Symptoms of a Heartbreak

by Sona Charaipotra

  Cho clears his throat, then starts outlining his proposal. “As you know, a recurrence can be alarming, and sometimes more difficult to treat than the first, given an already weakened immune system and some built-up resistance to certain treatment strategies, which is why we proposed in-patient treatment at this time. We’re working as a team to ensure the utmost in care. I propose that we start with a softer course of chemo—not as invasive as the previous one—to see if that reduces or stops the spreading of the cancer. That way, we can also ensure that Link’s body can tolerate the treatment. If it works, we can eliminate the damaged cells pretty quickly and stop the recurrence completely. If not, we’ll have to look at more exhaustive options.”

  Howard clears her throat and pulls me forward by the arm so I can actually see the patient.

  Link sits perched up in the bed—his cheeks more hollow, his hair thinner than it was just a week ago at the mall. Or wait—the ski cap. It was strategic.

  He’s focused on the big box TV set to a music channel, his eyes still on the screen for a second before they turn to us, finally. And then they narrow. And then widen. And then narrow again. It’s enough to make a girl dizzy. Or maybe that’s the heart palpitations, which are still going strong and oh so fun.

  “Wait a minute—” He looks confused. Which makes sense.

  “Hi,” I say weakly.

  “Saira with an i?” he asks. “What are you doing—” He sits straight up in the bed now, completely focused on me, as if he can’t quite see me clearly or something. As if his eyes are deceiving him.

  “I’m actually Dr. Sehgal.”

  “Girl Genius,” Cho adds with a smirk. “You know, the real-life Doogie Howser?”

  “Doogie who?”

  Of course he doesn’t know. The show is ancient. Why would he? Why do I even know?

  “Oh yeah,” Lincoln’s mom chimes in. “I read about you in the paper. I’m Maggie Chung-Radcliffe. Link’s mom.” She’s smiles as she shakes my hand. “I’d love to hear more about your Doctors Without Borders trips to Mexico. So fascinating.”

  “Yup,” Arora says, annoyed. “Girl Genius. Anyway. Dr. Sehgal is an intern here, like Dr. Cho and Dr. Howard, and she’ll also be part of the team on your case. Tell me, Lincoln, are you in pain?”

  “No, I’m all right,” he says, still staring at me. “Seventy-eight-percent prognosis. Decent odds. Especially for take two.”

  The same thing he said the other day. He opens his mouth again, then shuts it, like a fish, confused and swimming in circles. His eyebrows rise, then fall, then he opens his mouth to speak, and I think he’s going to say something about me, about us, about the fact that I’m not a patient. Instead he says, “But they’re going down fast.” He looks me square in the eye. “My odds. Am I right?”

  Cho presumes the question is addressed to him. “Unfortunately, we’re not legally at liberty to discuss a prognosis—things can change so quickly, and of course there are no guarantees. You should know, yes, that we’re at the stage where a marrow transplant in the strongest option, and given your racial background, the chances of finding a perfect match are slim. However, we’ve only just started, and we have a few resources to exhaust, especially within the Korean community, which gives us the strongest chance of finding a solid match. Getting the word out, to family, friends, and the larger community, will be key.”

  Link’s mom nods. “We’ve already started reaching out to our church group and other local organizations within Princeton. I guess it’s time to broaden the search.”

  “I’ve begun reaching out to Asian-and Korean-specific cancer organizations who help draft up a campaign to reach donors,” Cho chimes in—and it suddenly becomes clear to me why he was asked to consult. He’s connected to this community in a way the rest of us aren’t. “Social media is critical here,” he adds. “And the hospital’s PR team is already working on press releases and some news placement to get the word out.”

  “All right, time for blood work,” José says. “Saira, you’re up this time.”

  “Yeah, actually, if we could have some privacy, that would rock,” Link says, surprising everyone. That’s not usually how this goes.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Arora says.

  “I can handle it,” I say. “Maybe Link wants to chat with someone, uh, closer to his own age?”

  I have to explain. I have to fix this. If I can.

  Arora reluctantly nods. “Clear out. José will be right outside if you need help, Saira. And Mrs. Chung-Radcliffe, if you come with me, I can go through some of the donor drive paperwork with you in the meantime.”

