Symptoms of a Heartbreak

by Sona Charaipotra

  Maybe I need to find one, too. I’ve been coming to this office for as long as I can remember, and spent hours here as a kid, coloring in her big fat medical books before I started reading them myself.

  I get out the Quik Tea chai mix and put the kettle on. It’s not anywhere near the real deal, but it will do in an emergency, and this definitely is one.

  While the water is heating, I plop down at her desk and log in to her computer. I google the words Rock Star Boot Camp, and the show’s website pops up. I click on the contestants page and there are thousands and thousands of entries. But I don’t care about the rest of them I look up the words “Link Rad,” and there he is, grinning back at me. His profile has been clicked some two thousand times, and it has about eleven hundred likes. We can definitely do better than that. I sign into my social media account—though it takes me a few tries to remember the password, which Lizzie set to SairaAndVishy4Eva, no exclamation point, apparently. But it has a y from when we were little, when Vish was still Vishy. I copy the link to Link’s page and try to think of the perfect message. I type, then delete. Then type, then delete. Then type again. I’m all about Princeton’s own @LinkRadRocks for #RockStarBootCamp! Who are you rooting for?

  Yes, that seems about right. I note the number of votes he’s got now, and set my smartphone to remind me to log in this afternoon to check. I don’t know if this will work, but it’s worth a shot. And Lizzie will know exactly how to blow it out.

  I ponder tweeting about Alina’s case, too, or maybe setting up a GoFundMe account myself. But that would be asking to get fired.

  I get to the admin office a few minutes before the meeting’s set to start, and the room is quiet—Howard and Arora are sipping coffee and chatting, while Cho’s scrawling notes in a file.

  I pull out my notepad and start scribbling some action items for helping Link and Alina. Social media is a start—but it’s not nearly enough to make a dent.

  A shadow falls over me just as I’m doodling his name into the edges of the page, and I try to cover the page with a palm. Davis.

  Oh no, she knows. It’s not enough that I’m off the case. She’s about to fire me.

  Instead, she says, “Distracted as usual, huh, Sehgal?” Loud enough that all eyes are now on us.

  “No, doodling actually helps me think, Dr. Davis. I can be a bit scattered, so I use it as a strategy to help me focus so that I don’t go looking for distractions.” ADHD, likely, undiagnosed. But she doesn’t need to know that.

  “Oh, you mean like that scene you made in Dr. Charles’s office?”

  “I was just trying to help—”

  “Am I to understand, then, Sehgal, that you went above my head and straight to Dr. Charles regarding matters that have absolutely nothing to do with you?” she spits. Like, literally.

  “I, uh, I just thought we should do something to help the Plotkin family get through this,” I stammer. “A girl’s life is at stake.”

  “That is not the way this works, Sehgal,” she says, her hands leaning hard on the table. “We are doing the best with the resources we have been given, but this hospital is not a charity. This family is already extremely behind on their payments—to both the hospital and the insurance company—and that is why the insurance company has dropped coverage. I was working with the company to try to reduce some of the debts they owe, but the agent said someone called and snapped at them, undoing all the goodwill I’ve managed to arrange thus far. I’ve also got some calls to nonprofits to arrange possible grants, but they are contingent on a clean track record and verifiable health insurance. In other words: I had things handled. But by getting Dr. Charles involved, you’ve set in motion a process that could unravel everything. Then the Plotkins really will have to rely on a public funding site and the goodness of strangers’ hearts.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, still in shock. “I didn’t know.”

  “You don’t know a lot of things,” Davis says. “You are always overstepping, just like your mother.”

  I rise at that. I am nothing like my mother. Right? I look around, but Cho is nodding and Howard is awfully focused on her coffee mug.

  “Get it together, Sehgal. Every misstep you make—and I hear there have been quite a few—is a mark against you.” She looks around at the others bitterly. “And need I remind you, your competition here is fierce.”

  With that, she turns the meeting over to Arora, who clears his throat and begins updates on the patients for the team. “The Plotkins”—he looks from me to Davis as he says this—“are planning to pull Alina from Princeton Presbyterian as soon as they can get a spot at St. Jude’s,” he says, “but that may be weeks or months.”

