One sharp, refined brow rises ever so slightly. “I don’t buy it.” She takes her last bite, gathers our paper plates, and tosses them all in a plastic bag. “I mean, I feel like I barely had a normal childhood, and I’m not the genius.”
“What do you mean?”
“I feel like our whole life shifted—for all of us—when you diagnosed Harper and Dr. Charles said they had to ‘pursue your talents,’ or whatever. And it was hard enough, in a family of doctors and engineers, to find any breathing room. But it got a whole lot worse after that.”
I still don’t get it.
“Not everyone wants to be a doctor, Saira.”
“I know.”
“I don’t. Want to be a doctor.”
I nod. She’s said this before.
“The question is, what am I going to do about it?” She sits back down on the bed and stares at me, hard, for a minute. “I dropped premed.”
“What?”
“You heard me.” She sighs, picking at nothing on the bedspread. “I dropped it. I signed up for film and TV, and also culinary arts classes at an institute in New York. I’ve been going there twice a week.”
I’m so floored, I don’t know what to say, what to do.
“Can you switch back?”
She waves a hand in front of my face. “What are you not getting? I don’t want to. I’m happy.”
“Happy is overrated.”
“It most certainly is not,” she says. “And you know it. I don’t know what it is, Vish or work or whatever, but you’re happy, too. For once. Be honest with yourself.”
If only it was that easy. I open my mouth to say something, anything, a confession or a denial, but I never get to figure out what it will be, because both our phones start buzzing at once. And this time, it’s not Link.
It’s Mom. “Dadima heart attack. Princeton Pres. COME NOW.”
We both stand, my chai cup sliding off the tray and crashing to the floor, but we don’t have time to worry about that. We’ve got to get to the hospital, stat.
* * *
Greek Boy drops us off, and we bypass admitting, thanks to my ID. It feels surreal to be here now not as a doctor, but as family, like it was with Harper. But I push that thought away as we get in the elevator, shuffling to six, the cardiac ICU.
Mom and Papa are in the hospital room, sitting in chairs on either side of the bed, the exhaustion racking their faces the way guilt no doubt mars mine. Dadi and I haven’t really spoken since that night with Vish, though she still feeds me and makes me chai and does all those perfunctory Dadima things. And as far as I know, she hasn’t mentioned it to Mom, either. I would hate for it to be a secret she takes to the grave. The thought gives me chills.
Dadima’s asleep when we get in, and she looks frailer, even tinier than her usual four foot eleven. She’s wearing a hospital gown, which she’d find terribly indecent, and there are IVs and pumps and monitors attached to every part of her.
“Congestive heart failure,” Mom says as Taara and I perch lightly on Dadi’s bed, trying not to breathe. “The fluid filled her lungs, but they’ve started the diuretics.”
“And they’re watching?” Taara says. “It won’t come back?”
“There’s a risk of respiratory failure,” I say, watching the monitors, “but she seems to be doing okay right now.”
“Yeah, they’re keeping her in the ICU to monitor her for the next few days,” Papa says, and his voice is small and shaky, like a little boy’s. “But they—and your mom—assure me she should be okay.”
Taara nods, stands, and wraps her arms around my dad. “She’s definitely a fighter,” she says.
“Don’t we all know it,” Mom adds.
We all stand around, staring at each other, realizing how incomplete our family picture would look without Dadi in it. I rub my shoulders, fidgeting and flummoxed by this foreign wing of a hospital I’ve come to consider home.
“Maybe we should go make chai and bring it back,” I suggest. “Can Dadi have chai, even?” Cardiology is like a different language, one I’ll never quite learn how to speak. Like offering up your sixth-grade Spanish in Italy.
Taara shakes her head, and there’s a streak of tears on her pale cheeks. “Actually, I need to tell you guys something,” she says, and I worry that she’s going to announce a pregnancy or something that might just put my dad in cardiac arrest. “Saira knows.” Oh. She stares at the hospital bed, where Dadi’s chest goes up and down, up and down. “And so does Dadi.” Oh! Taara takes a deep breath. “She told me to tell you. So I have to. Now. Before—”
Mom takes her hand. “Dadi will be okay, beta. But you’re scaring me. What’s wrong?”
