by Saumya Dave
Suhani and Vanessa met three summers ago during residency orientation. They shared the same dummy during CPR training, and within minutes, both of them commented on how none of the dummies were female, so nobody would be able to practice CPR on a chest with breasts. While Suhani kept this complaint to herself, Vanessa went to the instructor and demanded they teach another class with female dummies.
Over the years, they formed the type of raw, secure bond that can only come from late nights eating dinner from the vending machine, running group therapy with dementia patients, and bringing each other double-shot espressos before morning rounds. Vanessa took pride in being guided by principle. Unlike Suhani, she had no problems speaking up to authority, even if that made her less likable. Her brazenness reminded Suhani of Cristina Yang from Grey’s Anatomy, if Cristina had also enjoyed Bravo shows and trying every new dating app.
“So, are you ready to finally take it easy now?” Vanessa asks. “You got the award. Everyone knows you’re a rock star. Now, chill.”
“Please. She doesn’t know how to chill,” Zack says.
Vanessa gives him a look that says, Cheers to that. “Only Little Miss Type A could make a group of doctors in training look like slackers. I don’t know how you do it. It’s like you never stop.”
“Trust me, I do,” Suhani says, even though they all know that’s not true.
“Yeah, right. You know, I’ve been wondering, where does it come from?” Vanessa asks. “Your need to keep going, going, going? People are rarely ever just born with that. And then you still seem to not be convinced that it’s enough, that you can take a break.”
“Oh, don’t you dare analyze me! I’m a shrink, too, remember?” Suhani waves a finger in her friend’s face, even though she’s right. It’s often a combination of things that makes someone this way, unable to be satisfied. And although people always jumped to Dad’s career as the driving force behind Suhani’s ambition, only those closest to her were aware that Mom played a bigger role, and nobody knew that what happened in med school also played a part. She would be damned if anything ever took her off track again.
The rest of dinner passes quickly. It’s refreshing to take a break from talking about the side effects of Prozac or teaching breathing exercises for a panic attack or reading about family therapy. For the first time in a long time, Suhani can pause that frantic voice in her head: Do your best. Work harder. Keep aiming higher. She finds solace in the bubbles of the champagne tickling her throat and camaraderie with her co-residents.
By the time the waiters are serving coffee and chocolate-covered strawberries on white bone china plates, Suhani is ready to go home and change into her red lacy lingerie.
“Let’s go,” she tells Zack as she takes one last sip of her black coffee, her fourth cup today.
“The program is almost over.” Zack motions for more dessert. “They just have to introduce the new faculty.”
“And you want to stay for that?” While she’s getting more tired every hour, Zack’s only gaining steam. Usually, she’s grateful Zack enjoys making small talk, but tonight she wishes he also needed time away from other people to recharge.
I get it, okay? You’re always tired. The doorman knows you’re tired, Zack said the other night during the argument about the psych consult. Within twenty minutes, he wrapped his arms around her and apologized. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry. I love you. They were back to themselves by bedtime.
Zack shrugs. “Might as well just wait it out. C’mon, all your co-residents are here. When do you ever get to relax with them? Or relax at all?”
“That’s true,” Suhani agrees, just as Vanessa says, “Yes! Stay!”
“We all know you’re going to be chief resident next year,” Vanessa adds. “But for once, can you just hang out and have fun?”
“Ha, I can try.”
Dr. Townsend, the president of the hospital, walks onto the stage, taps the microphone, and clears his throat. His booming voice, Crest-commercial smile, and graying sideburns make him look more like a politician than a doctor. “Can we have everyone’s attention, please? We would like to introduce some new faculty members to Atlanta Memorial Hospital. We are thrilled to have doctors join us from so many wonderful institutions.”
Suhani glances at the stage, where six doctors are lined up. She’s pleased to see four of them are women. They need more female physicians here. She’s still called “sweetie,” “honey,” and “darling” more than she’s ever called “doctor.”
Dad sends Suhani articles about the variety of initiatives taking place to bring more women into medicine. The last one was titled, “Why We Need More Female Physicians.” Dad put “Think there is hope!” in the subject line with a smiley face.
But after everything Suhani has been through, everything she saw Mom struggle with, and everything that almost ruined her in med school, she knew she wanted to be a female in power in healthcare. She wanted to be part of why women would be treated more fairly as clinicians and patients. Maybe one of these new doctors onstage can be her mentor.
She scans the group again.
Her stomach drops.
At first, she assumes she must be hallucinating. Sleep deprivation must be taking a toll on her.
But then her heart rate increases as she takes in the large, bulbous nose that could only belong to one person. To him. From her periphery, she sees that new gray strands have emerged around his temples. Registering him floods her with a rush of dopamine and dread.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
It’s hard to understand why some parts about a person stick while others fade away over time. She spent years forgetting the contours of his face. His angular chin and distinct side profile. The intensity in his eyes, in everything about him. The way he whittled her self-worth into something that was barely there, whittled her into someone she didn’t even recognize.
“Are you okay?” Zack faces her.
