by Saumya Dave
Today, he’s in the same black scrubs that he always wears on operating days, but there are more shadows on his face, deeper lines under his eyes. He suddenly looks older. Defeated.
“How are you?” he asks.
“Fine. How are you?” Simran refrains from giving him a hug. “The house is a mess. Mom would not approve.”
He makes a sound that’s a cross between a snort and chuckle. “When your mother decides she’s done with her little vacation and wants to be an adult, then she can decide what the house should look like.”
“I don’t think this is really a vacation. It’s her dream job.”
Dad doesn’t say anything.
“Has she been gone since I called you from India?” Simran asks.
He nods. “She was in a hotel here at first. And then, this week, she left me a message saying she was going to Baltimore. Didn’t know when she was coming back.”
“Didn’t know? Have you talked to her since she left?”
He shrugs. “What’s there to talk about?”
“Um, everything? How she’s doing? How you are? What her life there is like?”
He lowers his voice and faces the ground. “This is just what she does, I guess. Runs away. I should have expected it.”
Simran looks down, not wanting to show that she knows what he means.
Her mother left her first marriage because she felt alone. Trapped. Could they have pushed her to do the same thing? She wonders how some families make it seem so easy to be happy. Drama-free. Like those white families in movies.
Simran removes the rubber gloves, washes her hands, and calls Mom’s cell phone. It goes straight to voicemail.
Dad paces around the island in their kitchen, muttering things under his breath.
Simran once told Ronak she knew their parents were perfect for each other. They were saying goodbye to people after a party at their house. From her bedroom window, she watched them standing on the driveway, their bodies glowing from the headlights of cars pulling away. They leaned in toward each other and were talking, laughing. She heard them come back into the house and settle on the recliners in the living room. They rehashed the entire evening, her mother imitating the ridiculous things their friends and families had said, her father listening, chuckling.
“My family warned me she was fickle. That it would be a problem,” he says.
Simran’s not sure if he’s talking to her or to himself.
He leans forward onto the counter. Simran goes to the cabinet and removes his favorite mug, the one that says DR. DAD, an old Father’s Day gift from Ronak and her. She fills it with coffee. He seems to need something stronger than tea.
“I thought all the other women were boring. Typical. I didn’t want typical. They told me to be careful, that boring can be okay, but no, I had to try and prove them wrong. I always had to prove. Ha,” he says, taking a large gulp. “Ridiculous. Just ridiculous.”
“What is?” Simran asks.
“All of it. She thinks I don’t ever need a break from all of this shit? I’ve worked hard, I became a doctor, always took care of our family, and everyone else’s half the time. And she gets to just walk away? What the hell kind of nonsense is that? As if my life is so easy to deal with? As if she’s always so easy to deal with?”
It occurs to her that as much as Simran’s mother felt her life was constricted by others’ expectations, it’s possible that her father felt the same way. And while Mom could unload to Simran, he didn’t have anyone. He was raised to believe he had to keep a strong, neutral front in the midst of Mom’s stress and mood swings, his family’s dependence on him, and a grueling job. Like her, he was also exhausted and frustrated, was also craving understanding and support. He just couldn’t show it.
“Dad, it’s been crazy around here. And hard. But we—you—should try to talk to her. Maybe there’s more to what she’s doing than you understand,” Simran says.
Dad puts his mug in the (now empty and clean) sink. “Well, like I said, she made her decision.”
“Yes, but I don’t know if it’s as simple as you think it is,” Simran says. “And not talking to her isn’t going to solve anything.”
He doesn’t say anything.
Simran hears her mother’s voice. Your father’s just not one of those men who is easy to open up to.
You have to at least give him a chance, Simran said at the time.
“Dad, she needs to hear from you. It’ll make a difference, I promise. But you have to be willing to take that first step,” Simran says now.
He looks at her, his lips tight, as if he may consider taking her advice.
But then he turns around.
“Come on. At least think about it.” Simran hands him the phone.
Can he not just take it? Make the call? Or did their arranged marriage leave them both too emotionally stunted to put their pride aside when necessary? How would they have been different if they had dated?
When it’s clear that he isn’t going to call, Simran walks toward their living room and sits on the leather recliner. The mantel is still lined with photos that they had framed for the wedding guests. One of Ronak’s proposal in Central Park, him on bended knee, Namita, with her hands around her mouth in surprise. Another of Kunal and Simran from their college graduation, where they are smiling in purple robes.
Inside Simran, there’s a longing for opposing things, for stepping away from her old life, building something new, the way she started to in India, but also needing her mother to come home, their family to feel like them again. It’s like being caught in a Chinese finger trap. The more she tries to push out, the more she suffocates.
“She’ll come back when I tell her I need her for the wedding. My wedding. She has to for that.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Is that still on as scheduled?”
“It will be.”
“Really? Pratik Bhai and I have been avoiding the topic at the office, which has also been so pleasant,” he says.