“I quit. I quit premed. I can’t do it.”
Mom looks shocked, but Papa looks like he’s about to crack up.
“I want to study nutrition and TV production.”
“Is this about your FoodTube channel?” Papa says, unable to hide the glee.
“How do you know about that?”
“Your dadi is terrible at keeping secrets,” Papa says as Mom continues to look baffled. “At least from me.”
“But—nutrition? TV production? What about biochem?” Mom says. “What about pediatrics?” Mom looks truly shattered, like she just realized her dream is dying. And maybe it is. But that’s not Taara’s fault. Not really. It’s mine. I’m the one who actually bailed. “Did everyone know about this but me? Did you all decide among yourselves, who cares what Rana thinks—”
“Mother, not everything is about you. Or Saira. Or how the family feels. I don’t like medicine. I don’t want to spend eight years studying something I hate to do a job I’ll suck at. So I dropped it. I would have failed.” Taara hiccups through her tears. “Not all of us are cut out for medicine. As hard as we try.”
“But you could have at least talked to me—” Mom starts. “First Saira with the oncology, and then—You girls don’t care what I think at all.” Now there are tears slipping down Mom’s cheeks, too, ruining her makeup and smudging her mascara, but she does nothing to stop them. I’ve never seen her like this. I want to do something, anything, to stop it. Volunteer to do pediatrics, even, but before I can open my mouth, Papa cuts in. Thank gods.
“Taara, beta, no one will force you to do anything,” he says quite sternly, probably so Mom will hear it as much as Taara does. “Your papa is a very reluctant engineer, and if I had it to do over again—”
“What, you’d be Anil Kapoor?” Mom says in an irritated tone. “Singing and dancing instead of—”
Papa looks offended. “Amitabh, of course.” He grins. “But working for the Port Authority?” Papa says with a grumble. “Damn straight I would do something else.”
“And what would your dear mother say about that?”
“She’d say good for you,” Dadi says, popping up in her bed, like a vampire up from her day’s rest. “Better to do what you love. That’s what I told Taara. And Saira, too.”
“She did, actually,” I say, then run over to hug her, like she’s truly back from the dead. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”
“I’m fine. It will take far more than heart failure to kill this buddhi.” Then she has a big coughing fit. “Now go get me asli khana. Go.” Papa and Mom shuffle out, eager for a break. Taara and I stay put as Dadi drifts off again.
Taara dozes in a chair while I sit next to Dadi’s bed, holding her hand until she awakes half an hour later, coughing. “Pani. Pani.”
I rise and grab a cup of ice chips off the tray. “Ice hai, Dadi,” I tell her. “No liquids. Yet.” I look over at Taara—she stirs but doesn’t wake.
She nods, and I use a spoon to feed her a chip or two. I don’t realize when the tears start trickling—she notices them before I do. I was so worried about silly stuff, secrets, and here she is, suffering. “Nah, bache,” she says, trying to sit up. I press the button to raise the bed a bit. “I’m fine. I’m strong.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Hanji, you are. You are your mother’s daughter. And your dadi’s pothi. And your sister’s bhena. You come from a long line of ziddi auraten. Stubborn women. Just ask your papa.”
I nod, and try to smile. It doesn’t work; tears seep into my open mouth.
“But I’m tired now,” she says. “And I don’t like all these machines.” She looks at me, pointed. “Here it’s always intervention this, intervention that. Next time, beta, I want to rest at home, in my bed.” The doctor comes in then, waking Taara, but Dadi stares at me intently. “Got it?”
I nod.
I tell Taara I’m going to get coffee, then head to Link’s room. He’s in bed, watching videos, and sits up, surprised to see me. And especially the tears.
“What happened? What’s wrong?” He climbs out of bed, his little IV cart following him, and wraps his arms around me, even though someone might see.
“My grandma’s sick,” I say, sobbing into his thin hospital gown. “She’s in the ICU.”
