Pride, Prejudice, and Other Flavors

by Sonali Dev

  “We’ve been missing each other at Emma’s appointments,” he said.

  “Actually, I’ve never missed an appointment with Emma.” She attempted a smile.

  He was fully aware that he’d not been able to make his sister’s appointments with her. If there was any way he could have been there, he would have. Maybe if he had been there when Emma got the news about her eyes . . .

  When he didn’t smile back, her smile twisted awkwardly into a frown. “I’ve actually never missed an appointment with any patient ever,” she declared stiffly.

  Okay. Good to know. Medals all around! “I’ve been here only a month and I’m trying to set up a new business, so it’s been hard to coordinate schedules.” Why was he explaining himself to her?

  She shrugged, then stood there opening and closing her mouth. Well, not literally, but she looked completely tongue-tied and he wondered if she truly was not used to the hired help speaking to her.

  “I wanted to talk to you about Emma and the treatment you’re proposing.”

  “Of course. I’m headed to the hospital right now.” She looked down at her phone and tapped her thumb on the screen. “Yup, she’s the first one on my rounds this evening. I’ll just see you there?” She pulled open the car door.

  So she didn’t know yet that Emma was planning to fire her. Thinking about Emma, about the immovable decision in her eyes, set off another storm of panic in his gut. “Is there really no way to remove the tumor without damaging her optic nerves?”

  She froze in the act of getting into her car and stayed suspended like that for a beat before straightening up and turning back to him. “I’m sorry, Mr. Caine. I know this isn’t the solution any of us were hoping for. But it’s—”

  “You know my sister is an artist, right?” he said a tad bit too desperately.

  “Yes. And she’s incredibly talented.” A blush suffused her cheeks and DJ knew she was thinking about his sister’s Sam Adams–loving vagina. He’d seen the painting Emma had done for her.

  Out of nowhere he had the urge to smile. Emma’s art no longer embarrassed him. She had beaten that out of him with her Penile Dysfunction series. It was more a phase than a series, really. A long phase that had lasted years, during which she had found every way to deconstruct—which was artspeak for destroy—all forms of phallic symbols—which was artspeak for penises.

  Love for his sister, in all her infuriating glory, clogged up his throat, filled his chest, until he could barely breathe around it. “Then you have to understand that she can’t lose her sight.” His voice came out a little too forceful because he could barely get the words out. “Art is Emma’s life. There has to be another way. There has to be. You just have to find it!”

  She stiffened, blinked incredulously, and actually stuck her nose up in the air. “Are you aware, Mr. Caine, that your sister saw several other surgeons before she came to me?” The amber flecks in her golden eyes sparked with indignation. Obviously, she was not used to anyone challenging her opinion. “I’m the only one who was able to come up with a solution. The only one. Do you know why that is?”

  He refused to nod. Something about the sheer volume of her arrogance held him in thrall.

  “It’s because I’ve worked my ass off on developing technology that can navigate through brain tissue without damaging it.” There was a flash of almost crazed glee in her eyes. It reminded him of mad scientists in movies cackling over smoking test tubes. “Brain tissue is the most delicate, most vital tissue in the body. I’ve helped create a machine that nudges it apart instead of slicing through it. Do you have any idea how groundbreaking that is? I don’t find solutions for inoperable cases by accident. I find them because I’m exceptional at what I do. And I do not leave any solution unexplored.”

  He raised both hands in that ridiculous universal gesture that said calm down, there’s no need to get your knickers in a twist, but it was he who needed to calm himself down. “I didn’t mean to suggest that your work isn’t brilliant,” he said as evenly as he could manage. “If the technology can nudge through brain tissue, why can’t it remove the tumor without damaging the nerves?”

  She pressed her hand into her forehead, as though she couldn’t quite plumb the depths of the stupidity of that question. “You cook for a living, right? So I can understand why this sounds simple to you. But this is live tissue we’re talking about, not meat. You can’t just scrape the tumor off a nerve without leaving remnants of tumor behind.”

