Symptoms of a Heartbreak

by Sona Charaipotra

  Vish walks back with two white-people chais—vanilla and cinnamon, so not the real deal—and a sesame bagel for us to split. He watches me as I butter it, scowling.

  “Dude, can you get a little excited?” I say.

  “I know. This isn’t me. Nothing I’ve done this year is me at all. I’m, like, going through the motions.”

  “It’ll come together.”

  “No, it won’t. Things like this don’t just happen, Saira. You know that better than anyone. You have to make them happen. And I’m too busy hiding to do anything about it.”

  “So do something.”

  “Like what?” he says, then takes a big chomp of bagel, little flecks of butter caught in his twelve o’clock shadow. I know he shaved this morning, but the pricklies are back already. The few times we kissed, even when we were younger, they always used to scratch. He watches me watching him, and then his eyes widen, going big, bigger, biggest, like someone’s suddenly given him an IV of caffeine. “Wait. I know.”

  “What?”

  “The perfect project to submit for my USC app.”

  “Oh yeah? Something set in Princeton?”

  “Yes, at Princeton Presbyterian, actually.”

  I narrow my eyes. I’m not sure I like where this is going.

  “‘A day in the life of Saira Sehgal, Dr. Girl Genius.’ It’s perfect.” I’m shaking my head, but he plows forward. “C’mon. Who else has that kind of access?”

  “Cameras in the hospital suites? Davis would fire my ass. Like she needs another excuse.”

  “Eh, she’s probably gonna do that anyway. Why not help me get into USC in the process?”

  “I’m not that interesting.”

  “Oh, but you are. You’re smart, you’re funny, you’re caring, you’re charming. You are. And you’re a certified genius. The youngest doctor in America. Come on, I already have footage from your White Coat Ceremony, and that interview thingie we practiced for MedNet. We could do this. It could be kick-ass. And maybe it would be good publicity for the hospital.”

  Hmmm, maybe not just the hospital.

  “I could make it happen,” I say slowly, dragging out the tension. “On one condition.”

  “What condition?”

  “Link Rad. Lincoln Chung-Radcliffe.” I’ve only caught glimpses of him since that day in the lounge, because he’s decidedly avoiding me. But I can still hear the grumble in his voice, all sleepy and rough. And it makes me miss him. Can you miss someone you barely know?

  Vish is smirking in a way that makes me want to punch him. “Him again? I thought you were already on it. With Lizzie.”

  “Yeah. But you can help, too.”

  “By getting tested?”

  “Yes, definitely. It never hurts to do that, and you could actually save a life. But in Link’s case, like I told Lizzie, we’d be unlikely as matches. He’s half-Korean and half-white, like a mix of stuff. So that combination is pretty uncommon, which makes the whole thing harder.”

  Vish drums his thumb on his chin, pondering. “So we could do like a little docu segment on him, and Dr. Girl Genius to the rescue maybe?”

  “Yeah, sure. But that’s not exactly what I had in mind.”

  “Oh yeah?” he takes another bite of bagel.

  I raise my eyebrows and grin. This whole fake-boyfriend-with-a-camera thing could be useful.

  * * *

  Thankfully, Vish lets me off the hook when it comes to driving home. My dad is out front as we pull up to the house, sweat dripping down his face and soaking his T-shirt as he pushes his puttering old mower around the front lawn. He’s probably the only one in the neighborhood who insists on doing his own yard work—this is Princeton, after all. But I can hear the refrain now: “Paisa vasul.” Get your money’s worth. And he counts every penny.

  “What happened to your driving lesson?” he calls out, cutting the motor on the mower. “Vish, I’m counting on you.”

  “Hanji, Uncle—she did the drive there this morning, because the streets were quieter then,” Vish says, leaping out of the driver’s seat and rushing over to where my dad stands. “But let me take over here. You look like you could use some nimbu paani.”

