My Last Love Story by Falguni Kothari Page A

wife’s hand when her uterus was being examined—especially when the checkup was solely due to his whims and wishes.
    Zayaan seemed to have developed a fascination with the car’s key fob, refusing to look at either one of us during this dialogue. His ears had turned red though. I knew if I touched his lobes, they’d be hot. They always grew hot and red when he was angry or embarrassed.
    Without further ado, Zayaan and I got going, leaving Nirvaan to his NyQuil daze. I pulled up the clinic’s address on the GPS and turned the satellite radio to a top-hits station, raising the volume high to deter conversation. I didn’t want to talk about this. I was too busy fostering my anger and martyrdom into Hurricane Level 5.
    Zayaan gave me a good ten minutes to cool off before he turned the volume down. “If you’re this against having a child, why don’t you tell him to piss off?” He sounded well and truly aggravated.
    Not a pleasant sensation, was it, to have your arm twisted behind your back?
    “Why haven’t you?” I asked calmly, staring out the window.
    It was a lovely sunny day, crisp with light and a mild breeze and a potential for joie de vivre.
    “Nirvaan didn’t want you to drive back alone. You’ll be light-headed…maybe have cramps?” Now, he sounded doubtful.
    The question also confirmed that Nirvaan had discussed some things with him…private things. And I did not like it.
    I hoped my expression was as serious as a heart attack when I looked at Zayaan. “I meant, why didn’t you say no when he asked you to drop everything and come live with us? Why didn’t you refuse to raise his child for him? How do you propose to do that? You live in London. And what makes you think I’ll allow it or even want it? We have nothing in common. Not anymore. Why make this more difficult than it already is?” Why don’t you just say no, so I don’t have to?
    Throughout my little speech, Zayaan kept shooting me brief glances, as he couldn’t fully look at me while driving. He didn’t say a word though. Not during, not after.
    Too soon, the GPS announced we’d arrived at our destination.
    “Please drop me at the front,” I instructed when he would’ve turned into the parking lot. “ Merci beaucoup .” I tried to soften my words with horrible-sounding French. I’d been reading a lot of books on Napoleon and had now progressed—in my reading but regressed in time—to the reign of Marie Antoinette and Louis XVI, the Dauphine and Dauphin of France. Today, my head, aside from all the other rubbish, was swimming in an eighteenth-century French court.
    I couldn’t help but compare Nirvaan to Napoleon, both tenacious little plotters.
    Zayaan pulled the Jeep near a set of wide automatic doors. Of course, he replied in blemish-free French, “ Pas de problème . I’ll park and come find you.”
    I shook my head. “Nirvaan isn’t here. We don’t need to pretend, Zai. You and I both know that neither one of us wants to be here.” I got out of the car and held the door open. “I’ll be a couple of hours at least. Go away. Do something…somewhere else. I’ll call you once I’m done.”
    “Simi.” He looked confused and frustrated, en garde to argue.
    “Zai, please. I’m embarrassed enough for both of us. And I have to do this alone.” Without waiting for a reply, I shut the door and turned on my heel, walking through the automatic doors and into a waiting elevator.
    Sooner or later, I would be alone, so why not start acclimating now?

    After jumping through the familiar hoops of medical formalities at the front desk of Monterey Bay Fertility Clinic, Martha, a pudgy nurse in blue hospital dregs, guided me into an examination room with a pit stop to the restroom where I peed in a cup.
    She weighed me, took my blood pressure, and asked if there’d been any changes in my health or medications since the last time she’d seen me three days ago. “Have to ask, honey. That’s just the way it is,” said