The Unexpected Son (18 page)

“A
re you going to be all right, Mom?” Arya asked Vinita for the third time that evening as they stood in the long security-clearance line at Newark Airport.

Arya had driven Vinita to the airport and was waiting to see her off. The poor girl seemed to be obsessing over Vinita's mental condition. Arya had made it clear she wasn't exactly happy about Vinita's decision to rush to Palgaum and offer to help her hitherto unknown son.

“I'll be fine,” assured Vinita. She wasn't fine, but she couldn't tell her daughter that. It was bad enough that she'd shocked and scandalized Arya with her tale of unrequited love and mistakes from the past. Telling one's child one's darkest secrets had to be one of the most humiliating and humbling experiences in the world.

But she'd survived. They'd both survived.

Arya shook her head, dubious about Vinita's pat answer. “But Dad and you have hardly talked recently.” She was always highly sensitive to her parents' emotions. The most minor argument between Vinita and Girish used to have her crying when she was a child—so much so that Vinita and Girish had often waited until Arya was at school or in bed before they'd settled a difference of opinion.

Now Arya seemed so worried about the palpable tension between them that she had come to stay with them indefinitely—a self-appointed judge and mediator come to reestablish peace. She was an idealistic young lady who liked everyone around her to be happy. Vinita hoped her daughter wouldn't have to learn about reality the hard way. Happiness was only a state of mind, a fleeting and fragile condition that could be shattered in an instant. She prayed daily that Arya would always be content.

“Your dad's upset,” explained Vinita in response to Arya's remark. “He has every right to be.” Girish had slowly withdrawn into himself since their conversation the previous weekend. Instead of coming to terms with the bitter truth like Vinita had hoped, it seemed as though time had made the situation worse. Instead of healing the wound it had made him internalize the anguish.

Whenever she'd tried to start a conversation to clear the air, he'd been icily polite, distant. In their queen-size bed, he'd slept as far from her as he safely could. It was so contrary to their usual way of snuggling close under the covers. He hadn't touched her since that awful day.

She had watched him become quieter and quieter and, like a turtle, withdraw inside an invisible shell. And what a hard shell it was. All her knocking wasn't producing any results.

On the other hand, Arya, whom she had expected would be dismayed at hearing such staggering news about the mother who often preached morality, had been much more reasonable. Naturally she'd been agape while she had listened to Vinita. Afterwards she had asked a multitude of questions that had embarrassed Vinita. Then Arya had trudged upstairs to her room and stayed there for several hours, making Vinita wonder if she'd alienated her daughter just like she'd done Girish.

But a day later, Arya had calmed down. She had come to accept her mother's bizarre past. However, she'd gone back to her apartment briefly, packed a couple of suitcases, and moved in with them. Things between Vinita and her had settled into the old mother-daughter rhythm.

Arya had become more helpful than usual around the house, too. It could have been out of pity for her mom, or perhaps was her way of showing support. Maybe being born and raised in a tolerant and open culture like the U.S. had made Arya more accepting of character flaws, even in her own mother.

Now Arya studied Vinita carefully while the two of them moved forward a foot at a time in the snaking line of air travelers.

“But Dad's had a few days to recover from it,” Arya said, countering Vinita's argument. “Why is he still sulking like a kid? I got over it.” She rolled her eyes. “Even fuddy-duddy Rohiniattya got over it.”

Vinita wasn't so sure about Rohini. But she didn't want Arya to know about the hurtful things her aunt had said. “It's a different kind of shock for your dad,” she offered instead. “He trusted me for so many years.”

“It's not like you cheated on him or anything.”

“I suppose it could be called cheating, in a way.”

“Not revealing a secret isn't cheating, Mom,” Arya argued.

“Most Indian men are not very forgiving when it comes to something like this.”

“But Dad was married before, and you didn't make a big deal about it.”

“That's different.”

“Oh, come on…” Arya made an impatient gesture with her hand.

“He was honest about it, whereas I concealed my past. I think that's what is hurting him.”

Arya was quiet for a minute, seemingly mulling over Vinita's explanation. “So why didn't you tell him when you guys met the first time?” she asked finally.

I wish I had.
“I was ashamed of my past, honey.” Even now, just talking about it made Vinita's face feel warm with the sheer disgrace of it. “And I liked him. In those days, I wasn't a marketable commodity in the Indian marriage bazaar. I was lucky to meet your dad. He seemed like a decent guy.”

