A Change of Heart (33 page)

40

 

—Dr. Jen Joshi

 

 

A
sif Khan loved children. Who would believe that? People thought that just because you could blow someone's brains out and enjoy the red blast so much you wanted to smear the warm red all over your body and roll around in the sensation, that you couldn't appreciate what lovable creatures children were.

Small and delicate and so fucking helpless you could crush them with your bare hands like flowers.
Arrey wah,
he was a fucking poet and everything.

This one was an extra-soft specimen. Pale-skinned and gray-eyed and nothing but skin over bone. He kept tugging his pants up as though he knew someone was watching him and he wanted to protect his butt crack.

Finding him had been too easy. One bullet in one of the two bodyguard's heads and the other one had sung like a nightingale. Nothing like watching your friend die to get you to love life.

His own life was getting too fucking easy. He had almost enjoyed the home minister's games. At least the man was fighting him. He had to hand it to the bastard—he had taken all that trouble to find a girl who looked all chinky and had a son he could threaten and then trained her to fuck with the doctor bitch's husband's head. All so the minister could get his hands on whatever the bitch had hidden that could put Asif Khan in jail. All so the minister could stop Asif Khan from blackmailing him to let him keep his very lucrative business going. Asif would give anything to know how the politician had gotten the girl to find out enough about the doctor to fool her husband. Definitely a good plan, and it would have been a great plan if Asif weren't such an unbeatable adversary.

The only way to beat him would be if the doctor bitch had connected the transplants that happened in the Gulf with the dead fuckers in Dharavi before he had silenced her. He didn't put it past the bitch. She had been so cool when he had pushed the gun into her belly and told her to back off.

He hadn't known then that there was a child percolating in there. He'd only found that out from the papers, when his men had taken life sentences without selling him out. The bastards should have killed both the husband and the wife and left. But they had let their dicks get involved. Filthy bastards. He was the filthiest bastard, and he wouldn't fuck a pregnant woman he'd been paid to kill.

He'd provide for their wives and kids until the bastards died. If they had sold him out, they'd come back to dead bodies when they walked out of jail.

Hey, they didn't call it the filthy underworld for nothing. If he wanted a clean business he'd have become a priest. Then again, he couldn't remember the last time he'd seen a clean priest.

Everyone in this shit pot of a world had to protect his own arse.

The bastard politician was protecting his own arse too.

Asif almost didn't want the game to end. But money was power, and of course, once you promised the fuckers in Dubai the goods, it became a matter of life and death.

As for the politician, no matter how smart his plan in theory, he had been an idiot in underestimating Asif Khan. Asif leaned into the plush seat of his Pajero. He liked his cars big, like him. That made him smile. He was big and his car was big and they could both drive into anything they bloody wanted to drive into.

Two poetic thoughts in two minutes. He should write a book.

“Bring me the child,” he said to Laloo, who was contemplating whether or not to smile because Bhai was smiling.

“But, Bhai, the school security is totally tight, like.”

One of these days he was going to kill the useless bastard. He had more doubts than a fucking philosopher. Is life this? Or is life that? The fuckers could contemplate life to shit and do nothing of consequence their entire life.

“Stay here,” he ordered before he jumped out of the car himself and crossed the street to the tiny square of dirt that passed for a playground at the supposedly fancy school and zipped down his pants.

The best part of being a man was being able to take a piss anywhere. He let his arc water the lone tree at the edge of the “playground.”

The kids started to point and laugh at his performance. The bitch with her hair in a ponytail who looked just like she was playing a schoolteacher in a TV serial ran up to him. “
Arrey,
what are you doing?” she said in Hindi, as though the first thought that had struck her fancy arse when she saw him was that he wouldn't understand her bastard English.

He reached out and grabbed her arm, his fly still open, and before she could scream he flashed his
ghoda
at her—the metal one stashed in his pocket, not the flesh one hanging out of his pants. “You make a sound and all those kids will be dead.”

She started trembling. But she didn't make a sound.

“Good. Now you see that wet patch on the tree where I just watered it? Don't take your eyes off it until I tell you to. Understood?” She nodded.

He zipped his fly and walked to the kids on the lawn.

41

 

—Dr. Jen Joshi

 

 

W
hen Rahul's phone rang and he hit a button on the dashboard setting off the police siren on the car, Jess knew something was very wrong.

Joy.

She wanted to fold over.

“There's been some sort of attack on Joy's school,” Rahul said. The officer who was driving sped up. Rahul pulled out his gun and snapped and unsnapped something into it.

