“Turn right. Right. No, your other right,” he says, and I can hear the smirk in his voice, though I don’t dare turn to look at him. There are enough casualties at the hospital as it is. “Do you want to try parallel parking?” I shake my head, but he ignores me. “Okay, pull behind that ambulance there.” No way. “Yes way.”
“You want me to run over people instead of curing them?”
“That thing is out of commission, hasn’t moved in weeks,” Link says, putting one hand over mine on the steering wheel. “Okay, now, turn the wheel the opposite way. It’s a bit counterintuitive, but…” I can sense him frowning. “Up a little, no back a little, no wait, wait!”
Oops. I’m nearly in the space, but just tapped the bumper of the ambulance in front of us. Not hard. But definitely a tap.
Link’s head drops to the dash, and he moans. “You’re killing me here, Saira.”
Then he realizes what he’s said, and we both sit in silence for a minute.
I unbuckle my seat belt and open the door, ready to bolt, but he grabs my arm, pulling me back into place. I’m shaking, and I’m not quite sure why. But he can feel the tremors, and he pulls me toward him, right out of my seat and into his. He leans his forehead against mine, so we’re breathing the same air again.
“Now who’s the specter of death?” I say, too loud, still shaking, or maybe he is, too.
“Sorry,” he says, twisting his mouth. “But you are. You’re almost as bad as my dad.”
That’s saying a lot. “Well, beef jerky is probably carcinogenic.”
“I already have cancer.”
“I know.”
“Well, don’t you let me forget it.”
I give him a small kiss on the nose and start to turn back toward the steering wheel, but his arms don’t let go.
“What?”
He grins, then gestures toward the back seat.
I frown. “I told you. No more kissing.”
“And I told you—I might just die anyway.” He smirks. “So shouldn’t I enjoy living while I can?”
I sigh. He leans, slow, letting his lips brush mine. It’s not the first time, but there’s something different now. An urgency that wasn’t there before. Like a small flame that’s about to blaze.
He leans in again, and this time it’s more assertive. His mouth smashing mine, teeth clashing, tongue pushing into my mouth. I want to stop it, but I also don’t want to at all. He starts tugging me toward the back seat, and I pause to breathe.
This is irrational. Irresponsible. Irresistible.
We’re in the hospital parking lot. Granted, there’s no one in this part of it—it’s pretty much abandoned. I grin, then scramble over the center dash into the back, and he’s right behind me, arms around my waist before we even hit the seat. Our kisses skip tentative altogether this time, instead lingering long and slow but somehow super urgent, mouths soft and open, tongues salty and slippery, his hands wandering up my shirt and over my breasts and roaming the waist of my jeans, a question.
“Too much?” he asks between kisses, and I shake my head, pulling him closer. The thrum of energy between us is steaming up the windows of the car, which makes me giggle a bit.
“What?”
I point. “I thought that only happened in the movies.”
He writes his name and mine in the fog. I draw a heart around it.
Then we’re kissing again, and it’s even more intense this time. He’s on top of me, the weight of him more solid than I thought, my legs wrapping around his waist, his hands traveling. Every so often, he pauses between kisses to ask, “Is this okay? And this? And this?”
And it is. But then I can feel his heart racing, and while mine is, too, the jaggedness of his breathing makes me stop for a second.
“What?” he asks. “You okay?”
“I am,” I says. “But are you?” I reach for his wrist again, but he leans back away from me, pulling it away.
“Stop playing doctor.”
“I’m not,” I say. “I just—”
“Can’t relax.”
“Was worried.” I frown.
“What?” he says, frustration marking his voice. “I like you, and you like me, and we’re just—”
“I mean, your heart is racing.”
“So is yours. And I thought that was a good thing.”
“But you’re sick.”
“Okay, Dr. Sehgal. But as you know, sexual activity—and certainly touch—can be beneficial to patients undergoing chemotherapy and other cancer treatments,” he says, as if reciting from the manual. I giggle. “I feel good right now. I may not tomorrow. So let me enjoy it while it lasts. I’ll know if and when I’m overexerting myself. So can you just stop overthinking everything?”