  “I have arranged for two weeks’ extension on a shared room for Alina,” Davis says, “but I can’t push it further at the moment until they meet minimum balance requirements.”

  “Could they do a fund-raiser?” Howard says, overeager. “Maybe a bake sale or something? Or an online thing?”

  “People have fund-raiser fatigue,” Cho says, dismissive. “There are too many patients in need, and not enough bleeding hearts to take on the cause.” I’m expecting a sneer in my direction, but for once it doesn’t come. “I can further research some grants, but I think we need to push the family to remove the malignancy now. The longer they wait, the bigger the risk. They don’t have the money—or the time.”

  I want to say something to help, offer some magical solution, but in this case—and it seems, in every case, when it comes to oncology—there simply isn’t one. So I just sit and stew, listening to the whirl of useless ideas swirl around me, and doodle Link’s name in the margins of my notepad.

  “Sehgal.” Davis’s harsh voice slices through my thoughts, rushing me back to the cold, dreary reality of the hospital. “If you can’t be bothered to pay attention, much less contribute, I suggest you pack up your stuff and step outside.”

  It’s like a sock to the stomach. But she’s right. I’m being pretty useless right now. I pack up my things, trying not to suck my teeth, and leave the office.

  I head straight for Alina’s room, and where she’s watching The Great British Bake Off.

  “Hey,” I say. “Mind if I join you?”

  She nods.

  “Is Jessica Park on this one? She’s my favorite!”

  “Mine too. Those scones.”

  “And cupcakes.”

  “Perfection.”

  I plant myself in the chair next to Alina’s bed and stare at the screen until she drifts off, trying to figure out a solution for a problem that doesn’t have any easy answers. It feels too familiar, as the tears sting at my eyes. Like when I sat here for hours on end with Harper. Because sometimes all you can do is just be there. Hopefully, that’s enough.

  CHAPTER 18

  I don’t know when I fell asleep, but I awake to Bubbe snapping her fingers in front of my mouth.

  “Careful,” she says as Alina laughs. “You’ll swallow a fly.” I yawn, and she snaps some more. “Someone needs a nap,” she declares, and drags me out of the chair. “Off you go. You’re no good to anyone in this stupor.”

  Bubbe’s right, so I get up and zombie over to the intern lounge, wishing I had thought to leave pj’s here for these kinds of emergencies. I guess scrubs will have to do. But first, a shower.

  The lights are out, and it’s quiet, thank gods. I head over to the lockers and grab a pair of scrubs, stepping into the bathroom to change. But as soon as the steam hits my face, I realize someone’s already in the shower.

  “Sorry!” I call out, but all I get in response is a groan. A decidedly male groan. Oops. I’m about to jet when I hear a voice.

  “Saira, that you?” It’s Howard. Definitely not whom I was expecting.

  “Dr. Howard?”

  “I’ll be right out!” she calls, and then steps out of the stall, her hair pulled back, a towel wrapped around her. “I thought I locked the door.”

  “I’m sorry. I needed to wake myself up, so I thought I�
��d—” I step toward the shower, but she steps in front of me.

  “Let me clean it up a bit first,” she says, all casual and calm. Except for the rose of her cheeks, of course. Because she definitely caught me looking at the very male (read: hairy!), very brown feet that are still in the shower, exposed to the knee, where the curtain ends.

  “Okay,” I say. Stepping back toward the door. I can hear Howard—and her companion—sigh in relief. “I’ll see you later, Dr. Howard.”

  “Yep.”

  “And you, too, Dr. Arora.”

  “Sure, Saira.”

  Howard isn’t quite sure whether to laugh or cry, so she just shuts the door, and I can hear them scurrying behind it, whispering in too-loud tones.

  “You should have kept your mouth shut.”

  “The girl’s a genius!” Arora says. “I’m sure she figured us out by now.”

  “Abhi, she’s sixteen. This is so totally inappropriate, genius or not.”

  “You’re the one who was all about ‘getting caught cuz it’s hawt.’ Well, congratulations. You got your wish.”

  “I can still hear you!” I shout through the door, and then there’s dead silence. The shower starts up again and Howard, now dressed, comes carefully through the bathroom door. She’s still flushed pink, from the heat, humiliation, or maybe something else.

  “I’m sorry you had to witness that,” she says, sitting on the arm of the sofa, where I’ve plonked down with my stuff.

