Symptoms of a Heartbreak

by Sona Charaipotra

  And when I finally work up enough nerve to look at Link again, I see what seems like relief on his face. “She’d rather have a white boy than the wrong kind of Desi,” Vish adds, a little too on the nose. I frown at him.

  “Yeah,” Link says, and I can see his brain working. “So you’re not actually together?”

  “I mean, she was my first love, my first kiss, my first everything. And if I was bi, I’d be totally into Saira. But I’m not.”

  I shove him. Hard. And he doubles over, laughing. Link still looks flummoxed, and just a bit green. I leap up, grabbing a plastic bag, and hand it to him. He races to a corner, his IV cart following him, and pukes into the bag.

  Great. It seems every potential love interest I have has food issues.

  “Well, there goes my appetite,” I tell Vish, who’s looking at me intently.

  “I can see why you like him,” Vish says.

  I blush again and head over to help Link.

  “Here,” I say, offering him a cup of water.

  “I’m sorry. The pakoras probably weren’t a smart idea. Actually, none of this was a smart idea. I should head back to my room.” He looks for his nurse call button. But then stops, exhausted.

  “I’ll help you get back. But I want to talk to you about something.”

  He looks over to Vish, who’s still sitting on the couch, working hard to mind his own business, and, not shockingly, still nibbling on a samosa. I see his camera bag stashed at his feet, ready for action. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “I do,” I say, and sit him down on the armchair near the bookshelves. I perch on the edge of it, looking down at him. “Look, I don’t know why I did what I did. Omitted information.” He shoots me a look. “Okay, lied. Or whatever. It’s just, I never felt this way before, and everything was weird, and I thought we had this bond…”

  “I thought we had this bond, too. I did. Because you let me think it. Because I thought you got it. Got me. I thought you were my someone.”

  I swallow hard. “Yeah, I don’t have cancer. I’ve never had it. But I’m a doctor. An oncologist. So of course I get it. Of course I get you.”

  He shakes his head and swallows hard, frustrated. “No, you don’t.”

  “My best friend died of leukemia.”

  He actually stands, offended. “Your best friend? Your best friend!” He tries to throw his hands up, but the IV holds his arm down too much. “You mean the girl from the picture?” he says, staring right at the bulletin board, where the old photo has gathered dust again. “Look, Saira, I know how you feel. But you’re not one of us, and you can only pretend to get it. It’s like when those white ladies at yoga class tell you they did the ten-day Golden Triangle loop and the Taj Mahal, like, changed them, and now they’re practically more Indian than you. Bull. Fucking. Shit. You don’t get it. You can’t get it.”

  Ouch. That hurt. I can feel my eyes misting and my mouth is dry, like that time I had too much of Taara’s red wine. He’s trying to get himself together to go again, but I have to stop him. So I step closer, and I take his wrist again. And there it is, that frantic bird thrum. It slows and calms as I hold his arm, and I look at him for a minute, noting all the small changes. The bruising on his jaw, the hollowness of his cheeks. The thinning of his hair, which still tries to flop into his eyes, but misses.

  “Link, I need to help. And if it can’t be as your … friend, then it will be as one of your doctors. Because I can. Help. And I may be the only one who can actually help in your particular case.”

  His eyebrows climb again, and he rubs his jaw. “What do you mean?”

  “The reality is, the odds are not in your favor.”

  “Thanks. I already know that.”

  “So finding those few people who really could be a match is of utmost importance.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “So the hospital’s doing what they can: outreach to ethnic media, cancer orgs, all of that.”

  “Yup.”

  “But we need to do more.”

  “What more can we do?”

  That’s when Vish walks over with the camera perched on his shoulders. “You ready?”

  Link looks from me to him quizzically. “What?”

  “Rock Star Band Camp, right?”

  “I told Vish here, who’s studying film, that you made it to the semifinals.”

  “I missed the deadline.”

  “Yeah, you did. But we called them. And for you, Lincoln Chung-Radcliffe, they’ve decided to make an exception. We need to send them a new tape by Friday.”

  “I might be dead by Friday.”

