The final practice had been scheduled for the morning of the party for the whole ensemble. All of that was above and beyond the daily minutiae occurring at my in-laws’ house.

But first, we dropped in on Ba.

Nirvaan’s grandmother was a robust ninety-eight-year-old woman who still walked without aid, was in full custody of her faculties, and could out-bet the fiercest gambler under the table in Rummy. Wrinkled and jolly, she’d only ever worn the widow’s white since her husband’s passing.

I touched her feet.

She caressed my head, and as she had hundreds of times before, she blessed me for posterity, “May Lord Krishna grant you a fertile life.”

I’d often wondered at the pros and cons of the blessing, but today, I focused on the pros.

Nirvaan and Zayaan touched her feet, too, but they got a combined, tepid, “Jai Shree Krishna,” instead.

“Sexy, you’re looking hot as usual,” said Nirvaan, bending to noisily kiss both of Ba’s weathered cheeks. “The ole geezers at the temple still giving you the eye? Anyone I need to beat up?”

I’d said this before, and I’d say it forever. My husband was an adorable, charming nut.

And he came by the craziness honestly because his grandmother gave him a haughty look and replied, “What makes you think I can’t handle those dementia patients myself?”

Zayaan boomed out a laugh and enveloped Ba in his arms, kissing her forehead, as I’d seen him kiss his mother’s on numerous occasions. “A woman after my own heart. Since I’m not an old geezer and probably stand a better chance at keeping up with you, let’s get married, Sexy,” he teased, getting a pert smack on his head for his trouble.

“One marriage was enough, thank you very much. But since you think you’re such a hotshot, you can be my date for the party,” she slickly countered.

With such a promising start to our stay, the guys excused themselves to deal with the guests and left us girls to gossip.

Ba lay down for her afternoon nap, drawing a thick
godra
-style paisley-printed quilt over her narrow body. I took a seat on the bed by her hip and updated her on Nirvaan’s health and asked about hers.

“I’m fine.
He
looks well. Happier than the last time,” she said, patting my hand.

The last time we’d seen Ba was when we still lived here, in this house. We’d just found out about the tumor, and Nirvaan had smashed the TV in our room in his rage. He’d ripped the flat screen from the wall and flung it to the floor. It had missed my feet by mere inches. Nirvaan had apologized, profusely. He’d not meant to fling it at me—he’d told me so—but I wasn’t convinced of his intentions, even now.

“It’s Zayaan’s doing. His company has made all the difference,” I answered, gently pulling her gnarled, achy fingers the way she liked it.

Ba snorted, a shrewd glimmer in her eyes. “And the trouble you went to in convincing that rascal husband of yours to continue his treatments is not the reason? Waiting on him hand and foot, following him about the globe in his mad race against time, is not the reason? Don’t sell yourself short, girl.”

“I’m not doing anything a wife wouldn’t do. And his anger isn’t—wasn’t unjustified, was it?”

Ba snorted again, and I had to smile.

“All right, I won’t sell myself short,” I said.

“Good. Now, go. I need a rest before my date with that other rascal.”

So, I left Nirvaan’s pistol of a grandmother to nap and went in search of his mother with the scent of sandalwood incense clinging to my clothes and laughter curving my lips.

The Desai household became the communal hub for the weekend.

Besides the twenty immediate family members actually living in the house—Nirvaan’s parents, Ba, Nisha’s family, the three of us, my father-in-law’s sister’s family who’d flown in from Surat, not to discount the housekeeper and her husband and extra hired staff for the party—a good chunk of the invitees kept dropping in and out for various reasons. Good thing my in-laws’ sprawling 15,000-square-foot mansion had been built with large families in mind.

The township of Irvine was located several miles south of LA, and though independently run, it was considered part of its greater metropolitan area. We lived in the Northwood village of Irvine on roughly two acres of flat land with the Santa Ana Mountains at our back. Right now, the back garden was stockpiled with tables and chairs and deflated tents.

Nirvaan and I had our own suite of rooms in a secluded wing with a private entrance in and out of the house. Even so, my in-laws had warned the guests to keep away, and though the rest of the house was treated like Grand Central Station, no one barged in on us all through the weekend—except for Nikita and Armaan, Nirvaan’s niece and nephew. Not that Nirvaan or I would’ve minded the invasion of our privacy during the festivities, but he had before when he was sick. He’d abhorred the constant stream of well-meaning visitors who dropped in at any odd hour to ask after his health. It was how close-knit large communities functioned, and Nirvaan had loved the unsolicited attention, even while hating the prattle that had gone with it.

It was one of the reasons we’d moved to Carmel after our year of globe-trotting. The American-Gujarati community hadn’t yet sunk its talons into the Monterey Bay area—at least, not residentially. No one could just drop in for tea and
maal-mishtan
. They’d have to make a special trip to come see us.

On Friday afternoon, after a grueling group
garba
dance practice, I wasn’t quick enough to slip out with the guys, and I found myself caught in the net of some gossipy young women.

“Simeen, come sit with us. It’s been ages since we spoke to you,
yaar
,” said Dipti, one of Nirvaan’s cousins.