I had the odd feeling that she was in love with the man I should have been.
I poured myself a large glass of wine and gulped it down to wash away all the questions.
When dinner was ready, I went into the bedroom to tell Nisha. She was lying on her back on the bed with her eyes closed.
‘Are you asleep?’ I whispered.
She shook her head. I sat beside her on the bed.
‘In one story,’ she said, ‘a married couple ask the Buddha how they can remain together in this life and be together in future lives as well. The Buddha said, “If both husband and wife wish to see one another not only in this present life but also in future lives, they should have the same virtuous behaviour, the same generosity, the same wisdom.” I know you’re not my husband but if we want to stay together we have to try and be on the same . . .’ She hesitated, wincing.
‘What’s wrong?’ I said
‘It hurts.’
‘Where?’
She took my hand and placed it low on her stomach, close to her pelvis, in exactly the same location she had placed my hand two weeks before. I leaned down and kissed her just below her belly-button. When I sat up, I noticed that blood was leaking from beneath her body onto the white sheets.
Either she saw the expression on my face, or she felt the dampness on her skin, for Nisha jumped from the bed and looked down at the covers. I noticed in that moment that the back of her dress was soaked and blood was trickling down her leg.
Trying to keep my hands from shaking, I called my doctor’s emergency number to request a home visit. Nisha had made her way to the bathroom and was sitting on the toilet with the door open.
Her face was red and bloated with pain, drenched knickers around her ankles, streaks of red on her thighs. She was mumbling, saying something to me that I couldn’t understand.
I sat down beside her and took her hand; she held it tight, as if she were about to fall from a cliff. Her words became more audible: she was repeating something in Sinhalese, maybe a prayer.
I couldn’t move or speak, I just held her hand to stop her from falling into the black abyss that had opened up before us.
Dr Pantelis arrived silently: I saw only the headlights of his car distorted through the privacy glass of the bathroom window. I tried to release my hand from Nisha’s so that I could open the door for him, but she wouldn’t let go.
‘Can you get up?’ I asked.
She nodded and stood, slowly and with great effort. She held on to me as we made our way to the front door. By this time Dr Pantelis had come up the stairs. He took charge immediately, swiftly and professionally. Only then did Nisha allow her hand to loosen from mine. He asked me to fetch a chair. I did so. My next task was to get a glass of water. I did that too. Meanwhile, he had opened his bag on the floor and checked her blood pressure and oxygen levels, her heart rate and pupils. He then gave her a small canister of oxygen to hold over her mouth.
Once she started breathing into it, I could see her shoulders relaxing. She glanced at me over the mask and I knew what her eyes were saying.
The doctor and I lifted her onto the bed and I tucked the covers around her. Then, at his request, I led him into the bathroom as he wanted to see what had come out of her body.
He looked into the toilet bowl.
‘I’m afraid she has lost the baby,’ he said, bluntly, but with a softness to his voice that made me want to break down and cry.
I swallowed hard. ‘What can I do?’
‘Make sure you keep giving her oxygen through the night. Stay with her. If you find she bleeds again and it doesn’t stop, you may need to take her to the hospital. But for the time being she is fine to stay here.’
I stayed by her side all night. I peeled her out of her wet clothes, helped her into one of my T-shirts and sat by her side. We did all this without speaking. She wanted me to hold her hand so she could sleep.
‘How are you doing?’ I would say, whenever I saw her eyes flicker open.
‘Yes, I’m doing OK.’
Beyond the glass doors of my bedroom, I could hear murmurs from the people passing in the street, the barking of a dog, the wheels of a car, footsteps, clattering plates at Theo’s. It all seemed miles away. I was in between worlds: behind me was a road that reached a dead end and would never now open up; a child that would not come into existence. Yet, I could see him or her, a half-formed shadow with Nisha’s bright eyes. Maybe I’d been too hasty. I’d made too many plans. I had been too sure of myself. This unloving child was so real to me. It filled the cocoon in which I sat and Nisha slept, like the light from the sun and the song of the birds that came through the window that morning.