“Oh no! Is she going to be okay?”
“Yeah, my mom’s bringing her daal and roti in a bit.” I try to breathe. “Even though she’s supposed to be on a liquid diet.”
“Well, daal is liquid. Sort of.”
I grin up at him, and he kisses my forehead. Then I realize someone could walk in any second.
“Get back in bed.”
“Okay, Dr. Sehgal.”
* * *
Two days later, Dadi is finally discharged. We’ve all been hovering—especially me—and she’s sick of us. And starving. “For real food. Your mother is a terrible cook. How does one mess up kali daal? I don’t understand.”
Mom frowns at Dr. Perkovich. “You sure you don’t want to keep her?”
“No thanks,” the doctor says with a laugh. “But she did promise me some samosas when she’s better, didn’t you, Mrs. Sehgal?”
It sounds weird to hear someone call Dadi that. But I guess she is the original.
In the car on the way home, Dadi runs off a list of things she wants to make. “Bhartha, chole, pakore, mattar paneer—”
“I can make you tofu mattar,” Taara says, and we all groan.
“Tofu?” Dadi says with disdain. “These are my last few meals. I want them to be good.”
“These are not your last meals,” Mom says as she pulls in front of the house. “You have plenty of years ahead of you.”
“But you won’t if you keep eating crap,” Taara adds. “I can teach you how to lighten up some of your recipes.”
“You mean butter instead of ghee?” Dadi says with a frown.
“Not exactly,” Taara says. “But it’s a start.”
“Okay, but first learn how to make some decent chai.”
Yup, Dadi’s full speed ahead.
We get her tucked into her bed, and Papa makes the chai, since he knows what she likes.
“When I was a girl,” she says, “men never made tea. They didn’t even know the rastha to the rasoi. But these days, your mom has trained you all. Even that boy. Vish. He made me chai once. Trying to impress. Or keep up. That’s what happens when you’re a working woman.”
“Dadi, you’re a working woman, too,” I remind her. “Just inside our home.”
“Arrey jah. I’m not the maid. I do things out of love for you all. And because it’s what I know. But sometimes I wish that I, too, could have done more. Not a doctor like you, Saira, but something.”
That catches me off guard a bit. Dadi always pushed my mom and dad to let me take it easy, be a kid. “You have so much freedom,” she says to me, pointed. “Sometimes it’s easy to take it for granted. But I’m glad you get to be someone. You too, Taara. Whatever you want to be. But sometimes, beta, it’s nice to just sit, have a cup of chai, gup-shup, and while the days away. That’s what I was doing at your age. I wish that for you sometimes.”
Me too, I realize with a start. Me too.
CHAPTER 36
There’s a group of us gathered in the lounge—me, Arun, José, Vish, little Alina, and the man of the hour, Link. He’s so far away from me—with both of us on our best “nothing’s going on” behavior—that it might as well be a hundred people. But it’s a big day. So we have to play along. For now.
Today they announce the top-twenty finalists on the new season of Rock Star Boot Camp—by showing the videos. Vish submitted the tape, and Link was one of two hundred asked to submit, so he has about a 10 percent chance of getting a slot. And the odds narrow further from there. If he gets chosen, he’ll have to fly out to Los Angeles. Which he is probably, likely, definitely not well enough to do. But that’s a long shot, anyway.
He’s sitting on the couch, surrounded by people, and chewing on his cuticles, a habit José complains about endlessly. “Not getting enough nutrition?” he says now, smacking his hand away and laughing.
“Nerves,” Link says, staring at the screen, his eyes glassy. Tired?
“Me too,” Vish says, planting himself on the floor in front of Link, and passing around a bag of masala popcorn. “But your video is good.”
“Enough to get me in the top twenty?” Link says. “I dunno.”
Arun leans forward, turning up the sound. “All right, guys. They’re starting.”
First there’s a blond girl from Utah—one of ten sisters from an overly strict Mormon family. “This is her ticket out,” José says. “Belt it, girl!”
Then there’s some generic LA and New York types, who kind of remind me of Lizzie. Who still isn’t answering my texts, though she responds to Vish’s immediately.