“But it's not like you did anything
after
you married him. And you were only a kid when that thing happened.”

“A naïve and stupid kid who fancied herself in love with a
lafanga.
” Vinita cracked a wry smile at Arya's valiant attempt to defend her. On some level she suspected Arya was trying to convince herself, too. How could a young adult accept the dirty fact that her strictly raised Indian mother had a sexual fling and produced an illegitimate child? It had to be inconceivable. But Arya was trying to be supportive, and Vinita was grateful for her kindness.

They shifted ahead as the line in front of them crawled forward some more. Arya was carrying Vinita's carry-on bag on her shoulder. “But at least you got over that asshole.”

Vinita shook her head. “There's a lot more to it than that. I got over that guy a long time ago, way before I met your dad. But I have a son I never knew existed. He's dying from a serious disease.”

“I can't stop thinking about it,” admitted Arya. “I have a half brother.”

“Do you resent him?” Vinita asked. An unexpected sibling would be cause for resentment to anyone, especially an only child who'd had loving, indulgent parents.

Arya shrugged. “I don't really know how I feel about him. I don't think I've absorbed it…yet.” She stared at the floor, like the answer to the puzzle lay in the speckled design of the floor tiles. “You think I'll ever get to meet him?” she asked, looking at Vinita.

“I doubt it. He probably hates me. I don't know of any adopted children who think fondly of mothers who give them away.”

“But you didn't give him away. Vishal-mama and Ajjoba and Ajji did.”

“You think Rohit understands that?”

“Maybe not.” Arya's eyes clouded up again. “You're sure you want to do this, Mom, donating bone marrow and all that?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You hardly know the guy.”

“The
guy
is my son,” Vinita reminded her gently.

“Could be dangerous for you.”

“I'm quite healthy, dear. There's no danger to me. But it's risky for him.” Despite what she wanted to do for him, she wasn't sure if she'd be considered a suitable donor. Hers had been an impulsive decision, without talking to her doctor or to anyone in the medical field. Overwhelmed by the discovery that she had a son, and he was dying, she had jumped into it with both feet.

“Are you nervous…about meeting him, I mean?” Arya asked with a curious tilt of her head.

“I'm scared stiff,” Vinita confessed. She'd been praying that she could at least get there in time to see him—one glimpse of her child. If she could have more than that, she'd be beyond grateful.

As they approached the barrier beyond which only ticket holders were allowed, Arya gave her a long, tight hug. “Have a safe trip. Call me when you get there, okay?” She sniffed, trying without much success to keep her emotions under control.

“I will.”

“Would you like me to come to India if…the bone marrow thing happens?”

“No.” Vinita patted Arya's cheek. “Stay here and keep your dad company.” She had to do this alone. Dragging Arya or Girish into her personal mess was the last thing she wanted. This was her problem. Hers alone.

“Mom, this is serious. How can you brush it off? I'm worried about you.”

“I know, honey.” Vinita ignored the lump ballooning in her throat. “I'm sorry to put you through this.” She touched Arya's face again, memorizing the petal smoothness of the beloved skin. “Try not to worry too much.”

“Fine,” grumbled Arya. “But call me if you change your mind.”

“I'd rather you take care of your dad.” Vinita was more than worried about him. She'd never known Girish to stay angry at her for more than a few minutes. But then, they'd never had any serious arguments in all these years. He'd looked positively defeated these past few days. She'd managed to bring down a good man, a kind man with a temperate personality. “Make sure he takes his blood pressure medication regularly, all right?”

“Don't worry. I'll keep an eye on Dad after he comes back from his trip.” Arya handed her the zippered tote bag with its airline tag attached to the shoulder strap. Then she stepped aside to let a ticket-holding passenger take her place in the line.

“Bye, honey.” Vinita took the bag and fished out her ticket and passport for the security guards. It was going to be a long flight to India. She had no idea what awaited her there.

Turning around, she sent a reassuring smile to Arya, who was still standing just outside the barricade, staring at her. She had the same expression she'd worn after Vinita had dropped her off at her first day of preschool: scared, lost, and on the verge of tears, right down to the quivering lower lip. This time Mom was going away for three long months.

