: Chapter 11

There were a few exciting things to look forward to at mandir the next night: family, food, and friends. I lost one of the latter before even setting foot inside the magnificent marble building.

: Bad news, babe! I literally just started my period. Won’t be there tonight!

: I really don’t understand or agree with the archaic belief that menstruating women are unclean and have to stay away from worship.

Same. But I can’t, in good conscience, go and touch anything. Sorry! We’ll catch up soon! When I don’t feel like I’m dying…

: Godspeed in your battle with Crampus.

Ugh. Why was the blood of new life considered unclean?

I searched for my parents but instead spotted my aunts near the tables and went to them. It was rude not to greet them once in a while.

I approached while their backs were turned to me, swallowed by the crowd in the usual frenzy just before the program started. They spoke with two other aunties.

Kanti Foi said to them, “My bhai told me that Preeti’s marriage has been nakkee to someone.”

The aunties nodded with interest. Really, Papa? I hadn’t even told my friends about an impending engagement with Yuvan, and here he’d let it slip to his sisters. I expected happiness from them, but their next words had my smile slipping off my face like melting ice cream.

Jiya Foi added, “Smart young man. Yuvan. He’s here today. Does he even know?”

Kanti Foi clucked her tongue. “Surely he must not know about her past, otherwise why would he want to marry her? He seems like a good boy, religious, good family. Poor thing, getting someone so defiled as a wife.”

“No surprise to her behavior. Just look at her parents. I tell you, I don’t know what went wrong with my bhai, but there’s the proof. Kids reflect their parents, no?”

“She doesn’t observe anything at mandir, she eats meat and drinks, and she dated an American boy. I just wouldn’t be able to show my face in public if my child behaved that way. Sharam nathi?”

The aunties agreed with a . I had no shame, huh?

Let’s not forget Kanti Foi’s daughter, who had been sleeping with her soon-to-be fiancé since high school, if my fois really wanted to judge a woman based on her virginity.

Sometimes my aunts made me feel like a little kid, all giddy to see them and nostalgic over memories of them feeding me and letting me sleep over with my cousins. But then there were moments like this that reminded me of why we had distanced ourselves so far from my dad’s side of the family. Papa was a giant bear of a sweetheart, so kind and warm, and it was a mystery how these vipers were related to him.

It was easy to believe one could simply speak up. Speaking out was a basic right, but one stifled by traditional etiquette. When they did this right in front of me, my anger sparked and suddenly I wasn’t the “well-behaved Indian woman” I had been taught to be. Which probably shouldn’t matter because, according to my aunts, I wasn’t well behaved in the first place.

The thing about standing up to your elders in a culture where such a thing was considered a sin was that it caused rifts and feuds and dissonance. All while villainizing the youth who spoke up and protecting the elders, no matter what they said or did. Respect was valued, but it could be lost.

I marched the last several feet toward them. My aunts startled when they saw me and tried to play their comments off with forced smiles. I felt my RBF weighing down my expression as the aunties around us faltered and turned quiet, dismissing their own fake smiles. This passivity would turn into biting words behind my back later.

I’d already confronted my aunts many times over, despite my parents’ disapproval, as my parents believed the “grown-ups” should deal with one another and leave the kids out of messes. But I had stopped being a kid when my aunts had dragged me into a war over my relationship with Daniel and had put my mother in the hospital. I had battle scars and armor now.

They had once spat venom to my face. But the thing about them going up against a woman who’d learned to be stronger was that my aunts sure hadn’t said anything to me since.

“Were you saying something?” I asked curtly.

“Oh! Preeti! No, nothing,” Kanti Foi replied.

“Oh, good. Because we wouldn’t want the Sunday school teacher to be hypocritical,” I said in a cheery voice. Then my voice dropped to a level, heated tone that Liya had once said intimidated even her. It came from the pit of my being, curling like flames at the back of my throat. It arose from the early months of my departure from Daniel and what my aunts had done, sprouting as anger and evolving into righteous indignation. “

mention Daniel again. Period. Don’t talk about me like I’m worthless, coming from you of all people. And don’t speak about my parents like that.”