I look at him for a minute, completely floored. “I … I don’t know how.”
He grins down at me again. “Let me help you,” he says, kissing me.
I sit up, though, and start straightening my clothes a bit.
“It’s just, I—this all new to me.”
He looks at me for a minute, as if he’s seeing me for the first time. “You mean…?”
“Yeah, come on. You knew that.”
He nods. “I did. In a way. But I just realized something.” He sighs, silent for a moment.
He turns toward me then, putting his arm around me, his hand in my hair. Like he’s going to kiss me. But he doesn’t. “Listen, Saira.” He takes a deep breath. “I think that this could be it. Love. Or the closest I’ll ever get to it.”
The shock hits me like a lightning bolt, synapses fried, unable to react.
I’m supposed to say something back. Because I can feel it. Right there. But then he’s talking again.
“But I can’t do this if … It’s just … I won’t let myself be the one who breaks your heart.”
How do I tell him that it’s already way too late to fix that? Don’t fall. Don’t fall. Don’t fall.
But there they go. The tears.
“See?”
“No.”
He looks confused. Or amused. Or I don’t know what, exactly. “You’re already getting attached.”
“And you’re not?” I mean. “You just said you think you love me.”
“Yeah, and that makes me really happy. Happier than you’ll ever know.” He takes a deep breath.
“But—”
“But I’ve got nothing to lose.” He takes my hand, strokes my palm, along the life line. “And you’ve got your whole life ahead of you.”
“So do you.”
“Those odds are dropping fast, Saira with an i.”
Yeah, they’re far closer to 20 percent now. A long shot. But I don’t say that.
Our knees are knocked together, our breathing in sync, as usual. But he feels far away now. “Listen, I know the odds. I mean, I’m a doctor, for Christ’s sake. But I want to be with you. Whether that’s for a moment or a month or more, I don’t care.”
“All I’ll leave you with is our moments.”
Then let me have this one, I want to say.
“It’s not enough. And too much. It’ll break you And I can’t do that,” he says, pulling his hands from mine, disentangling. Disengaging. “We should go.”
I nod, trying my best not to cry again, to prove him right. “But this isn’t over.”
“Oh, don’t I know it,” he says, laughing. He opens the car door, offering me his hand as I climb out. “You’re like a toddler with a toy, refusing to let go.”
“So best to give in,” I say, looking up at him as he closes the car door. He takes my hand again. “Stop making everything so hard.”
“I will if you will,” he says, grinning.
We separate at the curb, going our different ways, and as I watch him leave, it occurs to me that we didn’t really resolve anything. My heart drops for a minute, thinking about everything that could go wrong here. But I refuse to let it.
* * *
Wednesday morning dawns bright and early, and Papa’s
rapping at my door before my eight a.m. alarm even goes off.
“Time to get up,” he singsongs in that familiar, horrifying way. Papa was the one who’d go with me to genius camp and all my other academic stuff on the road. He’d always wake me up the same way—with his singsong and a cup of white-people chai from the local Starbucks (better than nothing) and an almond croissant. I can almost smell it now. “Saira, come on.”
I rise, bleary eyed, and crack the door open a smidge. “Papa.”
He’s holding a tray with chai and Nice biscuits, the sugar shimmering like glitter.
“No excuses.”
“But I’m so sleepy.”
“Then you shouldn’t stay up until three in the morning, texting.”
He’s got me there. “Give me twenty minutes to shower.”
“Teek hai.” He passes me the tray and waltzes off, singing to himself.
* * *
It feels weird to be in a car with anyone but Link now. We’ve gone back to that old lot about a hundred times since last week. Okay, well, not a hundred. But it might as well be. And while we have been, uh, making out, there’s been some actual driving, too. He’s a good teacher, turns out.
Papa? Not so much.
