Symptoms of a Heartbreak

by Sona Charaipotra

  “No tape.”

  “Listen—”

  “Saira with an i, can’t you see I’m, like, pretty much dying here? I don’t have the energy for a tape. I barely have the energy for anything.”

  That’s not super surprising, but it is somewhat alarming, given the new treatment they just started. Which I’m not supposed to know about because I’m no longer on his case. Hippocratic oath and all that. But I can’t help it if Cho and Howard keep talking about it, right? “Oh, have they been keeping an eye on the jaundice? Because that’s worth investigating.” He does look even more pale than before. And the bruising has spread and darkened, marking every visible inch of skin now.

  “I don’t know. I just want to sleep. So get out. Please.”

  “I—”

  He reaches for the nurse call button again, pressing it firmly this time, once, twice, three times for good measure.

  “Go. Please.”

  Resigned, I turn to leave, but then the curtain flies back. It’s Howard, looking concerned.

  “Everything okay, Link?” She stops short, startled when she sees me. “Dr. Sehgal, you’re not supposed to be in here.”

  “I know.”

  Her voice is terse when she responds. “So I’d suggest you step outside. Now. Before I’m forced to report this to Dr. Arora.”

  “Oh yeah, that’s right, I’m sure he’d love that. Go report to him.”

  Howard takes my arm, firmly. Ouch. “Let’s go, Dr. Sehgal. Now.”

  Link’s thrown his IV’d arm over his eyes, trying to block out our drama.

  “Dr. Howard, can I get another dose of morphine? I need it.”

  “I’ll look into that, Link. Be right back.”

  She drags me out of the room.

  “Have you guys explored the option of a stem cell infusion while we wait for the marrow to pan out? I mean, I know it’s controversial, but honestly, it might buy us some time.”

  “Thank you very much for your insights, Dr. Sehgal, but lest you’ve forgotten, Lincoln Chung-Radcliffe has expressly asked that you be taken off the case. Which means we can’t incorporate your feedback into his treatment, and we certainly can’t have you hovering in his room and harassing him.”

  “I was not harassing him,” I say, my voice rising as I speak. Nurses hover nearby, but José shoos them away, even as he pauses to listen in himself. “I just had something to tell him.”

  “He clearly did not want you in there.”

  I pull myself up to my full height. All five foot two of me. She towers over me by a good six inches. But I have to stand up for myself. “What gives you the right—”

  “I’m his doctor,” she says definitively, her voice cold. “And you are not. That’s what gives me the right. I can’t believe you’d cross such boundaries—”

  “You’re one to talk about crossing boundaries! You’re really using your assets to your advantage with Dr. Arora, aren’t you?” I spit, too harsh, and immediately regret it, though I can’t admit that.

  Howard’s face goes pale, and she flinches, like she’s been slapped.

  The rest of the hospital continues its bustle, but José looks shocked, and I know I’ve done real damage. But I can’t apologize. If I do, I’ll cry. So instead I just walk away, leaving her standing there in the hallway, stricken.

  Five minutes later, I find myself in baby Pinky’s room on the other side of the hall. Another patient I’m not supposed to visit. Another patient I can’t stay away from. What’s wrong with me?

  “She’s been crying nonstop,” Nurse Ibarrando says. “It’s a whimper if I’ll hold her, but as soon as I put her down—even if she’s asleep—she starts again.”

  “I’ll take her,” I say, reaching out for little Pinky, and the nurse looks so relieved as she passes her tiny body to me. She’s a small sack of skin and bones now, Pinky. She curls into me, her thumb tucked into her mouth, her breathing ragged and shallow.

  I pace the room and look at the scans that are pinned to the backlit scanner. The tumors—medulloblastomas—have taken over the back, lower part of the brain, which affects function muscle and movement. They’re growing at an alarming rate, and if they don’t operate to remove them soon, it will be too late. They already know all of this. Arora repeats it during each staff meeting. And it breaks my heart every single time.

  But Anya Auntie insists on no surgery. Which means she’s pretty much given her two-year-old daughter a death sentence. I guess it’s in the gurus’ hands now.