Turning to the aunties, I added, “I can’t care if you think I’m being rude, because this is a circle of toxicity. Shame on you, too, for adding to the cycle. I hope you’re aware that my fois say similar things about your daughters, so stay in this hot mess if you want, but keep me and my family out of it.”

“Preeti!” Kanti Foi objected, but I wasn’t here for this.

“Have a blessed session,” I told her. “We’ll be discussing the importance of truth and kindness, and how those who act pious but behave against the basic teachings are much loathed in His eyes for causing undue distress among His followers.”

At this, she blinked repeatedly at me, baffled and thwarted.

I huffed and pivoted on my heels, marching away from them. I just couldn’t wrap my head around malicious people. They all the time. And everyone knew they were lying! They preached sermons from such high and mighty pedestals and then spoke so unkindly of others. Everyone could see their hypocrisy! Yet they wielded a huge platform. Maybe some people were inherently bad and wanted drama.

“Preeti!” Yuvan called from the doorway, waving me over.

I met him where the crowds parted; females on one side and males on the other.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Huh?” I asked, distracted with thinking that everyone in the near vicinity had been swept up in my aunts’ tales.

“You look upset.”

I shook my head. “It’s nothing.”

“Don’t do that. Tell me if something’s wrong, even if you think you’re overreacting.”

“Why would you assume I’m overreacting about something?”

“What’s wrong, then?” He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms, the fabric of his baby-blue kurta stretched across his biceps.

I blinked a few times and looked over my shoulder to where my fois rattled on and on about whatever nonsense with a captive audience. “My aunts are talking crap is all.”

“What’re they saying?”

I made sure no one was close enough to hear when I replied, “They’re gossiping about my past relationship and how you must not know about it if you’re considering marrying me.”

“Do you want me to talk to them?”

“No!”

“Because I will if this is bothering you. I don’t care what anyone says because I already know the story. My family and I are over that. It’s not ideal, but it happened and it’s in the past,” he said a little too casually, even lackadaisically.

“I hate how they twist everything to make my parents look like horrible people.”

“You have to get over it. You can’t get defensive over every little thing.”

I glared at him and enunciated my words when I replied, “Little? You think them saying I’m a slut and ruined for any man and then calling my parents a disgrace to the community and unworthy of basic respect is a ?”

“I didn’t mean that.”

“You did.”

“Don’t get defensive, and don’t take it out on me. You knew this type of thing happens around here when you decided to be in a relationship with some Black guy.”

I stuttered over my thoughts. My lips had parted, but words couldn’t form on the tip of my tongue, at least nothing that wasn’t ragey.

“Wait—” He reached out for me but I stepped back.

“Don’t say you didn’t mean it that way, because we both know you say what you mean.”

He sighed and then rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“Am I exasperating you?” I scowled.

“Don’t turn this into a fight.”

“Does it bother you that I was with someone else?”

“A little, but not enough that I don’t want to marry you.”

“Does it bother you that I won’t let you touch me?”

“Yes. I don’t understand why you shrug off my arm when we’re posing for a picture or step back from a hug or holding hands. I can’t even sit close to you without you getting up. Those are things people do. But what bothers me the most is that I know you don’t mind being touched by the right person. Your parents hug you all the time. You hug your friends. You’ve obviously been intimate with someone. What is it about me that you can’t stand being touched?”

I bit my lip. That was the golden question. I’d started dating Yuvan because he’d been okay about my past, seemed like a good person for me, and my parents liked him. But six months of trying to accept his touch hadn’t led to much progress. I thought it was my touch aversion being random, that I just needed to get comfortable. But a few accidental touches from Daniel, and I wanted more. This was all wrong. Nothing aligned.

He shook his head, dismissing his own question. “Come on. Let’s talk about this later? The program is about to start.”

Every muscle in my body turned so rigid, my joints ached. My breathing escalated into pants as the tendrils of anxiety prodded for a way into my brain. The physical tension that came with keeping things bottled inside was like a spring coiling tighter and tighter, until it was too taut. Sometimes everything came rushing out in an angry, annoyed, garbled mess. Sometimes only a few things slipped.

I didn’t even think about the words, but they were honest and came out in the bluntest way, and saying them relieved so much of the tension, the wrongness of it all. “Yuvan. You’re right. Something wrong if I can’t stand your touch. I need time and space to reevaluate.”

