She nuzzled his cheek. “Nothing. Go back to sleep.”
But they were both wide awake. After a few minutes, Smita leaned against the headboard and reached for her laptop. It had been three days since her story had run, but the reader comments were still pouring in. She propped up the computer against her body, even though she was a little conflicted about sharing the comments with Mohan. Most of them struck the right notes of indignation and compassion, but there were the usual number of hateful posts, with several people referring to India as a misogynistic, shithole country, as if stories like Meena’s never happened in the West. A month before, such comments would have made Mohan’s hackles rise. But he, too, had changed. Cliff had told her how his phone was blowing up with calls from readers wanting to know if there was a GoFundMe account for Abru, and even though Mohan had immediately refused the help, he was touched by the solicitousness of her American readers.
“Any more developments?” Mohan asked after she shut her laptop.
“Anjali called earlier. I forgot to tell you. Her group is demanding the police investigate Meena’s murder. My first-person story helped, she said.”
Mohan nodded. “I’ll probably have to go back at some time to give a statement.”
“Will I need to come, also?”
“Jaan, things move slowly in India.” He smiled grimly. “You’ll be long gone by then.”
“I hate feeling like I’m leaving you holding the bag. I mean, it’s bad enough that you’re moving ahead with Abru. But now, to also have to testify against Govind . . .”
Mohan shrugged. “I’ll manage.”
“You really want me to come for lunch tomorrow?” Smita asked after a few minutes. “To Zarine Auntie’s house?”
“Smita, why do we have to go over every damn conversation? She wants to meet you. You accepted. I thought the matter was decided.”
“Please don’t be angry at me, Mohan. I can’t bear the thought of you being mad at me.”
“I’m not angry. I’m sorry . . . It’s just that everything happened so fast. And I keep thinking of that poor girl.”
“Me too,” she whispered. “I can’t get her out of my head. I wake up thinking about her. How she reached for my hand just before she . . .”
“Don’t. Force yourself to think of something else. That’s what I’m trying to do.”
They fell silent, co-conspirators, witnesses. Smita shifted in his arms and looked up, memorizing his face.
“Ae,” he said. “Stop looking at me like that. I am here. We still have a few days together. And even after that . . . It’s not like you’re going to the damn moon, yaar. I’ll come see you in America.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The next morning, they went to see Shannon at the rehab unit. Nandini had not yet arrived. “She’s coming late today,” Shannon said. “It’s her younger brother’s birthday, so there’s some ceremony at home or something.”
“Do you want me to stay?” Smita said. “I’m supposed to go to Mohan’s for lunch today, to meet his landlady. But I can cancel?”
“Ah yes.” Shannon smiled. “The infamous Zarine Auntie.”
“You’ve met her?
Shannon shook her head. “No. I’ve just heard him talk about her. He thinks the world of her.”
She broke off as Mohan entered the room. “Mohan, love,” Shannon said. “Will you do me a favor?”
“Of course.”
“Do you think you could go buy me a fresh coconut from the vendor outside the hospital? Nandini brings me one daily. She claims the coconut water helps promote healing after surgery.”
“She’s right,” Mohan said. “I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
Shannon used her walker to scoot closer to Smita as soon as Mohan was out of the room. She sat on the edge of her bed. “How are you doing?” she asked. “You’ve been through some crazy shit.”
Smita exhaled. “I’m still in shock. I still can’t believe Meena is dead. I keep seeing her body, hearing her gasping for breath.”
“I can imagine,” Shannon said. “It’s a terrible profession we’ve chosen in some ways.”
“In some ways,” Smita said. “But I can’t think of doing anything else for a living.”
“Me neither. Listen, I hope you don’t mind my asking. What’s going on between you and Mohan?”
“Nothing, really. I mean, I—I care about Mohan. But it’s not, you know, serious.”
“But Mohan’s pretty serious about you, Smits,” Shannon said. “He’s going to be devastated.”
“He told you this?”
“No. Not at all. Both of you have been unforgivably secretive since you’ve returned from Surat. But I see how he looks at you. And you’re going to leave Abru with him?”
Smita heard the disapproval in Shannon’s voice. She frowned. “You know, when you called me in the Maldives, I thought you were asking me to come here to help you. After your fall.”
“Smits, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that. But what’s—”
“Wait. Let me finish.” She took a deep breath. “I had vowed never to step foot into India again. Because of something that happened in my childhood. But I came, Shannon. I came because it was you. And then, everything kind of fell apart. I had no intention of hooking up with Mohan. Okay?”
“Smita. Please. I wasn’t trying to—”
She brushed aside Shannon’s apology. “What am I supposed to do?” she said. “Upend my whole life for the sake of a guy I just met? Mohan actually asked me to stay on for half a year. As if it’s that easy. What about my job? You know how hard both of us worked to get to where we are.”
“Okay, relax.” Shannon patted the edge of her bed. “Come sit next to me.”
“I’m okay.”
“Smits, don’t be an ass. Come here. I’m sorry,” Shannon said, pulling Smita toward her. “Listen, I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s just that—I’ve known you for a long time. Far longer than I’ve known Mohan, obviously. And you two look so suited for each other. I’ve never seen you the way you are around him.”
“How’s that?”
“I don’t know how to describe it. You look—I dunno. Happy, for sure. But it’s more than that. You look . . . contented.”
“Oh, bullshit.” Smita said lightly. “You’re not used to seeing me with a brown dude, is all.”
Shannon mustered a perfunctory smile. “You know me better than that, Smits.” She paused. “Fuck. I’m going to miss you.”
“I’m gonna miss you, too. But I’ll see you in New York soon?”
“Not for a while. Cliff offered to fly me home and have someone take my place for a few months. But I refused. I like it here. Besides, Nan would be distraught if I took off.”
“No kidding. I think she’s, like, in love with you or something.”
“Are the two of you making fun of Nandini?” Mohan said. He was smiling as he walked toward the bedside table, carrying a large coconut, its hacked top hanging as if from a hinge. He held it against a glass and flipped it, so that the coconut water drained into the glass.
“Here you are, my dear,” he said to Shannon.
“Thanks, Mohan. You’re the best.”
“So, what trouble are you planning?” he asked.
Mohan’s playful tone reminded Smita of how he had acted around her when they’d met, before Meena had died—before they’d assumed responsibility for Abru. And before they’d made the mistake of sleeping with each other.
“Nothing,” she replied. “We’re just talking shop.”
“ ‘Talking shop,’ ” Mohan repeated. “I tell you, no one can beat you Americans when it comes to strange expressions.”
Shannon let out a yawn. “Okay, you two. You need to get going, right? I’m tired. And ready for my nap.”
Mohan glanced at the clock. “Be serious, yaar, Shannon,” he said. “It’s not even noon. How could you possibly be sleepy again?”
Smita gave Shannon a hug. “See you tomorrow?”
“That’ll be nice.”
“Ready?” Smita said, turning to Mohan.
“In a minute.” He bent to fluff Shannon’s pillow. Shannon threw Smita a bemused look. “He’ll make some lucky woman a good wife someday,” she said.
“Very funny. Okay, ciao. I have to get this one here to Zarine Auntie’s for lunch.”