  “Me too, believe me.” I’ve gotta get out of here. I definitely don’t need a confessional from Arora after his lecture. “You guys should be more careful.”

  “Oh, we’re very careful.” She pauses. “That’s not what you meant.”

  “Nope.”

  “Yeah, I know. I mean. God, this is embarrassing. It’s just, we can’t get enough of each other. And we’re just always here, you know? But if somebody were to find out—”

  “Nobody’s going to find out. At least not from me.”

  “Oh, thank god, Saira. I guess you know how it is, though, right?”

  “Not really.”

  The bathroom door starts to open, and I take that as I my cue to bolt, jumping out and heading straight for the door.

  * * *

  Wow. Howard and Arora. Maybe some part of me suspected it that day, when she was all dolled up and he was all suited up for his date. I mean, the math makes sense. But still, I’m floored, not quite sure what to do with myself. Yes, they’re consenting adults or whatever, but interpersonal staff relations are definitely not allowed. It’s in the handbook and everything. And Arora is her boss. But then again, Link is—was—my patient.

  I mean, is it a tactic to get ahead? No, she wouldn’t do that. She must really, actually like him. I mean, he’s handsome, smart, kind. What’s not to like? But he is her boss. And she is my competition. Maybe sixteen-year-old me is unwise to hold on to this information. After all, what would Cho do? I know exactly what he’d do. Which means that’s exactly what I shouldn’t do.

  I stop stewing and marching to find myself standing in front of the door to the patient lounge. This is becoming a habit, and a bad one at that. But today I’m here with a purpose. It’s almost four o’clock, and even though I know, deep down, that he won’t show up, I have to try.

  I can feel that weird flutter in my stomach as I hover near the door, that anticipation that I’m getting kind of addicted to. I can almost already feel the disappointment that always follows, too, the heaviness of it nesting along my shoulders and my back. I hold my breath and push the door open, hoping for the best. And expecting emptiness. The space is quiet and dark, but there’s a light snore coming from the patchy old corduroy couch that’s been there longer than I’ve been alive. And even though we’ve barely touched, it’s a body I’d recognize anywhere. Link.

  He’s here. I haven’t seen him since the day they took me off his case, and I realize now that this fatigue I’ve been carrying is because of that. It slides right off me, and suddenly every synapse in my body is firing on overdrive, my heart racing like a champion, my nerves tingling with the desire to reach out and touch him.

  But he’s fast asleep, his IV bag trolley hovering over him like an overzealous nurse, one sockless foot dangling off the side of couch, the other overshooting right off the end. An arm is thrown over his eyes, hiding them from the last rays of sunlight seeping into the room, and he looks so peaceful, he could be dead—a thought that makes my heart stop—except for the slight snore. It’s soft and comforting, like a glitch in a record, and I’m sure his mother appreciates it in moments like these, when it feels like a short nap could easily give way to an endless slumber.

  I sit on the table across from him and take him in. He’s wearing a hospital gown and sweatpants that are a few inches too short, revealing bruises that have spread, the black-and-blues deepening into purple swirls here and there. Needle pricks mark his arms, and I can tell now where he’s experienced José’s gentle touch versus Cho’s more clinical approach. I even find the spot from the day he found out I was a doctor, not a patient. It’s nearly healed now, but surrounded by more recent punctures, like the soft center of a blooming bud. Before I can stop myself, I’ve leaned over to touch it, and Link shocks awake, his dream stupor making him blink.

  “You’re here.”

  “Hey,” he says, a slow smile spreading, then ending abruptly when he remembers he’s supposed to be mad at me. “What do you want?”

  “You got my note?” My eyes wander to the clock above the door.

  “Yeah.” He sits up, composing himself, pulling the hospital gown closed a bit. “I still haven’t decided if I’ll bother to show up.”

  My eyes wander to the clock above the door. “It’s four now.”

  “Well, I’m not here for you,” he grumbles, his voice still sleep-rumpled. “For that. I just … I needed a break. From José. And my mom. And everything. Including you.”

  He starts to detangle himself and cringes away when I try to help him. Ouch. “I just … I don’t understand why you’re so mad at me.”