He creased his brows. “Wait. What are you saying?” He took a step toward me, closing the space between us, his eyes scanning others around us. “Are you breaking things off because we had a fight?”

Anxiety wasn’t going to take me down today. Instead of hemming and hawing and forcing myself to move forward with the pressure of what felt like the entire world on me, I hit the brakes on thinking and let my heart push out the words. A gush of terror, relief, honesty. “I need time for me, and a break from us, or the potential of us, or whatever the crap we are.”

Someone called Yuvan over into the room behind him.

“Looks like they need you.”

He looked back, pleading with the guy for another minute. In the end, he said to me, “I’ll talk to you later about this, okay?”

I guffawed. Seriously? Well, I knew where I stood on the ladder of his priorities, and apparently the rung of mandir duties was higher than his potential future fiancée slamming the brakes.

“You just need time to calm down,” he insisted.

“Calm down?” I fumed. Maybe it was the residual anger over my aunts. Perhaps it was his casual and dismissive reaction to all of this, or the buildup of everything that was glaringly wrong with our lack of connection. Whatever it was, if not all of it, had just toppled over with being told to simply . “All right. This isn’t going to work between us. You don’t understand me, or aren’t trying to, and I feel like you’re trying to fit me into a neat little box of expectations when I’ll never fit. I’m trying to make this feel right when it doesn’t. You’d better go. The uncles are calling for you now.”

He looked over his shoulder and huffed as if he wanted to stay and talk it through, but in the end, he scratched his head in disbelief and went into the adjacent room with the other men, while I found my place beside Mummie and her friends.

I trembled, realizing what I’d just done. And that now I’d have to break my parents’ hearts all over again. My own heart shattered at the imminent conversation, and the tendrils of anxiety reared themselves again.

“Beta, so good to see you,” Mummie said and beamed up at me as I sat beside her.

I closed my eyes and tried to relax, focused on my breathing, and concentrated on Mummie’s delicate rose oil scent.

She stroked my hair in a very maternal, loving gesture. I hugged her from the side and rested my head on her shoulder. How to tell her?

“My sweet girl,” she whispered and kissed my head.

From our spot four rows behind Kanti Foi, I saw her twist in her seat to adjust her sari. The auntie behind her had tapped her shoulder and they laughed over the displaced fold of fabric. She caught my eye and her smile stretched, phony, as she waved and mouthed, My face turned heavy, weighed down by the stoicism that I knew was evident in my expression. If there were a medal for how fast and furious RBF came on, I’d be platinum champion every time. I’d even have a medal for holding the most medals in the RBF Games.

My aunt would not get a smile out of me.

*  *  *

The past couple of days had brought climbing anxiety levels, but at least today started with some much-needed cheer.

It was a big day for Laura, a patient who had tried for years to get pregnant with various interventions. She was full of joy and had that radiant pregnancy glow. She’d been in a few days prior for routine fetal heart rate monitoring and all had been exceptionally well. Today, she was going to have her baby.

My boss and head of the practice, Dr. Wright, had left it up to me to get to the hospital by seven and induce Laura. So even though I was sleep-deprived and anxiety-ridden, it would be a good day because we’d all been waiting so long for this delivery.

I washed my hands and greeted Laura with as big of a smile as possible while the nurse got her situated in bed. Our giddiness was palpable. I loved seeing good things happen for my patients, and such times were priceless. I felt incredibly honored being here.

“Today’s the day!” I said to her as she adjusted her green gown while her husband placed a small suitcase in the corner. He had a pillow for her and a giant tote full of other belongings.

“So close!” he said and kissed Laura’s temple.

“It’ll be nice not to have to come in every few days for monitoring and checkups,” she said with a sigh as she lay back on the inclined bed.

I put on sterile gloves to check her cervix. I dared to hope that she was fully dilated and one hundred percent effaced. But as I sat on the rolling stool and listened to her excitedly talk and laugh and show pictures of the nursery, I watched the fetal heart monitor. The nurse struggled to adjust the straps and monitor, checking all over for the baby.

