Born in Syn. Beth Kander
to term, christened, and raised right. Raised by her, if necessary. Catherine O’Brien Hess had very little family left. She’d fight to the death to protect and preserve what little she had.
She offered a quick prayer of thanks to Jesus, for allowing her to reach Nirupa in time. She prayed that God would guide her son, that he’d convince Nirupa to marry him, to make their child legitimate, to be a real family.
The world needed this baby.
She just knew it.
12
Chapter 11: NIRUPA
By the time Nirupa reached Michael’s campus, she was seething.
The nerve of that woman.
She almost changed her mind, almost left without seeing her boyfriend. Despite what that old Irish bag thought, Michael was unlikely to be moved by the news of his potential fatherhood. Nirupa knew Michael better than his mother did. Catherine only knew the man she wanted him to be; Nirupa knew the man he actually was.
It would be a kindness to just keep him in the dark. He didn’t want a baby, but the idea of terminating the pregnancy might make him feel guilty. He was of Jewish and Irish-Catholic descent. Guilt was in his blood.
So why not spare him the useless guilt?
Why should I have to say a damn thing to Michael?
Because she will if I won’t.
Nirupa knew better than to test Catherine O’Brien Hess. She’d tell Michael everything she knew, everything she suspected, and her unfiltered opinion on it all. And if Michael heard the news from anyone other than Nirupa, even if it changed nothing, even though he wouldn’t have wanted to know, it would trigger his temper. He’d be livid, ashamed and angry to be handed this intimate information by the mother he always tried to keep at arm’s length.
It would end Nirupa and Michael’s relationship, without question. It might even end Michael and Catherine’s relationship. Nirupa didn’t want either of those responsibilities on her shoulders. She might not want to be a mother, but she wasn’t a monster. She loved Michael, and knew he loved her and his mother, even if he was begrudging with affection. She despised Catherine for putting her in this position.
Manipulative old bitch.
Nirupa pulled into a parking spot, the yellow lines so faded they practically disappeared into the pebbled old gray asphalt. She threw the parking brake on violently, then put her forehead on the steering wheel. Maybe she should just bail. That way Michael would only lose her, not her and his mother. Cleaner that way.
But she entertained this notion only briefly. Leaving Michael would make her miserable. And she had nowhere to go; even if she were willing to return to India, her parents would not take her in. Above all, her professional connections were in Boston. Nirupa was trapped in a self-selected prison of ambition.
She got out of the car and walked to Michael’s laboratory, trying to staunch the new wave of nausea roiling in her belly.
Michael was a medical doctor, whose undergraduate degree was in mechanical engineering; he was also all-but-dissertation on a Ph.D. in chemistry. He would not allow anyone to surpass his credentials. He was the consummate workaholic, grading student work while checking on his chemical intervention experiments, taking notes on his next big idea, constantly in motion and just as constantly aggravated by his inability to do even more at once. As usual, his stress level was palpable when Nirupa entered the room.
“Michael.”
He looked up, his face patchily bearded with several days’ worth of unshaven growth. His bloodshot eyes were recessed above deep purple bags. He was so disheveled, so distracted, it took him a moment to place his own live-in girlfriend.
“Nirupa? What’re you doing here?”
“What are you working on?” She asked, sidestepping.
Michael rubbed his red eyes. “Friggin’ Carl’s going to get that journal spot. I’m trying to beat him to the punch. Backstabbing little prick is piggybacking off of my work. That’s why he has the time to write—doesn’t spend a damn second in the labs anymore. Just looks over my shoulder and takes notes. Leech.”
“What are you working on?”
“Oh. It’s pretty high-level—”
“And I’m not?”
“Fair point,” he said, and gave her a weak-jawed smile. “We’re researching the impact of synthetic compound chemicals on brain function. May someday point us in the direction of re-generation, keeping our minds more limber—we don’t know all the implications yet, but it could be exciting.”
“Exciting enough that Carl wants to ride your coattails.”
“Carl would grab anyone’s coattails if it meant credit without work. He’s just lucky that I happen to be brilliant.”
“You know the old joke? ‘Why is there so much backstabbing in academia?’”
“‘Because the stakes are so low?’”
“Yeah.”
“I never thought that joke was funny.”
“Me, neither,” Nirupa said. And then: “So. Speaking of funny.”
“Uh-oh. What.” Michael’s question was as flat as his expression. “Funny news” might be an obstacle between him and productivity. Nirupa decided to rip the Band-Aid off quickly.
“I’m pregnant.”
Michael said nothing.
“It’s yours, obviously,” she added unnecessarily.
He nodded; no dispute there. They both stood silently, the information sucking the air from the room, suffocating them. The silence lasted several moments; one small lifetime.
“Right, well,” Michael said, finally. “You’ve requested some time off already?”
“Time off?”
“I hear the recovery can be a little bit rough,” he yawned, his eyes already sneaking back toward the paper on the table in front of him. “I assume you’ll need at least a day or two to put your feet up, take it easy.”
Nirupa stared at him. Though his conclusion was the same as hers, she’d expected something more. A conversation. An emotional reaction beyond boredom and an immediate return to the more important tasks at hand.
“What if I’d decided to keep it?”
Michael laughed, a barking sound. “Yeah, right.”
“Don’t say that. Don’t laugh.”
He yawned again, shrugging an apology at the same time. As angry as Nirupa had been at Catherine in the parking lot, she was ten times angrier now at Michael’s complete apathy. Maybe it was the hormones surging through her; she tried to calm herself, but her fury crackled.
“Nirupa,” Michael said, as if talking to a failing student who came to see him during office hours to ask whether or not she should drop the class. “You don’t want a kid. I don’t want a kid. We’ve talked about this.”
“We talked about it, hypothetically. This isn’t a hypothetical. This is an actual outcome. You. Got. Me. Pregnant.”
“Do you need money?”
Nirupa’s left eyeball twitched.
“No,” she said. And in the space