  They all shuffle out, Cho looking particularly irritated.

  My hands shake as I prep blood tubes, and the clatter of glass against glass startles both of us. Link purposefully doesn’t look at me, instead staring up at the TV screen, or at his arm as he lays it flat, elbow down, at his side. The median cubital vein—that bright blue one in the forearm—beckons, awake and ready for the venipuncture.

  I can’t bring myself to do it. Not yet. Not without saying something, anything, first.

  “This might hurt a little,” I say. Or a lot. Which I don’t say.

  “It always does.” His voice is bitter, not mean.

  I open my mouth to speak, but I don’t know what else to say. I take the alcohol swab and set my mind to the process, step-by-step, familiar and mindless. My heart rocks from side to side, thumping so loud I can hear it in my ears, like when Taara used to bounce tennis balls off the wall between our rooms, out of control and unignorable.

  I reach over, trying to stop the tremor in my hand before I clasp his arm.

  “Go ahead and do it,” he says, and we both look up at the same time, our eyes locked in this weird game of seesaw, where the other will go flying if either one of us shifts our weight.

  Link flinches as I insert the needle, and then again as I attach the blood tube. Then I start the fluids, flicking the bag with one hand the way Dr. Arora taught me to ensure there are no air bubbles.

  “Cold,” he says. “I always forget.”

  “Yeah, you think you get used to it—”

  “So you’re not a patient, I take it?”

  “Actually,” I say, looking down at the patient file and avoiding eye contact, “I never said was. You presumed it.”

  “Yeah, because you were, like, in the patient lounge. And, you know, sixteen. Like me.”

  “I can see what might have given you that impression.”

  “And yet you let me assume it.”

  “Well, you know what they say about assumptions.”

  “Yeah, well, if I’m an ass, so are you.”

  I pull the tube out—a little too hard, I’ll admit—and he flinches again. “Ow,” he says.

  “Sorry,” I say.

  “I’m sure you are,” he says. His eyes are back on the screen now, not looking at me, and his energy has completely shifted.

  I don’t exist at all. I feel the cold of the fluids rushing through my veins the way they are through his right now. Like ice. Despite the sweat pooling at the small of my back and at the nape of my neck. Despite the fact that my hands are still shaking and that electricity, that light, is still bolting through me like thunder.

  “All set,” I say.

  “Good,” he says, not taking his eyes off the screen. “Let Dr. Arora know I’d like to talk to him please.”

  “Will do,” I say, gathering the blood work kit and packing up. “See you later.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  He wants to talk to Dr. Arora. And he definitely does not want to talk to me. This is it. The end. It’s all over. Me and Link, 100 percent. But maybe all the rest of it, my career, too. I knew I should have fixed this. Now it’s too late.

  Diagnosis: Disaster.

  Prognosis: Chance of survival, slim to none.

  CHAPTER 15

  When I walk out the door, it’s clear that, as much as Link wanted privacy, we’ve had an audience the
whole time. Howard and Cho are all standing right outside, staring expectantly, while José paces, the anxiety an exclamation point between his eyebrows. As soon as I walk through, he races toward me, grabbing me by the arm and leading me away.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” he whisper-shouts as he leads me toward the intern lounge. “I mean. This is serious.”

  “I know. I’m about to get fired, right?”

  “No, I mean—he’s adorable! But yeah, you’re in trouble for sure. Davis does not look favorably upon, uh, patient-staff relations.”

  “There have been no relations!” I nearly shout. Not that I maybe wouldn’t want there to be but … “Just, like, a few conversations.”

  We both frown.

  “And he thinks—” José’s eyebrows are jumping.

  “Thought,” I interrupt.

  “That you’re a patient.” Howard invades our little circle, and she’s grinning despite my trauma. “Oops.”

  “Yeah, not a good look,” Cho says, pushing his way into the group. “This could mean serious trouble.”

  “But nothing actually happened,” I say with a sigh. “Like, at all.”

  “That’s not what it seemed like in there,” Cho says, and he can’t keep the smirk off his face.

  Howard frowns. “Yeah, that chemistry? Mind. Blown.”

  “And in front of his mama, no less,” José says with a laugh.