They started speeding through traffic with the siren screaming above them and screeched to a stop outside the playground.

“Stay down,” Rahul said, and both police officers got out of the car to the sound of gunshots.

Nikhil threw himself on top of her. As soon as the gunshots stopped, she scrambled up to look out of the window.

There were five children huddled on the steps of the school behind Joy's Sheila-teacher, but Jess's eyes sought only Joy. He wasn't with the children. He was in the arms of a bearded man in a red
kurta.
Rahul had his gun pointed at the man, and the man had a gun pointed at Rahul with the arm that wasn't carrying her son.

“I'm coming out,” she screamed. “I have what you need. I have the evidence.” She pushed the door open and stumbled out, Nikhil close behind her.

“No funny business.” The madman carrying her baby pointed the gun at Joy's head. She nodded, meeting his eyes.

Three men and the officer who had been driving their car lay on the muddy ground in pools of blood. All of it had taken under one minute.

Joy found her eyes. She shut her own.
Close your eyes,
babu
, Mamma's here.

Her baby squeezed his eyes shut.

“Put the child down,” Nikhil said, and the madman swung his gun between Rahul and Nikhil, his eyes entirely too calm.

“There's no way out of this, Asif Khan. It's over,” Rahul said.

“I have what you want in my hand. It's not over,
chutiya
.” He jerked the gun he was pointing at Joy.

“Let the other children go back inside,” Nikhil said, and Asif pointed the gun at his head.

Rahul's gun hadn't moved from Asif, but the bastard was using Joy as a shield.

Nikhil's hands were in the air, his gaze steady on Asif. “The other children. You don't need them.” He looked at the group of children huddled behind their teacher. “They're going to go inside.”

Rahul didn't take his eyes off Asif. “The entire police force will be here in two minutes. There's nowhere to go.” He looked at the teacher. “Take them inside.”

The teacher started herding the children into the building, and Asif turned the gun on Joy again.

She pulled the SD card out of her bra and held it up. “I have what you want in my hand. Put him down. Please.” She met Asif's eyes. “Please.”

“You're the bitch he sent to America. Where's your red hair?” The bastard actually smiled. He was calm. So incredibly calm.

“Yes. I dyed my hair. I have Jen's evidence against you here. Right here.”

He pointed the gun at Rahul's head, then back at Joy's. “Bring it here.”

“Jess, no,” Nikhil said, but she was already next to Asif. “Put him down, you can take me. DCP Savant will let you go if you take me.”

Within the blink of an eye, Asif had the gun pressed to her head and his arm locked around her throat, squeezing her windpipe. But Joy was on the ground. Joy was on the ground.

Nikhil squatted down, his eyes steady as they met Joy's. He held out his hand. “Come here,
beta
.”

“Go,
babu,
” she said, and Joy was in Nikhil's arms and Asif was dragging her across the field. Rahul was trying to get a clear shot. She met Rahul's eyes and shoved her elbow with all the anger collected inside her into the soft center between Asif's ribs. The breath whooshed out of him, giving her a chance to spin around and kick with all her strength between his legs.

He folded over. But just for a moment before straightening again just in time to catch Rahul's bullet in his shoulder. He stumbled back, swung his gun at Joy, and fired. Nikhil spun Joy away from him, and Jess took a flying leap at Nikhil.

42

 

—Dr. Jen Joshi

 

 

S
he had been in and out of consciousness for two days now, and the mad panic that had taken up residence in Nikhil's heart since the bullet sliced right through her and nicked his shoulder had finally calmed somewhat. He had been part of the team that operated on her. And since he'd sewn up the torn muscle and tissue himself, he knew that the only organ the bullet had hit was one corner of her lung.

Nic had operated on a lot of bullet wounds, and the damage a bullet did was one of those infinite possibilities things. In the complex mosaic that was the human body, you could never predict the extent of the damage until you opened the patient up. This bullet had blessedly missed every major organ and blood vessel.

He squeezed his eyes shut, reliving one more time that moment when she had slammed against him with the impact of the bullet meant for him.

“Are you okay, Dr. Nic?” Joy asked, tucked in next to him on the couch across from her hospital bed. He studied Nikhil with those eyes that were so different from his mother's in color and shape and yet exactly the same in what they held.

“As okay as one can be right now. You?” He wasn't a fan of lying to children, and Joy seemed to respect that.

“I'm fine. Just waiting for my mamma to wake up,” he said, rewarding Nic's honesty with some of his own. Nic's heart squeezed. Joy was so tiny, so frail. The way Nikhil had always felt as a child. On the inside. On the outside he'd been a gargantuan ball of fat.

