Free We Are Not in Pakistan by Shauna Singh Baldwin Page B

not ready to come to me.
    You were wrong.
    I am ready, baby. What can I promise you that will bring you to birth?
    Tell me you will love me into being. Tell me you will not be afraid.
    That would be untrue, baby.
    Then tell me you will live with your fear and your doubt and, even so, bring me to light.
    Why have you chosen me for your birthing?
    Kismat, the luck of the draw.
    Who sends you to me?
    The unknown.
    Will you come by the knife or will you come without?
    I will come when you are open wide and deep as a well.
    To whom shall I deliver you, baby?
    To life, to the world.
    What if I fail you, baby?
    You do not fail me if you try your best.
    I will try.
    Dr. Chi’s smile is above her.
    â€œOh, your bindi is smudged,” she says kindly. “It was weeping.”
    The prescription Dr. Chi writes for Naina is for a broth of chicken, laced with ginger juice and brandy, to be washed down nightly with red date tea.
    Naina’s baby is born in October on Diwali day, the day Ram came home from exile. Few diyas burn on the windowsills of homes, and there are no sparklers; few celebrate this festival in Toronto. After her second gestation, she comes quietly, from an unwitnessed, private labour. Labour that is joy, joy that is labour. There is no one but Naina to staunch the blood, clean the child, cut the cord and offer the gods her thanks.
    All my thanks, heartfelt thanks.
    And in the morning, Naina opens her door to Valerie, who cries, “Cherie, I finished it, come and see … oh, la la! What have we here?”
    The bay window encircles Naina as she resumes her seat, the baby at her breast.
    â€œAh, your bébé and mine, they came together! I have work all night as if a beam had opened between myself and le bon dieu.”
    â€œI too worked all night,” says Naina, smiling radiantly. “I’ll come up and visit yours soon.”
    When Valerie is gone, Naina lifts the cordless phone.
    It’s time she told the family; she’ll call Sunita — really shock her this time. Time to find Stanford and surprise him, tell him what she’s done without his help. Time to register the hybrid little being in her arms.

Rendezvous
    Hel-lo, Jimmy! Jimmy McKuen!
    It’s me, Enrico. How does this place call itself Greek and let you Irish in? Let you sit at their lunch counter, they’ll let anyone in. You sure you’re allowed this side of town? Good to see you, amigo — been one helluva long time.
    You’re looking good, but that corduroy coat of yours looks like it’s from the Salvation Army. Feel mine — it’s that new microfibre. And where’d you get that shirt, buddy? Looks like the one you had on the last time I saw you. Hey, doesn’t cost much to be in style these days, but you gotta be aware. What’s in, what’s out, you know. Oh, and your hair — how come you still have so much of it? If I had my shears, I’d texturize it a little. Right here, above your ear.
    Okay, I’ll sit down a minute.
    By the way, you’d know something that’s been bothering me all day. What was the name of Gene Autry’s horse? Trigger? Nah, it’s about your memory, Jimmy. It just came to me — Champion, that was his name.
    Yeah, coffee. I don’t know — my god, do I have to decide this fast? Decaf, I guess. What’s your name? Carlos, huh? Man, you are so Mexican.
    I ain’t his kind of Mexican, Jimmy, I was always kinda laid back. This one’s so nervous, he’s ambidextrous with that coffee.
    Speaking of coffee, you know my son? Met him? In and out of problems — aren’t we all! The latest one is coffee. He’s buying it from a company called Bad Ass, what a name! They sold him a sixteen thousand dollar roaster, like he’s going to roast that much coffee. He says it’s the biggest commodity in the world after oil. All those kids lining up to order grandeys and double latteys — you say anything in