  For the second time in two days this woman had made what he did sound like wiping shit off the sole of your shoe, not just unskilled but unsavory. It was only the second time he’d met her, but she’d already made his heart slam with anger far too many times. He hadn’t felt this kind of anger since he was a teenager with no control and far too much to be angry about.

  “My sister is not live tissue, Dr. Raje, she’s an artist who lives for her art. This will change her life forever.” If she even agreed to let it.

  “I realize that. But a changed life is still life. It’s all I can do. And it’s more than anyone else has been able to do.”

  In that she was right. The realization jabbed a hole in his anger, letting out some of its steam. “I can only hope that you can convince Emma of that.” This time his bloody voice did crack, and he turned away because he couldn’t let her see him fall apart.

  “Excuse me?” she said behind him.

  With a quick swipe of his eyes on his sleeve, he turned around and met her gaze again. “Emma’s decided not to have the surgery.”

  “What? What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Just that. She won’t agree to a surgery that will cause her to go blind. She wants to look into alternative treatments.”

  “She can’t do that!” Trisha snapped with the same finality Emma had used when declaring that she would do exactly that.

  He laughed. A dark sound, coming from a dark place inside him. If Emma did this, there would be nothing left. His mind couldn’t even form the thought, couldn’t imagine a world without her in it. “She plans to do exactly that.”

  For a long beat she just stood there, then she got in her car and pulled her door shut. Her tinted windows slid down, revealing her livid face. “And you plan to stand by and watch her? What kind of brother are you?”

  “The kind of brother who hopes you can change her mind.”

  “You better believe I will.” And with that she was gone.

  He couldn’t believe he was thinking this, but he had never hoped for anything as much as he hoped that all her ugly arrogance was justified.

  Chapter Nine

  There was no frickin’ way that Emma Caine could do this to her. Trisha was about to storm into Emma’s room when her boss caught her at the check-in desk and dragged her into his office. Well, not dragged literally, but it felt that way.

  Trisha and Entoff often disagreed about treatments and courses of action. It was one of her favorite things about her job. The fact that the two of them approached cases so differently was what made them such a formidable team.

  But this was different. “You knew that Emma Caine is refusing treatment and you didn’t tell me?” she said, spreading her hands on his desk and staring him down as he sank into his chair.

  “How did you find out? Never mind. Sit down for a moment.” He pointed to the hypermodern leather-clad chairs that always looked strangely unbalanced to her. His desk, no surprise, was spotless except for a veritable forest of frames with his children’s pictures.

  Entoff was one of those older men who looked like a plastic surgeon’s model, with thick gray hair, perfect capped teeth, and a runner’s lanky build. But his personality was more reminiscent of Santa Claus’s elves. Every time Trisha disagreed with him, he became so excited and proud, she imagined him going “Ho ho ho” while clicking his heels. She couldn’t tell if that’s what was going on right now.

  “There is no other feasible course of action, Dr. Entoff. You know that.” No matter how many ways
they sliced that argument, they both knew that the only way to save Emma’s life was this surgery Trisha had proposed.

  Instead of his usual cheeriness he gave her a sad smile. “There is such a thing as a patient’s rights, Dr. Raje. Not only is it our legal obligation but it’s also our moral duty to let patients decide what they want.”

  That was the most asinine thing Trisha had ever heard. Moral duty, her ass! Patients weren’t doctors. They were entirely unequipped to make decisions about treatments. This was why she had spent ten years busting her balls, or ovaries, or whatever the gender-accurate phrase was, trying to equip herself to be able to make decisions about treatments on their behalf.

  “Either way, it was wrong to meet with my patient without consulting me first.”

  Not many people in this building could say something like that to their boss and get away with it, but she wasn’t many people when it came to her work and Entoff looked apologetic instead of insulted.

  “I did text you. And I did try to calm Emma down and convinced her to wait to speak with you before making any decisions.”

