Symptoms of a Heartbreak

by Sona Charaipotra

  “She’ll be with you in just a few minutes,” a lady says, straightening pillows on a small spare sofa against one wall. “Would you like some coffee?” the lady asks, and I shake my head.

  She waves toward one of the chairs by the desk, and I take a seat to wait. I drum my fingers on the table and look around. The room is bright but cool, with large windows filtering in sunshine, and the glass desktop taking over much of the space. There’s a wall of glass shelves bearing books, framed certificates—from Hopkins, UMDNJ, and Penn—hang above the desk. On the table, there’s just a single photo, which I turn to look at. It’s of Davis and another woman, striking, with dark skin and long brown hair, along with two youngish-looking brown kids.

  “Nosy much?” The voice makes me jump.

  “Dr. Davis. I didn’t—” She takes the frame and moves it out of my reach, then sits behind the desk. “I think we might have—”

  “What do you want, Sehgal?” She doesn’t waste any time, does she?

  “Well, I know there’s a lot going on right now with Alina, and Brendan, and certainly Lincoln, and so much of it feels like it’s out of our control, so I just thought maybe this could be a good opportunity to do one thing that we could actually control.”

  She stares at me blankly. I guess I should just spit it out.

  “The lounge.”

  Still blank.

  “The patient lounge.”

  “Be more specific, Sehgal.”

  “I think we should redo the patient lounge. It’s in the same shape that it was in, like, eight years ago, when I used to come here to visit my friend Harper, which is to say it’s in terrible shape. And I don’t think it would cost very much at all to update it, and in fact, I could totally pay to update it as sort of a donation to the hospital. I think that the kids in oncology deserve a space to go that’s clean, bright, and comfortable, with some amenities that would make it a far more welcoming space. A new couch and rug, Wi-Fi, an updated TV, maybe a box with Netflix and stuff?”

  “Saira Sehgal,” she says, a bit incredulous, and I want to cower down in my chair. But I can’t. This is a good idea, a simple idea, a doable idea, and I need to make it happen. I need there to be one good thing right now. So this is the hill I will die on, apparently.

  “I mean, it doesn’t get much use. But it will. Once it’s updated.”

  “I think the patients like the lounge just fine. In fact, I think they rarely think about the lounge at all. They have bigger problems to deal with. Like the specter of death, Ms. Sehgal.”

  I frown, trying hard not to suck my teeth. My mom hates when I do that.

  “So if you’re done wasting my time, Ms. Sehgal, I have other, far more important things to worry about.” Then she smirks a bit, which catches me off guard. “And so should you.”

  I sit up straight. Is that a threat? My heart rattles in my rib cage, a frantic bird.

  “You’ve been here hardly a month and already there’s been more than one complaint about you, Ms. Sehgal. Not off to a great start, are we?”

  A complaint? Mr. Plotkin, maybe? But he seems fine now. It has to have been Link. I swallow.

  “Who was it from?” I ask, already knowing she’s not about to give me the satisfaction.

  “I’m not at liberty to say,” she says, the glee in her eyes not quite hitting her mouth. “But I’d tread carefully if I were you, Ms. Sehgal. Not everyone is impressed with your prodigy status. I’ve got my eyes on you. And so does everyone else.”

  I nod and stand. Heading toward the door. Then turn back, and she looks up at me from over the rim of her glasses, like the principal who’s had it with the bad kid. Annoyed. Exhausted. Resigned.

  “So those are your daughters, Dr. Davis?”

  “Yes.”

  “About my age?”

  “One’s getting her master’s now, actually.”

  “And that woman.”

  “My wife.”

  “Oh.”

  “Goodbye, Ms. Sehgal.”

  I walk out, closing the door behind me.

  She has a family. That means she must have a heart, somewhere in there, right?

  * * *

  I head straight to the patient lounge, more determined than ever. This is one thing I can fix. Right here, right now. And I refuse to let Davis—or anyone else—stop me.

  I pull out my iPad and download a design app. It’s a big square space. The kitchenette will do just fine with a quick cleanup and restocking. Some paint and a new rug and couch will make this place feel brand-new. Vish’s cousin can get me a flat screen for cheap and set up the tech to include video games, the streaming box, and a DVR. I think about a thousand bucks and weekend’s work should do it. And since my parents are letting me live at home, rent-free, I can afford to do it. If I have help. I grin to myself.