Suhani feels the color drain from her face. “Yeah. Fine. Just tired.”
“Okay, okay, let’s head out.” Zack takes his suit jacket off the chair.
Suhani glances at the stage. It’s definitely Roshan. He’s descending the stairs, the stairs she was just on. How can he be here? After he graduated from UCLA med—two years before her—he said he was “never leaving the West Coast.” They weren’t supposed to cross paths ever again. That was one of the reasons she chose to come back home for residency. Not that anyone besides Natasha knows that.
She tells herself to look away.
But she’s too late. They make eye contact.
Damn it.
The room becomes blurry. Suhani can no longer see the tables, covered with linen tablecloths and tea-light candles, the people bustling toward the bar, or her co-residents getting refills of red wine. All she can take in is him. The hair on his knuckles. His hands, dry from years of using harsh hospital soaps and not moisturizing despite how many times Suhani bought him tiny bottles of lotion for his white-coat pockets. The scuffed-up black Cole Haan shoes he’s had forever. The future they both envisioned: two successful doctors, healing and achieving and growing together. That was before she discovered who he really was, what he was truly capable of.
He takes steady, smooth steps toward her. She ignores the voice in her head telling her to walk away. He’d take that as a sign of weakness. And weak is the last fucking thing she’ll let him see her as.
“Suhani, hi,” he says, as though he’s running into any old friend and not someone he used to see naked every night. She forgot how deep his voice is. It was the first thing that attracted her to him when they started talking on the phone late at night, when they should have been studying. God, relationships could start for the dumbest reasons. They were supposed to be a place of safety, not anchored in something as trivial as how deep someone’s voice is. She scolds her twenty-four-year-old self for not picking out an
y red flags back then. But was it all her fault? Are there always warning signs, clues about an inevitable ending, if you’re willing to look hard enough?
“Hi.” Suhani bites her bottom lip to prevent herself from having any facial expression. “I’m, um, I didn’t realize you were going to be working here.”
“Yeah, well, they offered me a great position in the neurology department.” Roshan furrows his thick brows as he glances at her. “And I was ready for a change. There’s a lot I’ve been wanting to do here. And figure out. You know, personally and professionally.”
She nods as though it’s perfectly normal to hear this from him, when really it makes no sense at all. Some covert Facebook research already taught her that he was an attending at UCLA, enjoyed living in a small house near the beach, and didn’t seem to be in a relationship. It also taught her that his old roommate’s girlfriend’s nephew got a Pomeranian puppy, which is when Suhani realized she had gone way too far with her stalking.
She repeats his words in her mind. Personally and professionally. Could he have figured out what she did? No, that wasn’t possible. She stops herself from indulging her paranoia. Years ago, she made sure that all her boxes were checked off, that there would be no trace of what happened. There’s no reason for her to be scared of him anymore.
“They’ve pulled up our car. You ready to go?” Zack is behind her, his arms on her shoulders. She watches him scan Roshan from head to toe with a questioning glance.
Roshan’s eyes shift as if he’s unsure whether to stay or leave. Or maybe he’s judging Zack, with his light gray suit, shiny Ferragamo shoes, polka-dotted navy-blue pocket square, and TAG Heuer watch. Roshan always took pride in being “above” dressing nicely and buying luxury things.
“Ready.” She motions to Roshan and ignores the constriction in her throat. “This is Roshan. You know, from med school.”
“Oh . . . hi.” She watches Zack register the name. “Ah, so you’re Roshan.”
Zack extends his hand. Even when he’s uncomfortable, he’s still kind. Courteous.
“Yeah,” Roshan says with a grunt.
“Nice to meet you,” Zack says. “I, uh, didn’t know you lived here.”
“Same here. What a coincidence.” Suhani hears a nervous laugh come out of her. She tells herself she’s in control here. She won’t regress to the woman she used to be. Someone quieter, more afraid. She studies both of them, side by side. Her husband next to the guy she once thought would be her husband.
At one point, she imagined running into Roshan at a conference, at a time when she’d be at her goal weight, full of purpose, hair and makeup in place. But when nothing happened for years, she realized she’d gotten lucky. She could take the most painful part of her life, the part that she could never face, and move on.
But now she’s in a gown, an award in one hand, the other clutching her husband’s. She’s worked her ass off at the hospital. She’s exercised and toned and strengthened every part of her body. She’s perfected her posture and voice until they convey confidence. Nothing about her looks pathetic. Maybe she couldn’t have seen Roshan at a better time. Realizing this gives her a burst of courage. My life is great now, even after you almost ruined me.
“Well, I’m getting pretty tired,” she says, making sure her voice has just enough nonchalance.
“We should head out.” Zack wraps his arm around Suhani’s shoulders, a gesture that’s part territorial, part loving. To him, this is the guy she dated in med school and dumped one year before they met. He’s irrelevant to their life now.
That’s the story she told Zack. It’s the same story she told herself for years until she believed it. She realized then that that was how people deceived themselves, by telling themselves something again and again, until the line between truth and lie eroded.
“Bye,” Suhani says without making eye contact with Roshan.