  There has to be something I can do to help. I stare at the scans and feel Pinky relax against me, her breathing going even and deeper. I walk over to the rocking chair in the corner and tuck myself into it, Pinky draped over my lap. I let the chair’s sliding motion soothe us both for a minute, staring at the blur of her brain scans, trying to unravel the answer.

  * * *

  It’s just after five when I clock out, showered and changed. Thankfully, I haven’t run into Howard since the incident, but I’m not taking any chances, so I bail on the intern lounge as soon as possible, even though my mom’s working till six. Paperwork can wait.

  I have to try again.

  I head straight back down the oncology hall to Link’s room. Number eight-oh-two.

  But before I get there, I hear him. He’s in a wheelchair, in the hall, and shouting. Well, not really shouting. But talking loudly. To his mom.

  I edge closer to the room, hoping to overhear a bit of the conversation. So what? He already thinks I’m an ass, right?

  But he sees me and shuts right up, pulling his mom’s sleeve, so she sees me, too. She frowns in my direction, then gets behind Link’s chair and pushes him back into the room.

  Dammit. There’s no talking to him now.

  I can’t get anything right. I feel like a total and utter failure—as a doctor and as a human being.

  If he won’t talk to me, there has to be another way.

  But how?

  CHAPTER 26

  We’re gathered around the big table in the oncology office conference room, going over patient files. I admit, I’ve been distracted—and doodling—again. I can’t help it. It’s barely eight a.m., and if I don’t draw, I’ll fall asleep. Arora’s been droning on and on about the possible expansion of pediatric oncology to occupy two full floors of the hospital.

  “Numbers are up significantly—which is both bad news and good news—and we have been turning away patients who really need our care,” he’s saying now. “I’ve outlined a file on why this expansion should happen sooner rather than later. And I’m tasking the three of you with completing the report within the next two weeks, so I can deliver it to Dr. Charles and Dr. Davis.” He pauses, takes a sip of his coffee, and looks at each of us intently. “As you know, the growth of this department is critical to these patients. But expansion here can also mean more opportunities for you guys—all of you, even. If I could keep all three of you on board with the hospital’s blessing, I’d do it in a heartbeat.” Is it just me, or did his eyes linger on Dr. Howard when he said that? “To do that, we have to knock this out and make it irrefutable. Don’t let them say no to this.”

  Howard nods solemnly, and I almost want to laugh. I almost want to confess to oblivious Cho—as annoying as he is—that he might as well give up now. Howard’s got it in the bag. It’s him and me that are gonna duke it out till the end. But the selfish part of me wants to keep him clueless, work this to my advantage. But how?

  “Dr. Cho, can you give us an update on Lincoln Chung-Radcliffe’s case? When does the campaign kick off?”

  Cho stands, flicking an invisible speck of dust off his white coat and straightening his tie—a Christmassy Mickey Mouse today, even though it’s August. José catches my eye, and my cheeks burn. I know exactly what he’s thinking. Maybe we should tell him. Even out the playing field or whatever.

  “As you know, the campaign is set to launch at the end of next week. The publicity team has reached out to all major Asian media, and we’ve g
ot some things lined up. We’ve also reached out to the local press here in Jersey, and we’ve tried TV and mainstream media, although we haven’t made much headway there, unfortunately. The bottom line is, there’s just too many kids with cancer. One producer told me if they were going to do a feel-good cancer story, it would be on a much younger kid. Teens don’t buy much sympathy.”

  “My sister’s boyfriend is a PA in Philly,” Howard says. “Maybe he can connect us to someone?”

  Arora nods. “Yes, worth trying for sure. But I think what we need is a hook.” He looks at his file. “Something to make the story stand out. Bone marrow drive for a sixteen-year-old just isn’t sexy, sadly.”

  “Right.” Cho looks forlorn, as if this was his fault. “But in the meantime, we’re setting up local donor drives in tandem with K for Kare, starting at the local universities, and setting up a street team to try to recruit and direct at grocery stores and churches. It’s grassroots, admittedly, but we’re hoping that will spread the word.”