  “As your doctor, I’m telling you: That’s not going to happen.”

  “But like you said, my odds…”

  “Are not great. So let’s improve them, shall we?”

  Link looks from me to Vish and back again. “I don’t know why I’m saying this. But okay. Let’s do it.”

  CHAPTER 28

  “I think that’s the one!” Twenty takes later, and we’re finally done. Link is exhausted. His fingers are bruised and nearly bleeding from playing the guitar over and over, and I can see the weariness on his face and in his stance. Vish looks pretty tired, too, but he’s so pleased with himself, he can’t stop grinning.

  “This is going to be amazing,” he tells Link, putting up his hand for a high five. Link aims for one, but his IV tubes hold him back. “I’ll try to edit tonight and bring you something to look at tomorrow. Then we can finalize the cut and upload it before the deadline.”

  Link nods and plops back down on the sofa. I press the nurse call button, and José is there in seconds with a wheelchair. He helps Link climb in, lifting him like one of those old ceramic figures Dadima collects. “He looks exhausted,” José says, scolding.

  “But just wait till you see,” I tell him, and Link grins, too.

  “Night, Saira with an i.”

  “Night, Link.”

  I’m blushing as José pushes him out the door. And Vish catches me shuffling my feet, takes my hand and twirls me.

  “I’ve never seen you this way, Saira!”

  “What do you mean?” I ask innocently. But I kind of know what he means.

  “You got it bad.”

  “I do not.”

  “Yeah, you do.” He shuffles his own feet for a second. “You remind me of me when I first met Luke.”

  I grin at him, and he starts packing up his camera gear while I clean up the food, putting some of the leftovers in the little fridge. I’ll reclaim them as a snack tomorrow.

  By the time we’re done, it’s dark out—and when I look at my phone, I realize I have a dozen text messages and missed calls from my mom, who was supposed to drive me home. She must be livid. I text her back immediately that I’m with Vish at the movies, and she responds with a flat-line emoji, meaning she’ll deal with me later. And it won’t be good.

  Okay! Getting ice cream, then home, I text back.

  We grab cones—chocolate chip with sprinkles for me, and rocky road for Vish—down the street at Thomas Sweets, then pause in the park at the old elementary school, where Vish and I first met. The tire swings—old and grungy and classic—are our go-to spot. That’s where we had our first kiss—way back when we were, like, ten—and also where he told me he’s gay a few years later. It’s where he told me he was in love for the first time, too. Luke, this boy he met at lacrosse camp. They kept it a secret the whole time there—hard to do when you’re stealing kisses in the boathouse. And he’s only seen Luke, who’s from Connecticut, twice since camp ended, but they talk every day.

  “Is Luke still going to apply to USC?” I ask. I wonder if moving across the country together is such a smart idea—I mean, they’re still just teenagers—but they both seem pretty set on it.

  Vish nods.

  “Did you tell your mom you applied?”

  He looks down at his feet, kicking up dirt with his ratty Jordans, and I take that as a no.

  When his mom does fin
d out—about LA and USC and film school, about Luke and kissing boys—she’s going to hate me. Because I’ve been complicit all this time. Keeping secrets, telling lies. I did it because I love Vish—not as a brother, as more than a brother. And because he needed me, too. Because I believe he has the right to be whom he wants, and to set the timetable he’s comfortable with when it comes to coming out. But my lies will still hurt people, still break their trust. And I never know quite how to feel about that.

  “What will she say?” I can’t help asking aloud. I know he doesn’t want to think about it. But he’ll have to, sooner or later. Before the gap between the truth and expectations gets too unwieldy to manage. Maybe it already has.

  “I’ll deal with it when the time comes,” he says, like always. “I have to. I know that. Just not now.”

  “I can’t believe that by this time next year, you’ll be gone.” An unexpected tear slips down my cheek. “What will I do without you? I’ll miss having a boyfriend.”

  “From what I saw tonight, that role has already been filled.”

  “Shut up!”