“I like that guy,” José says as a Filipino country-star wannabe shimmies around, singing a Taylor Swift song. “But so far, most people have done pop hits. Did you do an original number, Link?”
He shrugs. “I am who I am,” he says with a wink. “We’ll see if it worked for or against me.”
They count down five, then ten, then fifteen. Still no Link. Maybe it’s not happening. Which would be the worst.
“The suspense is killing me,” Alina says, her voice quiet. She’s struggling, but she insisted on coming, tubes and all, so José is monitoring her closely. “I almost wish it would.”
We all turn to look at her, appalled.
“I’m kidding,” she says with a choked laugh. “Can’t you guys take a joke?”
“Not funny,” I say.
But then we’re distracted. Because there he is. Number three. Link.
“I may have cancer, but it doesn’t have me,” he’s saying on the screen, and then there’s me behind him, shaving his head. “I’m going to keep making music until my last breath.”
The announcer cuts to a short outtake—me, talking right to the camera. “Which won’t be anytime soon. Not if we have anything to do with it,” I say on screen. “I’m Dr. Saira Sehgal. You may know me as Dr. Girl Genius. I’m the youngest doctor in America, and Link is one of my patients. We’re doing everything we can for him here. But he needs your help. He’s looking for a marrow donor, specifically one of Korean and Dutch descent. Could that be you? Contact us at Princeton Presbyterian, or via Be The Match’s Link Rad page. We need your help. Link needs your help—right now.”
When I look back up at him, amid all the high fives and whoops from the boy, he sits in silence, a single tear slipping down his hollow cheeks. But then catches me staring and shoots me a thumbs-up.
With any luck, we’re halfway there. With any luck, the matches will come pouring in now.
* * *
We’ve got Alina and Link tucked back into bed when it starts. The rage. I can feel it before it’s actually there, in the physical form of one Dr. Davis. Who is livid. Dr. Arora races in right before her, as if trying to stave off the worst of it, but she’s right behind him, and shouting.
“How dare you!” she’s shouting. “This time you�
��ve gone too damn far. Sehgal, I’m about to fire your—”
“Dr. Davis,” I say, trying not to duck. “So nice to see you, too.”
“You think you’re so smart. Girl Genius. See how smart you feel when your ass is grass.”
Arora’s physically holding her back, as if she’ll claw right at me, like a cranky cat.
“Yes, Saira may have gone forward without consulting us, but if you look on the bright side of things—”
“There is no bright side!”
“Actually, there is,” says a calm voice. It’s Cho, standing in the doorway, his tie bearing pumpkins in August, his face a bit contorted, like he’s confused to be coming to my defense. Dr. Charles is behind him, grinning.
“We’ve had three thousand people send kits in the last forty-eight hours—just from the activity on the show’s website,” Cho says, excitement building in his voice. Before he was even announced as a finalist. So we’re going to see way more than that in the next few days, now that he’s in the top twenty. And we’d only gotten five hundred in all our campaigning over the last two months. That’s a significant increase. They’ll be pouring in. That means Saira’s plan is working. The more kits we get, the bigger the chance that we will find a match.”
“Which means we will continue to utilize this very special resource we have found here at Princeton Presbyterian—in the form of Dr. Sehgal—to our advantage, won’t we, Dr. Davis?” Charles says. He can’t hide his glee. “In fact, I’ve gotten four calls just tonight from major media, asking to feature Link—and Saira.” He looks at me. “You game?”
I nod, trying not to beam. “Of course.”
“Great. Be ready tomorrow morning at ten,” Charles says. “And make sure you get your eyebrows done. Because, Dr. Sehgal, this just might work.”
Ah, I think, smiling to myself as Davis storms off. I can see why my mom and Dr. Charles get along so well.
CHAPTER 37
We’re in the parking lot, Link and I, in the hideous minivan. It’s become a go-to now that the recently refreshed patient lounge actually gets some traffic. Luckily, Link’s mom covers for him—us—well. I think she likes me.
Symptoms of a Heartbreak Page 23