As her thoughts tumbled around her, she saw him. Standing in a camel-colored trench coat that she had commissioned from their local tailor several years ago, shifting his weight from right to left while his eyes searched for her face. He was no more than ten meters away from her. Gray hairs dotted his temples, standing out against his jet-black hair. He looked skinnier and frailer than she remembered. Her husband. She saw the faintest glimmer of hope in his expression, which otherwise reeked of doubt. He held an envelope the size of a flat sheet of paper, and she wondered what it contained. She also saw the thick gold wedding band he still wore on his ring finger. She had left hers behind on their dresser the day she walked out of their house and out of his life.
A lump formed in her throat, and part of her wanted to go to him, but her legs felt as though they were cemented to the ground. She watched him scanning the crowd for what seemed like an eternity.
“Did you want to order something?” the crêpe vendor asked her with his nose in the air, clearly suggesting she should move away from him if the answer was no.
“Désolée,” she said without taking her eyes off Rajiv and backing away from the cart to another place where she could still see him without being seen. Night fell as the hours passed, and it would have been even more impossible for Rajiv to have found her then, but he remained in place. The lights on the Eiffel Tower sputtered on, and revelers began photographing the monument again in a flurry. Rajiv pulled his coat more tightly around himself as the temperature dropped.
Rajiv was a man who had done nothing but care for and try to protect her. He represented honor and dignity, both of which she felt she no longer had. She remembered how young and innocent he had seemed—they both had seemed—on their wedding day. She had been twenty-three, and he had been twenty-five. Two kids who hardly knew each other or the ways of the world, about to embark on a life together. The concept was crazy. She’d always wished her culture permitted dating and allowed people to form genuine connections before marriage. Having had that experience with Mathieu, she knew one thing for sure—she would never marry him. She knew enough to know that he would never make a good husband. Perhaps if she had dated Rajiv and seen his kindness before she had become his wife, she would have felt more like it was her choice—like she was less trapped. Perhaps none of this would have happened, and they would have lived happily ever after, and the baby growing inside of her now would have been Rajiv’s—the long-anticipated sibling to Sophie that he had dreamed of. She shook her head free of the thoughts because that was not how life had worked out and there was no sense in pretending as if it had.
It was not until eight thirty, after over three hours of Rajiv standing in place and Nita watching from a distance, that Nita saw him move and sit on the raised cement blocks encompassing a small garden area. His shoulders slumped, and he stared at the envelope. He occasionally looked up and scanned the crowd, but Nita maintained her cover and watched from a distance. At ten thirty, he stood and started walking in the direction of the crêpe cart and her. Nita’s pulse quickened, and she turned her back to him and slunk behind a group of tourists. He crossed no more than two meters away from her, and she could smell the talcum powder and almond oil that he used every day. She inhaled deeply. Even after this much time had passed, she knew the scent of her husband. It had not changed, even though she had. She stood and watched him walk away for several moments before turning and heading in the other direction, wrapping her arms tightly around herself to brace against the cold wind blowing against her.
“Where have you been so late?” Mathieu asked her when she walked into their apartment that night.
Mathieu was lying on the couch, a book propped open and resting against his chest. Nita crossed the room to join him, picking up his feet and sliding under them before placing them on her lap. It was an intimate gesture. One she’d never done with Rajiv and hadn’t seen any wives do with their husbands in India.
“We need to talk about something.”
Mathieu sat upright, worry crossing his face. He seemed perpetually afraid she was going to leave again anytime her mood was different. “Is something wrong?”
She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath, then released it slowly. Without looking at him, she said, “I’m pregnant.”
She felt his legs tense on her lap. After a moment, he yanked them off of her and knelt on the sofa next to her, grabbing her shoulders and turning her toward him.
“Tu es s?re?” Are you sure?
She nodded.
His face broke into a huge grin, and he kissed her passionately. “This is good news! Mais non. This is great news!”
She forced a smile, not sure she agreed but trying not to spoil his moment.
He leaped off the couch and clapped his hands, pacing frantically around the room as if not sure where to go or what to do.
“We must celebrate!” He grabbed a bottle of champagne from the fridge and held it up victoriously. He popped the cork and filled two flutes with the bubbly liquid. He handed her one and then paused. “We will get married?” He asked it matter-of-factly, as if he were asking her if she planned to paint tomorrow, not revealing if he were leaning one way or another.
Nita panicked at the thought. “No, we don’t need to do that.”
“Okay,” he said, raising his glass to meet hers. “We don’t get married.” He smiled again, his blue eyes shimmering. “But we have a baby. Beautiful baby.” His eyes widened. “Baby boy, like me!” His voice was childlike as he said it. Then he shook his head and took her hand. “No, beautiful girl like you, ma belle.”
In France, marriage wasn’t a prerequisite to having children the same way it was in India. Several of Mathieu’s friends had had children out of marriage and continued living together as they had before. She could hardly believe she and Mathieu were about to join that club.
Nita looked at her stomach, and Mathieu put his hand gently against it as if he were afraid too much pressure would break the baby.
“Yes,” she said. “We will have a baby.”
Gnawing at the back of her mind as she said “we” was whether the baby was even Mathieu’s to begin with. But it no longer mattered. In this moment with Mathieu, she had decided the baby was his, and now it had to be. She knew she was tainted with a darkness that affected everyone she was close to, so she could not bring Simon further into that fold. He would be a great father and husband, and he should have that choice, with ?lise or anyone else he deemed worthy. Nita could not burden his future with her mistakes. She and Mathieu were having a baby.
43
SOPHIE
2019
Sophie and Manoj follow Dao through a cramped passageway leading to a tiny office that has papers littered over every flat surface, some coated with what looks like years of dust.
“Sorry, it’s not the tidiest office. Filing has never been my forte,” Dao says.
She moves some papers off two bistro chairs across from the desk so Sophie and Manoj can sit. She then moves some items off the desk chair and sinks onto it like a rock. She holds Sophie with her gaze as if she is afraid to drop her.
“So, Nita had a daughter,” she says, finally. “How old are you?”