Quickly reining in her own urge to weep, Vinita raised a hand and motioned to her daughter to go home. Then she lost sight of Arya as the crowd swallowed her up.

Within minutes, Vinita was placing her bags and shoes on the conveyor belt rattling through the X-ray machine. Then she collected her belongings and dragged herself down the lengthy corridor toward her assigned gate.

As she sat staring out the bank of windows at the planes landing and taking off, she wondered if all this was a mistake. What if she'd trashed the anonymous letter and gone on with her life? Would she have been any happier? Would conflict have consumed every minute of her life as she thought about a young man who was dying—and about whose son he really was?

She realized she'd never have been able to ignore the letter and live with herself. For the rest of her life she would have questioned her actions. She was curious by nature, analytical, a woman who disliked unsolved puzzles and mysteries. But she also believed in fate. And fate had decided to reveal some deep secrets at this moment, for a reason.

A half hour later, before boarding the plane, she tried one last time to reach Girish on his cell phone, but all she got was his voice mail. So she left him a message, yet again. “Girish, I'll be boarding in a few minutes. Call me back, please. I know you're upset, but please say something, dear…anything.” She waited a beat before she added. “I love you.”

If something happened to her, like a plane crash or hijacking or something, at least he'd know that she loved him. More than she'd loved any man.

V
inita turned accusing eyes on her brother the instant she settled in the chair. “You remember your words to me thirty years ago, Vishal?”

“Um-hmm,” he conceded.

“You promised to take care of my child if I died.”

“And I kept my promise,” Vishal replied testily as he stood before her, arms folded across his broad chest.

“By giving him away?” she challenged.

Vishal and Vinita were in his home office, arguing. Vishal chose to call it a discussion. Vinita's long journey to Palgaum via Delhi and Goa had taken some thirty hours. Her eyes felt gritty and she needed some rest, but she had to talk things over with her brother first.

“You didn't die,” he reminded her.

“Well, pardon me,” she sniffed. “Since I didn't die and neither did he,
I
should have been the one to raise him. He was mine.”

Temper sparked in Vishal's eyes. They resembled her late father's so much that Vinita had to suck in a sharp breath to ignore the intimidation swirling in their dark depths. “Raised him, Vini?” His voice rose. “How? What were you going to give that boy?”

“I would have worked hard to feed and clothe him.”

“Who would have taken care of him while you worked? Had you thought of that? Papa and Mummy certainly couldn't stay involved in your life once you decided to keep that child. You'd probably have ended up in some big city so you could remain anonymous.”

She gnawed on her lower lip. “I—I would have managed…somehow.”

“How, damn it?” He raked impatient fingers through his luxuriant, graying hair. “You were so bloody convinced that a nineteen-year-old could work and study and raise a child, you were totally blind to the obstacles. Did you ever stop to think that your lack of foresight would mean a miserable life for your child?”

“That's not fair—”

“Mummy and I tried to point that out,” he reminded her. “But did you listen? No, you wanted to play the martyr…the victimized heroine in a Hindi movie.”

“I was never a drama queen,” she shot back, offended by his choice of metaphors.

“Yes, you were,” he insisted. “You wanted to thrust that child in Kori's face and prove to him that you didn't need him—that you could survive. It was your pawn, your way of getting even with him.”

“No!”

“You were determined to make him feel guilty. Of course you didn't know at the time that he doesn't have a conscience.” Vishal pointed a large finger at her, a vastly familiar gesture. “Is that what you wanted for your child? Bare survival?”

“I—I'm…” She knew he was right. At the moment, as a sensible middle-aged woman, she could look at it a little more objectively. Maybe she had been trying to prove a point by playing the sacrificial victim. No matter what her reasons, she'd have had difficulty surviving, let alone caring for a child.

Vishal must have seen the brief spark of comprehension in her eyes. “You see why we did what we did? Instead of merely surviving, that boy was raised in a good family with good values.”

“They're still strangers.”

“Will you just listen to me?” His scowl turned fiercer than ever. “His parents may not be wealthy, but they're comfortable. The father worked as an engineer until he retired. The boy went to college, even got a PhD in chemistry. He's very bright. He teaches chemistry in college.”

“A professor?” she asked, intrigued.

With an almost gleeful nod, Vishal confirmed it. “Would
you
have been able to educate him and make him a professor?”