  Good. Trisha wasn’t coldhearted enough to think that Emma shouldn’t be having a panicked reaction. She just needed to be the one to talk her down from that ledge without putting counterproductive ideas in her head. “Thank you for that. I’ll take care of it,” she said, turning to leave.

  “Trisha, remember there’s only so much we can do, okay?” She knew what he was going to say next even before he said it. “We’re not God.”

  She tamped down on the urge to stick a finger into her mouth and gag. Why did people say that? No one knew for sure that God existed. You know who existed beyond any shadow of a doubt? Doctors, that’s who. And their job was to save lives.

  As she walked down the corridor lined on both sides with paintings, she couldn’t help but think about Emma’s art. The girl was crazy gifted. The canvas Emma had given her had such power, every time Trisha was in its vicinity she found it hard to look away from the depth and impact of the strokes. Yesterday she had googled Emma and found a bunch of her pieces at various online galleries.

  Her work had a stormy quality to it, like she wanted to shake things so hard she made them break apart. Most of it used some form of genitalia-based symbolism, which took some getting used to, but the fastidiously detailed complexity was what appealed to Trisha. Almost Dali-esque, but with hoo-haas and feminism.

  Something about Emma’s brother’s face when he had talked about his sister’s art made her heart twist. But letting her heart twist was stupid.

  If she started thinking about what it would feel like if any of the Animal Farm needed to have this same surgery, she wouldn’t be able to do what she needed to do. Which was slice the tumor out of Emma’s brain with steady hands.

  My sister is not live tissue.

  But DJ Caine was wrong. That’s precisely what Emma had to be to her, because Trisha knew exactly what to do with misbehaving live tissue.

  When she entered Emma’s room, she was curled into a ball, her face pressed into her knees. Silent tremors shook her shoulders.

  In all the times that Trisha had met her, she’d never seen Emma be anything but aggressively upbeat. Trisha saw illness test people often enough to recognize an indomitable spirit when she saw one. Another thing that had struck Trisha about Emma’s art was how intent she as an artist was on bending the universe to her will, while still acknowledging it for what it was. Those two abilities had a deeper connection than most people understood. If only Trisha could get Emma to see that connection when it came to her treatment.

  The moment she realized Trisha was in the room, Emma straightened up, yanked a tissue from the box next to her, and blew her nose as though it were a cold she was struggling with, not tears.

  “Why hullo there, Dr. Raje,” she said as though Trisha was the last person on earth she expected to see. “I’m sorry, didn’t they tell you? I changed doctors.”

  A stool sat in front of the wall-mounted computer. Trisha grabbed it, pushed it closer to the bed, and sat down.

  “I understand how you’re feeling, Emma.”

  Emma scowled. “Will everyone just bloody stop saying that! You have no bloody idea how this feels.”

  “You’re right. I didn’t phrase that right. I meant, I understand that this is impossibly hard.”

  Her patient’s scowl grew furious. “Seriously, is there a bible of ‘knobhead bollocks to say to the terminally ill’? Is that where you people get your lines from?”

  “Actually, you’re no longer classified as terminally ill. Given that your life isn’t going to terminate.”

  Emma shook her head and looked up at the ceiling. She was praying for patience. Evidently those prayers were not being answered. She looked so livid, Trisha could practically see her fingers flying on her next piece, Strangulation by Fallopian Tubes. “I’m not a lab rat, Dr. Raje. And I’m not a video game that you’re going to get to your next level on.”

  “I’m aware. I’ve sliced through enough lab rats to know that you look nothing like one.” She attempted a smile. “And I never did get into video games. All the female avatars look too much like Barbie. Relatability was an issue.”

  “How can you think this is funny? Are you so jaded that someone’s life ending means nothing to you?”

  “Your life will not be ending if I have anything to do with it.” That was the damn point of all this, wasn’t it?