  Lemonade does sound good right now. I bet Dadi’s already got some ready and waiting, the sweetness cut with sour pucker of chaat masala. I realize I’m ravenous, as usual. “Did Dadi make paranthe?” I ask my dad.

  “Better! She made chole bhature. Come on!” He heads toward the front door. “Veggie-friendly, Vish!”

  Vish rigs the motor in response, and it roars back to life. “Let me finish up here first.”

  I follow my dad inside, the scent of the curried chickpeas making my mouth water. I hug Dadi, pour myself some chai and am ladling up a bowl when Dad reappears, freshly showered. That was fast.

  I pass him the plate I’ve been filling, and Dadi brings over a hot, freshly fried bhatura, the puffy, crispy bread releasing steam as he pokes it.

  “Vish nahin aya?” he asks as he stuffs a bite into his mouth.

  “He’ll be here in a second,” I say, dipping my bread into the chickpeas. “Dadi’s chole are his favorite.”

  Papa ducks his head a bit, leaning closer to say, “I think she makes them just for him. Even though she’d never admit it.”

  “The grandson she never had,” I say, and burst into laughter.

  “Or son-in-law,” Papa adds, and that shuts me right up. He chews for a second, and I can almost see his brain unraveling how to ask what he wants to know. “So, are you guys pretty serious now?”

  I frown and take a sip of chai, the ginger hitting my throat just right. “Papa, we’re too young to be serious. I mean, he’s still in high school.”

  “And you would be, too.”

  “I know.”

  “He’s still got college; you’ve got your internship. You may feel like a grown-up, but you’re both still kids.” Then he adds: “You’re both still figuring yourselves out.”

  I blink, shocked for a second, and wonder what he knows. But then he shoots a look toward Dadi, who’s still at the stove, frying up bhature. “So you have plenty of time. No matter what anyone else might say. Got it?”

  I nod. “Got it.”

  “Good.”

  CHAPTER 20

  I spent Sunday reading and watching everything I could about Rock Star Boot Camp, and I think I’m nearly ready to put my plan into action. In the meantime, Monday looms, long and tedious, and I’m on the early shift for rounds, so I take a car service to the hospital to clock in at six a.m. There’s no way I’m relying on Mom for that one.

  Everything’s still dim and quiet, and I stash myself in the intern lounge—thankfully empty—with a thermos of chai Dadi made me, reading patient files and making notes. I keep coming back to the one for Pinky. I know I’m not supposed to be on the case—which seems to be true for every case, lately—but she’s my baby cousin, and I can’t not help. But while Cho and Howard and Dr. Arora seem to be doing everything right, something’s not quite adding up.

  I log on to the American Journal of Clinical Oncology site to read up on her previous diagnosis of medulloblastomas—abnormal, possibly malignant growths on the cerebellum, the back part of her brain. Maybe something there will help me unravel this.

  José comes bustling in a few minutes later and gives me a crouched hug, peering over my shoulder at my files as I pour him a mug of chai. “Girl, you need to leave that case alone. That old auntie will have your ass if she sees you in Pinky’s files.” He’s right. It’s none of my business. But she is my little cousin.

  “Well, thankfully, she’ll never find out,” I say, raising a now-bushy brow (yes, again) at him. “But maybe I found something?”

  “What?” he says, overeager.

  “Give me a minute. I’ve got to make sure I’m on the right track.”

  “Yeah, that’s smart. By the way, you free now?”

  “Sure, why?”

  “Ericka Jackson—Brendan’s mom—has been here all ni
ght. Something’s on her mind for sure.”

  I stand, closing the thermos and draining my cup in one gulp. “On it!”

  I grab my white coat and head out onto the floor. The hospital is slowly awakening as sunlight seeps in here and there, and the nurses begin their morning bustle. Breakfast trays float past, mostly uneaten, nurses shuffle through their rounds, and orderlies push beds from one place to another.

  I poke my head into Brendan’s room—he’s in a private suite, which means his mom or grandma can crash on the lounger in the corner.