“Me too, buddy.”

Joy patted his arm, and they watched her for a few moments in silence. Then Joy turned to him again. “Dr. Nic, do you like my mamma?” But his face held the real question. How can anyone not love someone as amazing as her?

Nikhil knew exactly how he felt. “Very much.” And then, because this child was not one for shallow platitudes, he added, “She's one of the strongest people I've ever met.”

Joy brightened, sitting up straight. “Yes! Did you know she can pick up all our shopping bags by herself when we go to the market? And she can spin forever. And she can reach the loft cupboard without a ladder because she can jump so high. And she can hold up Sweetie-mamu all by herself and take him to his room when he gets sad and drinks too much and comes home.”

Nikhil ruffled his hair. “Yes. But she's also very strong on the inside. You know how she helps your Sweetie-mamu? She did the same thing to me when she first met me. But with her heart.”

Joy smiled his mother's two-pinprick-dimples smile. “And you know something? She's the best mamma in the world.”

Nikhil smiled too. “I imagine she would be.”

Joy looked disappointed.

“What?” Nikhil asked.

“When I tell her that, she always says everyone thinks their mamma is the best.” Then he frowned. “She thinks her
aama
was the best, can you believe that?”

“Actually, I can. Mine is pretty awesome too.”

He sat up even straighter. Apparently this was an argument he really enjoyed having. “But I
know
why mine is the best. Like, I have a
reason
.”

“What's your reason?”

“My mummy always asks me one question.” He held one finger up. Why did kids do that? Indicate numbers with their fingers. He wanted to kiss the child's finger, but instead he asked him what that one question was.

“She always asks me if I could have anything in the whole world, what that would be? And she always gets me what I ask for.”

“Come on! Really? Nobody can give you anything you want. I'll bet you make it easy on her.”

“Nope.” He shook his head vigorously. “I don't.”

“Tell me the last thing you asked for.”

He didn't miss a beat. “Chocolate-chip ice cream.”

Nikhil made a face. “Lame.”

He held his hand up. “With extra chocolate chips.” He shook his hand when Nic tried to interrupt him again. “Chocolate brownie.” More hand shaking in Nikhil's disbelieving face. “And chocolate sauce on top.”

“She let you have all that?”

Joy lifted his eyebrows and nodded.

“How bad was the tummy ache?”

He pinched his thumb against his forefinger.

“So, she's never said no to anything?”

He shook his head. Then he sat up again. All alert, as he tended to do when he had an idea or a thought struck him. “It's only one thing.” Again, he held up that finger.

“And that one thing is?”

He studied Nikhil, gauging if he was worthy of sharing his mother's one failure without feeling like a traitor. “She won't get me a doggie.”

“No way.”

“Yup.” He sighed. “She says she'll get me whatever I want as long as it doesn't have a heartbeat.”

“Yup, that definitely rules out a dog.”

“Yup. A big no-no.”

“You know, my mommy got me a dog when I was five.”

Joy's little mouth opened in awe. “How lucky.” Longing spilled from his eyes. And envy. Lots of envy.

“Well, I thought I was. I even called the dog Luckster.”

“Luckster?” His lips twisted as if Nikhil's choice of dog names were something of an embarrassment.

“We used to do that in America when I was a little boy. Add a ‘-ster' to everything.”

“So you'd be Nicster?”

“And you'd be Joyster.”

He giggled, his soft cheeks pushing his eyes into slits. Something he didn't do nearly enough of.

“Must have been so much fun,
na?
”

“It was. He was a golden retriever, and he and I were inseparable. He slept in my bed. I sat next to his bowl and ate with him. I even took him into school for show-and-tell.”

“Wow. Is he with your mamma now?”

“Actually, a few weeks after I got him he got sick.”

“Oh no. What happened? Did he die?”

Nic must've looked surprised because Joy lowered his voice. “I could tell from your face. You were like this.” His lips dragged down at the edges as he made a sad face. “Did she get you another one after that?”

“No. I couldn't. I couldn't ever even pet anyone else's dog after that.”

Joy hopped off the couch and climbed on Nic's lap.

“Can I tell you something?”

Nic adjusted himself so Joy was perched comfortably on his lap.

“What are you two doing?”

They both turned around at the sound of her voice.

“Mamma!” Joy hopped off Nikhil's lap, ran to her, and wrapped his arms around her. Yesterday Nikhil had explained to him exactly how to do it without touching her wound, and even in his excitement he did a perfect job. The strangest sense of pride swelled in Nikhil's chest.