  I grin for a second. I can’t help it. So it wasn’t just me imagining it. But maybe that makes things worse. “Yeah. So I mean, nothing happened, and nothing can happen. Nothing will happen. I’ll just make that clear. To everyone involved.”

  “You can start right now,” a deep voice says. Arora towers over us all, and for once in his life, he’s not smiling. “Come with me, Dr. Sehgal. The rest of you, back to your rounds.”

  He starts walking toward the oncology administration office, his strides so broad I can barely keep up. I practically run behind him, trying not to drop my files—or break a sweat.

  He stops abruptly in front of his office door, and I crash right into him. He still doesn’t crack a smile.

  I look up, wearing my best “who me?” expression.

  He opens his office door and gestures for me to step inside. “Have a seat, Dr. Sehgal.”

  I can see the creases in his forehead—all I can see above the big screen of his computer—working as he ponders an email or something. I know he’s still frowning.

  I clear my throat a bit to get his attention. “So, am I grounded?” I say, a little too bright.

  “If Davis gets an earful—which is super likely—then you’ll be way more than grounded. Do you care to explain what that was all about?”

  “Uh, I, uh…”

  “Gave Lincoln the distinct impression that you were a patient, that much is clear. Did anything else happen?”

  “Absolutely not, sir.” I flinch at the word “sir.” How old am I? “I mean, I ran into him here, and at the mall and stuff. And we talked about food and our grandmothers and music and Bollywood movies, but, like, that was all.” Even though it kind of feels like that was everything.

  “And what about that day in the lobby?”

  “That was nothing. He offered me a ride. I didn’t accept.” See? I can do this.

  “Well, in any case, you will remain in the employ of Princeton Presbyterian—for now. I—despite my better instincts—will refrain from reporting this to Dr. Davis. But this ends here and now. Got it?”

  He sounds like my dad giving me a lecture when I miss curfew. Good cop to Mom’s bad, but with a measured sternness to keep him from cracking a smile. He frowns, clearly unfamiliar with the extended internal dialogue of teenagers. “Got it?” he repeats.

  I nod gravely, just like I do when I convince Papa not to report back to Mom. “Oh yeah, of course. I mean, I know the rules. Doctor-patient interactions are to remain strictly professional. And they will. And they have been.”

  “Yes, they will,” Arora says. Then he clears his throat. “Especially because Lincoln—and I—have decided it’s best that you be removed from his case. His mom has reluctantly agreed. You’re lucky that Mrs. Chung-Radcliffe was impressed with you and your résumé. It seems she’s your saving grace here. Because while Link has asked me to remove you from the case, his mother asked me to not send details of this further up the chain. Yet. But trust me, Dr. Sehgal, if Davis hears a peep about this, from you, Link, or anyone else, there will be nothing I can do to prevent her from dismissing you.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Arora.”

  He nods, then looks back to his computer. When I don’t move, he raises those bushy brows again, perplexed. “Anything else, Dr. Sehgal?”

  “Well, yeah. I mean. I know Link doesn’t want me on the case. But hear me out. I can still help. And I don’t even have to be in the same room with him.”

  “I don’t understand.” His eyes are drifting back to the screen, so I’ve gotta make this good.

  “Listen, I’m a teenager. And a doctor. The only teenage doctor. A curiosity. The Girl Genius.”

  “Don’t we all know it?” he says, a little too cranky.

  “So we can use that.”

  He looks at me blankly. “I don’t get it.”

  I try not to sigh. For a doctor, he’s kinda not very quick. “For the marrow campaign.”

  Still blank.

  “For Link. Lincoln. Chung-Radcliffe.” He’s already shaking his head. “What Link needs right now is a match. Given his genetic background, the chances of finding one are slim. So we need to get the word out as far and wide as possible. Now, I don’t really do social media much, but my friend Lizzie made me sign up on all the sites—and people just follow me. Because, Girl Genius. So she, like, tweets for me. And she’s pretty awesome at it. Like, she has even more followers than me, and this kickass Instagram fashion page and stuff. So we can use that—my social media—to get the word out.”

  He shakes his head again, his mouth a grim line. “I told you, you’re off the case.”

  I lean forward, trying to make him see. I can do this. “I don’t even have to be on the case. I just—I just want to help him.” I’m blushing, I know, and suddenly I can’t look away from my hands. “I know it’s a bit of a mess, but won’t you let me help, at least in this small way?”