  He laughs at me, at my cheeks burning, at the tears that run hot down them, even as I crack up, at the last bit of my chocolate chip and sprinkles managing to drip into my stray locks of hair, like it always does. “I’ll miss you, too, Guddi.” He looks down at his shoes for a second. “Is it weird that I’m jealous of him?”

  My eyebrows fly up, like they always do. “Why would you be jealous?”

  “It’s not that. It’s just … despite all of this, the fake dating, the faux-mance, I do love you, you know? You’re my girl.”

  I nod.

  “And with him, it’ll be real.”

  “It won’t. It’s nothing.” And what we have is real, too.

  He spins his swing, then turns to look at me—sharp, knowing, so very practiced. A total Shah Rukh Khan riff. “Don’t say that, Saira. It’s real. I can see it. I bet José can see it. And your boss. Which is prolly why he flipped out. Why you were dismissed from the case. Sure as fuck Link knows it’s real. That’s why he shut you out. That’s the last thing he needs right now: true fucking love.”

  “Always comes at the worst time, huh?”

  “Damn straight. Or not so straight.”

  I laugh and lick my drippy cone again. “I think you have a very vivid imagination.”

  “And I think, Dr. Sehgal, that you sure are dumb for a genius.”

  I frown.

  “Listen, all I’m saying is, he’s working damn hard to push you away. And I know you’re nothing if not tenacious or whatever, but this is new territory. Hold your ground. Don’t let it go so easy.”

  “What do you know?”

  “This is one place where I’m smarter than you, Girl Genius. Trust me, okay? There are only so many chances at love, whether you’re eighteen or eighty. Especially for someone like me. But even for someone like you. You know what you want. Are you willing to fight for it?”

  “I’ve got to get him healthy first.”

  “I know you’ll pull that off. And I’ll do anything I can to help.”

  I nod.

  “Maybe we can double-date sometime, me and Luke, you and Link. You know, after we officially ‘break up’!”

  I grab his hand, and pull his swing closer, like I used to when we were little, when I thought maybe he could be a little bit in love with me, too.

  “Whatever else happens,” I say, “this, us, has always been real. Faux-mance, yes. But real love, one hundred percent.”

  He nods. Then spins me away. “That’s what I just said, fool.” He laughs. “Like I said. Girl Genius, sure. But not so bright at everything else!”

  CHAPTER 29

  All I want to do today is hole up in the patient lounge with Link, waiting for Vish to bring us his edits. But work beckons, and when it’s literally life and death, you can’t procrastinate. I’m scheduled for rounds this a.m. with Arora observing, so I took a car service in early—if I waited for Mom, I’d definitely be on Desi time, and I can’t risk that.

  It’s still dark out when I get in. I head to Arora’s office, but the door’s shut, so I take a seat outside. The rise and fall of voices tell me he’s not alone. Howard is in there, and I can hear her voice rise. “You can’t be serious!” she’s saying, her voice ragged and harsh. “I don’t know if I can do this. I don’t know if I want to do this. This is my first shot. Maybe my only shot. If this gets out—what will people think?”

  “What are you saying?”

  “You know exactly what I’m saying.”

  “Then what do you want to do?”

  I hear footsteps, and there are more words, but they’re muffled, like he’s hugging her. I hope he’s hugging her. She says something else, and I can sense movement toward the door, so I bolt. It’s one thing to know. It’s quite another to confront. I’m definitely not ready for that. Not yet.

  I try to stay 100 percent focused on the patients as Arora and I do our rounds. It’s clear Howard hasn’t told him a thing about our, uh, altercation.

  “How’s it going with Vish? He decide on schools yet?” he asks, trying to be friendly. “Are you going to prom this year?”

  I shrug. He keeps trying but then turns talk over to the patient files. I guess he chalks my sullen one-word answers up to the fact that I’m a teenager. Or whatever.

  First up is Brendan, who’s still asleep. Ms. Ruby Jackson is hovering this morning, as usual, fluffing pillows and flipping channels when she’s not working on her crochet.

  She pauses when she sees us, and is far more curt than usual.

  “Cookie?” She holds a tin out to Arora. But not to me. He shakes his head.