  I know just the right coconspirator for this task.

  CHAPTER 22

  “That’s what you’re wearing?”

  Lizzie’s standing at my door, in a long, flowy strapless wrap dress, staring at me like I just climbed off a spaceship.

  “You said it was a pajama party.”

  “Yeah, but you can’t just wear pj’s to the party now. Get dressed, and bring your pj’s for later. Better yet, bring some of Taara’s pj’s instead,” Lizzie says, wrinkling her nose.

  I’m wearing an old Nirvana T-shirt—which actually belongs to Taara—and polka-dot pajama bottoms, which I guess are not on the approved list. I frown. “Do I really have to go?”

  “Come on, Saira,” Lizzie says, tugging my arm and leading me back upstairs. “It’s literally been years since you’ve hung out with everyone, and I had to work really hard to get Cat to green-light this. She only agreed because it’s my last big shindig before I leave for acting camp.”

  I really don’t want to hang out with Cat. Or Emma. Or Julie. Or any of the other random girls from elementary school that Lizzie insists I should still be BFFs with. I barely knew them then, and I definitely don’t know them now. I let myself be dragged up the stairs, but instead of heading to my bedroom, Lizzie pulls me into Taara’s.

  “Why don’t we just have our own slumber party here? Vish downloaded the new Deepika movie for me. I heard she’s, like, groundbreaking in it.”

  I can tell that Lizzie’s ever so slightly swayed by that. Deepika is her Bollywood idol. But then she snaps out of it.

  “Nope,” she says, digging through Taara’s closet for appropriate party gear. “There! This!” She holds up a long, lean T-shirt dress. “Comfy, casual, but party appropriate.” She points to different parts of the dress like a car salesman. She tosses it toward me, then digs into Taara’s dresser for pj options. “Voilà!” A matching pink floral set, tank and shorts. A bit skimpy. “It’s perfect.” Lizzie grins, satisfied.

  It’s going to be a long night.

  * * *

  Half an hour later, we pull up to Cathleen’s house. It’s much quieter than the last time I was here. There are only a few cars parked in the circular driveway, and no DJ or thumping bass, thank gods. But my heart’s pounding enough to make up for it. I take a deep breath, trying to compose myself as Lizzie pulls her little Fiat in behind a Mercedes. Not only do all these kids know how to drive already, they all apparently got luxury cars as their sixteenth birthday presents. Which makes me the loser on both counts, I guess. Can’t drive, no ride. Oh well.

  The maid opens the door for us before we even ring the doorbell. “Ms. Austin is expecting you,” she says. “The ladies are all upstairs.” She takes our bags and hands them to a young man, who seems to be the butler. Like, an actual butler.

  “Hey, Vincent,” Lizzie says, leaning in to give him a hug—a seductive one, I think—and giggling. “You gonna come up?”

  “Not tonight, lovely Lizzie,” he says in a British accent. “Though I will send some treats for you guys in a bit.” He winks and walks off with our bags.

  Lizzie swaps her sneakers for cozy slippers that the maid offers, so I do the same
.

  When we get upstairs, it’s just Cat, Julie, and a few other girls I don’t recognize, all in summery dresses like Lizzie’s. They’re sprawled out on a bunch of recliners in what seems to be the screening room, with some white-lady road trip movie playing in the background, though they’re barely paying attention.

  “I thought they broke up three months ago?” Julie is saying, incredulous. She’s still got the dewy brown skin she’s always had, her glossy, dark hair in Leia buns, freckles scattered across her pert nose.

  “Well, apparently so did he. Because he was hooking up with this girl the first week at film camp. But when she found out—oh, hey, Lizzie.” Cat jumps up and gives Lizzie a kiss on the cheek, hugging her like she hasn’t seen her in ages. Even though she saw her at school this morning. She’s more tentative when she reaches over to hug me, and I’m not sure whether to hug back, so the whole thing is awkward and forced. “Glad you could finally make it, Dr. Sehgal.”

  The others laugh at that, and I try to think of a witty reply, but the moment passes before I can come up with one. Instead, I just take a seat on one side of the couch, wondering what to do with myself.

