“We’ll go one day,” I finish. Gotta keep that chin up.
“In the meantime, I have some news,” Arora says, returning from behind the curtain. “As you requested, Alina, Saira’s been made the primary intern on your case. That means she’ll help manage your day-to-day, and you’ll go to her with any issues. If you run into trouble, you come to me.”
I look at Mr. Plotkin. Surely he’s got something to say about this.
“I agree. Alina has connected with you, Dr. Sehgal, and I think you are the best fit for her. You’ve gone above and beyond, I know.”
“I’m on board if you’re on board, Alina,” I say, keeping my voice upbeat.
“One hundred percent!” she says, offering up her hand.
I grin, and we all high-five. Even Mr. Plotkin.
I try to let my smile falter, even when the weight of it all hits me. I’ve been tracking the GoFundMe, and while we can be optimistic, it’s not a done deal. Yet.
Now I just have to make sure I do right by my patient.
CHAPTER 30
“Wait, wait, wait!” I say, directing Vish and my cousin Arun as they lift the flat screen onto the TV stand. We’re redoing the patient lounge today—but it has to be done quietly, so no one notices. So we waited until after five, then started shuffling stuff down the hall on covered gurneys. I mean, nobody’s usually down here, anyway. But we couldn’t take any chances. “Let’s move it to that corner instead.”
The boys grunt and pout, but do as they’re told. I wipe down the new coffee table, and look around the room, satisfied. José talked the janitor into an after-hours paint job and cleanup last week, so we’ve made some good progress. And just in time, too.
Today’s the big day. Vish’s got an edit of Link’s video to show us, so I suggested (read: ordered) him to help me finish setting up the lounge, and he roped my cousin Arun into it, too. There are two recliners José swiped from the nurses’ lounge, a new mini fridge my dad helped me sneak in after hours, along with a massive supply of actual treats: namkeen and chips, a stash of Girl Scout cookies we ordered from my neighbor, the contraband Korean beef jerky that Link likes. The boys brought in a bunch of beanbag chairs, and then smuggled in the flat screen on a movable bed. Luckily, Davis and her buddies have been too busy to notice.
There’s a knock at the door, and we all nearly jump out of our skin. Or, well, I do at least. The boys pause, though, surprised.
The door opens, and Link’s standing there, grinning. He’s got his guitar with him, and his ubiquitous IV cart.
“Hey!”
Vish finishes setting up the Wi-Fi on the flat screen, then does a little swirly bow, like the Air India mustachioed man. “Just in time!”
Link plops himself down on the sofa and waves me over. I sit down, too—right next to him, so close my leg is touching his. If he notices, he doesn’t let on. But I can’t focus for a second. Or sixty.
Then there he is, on the big screen, beaming. I don’t know what magic Vish has worked, but Link looks positively ethereal, the backdrop of the patient lounge dappled with sunlight as he sings a song about getting lost and finding his way. His voice shines through, a little rough and unadorned. After the musical segment, there’s a section on Link’s journey—how he got started singing in his mom’s church choir, all about his old band, Linus, and how he thought music would be it for him.
“And then I found out I had cancer,” he says on camera, and you can see the wetness of his eyes, the throb of his Adam’s apple close up. “Acute myelogenous leukemia. Take two. And I thought that would be it. But music, it’s what saved me. I wrote and played and sang my heart out, through chemo and radiation and losing all my hair and pretty much all my friends, too. And after eight months of treatment, I went into remission.”
Vish pauses the tape, there, and I see Arun rub his eyes a bit, but I pretend not to notice.
“So I made two different versions,” Vish says. “That’s the short take. It sort of leaves out the second act of the story. Which might be just what you need for this—just enough to get you in without complicating things.”
Link nods. “But that’s not the whole story.”
“Nope.”
“And maybe it’s better to be honest.”
“Yup.”