  One side of his mouth has perked up a little, the left brow perched to match it. He’s gonna say yes. He has to say yes. He’s just about to speak, when there’s a rap on the door, fast and furious. Uh-oh.

  Arora literally jumps out his chair. It has to be Davis. She knows. We’re doomed. Well, I’m doomed.

  “Come in!” he shouts while running to the door to open it. I flinch as it swings open, expecting the worst.

  But it’s not Davis. Standing just outside, looking abashed and agitated, is a man, about six feet tall, dark brown hair, pale white skin, worry lines making the frown on his face so much more pronounced. He’s wearing pristine tan pants with super-sharp creases and a brown corduroy jacket, complete with elbow patches, even though it’s the thick of August. Which would explain why he’s so sweaty and panting.

  “I’ll sue this hospital for millions,” he says, his finger jabbing the air. “Just you wait.”

  Link’s mom steps out from behind him, her hand on the man’s shoulder, trying to calm him down. “Lincoln, relax.” She’s trying not to grin.

  “Professor Radcliffe, Maggie,” Dr. Arora says. “Please, come in. Have a seat. Let me explain.”

  “I don’t want to hear it!” the man yells, though he actually comes in and takes a seat next to me. Link’s mom hovers behind him. “Maggie already told me everything. An affair? With a doctor? Unacceptable.”

  He’s drumming his fingers on the desk, his eyes taking in every inch of the room, as Link’s mom stands behind him, rubbing his shoulders soothingly. She smiles at me.

  “It was hardly an affair. Barely a flirtation,” Dr. Arora says. “And a terribly mild one at that, as far as I can tell.” Wo
mp womp. “And while doctor-patient interactions as such are never appropriate, I’d like to introduce you to the doctor in question, Professor Radcliffe.” He waves toward me and I stand to shake his hand. “This is Dr. Sehgal. Saira Sehgal.”

  The man just blinks at me, not quite comprehending. “Is she a candy striper?”

  “No, sir,” I say, sticking out my hand. “UMDNJ grad, oncology intern, Bollywood film fan. Can’t say I’ve ever been a candy striper, though.” I smile, then pull it back a little. Too much teeth. I sit, turning a bit toward Link’s dad, trying to seem friendly. And smart.

  Still, confusion rules the man’s face. “I don’t get it. She’s a kid.”

  “I told you she was a kid,” Link’s mom says. “But you were too busy ranting.”

  “Yes, Dr. Saira Sehgal, Girl Genius,” Arora announces, a little too dry for my taste. “She’s sixteen. Just like Link. He mistook her for a patient.”

  The man speaks slowly, as if we’re perhaps not quite speaking English. As if I’m not even in the room. “A doctor? Not a patient? And she’s sixteen?”

  “Yes,” I say, exasperated. “A doctor. Do you want me to have them fax my diploma?” Okay, maybe I shouldn’t have snapped. But Link’s mom giggles a little.

  “In any case, Professor Radcliffe,” Arora says, his voice patient but tired, “we’ve removed Dr. Sehgal from Link’s case—”

  “But I have an idea,” I interrupt. “I can help!”

  “Yes,” Arora says, weary. “Perhaps you could. But that would entirely be up to Link and his parents.”

  “I fail to understand.” Professor Radcliffe looks confused, and maybe just a bit exhausted. “We are pushing forward with the search for a donor, correct? That is the next best step?”

  Link’s mom whispers something in his ear, and the professor seems to relax ever so slightly. “Lincoln seems pretty reluctant to have you involved,” she says to me. “Of course, you understand why things might be awkward.”

  “I do understand. Just hear me out.” I have to make them see how this could help. “I have a plan.”

  Arora sits back down at his desk, frowns at me, then shrugs. I take that as my cue. “See, as I was telling Dr. Arora, as the youngest doctor in the United States, I have a bit of a following. Like, on social media. My friend Lizzie, who’s like a social media rock star—she wants to be an actress—she runs my Twitter and Instagram and stuff. And it’s more than thirty thousand followers on Twitter. Plus, every so often, news media likes to check in to see ‘what I’m up to.’”