  Cat leans in toward me, over Lizzie, her eyes curious. “So I heard Vish is headed to California for school,” Cat says, and I try not to look surprised. Did Lizzie tell them? “You guys gonna stay together, you think?”

  “We’ll figure it out,” I say, trying to keep my voice light. “I mean, it’s long distance, which is hard. But Vish and I have known each other forever. So it’s not like we’d just end things.”

  Cat raises a brow. “What if he meets someone else?” She sips her drink, sly. “Or you do?”

  I turn to Lizzie again, but she and Julie are whispering about something else, distracted. “Where are you going to school, Cat?”

  “Early decision to Yale. Pre-law. Didn’t Lizzie tell you?”

  I shake my head. She might have, though. “I’ve heard good things.”

  “But it’s no Princeton, right?” There’s a challenge in her voice. “Lizzie said you started your residency. How’s it been going?”

  “It’s intense. And weird. I don’t know, exactly.” I’m not sure what I’m trying to say. “I mean, I’m the youngest one there by, like, a decade, and some of my patients are, like, my age, which is strange. And I’m, like, responsible for their lives and all. And so much of the time, I look at them—at this one girl in particular—and I see her. Harper. And it’s like it’s happening all over again, you know?”

  Harper’s name sort of shocks us all into silence. Not where they thought I’d go with that, I guess. Not where I thought I’d go, either.

  “Must be rough,” Cat says. “Want a drink?” She pulls over a little cart that’s piled down with vodka and all the fixings—I know because I recognize them from my dad’s bar. A variety of juices, some wine coolers, cherries and stuff.

  Oh no. Not doing that again. Not after last time. “I’ll just have some pineapple juice, I think.”

  “I thought you were off duty tonight, Doc?” Julie says, then dissolves into giggles.

  “So, Queen Saira, we were taking bets on whether you’d actually show up today,” Cat says, a bit too sharp, as she pours me a plain old juice. “Guess I lost.”

  I try to smile, even though I know it must look as awkward as it feels.

  Lizzie’s thrown herself on the couch between Julie and one of the others, and they’re whispering about something they apparently can’t share with the group.

  So I just stand there awkwardly, drink in hand.

  “Sure I can’t offer you something stronger?” Cat asks, pouring a big swish of vodka into her cup, along with a splash of cranberry juice.

  “I’m good.” Except that I’m not. Maybe I should just have a drink. It’s not like I haven’t had one before—and I’m not even talking about the party. My dad will sometimes offer me a glass of champagne or whatever when we’re celebrating. But I don’t want to give in to Cat. “Maybe I should go change?”

  “Sure, if you want,” Cat says. “Come with me. I’ll get you a towel.”

  I close the door to the bathroom—which is about the size of my entire room—and stand there for a second, staring in the mirror, reveling in the quiet. I can hear the girls yapping outside, and I’m grateful to be alone for a second, away from the noise. I’ve never felt more out of place in my life, and I went to medical school when I was twelve. This is so not where I belong.

  It makes me wonder if Lizzie and I would still be friends at all if I’d been just regular old Saira Sehgal, junior. Somehow, I doubt it.

  “Come on, Saira!” Lizzie shouts through the door. “We’re about to start the show!”

  I change quickly into the too-tiny pj shorts Lizzie picked out for me, wishing I had my robe or pajamas. I take another deep breath, then make myself open the door.

  When I walk back in, Cat hits play on the big screen, and a familiar instrumental tune beeps out. “Do, do, do, doh, doh, doh, doooh, doh, do, do, do, do.”

  Doogie Howser, M.D.

  “Ha-ha,” I say, unable to fake the smile as they all crack up at my expense. I try not to glare at Lizzie. Did she know about this? Did she just go along with it?

  “Our very own Doogie,” Cat says. Then she offers me a tiny glass. I see everyone else is already holding one.

  “Oh, come on, Sai. Lizzie says you’re officially an MD, so aren’t congrats in order and all?” She holds it out to me again, and I feel silly saying no this time.

  “Cheers!” They all raise their glasses, then slam them in a single breath. But I’m still holding mine.

  Cat looks at me expectantly.

  “I can’t. I’ve got a lot to do—”

  “We all do. We’re celebrating you here. Live a little.”