Link turns slightly to look at me, his arm thrown on the back of the sofa just behind me, and for a second, I can’t breathe or think or do anything at all. He still smells like oranges and cinnamon (along with a hint of the lemony antiseptic that pervades the hospital), and I just want to stop time, and make the others disappear and breathe him in. But he’s got one eyebrow perched, which means he’s waiting for an answer.
“Well, wasn’t it you who told me once that you didn’t want to be known as the cancer kid?”
He nods.
“This version makes you the comeback kid. The other one, it’ll be the charity case, right? And that’s the last thing you want to be.” I pause for a second. “The last thing you are.”
“You’re right,” he says, and turns decisively toward Vish. “I don’t even want to see it.”
* * *
Half an hour later, the boys are still playing video games. I played a few rounds, then bowed out—I’m better at things like Tetris than these shoot-’em-up things they’re obsessed with.
“This was the best idea ever,” Link says as he kicks Arun’s ass for the fourth round in a row.
Vish sits, about to replace Arun in the next round, but then Arun rises. “You gonna give me a ride to the pickup game?” he asks Vish, who shrugs.
“Wait,” Link says. “Do you have a couple minutes?”
I frown. Will they never leave?
“Yeah, one more round?”
“No, I wanna add something to the tape.”
Vish grabs his bag. “Sure.” He pulls the camera out. “What’d you have in mind?”
Arun leans in front and shouts, “ACTION!” Then he says, “I’ve always wanted to say that.”
Vish gives him that guy head-nod thing, and Link leans over me on the couch, reaching around to grab something off the floor.
It’s a bag. He signals for Vish to shoot again, and then opens it.
“Two years ago, in September, I was told I was in remission. But in July of this year, during what I thought was a routine follow-up visit, my doctors—including Dr. Sehgal here—told me that the cancer was back. And this time, it was worse. But the story’s not over. Far from it. And I’ve never been a quitter. So I’m about to fight this thing. Again. And kick its ass.”
He pulls a electric razor out of the bag and hands it to me. “Dr. Sehgal, will you do the honors?”
Vish cuts the camera. “Wait, what?”
“Shave my head.”
“You don’t have to do this, Link,” I say. “There are options, other meds, and your hair—”
“I want to do this, Saira. To spite the chemo. I have control of this, and I’m going to win. And I want you to help me. Won’t you help me?”
I nod.
“Good.” He waves toward Vish, who steadies his camera again.
I take the razor from him and stand behind him as he takes his seat on the sofa again. “Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
I take the electric razor and slide it over the top of his head, watching as the wispy dark strands slip easily and fall to floor, the buzzing in my ears getting louder and louder. Ten quick strokes, and it’s all gone. His head is pale and perfect, with a small brown mole sits right below his left ear, a kala tilak to ward off the evil eye. I hope it works.
He grins up at me, then at the boys. “Well? How does it look?”
Vish smirks at me, then gives Link his cue. The little red light tells me the camera’s still rolling. “Pretty damn sexy.”
“Definitely rock star–worthy,” Arun agrees with a shrug. “Works for you.” Then he turns to Vish. “Dude, you ready?”
Vish nods and starts packing up the bag. “I’ll bring you a
new edit tomorrow,” he says. “I know exactly what to do.”
“Thanks.”
“Anytime. Literally.”
CHAPTER 31
The boys shuffle out, dusty and tired, and suddenly we’re alone, Link and I. Alone. Together.
“You tired? Want me to call José?” I ask, trying not to notice that he’s leaning on me a bit on the sofa, that our thighs and our hips and arms are touching. That if I lowered my head just a few inches, it would be right there on his shoulder.
“I’m okay.” He’s quiet for a minute, except for that ragged edge to his breathing, and I realize mine is echoing it, inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. I bubble-face for a second, holding my breath so that my cheeks fill with air, and then pop the bubble with my finger, letting all the air out in a whoosh. He laughs, and I shrug. “Just something my sister and I did with my dadi at bedtime when we were little. It sort of stuck.”
“I like it,” he says, and bubble-faces back. But then his face is serious, intent. And there’s our breath again, in and out, in and out, in unison, like the chorus of a Dashboard song.