  Brendan’s in there, wide awake, watching cartoons on his iPad and eating Lucky Charms—which I’m pretty sure are contraband—just like any kid.

  “Hey,” I say, and he frowns immediately. I don’t blame him. He’s probably sick of doctors. “What you watching?”

  “Yo Kai Watch,” he says, all excited, and then frowns some more at the confusion on my face. “It’s this anime about this kid, Nate, who can see these troublesome spirits that are up to no good through this watch that lets him communicate with and capture them. If you’ve got a problem, maybe a Yo Kai caused it.” Like even cancer, I can almost hear him say in his head.

  Oh. “That sounds pretty cool.” I’m at a bit of a loss then. I hold up a test tube, and he nods, all solemn, because this is old hat. “Where’s your mama?” I ask as I start the blood work. “And your grandma?”

  “Mom’s on a work call with Japan. She’s got to catch up when she can, you know. Because of me.” He takes a slurp of cereal. “And Grandma, well. She’s pretty mad.”

  Uh-oh. “Mad? Why?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough.” He grins when he says it.

  “How are you doing, Brendan? Like, really, actually doing?”

  “It’s not fun.” He sighs. “They fight a lot. About me. And I still don’t feel good. Ever. But Mom said that maybe—if it works—I will. So I’m just trying to focus on that. Because I want to feel better.” He shrugs, like all that talking has exhausted him. Or at the very least, distracted him from his show. But then he looks up at me again, and I notice he’s lost another tooth. “The only downside?”

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “When I’m better, I’ll have to go back to school.”

  That makes me laugh, and he grins. I pull the last tube, and he’s absorbed by his show before I can say another word.

  I’m labeling blood work, when his mom, Ericka, walks in, all raring to go. She looks like she’s had more chai than I have. And I had a thermos full.

  “There you are, Dr. Sehgal,” she says as soon as I walk in. She takes my arm and leads me back out the door. “Let me buy you a cup of coffee.”

  I grin. “I guess I could use some more caffeine.”

  “I’d IV it, if I could,” she says. “I can’t really sleep when I’m at the hospital. Or when I’m at home, really. Too much on my mind.” She pauses in front of the elevator, and my heart stops for a minute, half expecting Link to be standing there when the doors open. But, of course, it’s empty.

  We step off the elevator and head to the patient café in silence. I fret over what she’s going to say. I can’t afford to have more parents pushing me off their kids’ cases. And I know Grandma Jackson’s been pretty adamant about the toll this is taking on the family—I hope she hasn’t convinced her daughter to discharge Brendan.

  The café is busy. Seems a lot of weary relatives need sustenance this time of day. I remember coming here in the mornings with Harper’s mom when Harper was sick to pick up banana muffins, and find myself reaching for one now. Then I grab some coffee—dumping so much hazelnut creamer in mine, it looks like chai—and take a seat.

  We’re barely seated, before Ericka jumps in. “I wanted to talk to you about something. But I need to ask you first: This can’t get back to my mother.”

  My eyebrows leap—Mom says that’s how she could always tell when I was up to no good when I was little. I look around, as if we’re about to get caught, and pick at my muffin. I tastes the same—bananas and whole grain and something slightly metallic.

  “She helps me with Brendan a lot, but I’m his mom. I’m his guardian. And it’s my responsibility to make these medical decisions—possibly life-saving decisions—on his behalf. I have to do what’s best for him. Even if she disagrees with it.”

  “But don’t you think talking to her could—”

  “I already know what she’s going to say, and we can’t afford to lose any more time. Brendan can’t. We have to act now.”

  I nod.

  “I talked briefly to Dr. Howard about this, but she was reluctant to discuss it further with Dr. Arora. I thought you might be more open.”

  “What did you have in mind, Ms. Jackson?”

  “Call me Ericka.” She pulls some paperwork from her purse and passes it to me across the table, her coffee untouched. She waits for me to read.