  “What about online?” I find myself chiming in. I’ve been checking the stats on the account Lizzie set up—and shockingly, she’s still posting for Link, even though she won’t talk to me. His follower count is building, slowly but surely. “As I mentioned to Dr. Arora—”

  “Thank you, Dr. Sehgal, but we’ve got it handled,” Arora says, shooting me a pointed look. I open my mouth to speak again, but he adds, “As you’ll recall, Lincoln and his parents requested that you be removed from the case.”

  If I could get up, run off to my room and slam the door, I totally would right now. But doctors aren’t allowed to throw tantrums. So instead, I nod and go back to my doodling. Arora talks a big game about wanting to keep us all here, but right now it sure doesn’t feel like it at all.

  When the meeting’s over, I rush out ahead of the rest of the team. I can’t take any coddling “it’s okays” from them. Not today. I’m not a baby, and I refuse to be treated like one, even if they did totally hurt my feelings. I quickly dump my files in my locker in the intern lounge, then head straight down to the staff cafeteria. I grab a muffin and some coffee, but what I’m really craving is some chai and samose. Where’s Mom when you need her? She’s at the private practice today, which means no treats for me. Unless …

  He’ll be here in an hour. That’s just enough time to set my plan in in motion. The first thing I have to do is recruit José. He already knows the basics about me and Link. Which is to say, there’s not really a “me and Link.” But if there’s anything I’ve learned about José in the short time that I’ve worked at Princeton Presbyterian, it’s that he’s always down for the drama. So this mission is right up his alley.

  He’s changing bedsheets in Alina’s room when I find him.

  Alina beams at me, and I do a quick rundown on her numbers and meds while I’m in there, to make things feel all official.

  I’m wrapping up my file update when she pulls up her iPad to show me her latest obsession: the British kids bake-off challenge. “If only,” she says wistfully.

  “That’s funny,” I say with a little smirk on my face. “I have a friend who wants to be a reality TV star, too—and he almost pulled it off.”

  I can almost feel José’s ears perk up, and Alina leans forward, excited. “What show? Did they make a tape? Can we see it?”

  I nod, and she hands me the iPad. José’s already peering over my shoulder as I scroll through YouTube, typing the words “Link Rad” into the search bar. The Rock Star Boot Camp video pops right up, and already José’s eyes are wide.

  “Is that Lincoln Chung-Radcliffe?”

  “It sure is!” I can’t mute my grin. This is gonna play out exactly as I planned, and I barely had to do a thing. “He made it to the semifinals!”

  “Oh, that means he can go to LA for round two, right?” Alina asks. She hits play on the video, and she and José watch, riveted, as Link belts out the Foo Fighters song “Everlong,” all croony and groovy with his acoustic. “He’s good. He definitely could make the cut.”

  “And he’s got the look, too,” José says, grinning at me, mischief in his eyes. “Well, except for the patchy-hair thing. But he can work it. He’s gotta go to LA.”

  “I don’t think he wants to do it,” I say, solemn.

  “He has to do it!” José and Alina say in unison.

  “We have to convince him,” José adds.

  “You’re right. And I just might know how.” I turn to José, my face serious. “But I’ll need your help.”

  “Girl, you know I’m Team Saira.”

  “Good. Here’s what we’re going to do.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Twenty minutes later, Link’s exactly where I hoped to find him: in the patient lounge. I asked José to hover and fuss and generally chase him out of his own room, and it totally worked. I can see his silhouette through the papered window and hear the thrum of his guitar as the melody slips out the door, which he left slightly ajar. I lean and listen for a minute, composing myself. I can feel the arrhythmia making my heart skip a beat, the restricted blood flow making my stomach flutter, the erythema coloring my cheeks. My palms are sweaty, and my throat is tight. This is my shot. If I blow this one, I don’t know that he’ll give me another. I have to make it work.

  Vish will be here any second, so it’s now or never.

  I don’t knock. Just push the door open and catch him off guard.

  “Hey!”

  He stops strumming and looks up, his smile flipping once he realizes it’s me. He’s already putting the guitar in the case, trying to unravel the IV bag from its entanglements. He can’t get away from me fast enough. But I’m not letting him go. Not this time.