  “You can deliver the news,” Arora says to me, proudly. “Since it was your idea.”

  “Actually, it was Ericka’s idea,” Ms. Ruby says, hardly hiding her upset. “Despite my reservations, as you well know.”

  “Yes, about that,” I say, trying to keep my voice stable. “He’s been accepted to the trial. And the best news is, they’ll send a consultant here to initialize the administration, and then we can observe him here. So we don’t have to move him!”

  “That’s the best of both worlds, right, Mrs. Ruby?”

  “Ms.,” she says, still fussing. “And I suppose it will have to do. But I think this is all too much on the boy.” She peers at him, readjusting his blankets. “Look at him. A wisp of a thing now.”

  “Ms. Ruby, this is an opportunity very few kids will get—I think it could really improve Brendan’s chances in the long run.” From my file, I pull out a copy of some stats on the trial’s initial run and hand them to her. “I know Ericka’s got all this information on her computer, but I thought you might like to see a hard copy. The first run was very successful—with an eighty percent improvement in long-term prognosis on kids over twelve. Brendan will be in the first trial of younger kids, but hopefully the numbers will fall in line with what they’ve seen. Of course, they’ll continue observing to see if there are any cases of relapse. But this could be a lifesaver, to put it simply.” I take a deep breath. “And just so you know, I talked to Brendan. All this fighting, it’s hard on him. He blames himself. If he’s going to get better, he needs both of you on his team.”

  Ms. Ruby grasps the paper, peering at him, her shoulders tense. She harrumphs, but tucks it into her knitting bag. “Well, in any case, I’m overruled. But I’ve got my eye on you, Saira Sehgal. And if anything goes wrong…”

  “You can totally hold it against me, Ms. Ruby,” I say, waving as we head to the door.

  “Oh, you know I will,” Ms. Ruby shouts back.

  “She’s quite a character, huh?” Arora says when we step outside. “‘I’ve got my eye on you…’”

  He laughs, and I frown. I mean, I get where she’s coming from. “There’s always such a risk involved,” I say.

  “Everything’s a risk, Saira. You could die crossing the street, or asleep in your bed. Even breathing’s a risk these days. Can
’t stop trying because of it. Can’t stop living because of it.”

  I wonder if he’s thinking of Howard and their conversation this morning. I wonder what they’re going to do. She’s at a critical stage in her career, one where she can’t afford to pause for anything. Even love.

  “Ready for the next?”

  I nod.

  “Good. Because I have some news.”

  My eyebrows do their thing, because he grins. “Patience, underling. Soon, everything will become clear.”

  I shrug again and follow him into Alina’s room.

  She looks much better than yesterday. There’s a hint of rose to her cheeks, and her baby blues are brighter this morning. She’s watching the Bake Off on her iPad again, and waves me over as soon as I walk in. Mr. Plotkin’s half-asleep in the lounger but waves half-heartedly.

  Bubbe hovers, a plate full of rugelach on the table in front of Alina. “From that show she keeps watching,” Bubbe says. “Try it. You’ll like it.”

  I take a cookie and nibble at it, and it’s actually pretty good.

  “You’ll never believe!”

  “What?” I say, and peer at the little screen as Arora heads off to a corner with Mr. Plotkin, now alert and ready.

  “There’s a half-Russian Jewish girl from Staten Island on the show! She’s twelve. She’s me.”

  Her face goes cloudy for just a second, and I know what she just realized: That girl is who Alina could’ve, would’ve, should’ve been. If not for the cancer.

  The girl on the screen is a curly-haired brunette who looks nothing like my little Alina. But the accent is the same.

  “Yep, that’s you, all right!” I say. “How’s she doing?”

  “She held her own in the first three episodes, but this one is a big challenge—the POV episode,” she says solemnly. “She’s making trubochka, which is definitely no easy task.” She looks at Bubbe, who frowns, realizing what her next assignment will be.

  “Oh, I had that once with my friend Tasha at Hopkins—she’s from Brooklyn.”

  “Yeah, there’s some really good bakeries in Bay Ridge. Maybe…”