  It’s about a medical trial—an inhibitor meant to block oxygen access to the cancer cells—that could address the aggressive growth Brendan’s been experiencing. The company’s successfully done three similar trials before, and the results, while not unanimously positive, are encouraging. Brendan fits the profile for the next round of trials, the first the company will do on children under twelve. I can see why Ruby would be concerned. But also why Ericka would be hopeful.

  “It might be his only shot, Dr. Sehgal.”

  She waits for me to respond. To say yes. To say I’ll fight for him.

  But I’m not sure I can. “The risks—”

  “The risks are far greater if we just allow this cancer to continue to grow. We have to do something, anything. We have to try.”

  I nod. She’s right. Brendan needs at least a fighting chance. This may be the only thing that could give it to him.

  * * *

  My next stop is a quick visit with Alina, so I grab an extra muffin from the cafeteria on the way out. The cocktail of drugs we’ve got her started on seems to be helping—she looks brighter and more alert, she can breathe, and she’s been gaining weight. Plus, happily, her appetite is back.

  She beams at me when I hand her the muffin, peeling the wrapper away and taking a quick nibble as her dad hovers. He gives me a half smile in thanks for the muffin, but stress racks his body: His eyes are bloodshot, his shoulders tense, and he can’t stand still. I know he wants to talk to me about the insurance situation, and I’m trying my best not to bring it up myself. There’s not much I can do at this point, aside from get myself in deeper with Davis. And I have to take care of all my patients, not just Alina, so it would behoove me not to do that. Though the thought of Alina being kicked out of here, just when she’s starting an upswing, it pretty much kills me.

  I’m done checking her vitals and am about to draw some blood, when Howard walks in. She’s on second shift today, but I was hoping we wouldn’t overlap. No such luck.

  “Hey, hey!” she announces to the room, then huddles in a corner with Mr. Plotkin, whispering for a few minutes. I know I should go download Alina’s information to her right now—because it’s my job—but I don’t know quite what to say after that scene on Friday. Do I act like nothing happened? Do I confront her about it? Either idea makes me sick to my stomach, so I focus on Alina, who’s a pro at blood draws by now. She barely pays attention, nibbling her muffin as she watches The Great British Bake Off on the small screen in front of her.

  “That looks yummy,” I say, motioning to the screen with my head.

  “It’s a cake made out of layers of crepes,” she says, grinning. “They pump it full of cream. I bet it’s so extravagant, you can only take two bites.”

  “I’m gonna be honest: I’d eat the whole thing,” I say, and she laughs.

  “Dr. Sehgal, can we see you for a moment?” Howard interrupts, her tone stern, like she’s my teacher and not a fellow intern.

  “Yeah, give me one sec,” I say, pulling the needle from Alina’s pale arm as the tube fills with blood. I snap off the tourniquet and slap
on a bandage that has Strawberry Shortcake grinning on it. Alina polishes off her muffin, so I grab the wrapper and hand her a napkin. “All set.” She smiles and turns back to her show.

  I head to the corner table, where Howard and Mr. Plotkin are conferring over a computer screen. There’s a fund-raising page on the screen—but only two thousand of thirty has been raised so far. Not a great start.

  “We’ve got to do better,” Howard says. “Alina doesn’t have much time.”

  “Do you have any ideas?” Mr. Plotkin asks, his eyebrows veering from question mark to exclamation point. His eyes are damp, but he won’t cry. Not here. Not in front of us. So I won’t, either.

  “No, but don’t you worry, Mr. Plotkin. We’ll come up with something.”

  We have to.

  CHAPTER 21

  As I knock on Davis’s door, I feel like a lamb offering herself up for slaughter. I already know she doesn’t like me, and this isn’t going to help my case. But I need to do something—anything—to help my patients right now. And while I can’t create any magical trial access or fund-raising miracles, I can do this. So I will.

  “Come on in!” The voice that answers is upbeat and happy—so not Davis. I push the door open tentatively and take a step inside.