“Take a right here. Slow, slow, slow, slow.” Papa leans his hand on the dash, as if that will stifle the car’s forward momentum. “Your turns are still too wide. Wait, wait, here! No, go tighter. Too wide.”
He puts his palm over his chest, tapping it to imply palpitations. “Saira, kya yaar.”
“I’m trying, Papa.”
“But you’re getting worse rather than better.” How can that be? “Such wide turns.”
I shrug. “So?” The streets are plenty wide.
“So you don’t want to accidentally turn into the wrong lane.”
“Oh, that.”
“Yes, that.”
He points to the curb. “Acha, now try parallel parking here.”
Oh gods. Again? This is the worst. It’s a wide space at least—two car widths between driveways on a cul-de-sac. Vish’s cul-de-sac, actually. Hmmm …
“How’s it going with Vish?” Papa asks, as if on cue. I hit the brake—literally—and we both jerk forward. Papa sighs. “That good, huh?”
I stare straight ahead as I begin the tedious process of trying to parallel park. “Vish’s fine. We’ve both been busy. He’s got college apps, and a senior project, and I’ve got—”
“Yes, I know all that. But I mean, like, what are your plans? He’ll be leaving soon, nah?”
I shrug again, pulling the car over. It’s crooked and about three feet from the curb. I frown, pulling out again. “He’s planning to apply to some places in California. But he hasn’t told his parents yet.” I turn to give Papa an urgent look.
“Don’t worry, beta. Your secret’s safe with me.” Papa points. “I never could stand that Sweetie Auntie of yours. Wait. A little closer in the front. Now back. Now up a bit.” The car jerks forward, then back, then forward again, and it feels like we’re not making any progress. “Okay, veer a little to the left. Now right.”
Papa takes a small bow in his seat. “Voilà!”
I frown.
“Look, just like that, you have parallel parked.”
He’s right. It worked. Who knew? And I didn’t even hit anything. Yet.
“You know, Saira,” Papa says now, drumming his fingers. “You both have all these grown-up decisions to make. So sometimes, it can be easy—for all of us, I think—to forget that you are still a kid.”
He clears his throat, and I turn to look at him.
“But you are. Still my kid.”
I nod.
“Sometimes I feel like you don’t really have the luxury of being a child. And I wish that wasn’t the case. I wish you could just grow up playing gilli dunda and eating snow cones like I did.”
I frown. “I know, Papa. But I have fun.”
“You have chosen this path, and you are a brave girl. But you’re only sixteen. So just remember, Mom and I—and Dadi, as cranky as she can be sometimes—are here if you need us.” I wonder if she said something to him. About Vish. About that night. “For anything.”
“I know, Papa. And just so you know—”
“I know.”
I nod. He nods. “Chalo. Let’s go home. I think Dadi is making aloo puri today.”
“Okay,” I say, and take my foot off the gas. The car lurches forward.
“Slow, slow, slow, slow…”
* * *
Papa’s Bollywood manifesto on what you can learn about life from Amitabh Bachchan films
Channel your anger at the world’s injustice into something good.
Humor goes a long way in building—and mending—relationships.
There’s nothing quite like a mother’s love.
Two Amitabhs are always better than one.
You can’t make an omelet without any eggs.
* * *
CHAPTER 38
We all gather at five a.m. on Friday morning to prepare for our first official surgery—my baby cousin Pinky’s. We won’t actually be able to perform the surgery of course—that will be done by the neurosurgery team—we’re here to prep and support Pinky and her family through the process. Which will pretty much be the scariest thing I’ve ever experienced.
If it happens at all. Because we’re less than an hour away from the scheduled slot, and Anya Auntie is panicking. “She could die,” she keeps saying, shaking and crying, as my mother tries to brace with strong arms to keep her from collapsing. I watch from the hall, unwelcome but compelled nonetheless to be here. “Right there in that room, on that table.”