“Try the lower right side,” I suggested. “Baby was loving it there a few days ago.”

She tried there. And everywhere. I rose to my feet and tried myself, asking her, “Can you get another pair? Maybe these are faulty.”

She hurried off and returned with a new set. Still no fetal heart rate. I remained as calm and convincing as possible, but Laura had read everything on pregnancy and knew when to worry. The hospitalist came in and examined her as I nervously stood on the sidelines, helpless.

Bubbling thoughts of a worst-case scenario had calcified, turning soft, annoying edges of anxiety into jagged ones.

My PVCs surged back to life, but I fought through them, struggling to stay focused even as my patient quickly went downhill.

Everything happened in a flash. Laura’s heart rate skyrocketed and baby’s fetal heartbeat was…gone. The hospitalist had his hand inside Laura, checking for the baby’s position and trying to get an internal Doppler attached. But when he removed his hand, it was covered in dark, clotted blood.

.

It was a surreal moment. An agonizing one. Intrauterine fetal demise rarely happened this late in a healthy pregnancy, and to a woman who had done in her power to give this baby its best chance. But here we were. I had my hands clenched into fists trying to hold myself together as Laura’s wails filled the room.

I couldn’t comfort her. I didn’t know how, didn’t know what to say. There wasn’t anything a person say. The first thing in my head was that we still had to induce her; she still had to go through labor and deliver her child and make awful decisions regarding next steps.

The hospitalist excused me with a nod of his head because he saw it on my face. I couldn’t hold it together, and this wasn’t even about me. I went straight to the restroom and bawled. This wasn’t right. I had to pull myself together and be there for Laura, because my patient mattered more than my emotions.

I hardened myself, although there was still a crack in my mental armor where the tentacles of anxiety pierced through. I wouldn’t show it, though, the chaos battering my head. I returned to Laura, determined, helping the hospitalist where I could and helping Laura where she allowed me.

The chaos and all the things that could go wrong didn’t stop there. Because I was part of a large family practice and we had patients all over the hospital whom I needed to check on, I couldn’t go home early. I saw an elderly patient taking her last breaths in the ICU with respiratory illness. Following that, I dealt with another patient receiving the always heartbreaking news about positive cancer test results. Then I tried to reason with a pissed parent about why vaccines for their child were safe. Right after that case, I had yet another patient whose symptoms were across the board and who could have a number of diagnoses but in the meantime endured incredible pain and frustration.

Many of these patients took their stress out on me. If not the patients, then frustrated family members with sharp accusations of what was doing wrong and why my best wasn’t enough to fix the issue.

Some days, doing everything that I could felt like only a drop in a deep bucket. It wasn’t that I’d helped save a baby and mom’s life just the other day, but that I hadn’t caught this demise in time. It wasn’t that I sat with a dying patient when their family was out, but that I couldn’t stop them from dying. It wasn’t that I caught cancer in time to treat it, but that I didn’t have a cure. It wasn’t that I patiently educated someone about vaccines, but that I was shoving my agenda down their throat.

There were no pats on the back or thanks for working long shifts with little sleep. There was no gratitude for having to skip meals and suffering leg aches because I couldn’t afford to sit down for more than a minute.

And when the time came to deliver Laura’s stillborn child, there wasn’t a dry eye in the room.

Dr. Wright had asked me in the hallway half an hour prior if I was all right.

“No,” I’d said. “But whatever I’m feeling is nothing compared to her. I have to be here for Laura.”

She nodded. “These things never get easier. Excuse yourself if you need to, but you have to keep it together in there.”

I was terrified, powerless. There was nothing to do but watch as Laura, in complete agony and pain, cried and pushed. Her husband sobbed beside her but made every attempt to hold her leg and wipe her forehead and support her neck.

Teary-eyed, I watched as Dr. Wright placed the baby on Laura’s stomach, as she had wanted to see her daughter and her husband had wanted to cut the umbilical cord. But as soon as Laura saw the baby, her wails ignited and engulfed the entire ward.

The nurse took the baby away to clean her and take measurements and record all findings. I pushed through my touch aversion and sat on the bed beside Laura, took her hand in mine as she gripped it to death, and consoled her.

There just weren’t enough words.