“Joyboy, my baby boy.” She tried to wrap her arms around Joy, navigating the IV line and the monitor wires. Nikhil adjusted the wires so they weren't in her way. She held Joy and turned those eyes on Nic.

“Hi.”

“Hi yourself. How are you feeling?”

“Awake.” Her eyes were tired, her lips chapped, but an awake her was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

“That's good.”

“Mamma.” Joy straightened up. “You know how you say you will never buy me a dog?”

“Really, Joy, that's the first thing you say to Mamma when she wakes up?”

“No. I'm not going to ask you for one again. I know it has a heartbeat. I know you won't get me one. But can we get one for Dr. Nic?”

Nic's heart did another awful squeeze in his chest.

Jess looked at Nic, her shadow-rimmed eyes weary.

He looked away from her and at this amazing child she had raised and widened his eyes.
Not now, buddy.

Joy widened his eyes back.
I got this. Trust me.
Then he turned back to his mother. “Dr. Nic needs to learn to love another dog. He's still too sad about his old one who died.”

The lump in Nic's throat was large and painful, but it was also so damn funny his shoulders started to shake.

“Nikhil?” she asked, looking at him as though she feared that he had finally lost it.

“What? The metaphor is hilarious.” He was all-out laughing now. “But also brilliant.”

“Really?” she said, and she started to laugh too.

* * *

“So, are you going to tell me your real name?” Nikhil asked after he had laid Joy on the couch and tucked him in. Joy had fallen asleep on his lap.

She tried not to think about how he had held her baby. How Joy had melted against him in complete trust. “You already know what my name is,” she said, looking at her hands because now that she was sitting up, now that the world wasn't a blur, she couldn't meet his eyes. “You've seen it on the hospital paperwork.”

He picked up the sheet of paper laying on the nightstand. “Come on! That's not your real name.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. Or tried to, because what she really wanted was to touch him. After watching him almost take that bullet meant for Joy, she wanted to shake him, wanted to kill him, wanted to thank him, wanted to hold him and never let him go.

“You want me to believe you're a chorus dancer who's called Kitty Sinha? Come on! That's like something out of those seventies Bollywood movies Aie made us watch.”

She tried to look angry, but it was funny. “And you're an Indian American called ‘Nic Joshi.'”

He smiled. Those glorious dimples sinking deep into his stubbly cheeks. “True. We're stereotypes, both of us.”

Only nothing about him was a typical anything.

He took her hand. “Stereotypes are supposed to be predictable. Nothing about you is predictable. Nothing.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “Nothing is predictable about how you make me feel.”

“Please, Nikhil. Please don't. Please don't do this to me.”

“But I want to. I know I said before that I couldn't. But I was lying. Because look at me. I don't even know how not to. I want to do everything to you, with you.”

The shaking started somewhere deep inside her, her shoulders vibrating because the air was sticking and unsticking in her lungs. Sobs, but not sobs, laughter but not laughter. An inner vibrating dance too effusive to be contained on the inside.

He moved his hand to cup her face in that too-intimate, too-familiar way. She pressed her cheek into his palm, two involuntary motions, without instruction, without logic, without fear that should've been learned by now but wasn't.

He smiled again, and she knew he wasn't done turning her world upside down. “At least tell me what to call you. So I don't feel like an idiot when I tell you how I feel.”

“Kitty,” she said, wanting to torture him.

His grin widened. “You would do that to me?”

“It's my name.”

“No, it isn't.” His laughing eyes got serious again. Dancing between joy and sincerity, the two halves of him that she was trapped between.

“How do you know? Did you ask Joy?”

“I knew it! And no, I didn't.”

“My name is”—she took a breath—“Nikita, Nikita Sinha. Everyone calls me Kitty or Nikita here. But everyone at home always called me Nikki.”

“No way.” He was laughing again, his perfect untimely laughter. “Nic and Nikki? Really? That sounds like the title of a really bad Bollywood film.”

It sounded lovely. But she couldn't say it.

“Nikki,” he said, and God above, something heavy and liquid rushed through her. Bloodletting. This had to have been what bloodletting felt like. Like disease and impurity and pain flowing from you, taking your life, but also taking what was killing you. Aama was the last person who had called her by that name.

“Hey,” he said as her grip on his hand tightened, the shaking inside her deciding to go with sobs. Very carefully, he wrapped his arms around her and held her close, his breath falling on that spot on her head.

He whispered her name. “Nikki. I think that might just work.” She closed her eyes and drowned in the sensation, soaked up his words. “I love you, Nikki. Please don't ever leave me again. I don't think I could take it.”