Us Against the World

35. Can I Handle This?

Mama, where do babies come from?

My mother, young, beautiful, and glowing, smiles down at me while rubbing her round belly. Her chubby face is like mine, full of color and alive like a bright, glowing star.

Where does that question come from? She playfully asks me. She leans toward me and ruffles my raven-like hair. Her fingers are as lithe and smooth as I remember them to be. Have you been watching Daddy's shows?

No, Mama. I giggle, covering my mouth with my small, chubby hands. But you have a baby in your belly. Where did the baby come from?

Love, Mum responds softly. She picks me up and puts me on her lap. Taking the flower that's clenched in my hands, she tucks it behind my ear and smooths my frazzled hair. Daddy and Mama love each other very much. Love made you, and love made your sister.

But how? My tiny lips form a pout. I love you, but I don't have a baby. I pat my belly.

Mum laughs, the sound reminiscent of a nightingale. It's a different sort of love, baby, she tells me gently. One day, when you love someone and you're happy with them, you'll have a child of your own, just like Mama and Daddy.

Hm...My younger self is unconvinced. I pat her belly; it's hard and circular, like a rubber ball. Did you eat the baby?

No! Mum laughs louder. No, Meera...she hesitates, no doubt thinking of how to explain the conception of children to my naive, four-year-old self. You see, when you grow up and you get married, you and your husband will want...to play a game with each other.

What game?

The love game. Mum smiles. It's not very easy, but it's fun as long as you're both happy, and you both agree. Her tone hardens. Never, ever, let anyone play the love game with you if you don't want to, okay, Meera?

Okay, Mama, I reply, like the dumb child that I am, because I have no idea what she means. I wouldn't know what she meant until I transitioned into high school and met the man that I thought would be the love of my life.

"Blind idiot," I scold myself, scrubbing the glass plate furiously. The dish detergent is old, but I didn't think that it was so old that it doesn't work anymore. With inflation reaching its peak, I don't want to unnecessarily spend money, but it seems that I won't have a choice if I have to start buying paper plates.

My fond childhood memory fades to the dark, gloomy depths of my mind as I continue to go about my early morning chores. The sunlight sprinkles over my skin like baby powder and attempts to quell my irritation, but sadly, it's in vain. I have too much going on in my head; there's no way I can stop and smell the roses now.

How are we going to do this? I stab my bottom lip with my teeth, drawing out some blood and sucking anxiously on the self-inflicted wound. Having Riya come back isn't a huge problem. She can help with the bills and whatnot. But a baby? Chandini is so young...will she be able to handle it? My heart was flip-flopping, the palpitations extending their slimy, disgusting branches and sinking their claws into my lungs. I flick the tap off and lean against the sink. My hair covers my eyes like a spikey, crude blanket, but this blanket is far from comfortable.

If Spencer would help with the baby, then that would be one thing, I think. But he's out of the picture, and Chandini hasn't graduated from high school yet. How will she continue her education? Will she have to home-school? Damn, that's going to take up more of my time. And my job...Horror seizes my mind. Will my paycheck be enough to support four people? I don't know if Riya is getting a work Visa, and the jobs that Chandini can get at her age may not be able to support our household...oh shit... I yank the towel from the rack by my waist and rub it on my hands, burning my skin. Not to mention that the cost of baby supplies, doctor visits, and medicine will skyrocket...