  He sighs, but it’s jagged, like a cough. He’s getting worse. “Of course you don’t. And that’s exactly it. When I met you, I got my hopes up. I got excited. I thought you might be someone.”

  “Someone?”

  “Someone who’d understand.”

  Oh. I get it now. Kind of. The way he talked to me, I thought he might be someone, too. I want to tell him that I am someone, that I do get it, but I’m not quite sure that’s true.

  “So anyway, you’re not.”

  “What?”

  “You don’t get it. So nobody gets it. Again.” A trickle of pain flashes across his face. I reach to help, but he leaps out of my grasp, his IV trolley tugging at him like a nosy Dadima, and starts for the door.

  “Wait!” I jump up, beating him to the door. Blocking his path. What’s wrong with me? “I just wanted to say—”

  “You should have said it earlier,” Link says, his eyes shining in the dim light. “Before we both made asses out of ourselves.”

  I grin for a second, and so does he, sheepishly. But then it fades again, and he shoves forward with his little trolley.

  “I’m sorry. In any case.”

  He turns back to look at me, his eyes daggers now. “That’s your apology?” I want to hang my head in shame. “I thought you were supposed to be some kind of genius, Saira with an i. Couldn’t do better than that?”

  “I’m—”

  “Save it. I’m due for meds.”

  I nod. “See you round?” I try not to let my voice rise with hope.

  “Doubt it,” he says, shutting the door behind him, quiet but firm, in a way that shatters my heart into a million pieces.

  CHAPTER 19

  My hands grip the wheel, sweat slicking them away from two and ten, even though the AC is blasting.

  “Relax, we’re nearly there,” Vish says, his voice too cheerful for eight a.m. on a Saturday morning. I shoul
d know this trip by heart—we’re headed to my alma mater, Princeton University, for Vish’s obligatory “sure, I’ll apply” tour. But I’ve never actually driven here before, because I was twelve when I attended, and chaperoned by my father or Taara every day. It’s essentially a waste of a trip. Vish’s big plan—much to his parents’ eventual surprise and chagrin, I’m sure—is to jet off to Los Angeles and study film and photography at USC. They’ll be horrified when they find out, and that’s not the worst of it by far. But for today, we’re doing our duty as good Indian kids by checking out the local Ivy.

  “Wait, wait, wait, Guddi, you’re about to hit that lamppost.” We ping it ever so slightly, but luckily Vish’s Jeep is sturdy, and it’s taken bigger hits. “Want me to park?” he asks as I drop my head down onto the steering wheel in sweaty a mix of humiliation and grief.

  I nod onto the wheel and mumble yes. He pops out of the passenger side and makes his way over, opening the door to let me climb out and stand in shame by the side as he pulls the Jeep into the teeny tiny parking spot, one, two, three, like it’s nothing.

  “I mean, there are lots of different kinds of intelligence,” Vish says, laughing as he climbs back out of the Jeep. “You can’t be a genius in every aspect of your life, after all.”

  I dishoom him—fake punching like Akshay Kumar, this uber-macho action hero Vish had a crush on when he was thirteen—and he ducks and kicks back, nearly catching me on the shin for real. Then he headlocks me from the back, wrapping one arm around my neck and the other around my waist, then twirling me until we’re facing each other, forehead to forehead, except he’s leaning about eight inches down because I’m so damned short.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey.”

  “You ready?”

  “I guess,” he says. “Breakfast first?”

  “Yep.”

  We walk over to the student lounge, which is barely bustling on a sleepy summer Saturday. The only signs of life are eager wannabe Princetonians and their even more eager parents, poring over Viewbooks and campus maps as they munch on croissants and down lukewarm lattes. Ah, I remember when this was me. A rush of nostalgia hits me, but it’s weird. Today, I actually fit right in with this mix. Sixteen going on seventeen, the thrill of my whole life ahead of me. Back then, I was the nerdiest of them all, barely five feet tall (though I’m only five two now!), a twig, and decidedly a child. Everyone thought I was Taara’s kid sister, along for the ride as she looked at schools. But while all those kids were hopeful of their chances at Princeton, I was the sure bet. I kind of want to shake them all now, tell them to stop and enjoy the moment, not to take it all so seriously. But I wouldn’t have listened to anyone who said that to me six years ago.