“But this is the very best shot she has to live,” my mom says, half doctor, half sister, working hard to maintain her own composure as she tries to convince this woman to let the people who know how to save this child’s life do just that.
Howard looks like she’s thinking the same thing—her face is pale, her hands are fidgety, her demeanor slack and unusual. She’s looking around the room instead of going over the prep plan with Arora and Cho, who are discussing the process step-by-step Ramesh Uncle, the picture of composure. “Once the portion of the skull is removed, Dr. Stevenson and his team will be able to go in and remove the tumor. They’ll continually monitor brain function with our team so they know that they’re not doing any long-term damage as they cut.”
“Are you ready, are you ready, are you ready?”
A child’s voice cuts through the sterility of the surgical prep area, shocking us all out of our stupors a bit.
It’s six o’clock, and Pinky has arrived.
She lifts her chubby arms up. “Pick me up, pick me up,” she says, her cherub voice on the verge. But she runs right past me, straight to Cho. He lifts her up and twirls her once, and then she points to his tie, which is a Dr. Seuss Cat and the Hat number today. “I do not like green eggs and cheese,” she says to him, then roars with laughter—and he does, too. “I do not like them, thank you, please.”
“Today’s your big day, Pinky,” Cho says to her in the most soothing voice I’ve ever heard come out of his mouth. “You ready for your short nap?”
“Just a little one,” she says, nodding to confirm. “And then the new books?”
“Yes, a whole stack of them. Have you ever met the Berenstain Bears?”
He walks off, Pinky still in his arms, José following to help scrub her up.
“Did you just see what I just saw?” Howard says.
“I thought maybe I was hallucinating,” I say, and we both grimace. It’s hard to laugh today.
Then Dr. Arora walks over, his face grim. “Howard,” he says. “Call Stevenson’s team now. It’s off.”
Howard nods, but I rise, pulling her back. “Wait, what?”
“The mom won’t agree. She’s panicked. And unless she’s on board, there’s nothing we can do.”
“But she’ll die.” Howard says it, but we’re all thinking it.
“Our hands are tied.”
“No,” I say, though I don’t really quite know what I mean. He’s right. Legally, the parents have to be on board.
“Your mom tried,” Arora says with a sigh. “But the mother just won’t sign off. And I get it. I mean, that’s her baby.” He turns back to Howard. “Let Cho and José know, too. They’re in pre-op with Pinky.”
As Howard heads off to make the calls, I pace the hall. There has to be a way to fix this. There has to be a way to convince Anya Auntie that Pinky needs this. It’s her only chance.
Before I know it, I’m standing in front of the family waiting room, peering in through the window on the door. My mom’s there with Anya Auntie and Ramesh Uncle, their voice muffled.
“She’s my daughter, too,” Ramesh is saying in a cracked, heavy voice. “You can’t just sentence her to death.”
I open the door without thinking. And I know that the last face Anya Auntie wants to see today is mine. But I have to try.
“I don’t want—” She’s about to start in again on me, I can tell. And so I get my hackles up, ready to fight back. But then I watch as my mom takes Anya Auntie’s hands, which are shaking. Way worse than mine. And in that moment, I’m kind of sorry for all the angst I put her through—the fights, calling her Dragon Auntie. She’s scared, like every parent that walks through these doors. I can’t blame her. I wish there was something I could do to set her mind at ease. But for now, if I have to play the punching bag, I can at least do that.
“I’ll be here if you need me,” I tell her. “And I can be gone, if you’d rather.”
Anya Auntie, shocked, doesn’t know what to say to that. But Ramesh Uncle takes my hand, nods, and says, “Dr. Arora always says you’re an asset to his team. And there’s no one I’d trust more to look out for my baby.”
“Auntie,” I say, in the quietest, most respectful voice I can manage. “I know today is going to be hard. But you can look at it one of two ways. It can be the day you lost your daughter. Right now. If you say no to this. Or it can be the day you—“you—chose to give her a chance at life.”
Symptoms of a Heartbreak Page 24