“Sorry,” Simran says. She regrets the word the second it comes out. Why is that a reflex for her? To say sorry when she senses someone is getting upset over her actions, even if she thinks she did the right thing?
“So you and Kunal have discussed it?”
Simran nods. “We will. Kunal and I are supposed to meet when he’s back from Costa Rica. I just need to talk to him.”
“And when will you do that?”
“I don’t know. Soon,” Simran says, not wanting him to know just how soon.
Nandini
Adam Davenport, the chair of Internal Medicine at Johns Hopkins, motions toward a brown leather chair in the corner of his office. “I hear you’ve had a strong start here.”
Nandini nods. “That’s great.”
She glances around the room. It had been decades since she was in this exact seat, meeting with the former chair, who now lives in Spain. The walls are covered with framed diplomas from Adam’s training programs, Harvard and Hopkins. He was promoted to chair just two years ago and is known for his no-nonsense, progressive leadership style. His graying sideburns, firm handshake, and charm remind Nandini of a young Bill Clinton.
“We’re happy to have you back with us,” he says. “Of course, there are things we’ll have to review since the department has changed since you were here.”
“I’ve noticed that already,” Nandini says.
Adam sits in the chair next to hers. He reviews the nuances of her contract, including how many hours she’s supposed to spend teaching every week, the number of residents she’ll directly supervise, and her expected administrative tasks.
“It’s very busy here, as I’m sure you’ve already seen,” Adam says. “People have gotten overwhelmed in the past. Now, you just started, so I know there’s a learning curve, but these are things I need you to be aware of, so we can all ensur
e you’re the right . . . fit for the position.”
Adam says the word “fit” as if it’s painful. He darts his eyes to the side. It occurs to Nandini that he’s trying to scare her. She recently read a few articles about why there were so few female physicians in leadership positions. Everything from grueling work hours to lower pay than their male colleagues to shady politics to lack of support were mentioned. Hospitals are eager to hire people they pick, and here she is, just because of Greg. Maybe Adam had someone else in mind. Maybe people had already expressed disappointment toward Greg choosing her. Maybe in the few weeks since she started, they thought she wasn’t good enough.
Nandini feels a pressure building on her chest as Adam keeps talking. Can she really handle this? Will she be able to prove herself? Is she too young? Too old? Will people wonder why a middle-aged Indian woman got this job?
Stop that. You deserve to be here, she tells herself. Show him that.
She pictures all the women who struggled in medicine before her. All the times they worked toward things but were denied what they deserved.
She’s met plenty of Adams throughout her training, men who were kind to her face but underneath were still trying to figure her out, decide if she was worthy of respect. Men like him needed to know she wasn’t going to back down.
“Adam.” She puts up her hand. “I understand everything you’re saying. And I’m doing well here. If you’d like to check in with the residents and other attendings, you should.”
She keeps her neck straight, her facial expression even.
Translation: I dare you to mess with me.
“Greg did rave about you,” he says as he shifts in his chair.
She nods. She often forgets the impact of Greg’s influence. This is the problem with feeling powerless for so many years. You forget how to accept power even when it comes to you.
The rest of the conversation is filled with superficial small talk about Adam’s job, Nandini’s schedule, and other logistics. It’s clear by the end that he’s gotten the point, that he won’t try to have a conversation like this with her again.
Thirty minutes later, Nandini walks toward her car. She’s proud of herself for standing up to Adam, but still, confrontation has always been difficult for her. Maybe it’ll never be easy to talk back to people who try to make her feel small. Maybe that is the point.
She unlocks the car and checks her phone. Two missed calls from Simran.
I don’t feel like talking to you, she thinks. A ripple of guilt travels through her for the thought.
Her therapist taught her how to breathe when she feels the threat of a panic attack. She grips her steering wheel and sits up straight. She inhales slowly and lets the air fill her body for several seconds. When she exhales, she tells herself she’ll be okay.
She’s interrupted by Simran calling again. She takes one more deep breath and picks up.
“Mom!” Simran sounds startled, the way she did when she was in elementary school and woke up from nightmares. “You picked up!”
“How are you, beta?”
“Uh, fine. How are you? What are you doing?”
“I was just meeting with the chair here at Hopkins.”
Simran’s voice becomes quiet. “Oh. Wow. So, you’re just there, ready to work?”
“Uh-huh,” Nandini says. Please, let’s not fight. Not today.
“How was the meeting? Did you like the chair?” Simran’s voice is hollow, hesitant.
She has to be careful how she responds. One wrong word could set off an emotional landmine between them. She gives Simran a quick rundown of the meeting. She waits for Simran’s disappointment, for her to say, Come home already.
But to her surprise, Simran says, “Mom, are you serious? You showed the chair that you’re a boss? That’s amazing.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
Nandini leans back and smiles. This is something she learned about Simran when she was a teenager: just when she worried they were on the verge of an argument, Simran could find a way to make Nandini feel understood. She thinks about the line between daughter and friend, how it becomes blurrier with time.