Zack pats Roshan’s shoulder. “See ya.”
Roshan nods. He’s still frowning.
Suhani feels the weight of something settling onto her chest. Shame and guilt. And something else, something scarier. She lets herself sink into Zack’s embrace, and they step into the dark parking lot without looking back.
Three
Bina
Bina!” Mira yells across the parking lot. “What is this playing on the speakers?”
“‘Jolene,’” Bina yells. “My favorite Dolly Parton song.”
Mira frowns as she takes quick, purposeful strides toward Bina’s phone. The gold bangles on her wrist jingle as she scrolls through Spotify. “Can we put on something else?”
“Go ahead.” Bina rolls her eyes. She should have known better than to think that everyone here would appreciate Dolly.
Mira puts on a Bollywood remix that’s more appropriate for a wedding reception than a health fair. Bina considers asking her to put on something less let’s-get-on-the-dance-floor and more we-are-volunteering-for-an-important-cause. But she has too many other things that require her attention. Years ago, her mother told her a woman’s brain is always like that, bursting at the seams with everything there is to keep track of.
But right now, Bina has to focus. She has to put all her effort into getting through this event, and when Anita shows up, if Anita shows up, talk to her about announcing the idea they’ve been planning for weeks. They were supposed to do it after telling everyone about their children’s engagement.
“You’ve done such an amazing job again. Everything looks great,” Deepak says, interrupting her thoughts. “And it’s going to be great.”
Bina smiles with gratitude. She smooths her mint-green kurta top and cream linen pants. This is the third year in a row she’s organized a health fair, and it’s since grown to two hundred people congregating at the Atlanta Hindu Temple. She has to make sure everything is nutritious, so large containers of kale salad, roasted vegetables, lentil soup, nuts, and fresh fruit are arranged on the wooden table. Let the Indian attendees grumble about not having traditional food. At least everyone else will be satisfied.
Outside the temple, booths are set up across the vast parking lot for volunteer doctors, nurses, and physician assistants to take people’s vital signs and blood samples and screen for different diseases. College students saunter through the booths to pass out flyers about local clinics.
“Have you seen Anita or Jiten?” Bina asks. Her stomach churns at the thought of seeing their closest friends for the first time since family brunch.
Deepak shakes his head. “Not yet.”
“She and I were supposed to tell everyone about our kitty-party idea. I wanted to have the first meeting next week.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Deepak raises an eyebrow.
“Of course,” Bina says. “Even with everything that just happened, it’s still something we should do. And I really need this.”
Years ago, after Bina accepted that she had to let go of the career she had built since she was a little girl, she told herself that she’d be fulfilled if she hit all the milestones expected of her. But despite getting married, moving to America, and raising children, she couldn’t help but feel as though something was missing. On some mornings, as she chopped onions and the Today show droned in the background, Bina wondered, Is this all it amounts to?
Then when Devi, her closest friend from her acting days, planted the idea about a kitty party, Bina had an aha moment that would have made Oprah Winfrey proud. Something in her stirred for the first time in years as Devi told her about a student who put a kitty party in a script. What if you tried something like this with your married friends? Devi texted. Devi was always calling Bina’s friends “your married friends.” She got divorced ten years ago and spends her days teaching screenwriting in Los Angeles. Because of the time difference, Bina only gets to interact with her through a series of texts, WhatsApp memes, and a biweekly Zoom call.
&n
bsp; Bina loved kitty parties when she lived in Bombay. Every month, women met at someone’s house, ate, and talked. After Devi brought it up, Bina knew this was her chance. This was exactly what her life needed, something that brought women together, something that was truly her own and greater than her at the same time.
Bina explained the idea to Anita late last year and suggested they call it Chats Over Chai. (In her know-it-all voice, Suhani later claimed getting together to talk about people is just organized gossiping. But Bina is determined to make the group more than that, even though she thinks it’s more than okay to take an interest in other people’s lives. This country is so apathetic and detached. Real community means giving a damn about what others are up to!) And most of all, it’s a chance for her to do something greater than herself, something that can also potentially give purpose to other women. Bina has heard too many women who came from India promise to do certain things once they were settled in America, once their children were grown up, once their parents were healthy. Year after year, she saw these promises become more distant and smaller.
“Maybe it’s okay if you put it off for some time. You’ve already been so busy for the past two weeks organizing all this,” Deepak says.
Bina counts the plates, bowls, and utensils. “You know busy is good for me, especially considering the situation.”
Busy makes her forget that her daughter utterly humiliated her and her best friend. Busy lets everyone in Atlanta assume she’s just another traditional housewife. Only Deepak and Devi know what can happen if Bina isn’t just the right level of busy.
Deepak scans her face. “You’re referring to Natasha?”
“Of course I am. I can’t stop thinking about her!” Bina says. “Our daughter is out of control!”
The most frustrating part is that Bina was finally starting to accept that maybe she’d done a good job as a mother. She used to have the habit of combing through her regrets the same way she’d go through photo albums, lingering on some moments while moving past others. But over time, as the kids became more settled and she became more secure, that dwindled.