Page 80 of Next Time Will Be Our Turn
toward old age
and hope that
in the beyond
there is a place
where souls can wait
patiently
for each other.
A place where
we’d be young again
but wiser this time
knowing what it took
to find our way back
to each other.
I read it until the words became too blurry with tears, then I put it back in the envelope and slipped it inside my pocket. I carry that poem with me to this day. See? Beautiful, isn’t it?
• • •
Parker and I moved back to Jakarta, Hazel in tow. Erik took us to court, and Andika presented the judge with the photos of Iris’s horrific bruises. Then she proceeded to paint me and Parker as the ideal couple, a picture of parental and financial stability. Mama and Papa showed up as well, vouching for us and vowing to help look after their dear granddaughter. In the end, Erik was only able to get supervised visitations, and when he failed to show up for three visits in a row, I went back to court and got the visitation rights struck down. I had come back for blood, and I didn’t feel a shred of guilt after taking away his visitation rights. I still don’t. I never heard from Erik again, and every day I pray that he lived a miserable life and died alone and in pain.
The other thing I was determined not to do was revert backinto my role as a trophy wife. Now that I had Hazel to raise, I was even more conscious of the fact that I didn’t want her to be put in the same box I had inhabited. I wanted so much more for her. I wanted to punch my way out of that fucking box and rip it to shreds and then burn the shreds to the ground.
I sat Parker down one quiet afternoon. “I have a business proposition for you,” I said.
He raised his eyebrows.
“I would like to start a new division at the clinic. Counseling Services.” I raised my hand before he could protest. “For pregnant women and new mothers who might be struggling with things. The customer base is already there. When the OBGYNs see their patients, all they have to do is give a brochure for the counseling services. No need for more marketing. And this is what will set us apart from all the other OB clinics out there.”
Parker frowned. I could tell that despite his reluctance for anything mental health–related, he could see the point in what I was saying. There were so many OBGYNs in Jakarta. It really was a saturated market, every clinic boasting its fair share of celebrity doctors. All male, of course.
“Many women are uncomfortable talking to a male doctor, especially when it comes to something as intimate as giving birth. And many women suffer from postpartum depression, and even the ones who don’t will typically have increased levels of stress and anxiety following something as major as giving birth. They will want to talk to a female therapist,” I said. “And it won’t affect the clinic’s reputation at all. In fact, it’ll enhance it.”
I could tell he was still hesitant, so I added, “This is exactly the kind of thing we need to try if we want to remain relevant. Be a disruptor, Parker. Take calculated risks. Isn’t that what youlearned in business school? We can do a trial period. Three months. And if it doesn’t work, or if it impedes the clinic in any way, then I will stop.”
“And then we can start trying to have a family?” Parker said.
I stared at him. Was this what he’d been angling for this whole time? I sighed. “Sure.”
“Okay.”
I held out my hand, and he shook it. “We have a deal.”
• • •
For the first two weeks, Counseling Services didn’t get any clients. Crickets. Each morning, I’d go to the clinic and check on the brochures at the reception desk and the posters on the bulletin boards. I’d go around to each doctor’s office to chat with them and gently remind them to please let their patients know about the new services we were providing. Most of the older doctors were openly resistant, laughing in that indulgent, patronizing way that older men often do and nodding while ushering me out of their offices. But a couple of the younger doctors were a little bit more open-minded. One of them had gone to med school at Johns Hopkins, and he thought offering counseling services was a great idea. Still, those first two weeks were brutal. Despite the brave front I put up, inside I was withering. Maybe I’d been wrong all along. Maybe women here didn’t need counseling.
Then one Tuesday morning, when I arrived at the clinic, the receptionist called out to me as I walked past the desk.
