The Accidental Wife (25 page)

Visible Signs of Progress

T
he following day was slightly better. Naina felt less groggy. Her head felt normal and not like an inflated melon. Still, she slept through the afternoon. Though that didn’t seem to bother Rihaan at all. “Sleep is good. It heals. I prescribe at least a couple of hours of siesta every day.”

But I’m sleeping for more like five hours!
She wanted to argue, but quelled the urge. She had caused him enough headaches.

Therefore, as an expression of gratitude, well, not only that; in order to show him that she was really committed to being a good wife, she planned on cooking a proper meal for him—a four course
desi
dinner complete with all the trappings.

But how could she go about accomplishing the ambitious task when the simple act of hustling together a regular breakfast wore her down?

When he came home that Friday evening and found her tottering around a messy kitchen, almost on the brink of tears, he put an immediate end to her endeavors.

“You’re a phenomenal cook Naina, I know that from experience,” he said, staring sternly into her eyes. “But this is not what I want to see you doing now. All I expect from you to try to concentrate on is getting better. Everything else will automatically follow.”

So Naina took his advice, and did just plain nothing. She idled around the apartment, dividing her time between the solitary bed, the living room couch, and the balcony, where she would lounge under the oversized umbrella, and either read, snooze, or stuff her mouth with delicious food. She was pretty sure that she must have put on at least half her weight in three days, though the scales in the bathroom indicated a measly two pounds.

It was a situation she found she could easily get accustomed to, except for one vexation—there was no Rihaan to share it with. She considered herself lucky if she got to see him at dinner time. Though one evening he arrived early enough for them to have tea and cookies on the balcony. An uncomfortable silence settled between them once she’d finished responding to his usual barrage of questions about her health.

“Naina, I…” he began then impulsively reached for her hand and kissed it. There was a soft, wistful look in his eyes which prompted her own to instantly tear up.

She didn’t know what he made of her reaction but it was awhile before they enjoyed tea together again.

Yet, no matter how late he got home, he didn’t spare her a thorough head-to-toe once over. This daily ritual would fill her with intense confusion, making her protest with a nervous laugh, to which he’d retort tersely before resuming, “Am I the doctor or are you?”

Naina awoke on Day #5 of her overindulged new life. In a couple of days her therapy sessions would resume.

She shuffled around the apartment in abject boredom, having run out of books to read, and with nothing on the telly to hold her attention. Anyhow, she felt too restless to take the nap that her dear husband had ordered. To be truthful, she didn’t want to. His taunt the previous evening had hit her on a sore spot.

She stood by the living room window and marveled at the brilliant blue sky. There wasn’t a cirrus in sight. “It’s going to be a gorgeous balmy day!” The fat, black weather man on NBC had said that morning, substituting his umbrella with a sun hat.

“Why not?”
Naina muttered, suddenly seized by a reckless urge to venture out on her own. Not far, just a block, maybe two. The overbearing Dr. Rihaan Mehta wouldn’t approve but then why did he need to know? The idea of putting one past her shrewd spouse filled her with an unfamiliar excitement.
She could go on walks, bus rides, even take the subway! The possibilities were endless.

In a hurry to begin her new adventure, she swung away from the window and started forward and tripped; her foot catching on the edge of the Persian rug. Unable to stop her momentum, she went crashing onto the floor lamp causing it to nearly topple over.

With silent tears coursing down her cheeks and her toes throbbing from where she’d stubbed them, Naina watched the heavy brass fixture dangerously wobble a few times before righting itself. Her crutches lay in disarray on the floor. They had bypassed her mind entirely as had the dreaded cast that still clung to her leg like a leech. There was no way she was going to get anywhere with these in tow. At least not in her current shabby state. And the thought made her mad.
Really mad.

“How much longer is this supposed to go on?” she demanded of the bookcase that lined the wall nearest to her. “How much longer are we supposed to continue like this, me
and him?” She cried as her eyes erratically scanned the over-crammed shelves in a vain bid to find the answer.

She was about to turn away in a frustrated huff when her gaze was caught by something glinting in one of the lower shelves. Eager for distraction of any kind, she sat to investigate and discovered the object to be a camera, the same that Rihaan had presented her at the hospital.

“He probably dumped it here after bringing it back,” she murmured, carefully retrieving the instrument. “And for some reason he didn’t download any of the pictures he made me take.”

She smiled. By now she knew him well enough to deduce that he had undertaken the exercise with only one purpose on his mind—to convey a message to her in his usual direct and no-nonsense manner—that she held a special gift with the lens.

Maybe I should put his claim to the test!
she thought, her interest sparked.

She clicked a few practice frames. Again, the ease with which she operated the controls surprised her. Getting bolder, she hobbled to the balcony and began shooting at random. And soon became engrossed, discovering that not many things remain innocuous when viewed through a camera lens—be it the fluid lines of an arched doorway, a pair of dark and mysterious old windows, an ivy draped trellis gate leading to a narrow flight of stairs, or even a solitary child’s bike lying abandoned on the sidewalk—everything had its appeal and a story to tell.

A yellow taxi drew to a halt in front of the apartment building, distracting her from her preoccupation. She was startled to see Rihaan jump out.

What could he be doing here at this time?

He cut a remarkably dapper figure in a short-sleeved checkered shirt and olive green khaki slacks, a fact he seemed completely unaware of. Her camera was irresistibly drawn to him, zooming in on his stirringly elegant profile as he stooped low to chat with the cabbie, one hand casually propped on the roof of the vehicle. A shock of thick, black hair glinted blue in the sunlight while lush eyelashes formed inky pools of mystery on his cheekbones.

Suddenly she drew back, her pulse bouncing around like a yoyo. She had seen the image before, but with the hair worn longer, plus a thick blue scarf and a warm wool coat…and the surroundings had a uniform grey white tone. She leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes.
What did it all mean?
She was too scared to think.