  “Yeah,” Lizzie chimes in. “It’s sweet, Saira. You’ll like it.”

  “Come on, guys,” Julie says. “It’s no big. I’ll drink it if you don’t want to, Sai.”

  I hand the glass to her. But Cat is frowning. “You know, Lizzie was all like, oh, you’ll see, she’s so the same—just like she used to be.” This isn’t going her way, and she’s not used to that. She snatches the glass from Julie and downs it, the sticky liquid dribbling down her chin like a toddler’s. “And she was right. You’re exactly the same. Still a stuck-up bitch, too good for any of us. Well, have it your way, Saira. You can have Lizzie all to yourself.”

  Cat storms off, taking two of the girls with her. Except for Julie, who’s shocked. And Lizzie.

  “Oh, you know Cat and her tantrums,” Julie says, her tone hushed and apologetic. “She’s just had a rough week. Wanted to celebrate. And always has to do it her way. No big deal. She’ll be back in a minute.” She keeps talking, but I barely hear her. Because I’m too busy watching Lizzie, who’s turning bright red. Not a good sign.

  “I think I’ll walk home,” I say, turning to leave, but Lizzie grabs my arm before I can. Julie takes that as her cue to bolt.

  “You better, because I’m never taking you anywhere again.” Lizzie has tears streaming down her cheeks. “Cat’s right. She’s been right all along. You think you’re so much better than everyone—than me. ‘Oh no, I can’t be inebriated. Do you know the ratio of alcohol to water in that, and how it impacts your body?’ ‘Oh no, I’ve got to be mentally and physically at my best at all times.’ Or ‘Teenagers are so vapid these days.’ News flash: You are a teenager! But you’d rather claim to be an old soul and hang out watching ancient Bollywood movies with your dadi. Anything but actually give your best friend the time of day.” She’s shaking now, but the tears have stopped. “And then you come here and act all high and mighty? And everyone was just trying to be nice to you.”

  I open my mouth, but she plows forward. “Don’t deny it. I know exactly what you were thinking. You always have to be the downer. Well, I’m done with it. You’re on your own.”

  She takes off, headed upstairs where the rest of the girls are.

&
nbsp; That’s when that British dude shows up, holding a tray of brownies. “Oh, hey, lovely. Where are the girls?” He winks. “Brought your treats.”

  “They went upstairs, but I’m headed home.”

  He hands me a brownie wrapped in a napkin. “One for the road then, miss. Enjoy it.” I nod, and take a nibble. Mmm, coffee-flavored. At least something good came out of this horrible night.

  CHAPTER 23

  “Saira, utja! It’s already nine forty. You’re going to be late!” Papa’s rapping on my door, his knock insistent and urgent. I look at my smartwatch, and sure enough, it’s 9:43. On Saturday. Wait, I’m not scheduled to work today. I look at the calendar app and there it is: the dreaded driving test. Which I totally would have missed if I’d stayed at the party. But which I have no excuse to miss now. Dammit. I’m so not ready.

  My dad opens the door a crack, peering in at me. I duck farther under the covers.

  “Papa, I can’t,” I say, making my voice as nasal as possible. “I think I’m coming down with something. Feels like a head cold with a looming sinus infection, maybe. Definitely going around. That summer cold thing. Not prime conditions under which to take such an important exam.”

  Papa raises an eyebrow. He may not be the doctor in the family, but he knows a faker when he sees one. “Saira, for the record, I’m not pleased with this. At all. You, of all people, know how important it is to take this test and get it out of the way. But if you’re really reluctant, I give you permission—this once—to call and cancel. But make sure you reschedule for the next available date. And then come downstairs. Dadima made paranthe and chai.

  “Dramaebaz,” Papa calls me. I peer over my comforter at him, and he grins. “You know you get your acting skills from me, right?” He chuckles and closes the door.

  Before he was forced to become an engineer like his father and grandfather before him, my dad was quite the rising star. He was in all his high school and college productions, and even spent a summer in Mumbai, hopeful, before his dad ordered him back to school. Now he just watches old Bollywood movies and reminiscences about the roles he would have been perfect for—much to my grandmother’s chagrin. She’s all about being smart and practical. Though, not quite secretly, she’s a big Rajesh Khanna stan.