  I step closer and try to help him disentangle. “Let me help.”

  “I don’t need your help.”

  “I think you do. As a doctor. As a friend.”

  “You are so not my friend.”

  “But I want to be.”

  “That’s just too bad.” There’s a hard edge to his voice. A bitterness that I haven’t heard before, rock beneath the anger.

  He’s frenzied for a second, trying to get everything cleared out so he can bolt, and his breathing is rough, ragged.

  “Stop,” I say, reaching for his arm, wrapping my hand around his wrist, like I’ve done with a million patients. But this isn’t the same thing. Feeling the thrum of his heart beat like this, frantic and fluttering, like hummingbird’s wings, it’s different, enthralling, strangely intimate. It’s like the energy there is locking us into place together, and something in the world has shifted, and it can’t be changed. Before I know it, he’s free of his bonds, and his other hand is wrapped around mine, like he needs to feel my heartbeat, too. Like he needs to know it’s beating just as fast, that the rhythm is the same.

  We stand like that for what feels like a million moments, entranced.

  “Hey!” The door opens again. And there he is. Vish. Samose in hand.

  He looks from me to Link and from Link to me, and his face falls a little for a second. Then he grins. “You must be Link.”

  “Yeah,” Link says, letting go of my arm like he’s accidentally touched a hot chai pot. “And I must be leaving.”

  “Wait,” Vish says, and lifts up the bag. “I bought samosas. And chai. And paneer pakore.”

  Link looks intrigued despite himself. And despite his stomach. I know from his chart that he isn’t keeping much down. “What are paneer pakore?”

  “They’re amazing,” I say, eyeing the bag. “Hand ’em over, Shah.”

  “Yeah,” Vish says, gesturing to Link. “I brought enough for three. I brought enough for eight, actually. Saira can be a bit ravenous sometimes.”

  I stick my tongue out at Vish and snatch the bag, setting it down on the coffee table and removing items. A thermos of chai, cups, six samose, still greasy and hot, and the paneer pakore, crispy fried cubes of cheese battered in a thick, luscious chickpea paste. Yum. I pull one right out and dunk it in mint chutney,
swallowing half of it in a single bite.

  Link watches me eat, and he can’t resist. “Okay, I’ll stay,” he says, then grins at me. Finally. “If it’s doctor’s orders.”

  “It is.”

  Vish makes him a plate with a samosa, some pakore, and three different kinds of chutney—spicy mint, sweet tamarind, and a kicky, bright red garlic—“Good for what ails ya,” he informs us.

  “I don’t know how much it’ll help me,” Link says morosely, “but it’s delicious.”

  “My dadima thinks food can cure everything,” I say, swallowing a bite. “But I have to keep reminding her that too much deep-fried Desi food can also kill you.”

  “My halmeoni makes Korean BBQ every Sunday night and insists we come over,” Link says. “My dad tried going vegetarian once. That lasted like three minutes before she said she’d essentially disown him.”

  “Half my family is vegetarian,” Vish says gravely. “Including me. Saira’s dadi hates me because of it. But it’s okay, because I still love her. And besides, this whole spread is vegetarian and amazing.”

  We all ponder this for a minute, our mouths full.

  Then Link asks the question I’ve been dreading. “So, are you Saira’s brother? Or her boyfriend?”

  “Boyfriend,” I say.

  Vish frowns, his eyes conflicted. “But not really,” he says.

  Link looks confused.

  “I’m gay. But not out,” Vish explains.

  It’s, like, the first time he’s ever said those words to anyone besides me. And his boyfriend. He takes a deep breath. “Because my family’s pretty old-school. And they wouldn’t get it. I don’t think. So when they just assumed Saira and I were together, I let them believe it.” He pauses for a second. “And Guddi here let them believe it, too.”

  Guddi. “It means doll,” I explain.

  Link shoots me a look that could slay me. But I can’t let this falter. Not now. “They pretty much have our wedding planned,” I say, unsure of whether to laugh or cry. “Except for Dadi. Who would never abide by a half-Gujarati groom.” Vish laughs.