Nandini starts the car. “Thank you . . . for saying that.”
“You don’t have to thank me. I mean it.”
Nandini hears Simran sigh.
“What is it?”
“Nothing,” Simran says. “I just hope you’re proud of what you’ve been able to overcome, you know?”
“Are you talking about the meeting or something else?”
“The, uh”—Simran hesitates—“meeting. And just anything, in general. Everything. You’re really . . . strong.”
“Ah, beta,” Nanini says. “Where is this coming from?”
“I don’t know. It’s the truth. And I should tell you that more. You should tell yourself. Don’t let that guy or anyone else scare you. You can take them any day.”
As Simran keeps talking, Nandini stops herself from telling her daughter that she misses her, that she wishes she was here with her, in this dim parking lot. Something about her seems different.
“Beta, are you sure you’re ok—”
“I’m fine,” Simran says.
Before Nandini can ask anything, Simran says, “I’ve gotta go. Sorry.”
Fourteen
Simran
Simran hangs up with Mom the second she sees Kunal approaching his building. Her eyes take time to adjust to him, the way they do to darkness when the lights are suddenly turned off.
She studies him as though he’s a stranger. Green scrubs. Tattered brown carry-on bag. He seems tanner. Taller. The kind of man who is always on a mission. Then her view shifts, and she sees him as though he’s the self-assured but vulnerable high school boy she fell for.
A thought emerges as he comes closer.
I love you.
His smile is only visible after he’s walked a few steps. So he’s looking forward to seeing her. Maybe he’s even excited.
He glances behind him, which is when Simran sees Rekha.
The air leaves her body. Rekha was in Costa Rica with Kunal? Did he tell Simran that Rekha was going on the trip? She’s also pulling her own tattered carry-on, also in green scrubs, but manages to look respectable and gazelle-like.
Simran angles her head away from them, just enough to watch them hug from her periphery. Rekha saunters into the neighboring apartment building.
“Hey,” Kunal says as he approaches her.
“Hi. How was your trip?” Simran stands up, wishing she was wearing something cuter than her black cotton maxi dress. (Thanks to all the butterscotch ice cream she shared with Nani, it’s one of the only things that fit. She should have tried her first juice cleanse. Or at least attended a couple of those barre classes where she always ends up hiding from the instructor.)
“Fine,” he says. “Good.”
“That’s good,” Simran says. “Did you have fun?”
He nods.
“Did Rekha? I didn’t know she was going to be there.”
He tilts his head down and gives Simran a look as if to say, I didn’t know a lot of things about you.
“Well, I’m glad you’re back,” Simran says.
“Yeah,” he says. “You too.”
They take a slow step toward each other. Kunal gives her a side hug. Simran rests her head against his shoulder. From the outside, they could be auditioning for a scene from a terrible Hindi movie.
They climb the five flights of narrow stairs to his apartment and settle into his bedroom. The space is a shrine to all the furniture New Yorkers have dumped onto the sidewalk. There’s a twin bed and chipped dresser against the back wall. The only cluttered surface is his desk, which is drowning in anatomy textbooks and loose-leaf sheets of notes in his shitty handwriting. His laptop is on top of a cra
te that’s filled with Rold Gold pretzels, Clif Bars, and ramen noodles, a sign that Meghna Auntie made a recent Costco run. The only picture is a framed one of them from NYU graduation. It’s also been Kunal’s Facebook profile picture for the past year.
“So, tell me about your trip,” Simran says.
Kunal sits on his desk and gives her a brief rundown about the mobile health clinics their team set up, the families who traveled dozens of miles on foot to see them, how he learned to screen for cervical cancer. He had a lot of one-on-one time with Dr. Maude, he says, and can see himself becoming dean of a medical school later, you know, after he can no longer spend entire days operating on brains and can “just take it easy.”
His phone rings for the second time since they’ve been in his room. He silences it.
“Who was that?”
“Just my mom,” he says, tucking it into the front pocket of his scrubs. “Anyway, what about you? How was India?”
Simran stares at his feet, the only part of his body he hates. Her throat tightens.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
Everything spills out: Nani’s cancer, her mother’s first marriage, Nani becoming an official teacher for the girls at school. It’s cathartic to release the past months from her mind.
Kunal doesn’t say anything at first. He shifts from his desk to be next to Simran on the twin bed. Rubs the small of her back. She forgot how he always maintains a sense of calm when someone is having a crisis. It used to be one of her favorite things about him.
“Wow, that’s just crazy. I don’t even know what to say.” He holds both of her hands. “I can’t imagine what that must have been like for you.”
Simran is jolted back to their senior prom night, when they snuck away from their friends just to drink Oreo milk shakes and cuddle in the back seat of his beat-up Honda Accord. He held her hands the same way then. How do people get from that place to where they are now? Is it a single moment that changes the trajectory of a relationship, or is it always multiple events, which go unnoticed at the time but somehow add up?