“Jerky? Popcorn? Movie?” I ask, pointing to the new DVR. “I’ve got the new Shah Rukh Khan.” And then I hold up another. “And a DVD version of the classic Anne of Green Gables!”
He grins but shakes his head. “Okay if we just sit?”
I nod. “Did I tell you that my sister wants to be a reality TV star, too? She’s got her own FoodTube channel.”
“Yeah? What does she make?”
“Like, healthier versions of Indian food. But I can’t abide by tofu mattar instead of paneer.” He grimaces. “But her paranthe are improving. She’s also going to be in Hair.” I take a deep breath. “You know the one where they’re all naked onstage?”
He covers his mouth, faux-scandalized, and I laugh.
“Starshine,” he says, and I blush.
I take a deep breath again, but my heart is racing even faster than it does on the highway. “So, it’s good. That you’re doing it. Even if it’s hard. Or whatever.”
“Did you and Vish, like, ever actually hook up?”
I’m so shocked, I almost don’t answer. “What?”
“I mean, was he ever really your boyfriend?”
He’s leaning in toward me, looking at me, waiting for me to look at him. But my cheeks are aflame—the erythema, as usual—and I can’t bring myself to meet his eyes.
“When I was younger, before I knew he was gay—before he accepted it himself, I think—we kissed a few times. I mean, I love him. I’ll always love him. But I don’t think I’ve ever been in love with him.”
He slumps a little, his body resting against mine. Tired? Relieved?
“I don’t think I’ve ever been in love, either,” he says, in a voice so low I have to strain to hear it, even though he’s barely inches away. “I wonder if I’ll get the chance.”
“Of course you will.” I hope. “You’ve never been in love?”
He shakes his head. “I thought I was. This girl, Risa. I met her when I was taking guitar lessons, back, like, in seventh grade. We hung out for two years. She wanted to be, like, Lady Gaga. Which was a lot to take sometimes. But we thought we’d start a band and take over the world together. Or something.”
“And then…”
“And then I got cancer. Like, at first, it wasn’t a big deal. But then it spiraled. I mean, you know. From my file. Anyway, the thing is, she didn’t bail. Surprisingly. But it was like we got cancer. She was all, ‘We’re going to live through this and be stronger in the end.’ But she wasn’t going to live through it. I was. For her, it was just something to write about.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah. Like, last time, she’d be here for all the radiation sessions, talking to the nurses incessantly, hovering, being the ‘good girlfriend.’ It was too much for me.” He’s staring at his hands, his fingers moving involuntarily, like on a guitar fret. “So I broke up with her. Before the treatment even ended. Maybe it was unfair. And she still texts or whatever. But I have to do this solo.”
Solo. “And you didn’t love her?”
“No, I don’t think I did. My mom liked her, though.” He laughs. “Actually, she kind of reminds me of your friend from the mall.”
Tall. Blond. Pretty.
“Loud and a bit self-centered.”
“Hey.” But then I giggle. And frown. “We had a big fight. Lizzie and me. She hasn’t talked to me in a week.” I sigh. “But she’s still running your social media outreach.”
He smirks. “Oh, that’s who does it? I thought it was the hospital folks.”
I shake my head. “They choose not to acknowledge. But you have ten thousand followers now. And soon you’ll have more.”
“Why?”
“Because of Rock Star Boot Camp.”
“No, I mean, why don’t you talk to Lizzie anymore?”
“Oh, that. High school stuff.”
He raises an eyebrow, which makes me laugh. “You’re so beyond that.”
“I mean…”
“I wonder who you’d be, Saira with an i, if you weren’t Dr. Sehgal?”
I shrug. Sometimes I wonder, too. The know-it-all in the front row, maybe, who asks for extra credit and runs the debate club. When she’s not in trouble for her distracted doodling.
“That day we first met, I thought I knew,” he says. “I thought you were just like me.”
“What do you mean?”
“That kid with all the plans.” He swallows hard. “The one who doesn’t know quite how to deal when the c-word takes over, destroying everything in its path.”
