I swat her hands. “Quit picking your nails. Ijustpainted them last night,” I scold without thinking.
“I’m always telling her not to pick her nails!” her mum says, turning back to her husband. They murmur amongst themselves, nodding furiously in agreement with whatever the other is saying.
“Now you’ve done it,” Adhira mutters, dropping her hands to her lap.
“Wait,” her mother says, and I feel awful that I haven’t asked their names yet. “You painted her nails?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“That’s so sweet!” She turns and lightly smacks her husband's shoulder. “Isn’t that so sweet, Shaurya? Why don’t you ever paintmynails?”
He rubs his shoulder and grumbles something that sounds like, “Yeah right, let me mess it up and then hear about it for the next ten years.”
Her mum waves a dismissive hand, turning her full attention to me. Adhira plucks the phone from my hand, firing off rapid Gujarati, or maybe Hindi?
“He’scute,” her mother whines, dragging out the word, and I flush. “What’s going on there?” she asks, and I get the distinct feeling she’s speaking in English for my benefit.
“We share a flat, as you already know, Mummy.”
“Chiki, think of the babies. They’d be beautiful!” she says, and I’m certain my face is beet red.
“Okay, that’s enough for tonight. Call me some other day when you’ve found your loose screws. I love you.” Adhira hangs up and slumps into the cushions. “They mean well,” she mutters.
“I’m sure,” I say, hesitation quietening my words. Seeing her parents fuss over her makes me feel more at ease. They may not know everything, but when she’s ready to tell them, I’m sure she’ll have their support.
“I don’t know if I even want kids. I’m actually pretty certain I don’t.” She sits up straighter, tucking her knees under her chin as she fiddles with her light-green fuzzy socks. “For starters, I don’t know if I’ll even be able to have them after chemo because I opted out of egg retrieval—not that they could know that,” she says, scolding herself. My heart dips in my chest. “I can’t imagine going through what I’m preparing to putmyparents through. Losing chunks of myself, watching and waiting to find out if my children would have some illness that could tear them away from me.”
“I’ve had similar thoughts,” I admit. “Not necessarily about my own kids, but about my sisters. Raising them before I was really an adult myself has taken away a lot of the novelty of having children.”
Adhira pins me with a stare like she’s seeing me for the first time, brows pinched, posture slumped forward as if I’m a puzzle she’s piecing together.
“I guess I just assumed you’d want them because you’re so good with your sisters.” She sucks on her bottom lip, shrugs, and flops back down, reaching for the remote. “Maybe this means I’ll get to keep you as my flatmate forever,” she says with a wink, my gut bottoming out as she lifts her legs into my lap as if it’s the most casual thing ever. “Just don’t run off and get married, or it won’t work,” she mutters, flicking the telly on.
I gawk at her, regaining some composure as my skin cools and the orca documentary she put on reaches her favourite part about ecotypes.
After a while, I make us mugs of honey-chamomile tea, and by the time the end credits roll, Adhira is snoring. I smile down at her, lifting her legs off my lap before heading to her room, making sure her lights are off and her bedspread is pulled back. I open the door wide, sliding an arm under her shoulders and knees, and carry her to bed.
She stirs, wriggling in my grasp and pressing her nose to my chest as if searching for familiarity in her dreams, but her eyes remain shut. I tuck her in, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. The door closes behind me with a softsnick,and soon after, I’m in bed, drifting off to thoughts of Adhira thirty years from now, child-free and still living on the other side of the living room from me.
Those dreams don’t last long. Nightmares take hold, and I watch her die in my arms, thin and frail, forced to explain herpassing to her parents, who knew nothing, left to grieve the loss of a second child.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-ONE
“And you’resurethis isn’t going to be triggering?” I ask Elijah, his fingers already wrapped around the big silver handle of the treatment centre, holding the door open for an older couple.
“Yes, Adhira. I will be fine, and it’s your final treatment,” he says, deciding to latch onto the level of optimism I’ve been boasting about, though it’s clear to anyone with half a brain cell that I’m either in denial or lying to myself.For the record, it’s both.“I wouldn’t miss it. Come on, you’re going to be late.”
“Suddenly very pushy,” I murmur, sliding past him. He knocks into me, my neck craning back to get a better look at his teasing grin.
“What? You said I was pushy. Figured I should prove you right.”
I huff out a laugh, checking in with the receptionist before heading to the back with Jenna, my favourite nurse. I plonk down beside Archie, who side-eyes me with a smirk.
“Afternoon, deary. Last day of chemo for ya?” Archie asks, already knowing the answer.
I nod, trying to dampen the smile creeping onto my face. I’m nothappy, because I can’t allow myself to be until we’ve confirmed it’s worked, but I’m feeling optimistic. I suppose I can thank my sunshiney flatmate for rubbing off on me.