Most likely not,
she conceded silently. But chemistry? She with her statistics and accounting background, along with the not-too-bright Kori, had produced a son who had excelled in chemistry? How interesting. She stared at Vishal. “How do you know all this?”

He began to pace the room. Even the way he strode back and forth, with his hands clasped behind his back, was reminiscent of their father's habits. Dressed in conservative brown pants and a white shirt, the resemblance between father and son was remarkable. The only thing different was Vishal's thick hair. That he'd inherited from their mother.

“The adoptive parents are relatives of Ram's nurse,” Vishal answered finally. “A childless couple.”

The nurse. Jaya-bai. Something clicked in Vinita's brain. The anonymous letter writer? The
well-wisher?
It had to be that woman. Who else could it be? But that wasn't so crucial at the moment. “Where in Bombay does my son live, anyway?”

Again Vishal took his time responding. “He doesn't live in Bombay.”

“Then where?”

“He was raised in Palgaum. He teaches in Palgaum.”

Her eyes widened. “He lives in
this
town?”

“Yes.”

“Oh my God!” All these years he'd been living here. Ever since she'd heard about him, she'd assumed he had been adopted by someone in Bombay, maybe because he was born there. Anywhere but this town. “And you never once thought to tell me.”

“How could I?”

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Convenient, isn't it? That Jaya
happened
to have relatives in our town? And they
happened
to be childless?” When he didn't respond, her jaw tightened. “I want the whole truth this time.” Her clever brother had somehow manipulated her life and her son's. Again.

Vishal shut his eyes for an instant, as if to muster strength. “I wanted to make sure the boy went to a good family…had a good life.”

“Very kind of you, I'm sure. But why?”

He hesitated. “Because he's your…uh…my—”

“Nephew,” she interjected. “Still ashamed to say the word, Vishal?”

“Don't assume things,” he warned her. “I had his best interests at heart.”

“So you handpicked a family that lives here?” Something inside her tightly wound stomach eased a little, warmed even. Despite all that macho bluster and careful reference to her son as
the boy,
her brother obviously cared a little about his nephew. Why else would he go to such lengths to secure
the boy's
future?

“Not exactly. But I mentioned my concerns to Ram. He discussed it with his nurse. Her niece was childless after many years of marriage and Jaya-bai thought the niece and her husband might be able to give him a good home.”

“Convenient,” Vinita repeated.

“For your information, they had no plans to adopt. Jaya-bai convinced them to do it.”

“Why?”

“Because he was a healthy and good-looking baby boy, something most people in our culture value very much.” He sounded exasperated by her endless questioning. “And her niece couldn't have children after years of trying. It was a good match.”

Vinita digested that for a minute. Her baby had been born healthy, good-looking. The sad fact was that the healthy little boy wasn't so healthy anymore. He was deathly ill. And Vishal's explanation still sounded a little too contrived.

“Why is my son receiving treatment in Palgaum when he could get better care in a big city?”

“You'll be surprised at the quality of health care in our town. Palgaum has grown big in the last decade. Some U.S.-trained doctors have set up a modern hospital that offers almost everything your American hospitals do.”

That was easy enough to believe. Many foreign-trained Indian medical professionals had returned to India to start state-of-the-art medical care facilities. “Do you see Rohit at all?”

He nodded, almost grudgingly. “From a distance. I see him here and there, on his motorcycle. Of course, he doesn't know who I am—at least not my relationship to him.”

Vinita considered the irony of it. Her son had been right under her nose when she'd visited Palgaum a number of times in the past. And she'd never known. She would have given anything to see him, if only from afar.

Was it possible that she could have seen him over the years, as a stranger? He could have been any one of the little boys at the ice cream shop, or the teenagers browsing through videos in the electronics store or, more recently, one of the young men riding motorbikes around town. And to think she'd never recognized him. Wasn't there supposed to be instinctive radar in every mother?

She sat in silence for a minute, looking over the room. The office boasted a modern desk and leather swivel chair, a computer, and two guest chairs, one of which Vinita was sitting in. A compact-disc player sat atop a small table in the corner.

Their old home had been expanded, with two more bedrooms and a bathroom added on, and the kitchen and drawing room upgraded. Vishal's new home office was what used to be the old master bedroom.