“Naina?”

She jumped, probably a foot in the air.

He was standing in front of her, sporting a clever grin on his mug, as if to tell her he knew exactly what was passing through her mind. She colored, opening her mouth to defend herself, but then just as quickly closed it.

He wasn’t alone. There was someone with him. A woman.

“This is Mrs. Alice Croaker, your new nurse and companion. Mrs. Croaker…” His smile shifted to the woman, “…this is Naina. My wife.”

“Nurse?” Naina repeated dumbly, her heart plummeting to her feet.

“Yes.” He nodded somberly. “She’s going to take charge of your care since, unfortunately, as you’ve seen I’m terribly restricted by lack of time. And I don’t want you to lose out. She’s the best there is in her field and she has very graciously agreed to come out of retirement on my request. I trust her with my eyes closed.” He winked at her.

Nurse? Companion? Take charge? Best in her field? So he wants to wash his hands of me and hand me over to this…this… Creature who he trusts with his eyes closed!

Naina hated the woman, despised her for disrupting her paradise, her pristine little sanctuary.

She critically examined the subject of her husband’s gushing admiration, as she puffed up like a peacock under all the praise. Mrs. C was a black woman who looked to be in her sixties. She was round all over—round body, round face, round calves, and she draped her roundness with a prim old-fashioned, high collared dress that reached well below her round knees. Her salt and pepper hair was pulled back into a severe round bun and she wore bright red lipstick and glared at Naina with her severe round eyes.

It took Naina all her strength to stop from breaking into a vexed sob. Nothing could be more humiliating than to be attended to by someone more than twice her age and to have her stick around all day.

“Are you going to stay with me twenty-four/seven?”

“No,” Mrs. C said, speaking for the first time. Her voice had a surprisingly pleasant resonant quality to it. “Dr. Mehta asked me to arrive at nine and leave at six.”

“Did he?” Naina said relaxing slightly. Rihaan wasn’t being so terrible after all. Maybe she could even like this
nurse
he had thrust upon her. She could definitely give it a try.

Just then she noticed her husband staring quizzically at the camera lying on the patio table. But before he moved to pick it up, she’d snatched it and slung it around her neck. “I was fiddling with it as I was bored but couldn’t get it to work,” she told him with a wry shrug, then turned and smiled brightly at Mrs. C. “How about some chai?”

***

The next day Mrs. C arrived promptly on time. She was ‘clocking in’ apparently, hence effectively putting an end to Naina’s relaxed and laid-back mornings.

Unusually sprightly for her age, the woman was a cleanliness freak. She sprayed and wiped down every surface in the house at least five times a day. Her excuse—bugs are taking over the earth and invalids like her, Naina that is, made for particularly attractive petri-dishes.

She was unlike any other nurse Naina had come across (and she had quite a repertoire). She was rigid like a wooden pastry board with a comparable charm quotient
and
she lacked the essential empathy ascribed to her profession. Actually, she was more like a boot camp director whose only agenda was to whip Naina in to shape and do so in the shortest time possible.

And did she take charge!

She began by planning out Naina’s entire day. Everything was set by the clock with a start and end time. When to wake up. When to bathe. When to eat, what to eat—she even prepared all of Naina’s meals ‘sensible home-cooked nutritious food’ (the good Doc is crazy to waste hard-earned money on fancy, useless junk!) When to exercise (she was a trained physical therapist). When to rest (siesta was only one hour, not two)…and if that wasn’t enough she also managed to squeeze in the few hundred doctors’ appointments that Naina was supposed to attend, now that she was out of the hospital. The woman was exhausting. She left Naina no room to pause, brood or even breathe. It was like running to catch a train that had long left the station.

And whenever Naina gathered enough courage to complain, she received the same stock response— “I’m just complying with Dr. Mehta’s instructions.”

Or so it appeared. For when Rihaan returned in the evenings, he seemed greatly elated with the
visible
signs of progress he saw in her. So much so that Naina began to wonder if this was his way of getting back at her for her ‘independence’ jibe.

Well if that was so, then he was in for a big surprise.

It wasn’t easy for Naina to curb her growing resentment or subdue the deep-rooted instinct she had been born with; that of a rebel. But she accomplished it. She tagged along Mrs. C’s dictates, and played ‘the good soldier’ so to speak. She sweated it out, straining with every ounce of her eighty-five pound frame, because, as Hemingway had said somewhere: ‘A man (or woman in her case) could be destroyed, but not defeated.’

A few days into this intense game of wills, Naina realized that indeed she was starting to feel better. The days had begun to dawn brighter, her mood was up, and the need to break and rest at every juncture didn’t seem as urgent as before. Mrs. C’s secret smirks weren’t as malevolent, nor was Rihaan, her husband, out to get her.

Hence, one golden spring afternoon, when Mrs. C was busy fixing lunch in the kitchen, Naina decided to approach her. She stood in the doorway waffling for several minutes, watching as the woman bustled around humming a happy tune, before summoning the guts to put thoughts to words.

“Mrs. C, I mean Mrs. Croaker…” She blushed, then spoke rapidly to cover her slip. “I want to thank you for all you’ve done for me and I sincerely apologize for mistaking your intentions. You really aren’t as bad as I thought.”

And much to her bewilderment, her nurse broke into a loud guffaw—a very rich sound, emanating from somewhere deep inside her rotund body that blossomed out and around the tiny space like the weighty notes of a church bell.

It took a while for her to calm down. Then she said still chuckling softly, “Lady, you don’t have to say sorry at all. Indeed, I’m honored to be chosen to work with my favorite doctor’s wife. It gives me great pleasure to see you doing so well.”