  Emma threw another tormented glance at the ceiling. “See, this is just a notch in your belt.”

  Trisha thought about telling her that she didn’t own belts, that if she ever needed one for notches she’d have to borrow one from Nisha’s extensive collection.

  “Why did you come to me, Emma?”

  Instead of answering, Emma gave her a look that stood in nicely for a raised middle finger.

  “If you do believe that earning notches in my belt is what I’m trying to do here, then aren’t those very notches why you came to me?”

  This girl wasn’t stupid, just angry. Her mouth pressed into a thin line; she hated that Trisha was right, but she also understood that Trisha was indeed right.

  “I came to you because my brother’s friend believed that you could cure me, not play chess with my body parts.” Trisha could see another painting, a chessboard with scrotums and vaginas, and in place of the king: eyeballs. Well, this was checkmate.

  “All I can do is assure you that that’s not true. What we’re dealing with here is the exact opposite of chess, in fact. Tumors, clots, hematomas, they don’t follow rules—there’s no two squares forward, one square sideways move. But, yes, if it helps you understand this, we have to sacrifice your optic nerves for your life, because when that’s gone, the game’s over.”

  “See. I don’t want to be treated by a doctor who treats my life like it’s a game.”

  Trisha stood. Anger was all good and dandy, but she drew the line when someone started calling her professional integrity into question.

  “I think you’re being unfair,” she said evenly, because she wasn’t self-centered enough to be upset with a patient who was struggling with a diagnosis like this. But this wasn’t the time for lies, either. “More importantly, you’re misguided. The alternate treatments, the ones that you think will give you more time to live the way you’re used to living, are unpredictable at best. You already know this. There was a reason why your diagnosis was considered terminal without this surgery. We can’t predict the speed with which things will progress. Sure, an oncologist might be able to slow the tumor growth and give you more time, but you’d be counting on a miracle to get more than the six months they gave you before.”

  Every one of those words seemed to hollow Emma out, like a scalpel was eviscerating little pieces of her. “That is just your opinion. Dr. Entoff said I had options.” Emma struck back like a boxer who was on her back but wasn’t ready for a knockout to be called.

  She looked immovable.

  Trisha took a br
eath. Entoff might be wrong about the options, but he was right about the other part after all. There was only so much Trisha could do. At least right now when Emma was in the throes of a panic attack. She had to work through that herself. Pushing her would only make her feel even more cornered.

  My sister is not live tissue. She’s an artist.

  But before she was an artist, Emma was human. And when it came down to it, humans were animals. Being cornered made them wild, it made them throw caution to the wind, sent them into a crouch of instinctual attack that often went with forgetting to protect themselves.

  “None of the options will save your life,” Trisha said softly, unable to give up.

  “But it is my life, Dr. Raje.”

  That was it! Emma felt powerless right now. That’s where her decision was coming from: this was her trying to regain some control.

  All Trisha had to do was find something to make Emma stop feeling so out of control. Something to give her patient a little more time to consider her life, to maybe even find her power somewhere other than in her art.

  “What if I discharge you today? There is one more scan result we’re waiting for. That won’t come in for a week. You’ll need that for a second opinion, anyway. Let’s wait for that before we rush into decisions. How does that sound?”

  Emma sat up. “Are you serious?” A mix of tentative excitement and suspicion leaked into her voice.

  Trisha nodded. “All I ask is that you monitor your temperature and your blood pressure, and if anything changes—any blurring of vision, any severe pain—you come straight to the ER and call me. Once your results come in, we’ll lay all your options out and if you still want to switch to an oncologist for treatment, then . . .”—Trisha had to swallow to get the rest out—“then I’ll refer you to one myself.”

  “Did you say today?” For all the fierceness from a minute ago, Emma looked suddenly scared.

  But the sooner they got past this, the better. “As long as you have someone making sure you’re watched twenty-four seven, you’ll be fine.” For some reason, Trisha felt sure DJ Caine would be up to the task.