Vishal had taken over their father's business and made a huge success of it. He had several employees on his payroll, and a bigger, trendier office in town. Shelke & Son was renamed Shelke Financial Solutions. It was no longer just a modest accounting outfit offering income tax preparation services. It was now a financial consulting firm, with a large and wealthy clientele. As the town had gradually expanded in size and degree of sophistication, so had Vishal's business.

Vishal was living his lifelong dream. Their father would have been proud of his only son if he hadn't succumbed to that heart attack at sixty-nine.

Notwithstanding his achievements, Vishal was a first-class liar. Her temper climbed again. He'd been lying to her all along. They had all been lying to her—her brother, mother, her late father, the doctor, his nurse. God knows who else was party to the elaborate hoax.

She'd been kept in the dark by the very people she'd loved and trusted. And the fact that they'd all conspired behind her back stung like hell. She'd heard all the explanations from Vishal and the family by now, about protecting her and her marriage, but she was still enraged about their deceit.

No matter how much they loved her and wanted to shield her from the harsh repercussions of her follies, they had no right to keep the truth from her.

But now, despite all the running and hiding she'd done for twenty-five years, her past had managed to catch up with her—a past she was neither proud of nor liked to recall. All the filth she had supposedly buried deep was now unearthed. And the stench was hard to stomach.

She, the woman who'd thought there could be nothing more devastating than what had happened to her as a teenager, was now struck by a second bolt of lightning. Whoever had made up the adage about lightning never striking twice was mistaken.

“Vishal, tell me something,” she said, posing a question she'd been grappling with for days. “When I ended up having to undergo a C-section, it became a convenience for you and Papa and Mummy. What would you have done if Rohit was born naturally? You couldn't very well have told me my child was dead.”

Vishal's cheeks flushed and his nostrils flared—a sign of extreme discomfort. “We would still have tried to convince you to give him up for adoption.”

She quirked an eyebrow at him. “And if I didn't?”

“We wouldn't be having this conversation now, would we?” he said very simply.

His calm reply only served to make her blood boil more furiously. Perhaps because he was right. And so damn sanctimonious. But she had to set aside her bitter rage over something that happened ages ago and move forward. She stared at her hands, willed them to stop shaking.

She was here for a reason. And she needed to focus on
that.

Finally she looked up. “What does he look like?”

Vishal's eyes warmed. “Nice-looking boy. Not as tall as Kori, but looks a bit like him.”

“He looks like Som?” Had he inherited that same dangerous sex appeal from his father? Was he a lady-killer and heartless philanderer like Som? She hoped not.

“I think he has your nose, but the shape of his face and eyes are like the father's.” Vishal shrugged. “You'll see for yourself, since you insist on meeting him.”

Good Lord, her son had those unusual golden eyes? Captivating feline eyes. Could the whole town have guessed his connection to Som? She turned her attention back to Vishal. “Did you know about his illness, or is that something you chose to hide from me as well?”

“I had no idea he was sick. I swear, Vini. He looked healthy enough.”

“Hmm,” she allowed with a grunt. “Do his parents know about me? That you're his uncle?”

“They do now,” he said after a long pause. “The Barves and I knew of each other, but I formally introduced myself to the family for the first time after you called to tell me you were planning to do
this.
” He made an impatient gesture with his hand—probably to mean her insane impulsiveness. “I was forced to tell them…everything.”

Barve. Her son's official name was Rohit Barve. She rolled it around in her mind, tested it for sound.
Ro-hith Burr-vay
. “What did they say?”

“What do you think?” He lifted a cynical brow. “All they had been told was that the biological mother was a young, unmarried girl from a good family.”

She studied her hands. “Some of it is true. The young girl from a good family part.”

He came to sit in the chair beside hers. “You know how difficult it was to broach the subject to those people? After all these years, to show up at their door as their son's long-lost uncle?”

“I'm sure it was awkward.”

“Try mortifying. They thought I was a lunatic. They were almost ready to throw me out of their house. Until some days ago they knew me only as Vishal Shelke, chartered accountant and businessman.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose, wishing her brother hadn't had to suffer such humiliation on her account. “I'm sorry.” It seemed like the word
sorry
was firmly entrenched in her vocabulary. But then she was in the habit of bringing grief to everyone around her.