I nod, staring as he drums his fingers on his thigh—which is still touching mine. “I’m not that kid. But I know her.”
He grins. “Sure, Dr. Sehgal.”
“My best friend Harper—”
“The one who died.”
I nod. “The one from the picture. I was the one who diagnosed her. Sort of. Here. And then I watched her die. And I couldn’t do anything about it.”
“That explains so much.”
I nod. “Yeah. We used to hang out right here.” I wave my arms around. “In this same old dusty room. And watch Anne of Green Gables on scratchy VHS, and play Monopoly for hours. Just us.”
He smiles. “There are a lot of ghosts here.”
“I missed a lot of school in those last few weeks and months, and none of the other kids got it. Not Lizzie, for sure. I think Vish had to convince her to even come to the funeral.”
“You think?”
“We don’t really talk about it anymore.” I take a deep breath. “We don’t talk about a lot of things.”
“Because she’s still so high school, and you’re so not?”
I shrug. “She’s still trying to figure herself out.”
“And you’re all set, huh?” He takes my hand, tracing the lines on my palm. “It is written and all that?”
“There’s nothing wrong with knowing what you want.”
“But you’re sixteen,” he says, his fingers stroking the inside of my palm. There are goose bumps all over my skin, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “So it’s okay if you don’t yet.”
I pull my hand away, setting it uselessly in my lap. “But I do. And it’s okay if I go after it, too.”
“It is okay. But you can also take your time, you know.”
“You don’t know that.”
He nods. “Do you ever think you might have missed out, not going to high school?”
I shake my head vigorously.
“Sometimes I wish I could just go back to that—mundane everyday, homework and basketball and making music with my friends. SATs and prom and college applications. You know, I didn’t even fill any out? I don’t even know where I’d start.” He shrugs.
“Vish is going to USC.”
“Long distance? That’s tough.”
“We’ll have ‘broken up’ by then.” I grin. “And his boyfriend will be there with him.”
“And Lizzie?”
I shrug again. “Last time it was Yale, Tisch, maybe UCLA. Who knows now. She changes her mind every ten seconds.”
“Good for her.”
I frown.
“Oh, come on, Saira with an i. She’s a kid. So are you. And you wouldn’t know since you’re so above it and all, but high school’s great training for the real world.”
This time I raise a carefully groomed brow.
“I mean, look at this place.” He waves his arms around. “It has cool kids, wannabes, geeks…” He grins at me. “And I mean the doctors.”
I jab him with my arm, grabbing his wrist. It’s like the world has stopped, but his heart is racing. Or maybe that’s mine again. He’s looking at me, and I try to look away, to focus on anything but him and the moment that’s unfolding. So this is what it’s like, my heart hammering, my skin hot with anticipation, my eyes reflexively closing as our bodies turn in toward each other, leaning closer and closer until our noses are touching, our mouths sharing the same air.
We can’t, though. He’s sick. He can’t share my air, my germs, my thoughts, my heartbeat. He can’t—
“I can’t.” He leans back into the sofa quickly, his head falling back, his arms lifted to cover his eyes, like the light hurts.
“No.”
“I mean, I want to kiss you, Saira. Believe me I do.”
“Me too.” Too quiet. I don’t even know if he heard me.
“But…”
“You’re sick.”
“Yeah. And I’m not taking anyone down with me.”
“And I’m your doctor.”
“That, too.”
But then he sits back up, turning to me, pulling me closer. His forehead is pressed to mine now, the only space between us the few millimeters that separate our mouths.
“So we can’t,” he says again, then closes the gap. His mouth is salty and sweet, a grapefruit sprinkled with sugar. His arms curl around me, his embrace stronger than I expected. My arms wrap around his neck, and I lean back onto the couch, taking him with me, until the tug of his IV pulls him back a bit, a warning.
“Sorry,” he says, his breathing shallow and forced. “I didn’t mean to do that.”
Symptoms of a Heartbreak Page 20