I’m like a bird in a cage. And Dadi’s done with me. She’s banished me upstairs until lunchtime, because otherwise I hover in the kitchen and ask her a million questions. And she still hasn’t asked me that one that’s been lingering in the air for the past week: What did you do?
I wouldn’t know how to begin to answer.
I’m staring at my oncology textbook, pondering radiation ratios, when I hear the doorbell, and then Dadi chattering for way too long for it to be the UPS guy.
“Want parantha?” I overhear her say from where I’m standing at the top of the steps. So I know exactly who it is.
Lizzie.
I thunder down the stairs, and Dadi shoots me a look. Not only am I grounded, but that was the height of inelegance. I couldn’t help it, I’m just so excited to see Lizzie. But when I storm into the foyer, I freeze, unsure of what to do with myself. Do I hug her? Tell her how much I’ve missed her?
“Start with hi,” she says. She’s not smiling, but she’s not frowning, either. Her skin is golden—apparently Yale is a good place to get a tan—and she already looks fall-ready, a denim jacket thrown over her flowery summer dress, and little boots on her feet.
How does she always know?
Meanwhile, I’m in my pj’s and unshowered. For, like, the second day in a row.
“Vish told me what happened,” she says. Dadi perches an eyebrow, looking from me to Lizzie and Lizzie to me, then decides to go make snacks.
“Namkeen thay chai landihiyan,” she tells me, and I usher Lizzie to the tearoom.
“I’ve been craving Dadi’s snacks,” Lizzie says, sighing quite contentedly.
Why didn’t you answer any of my one thousand text messages? I ask in my head. The question hangs. She doesn’t answer it.
“I’ve missed this place,” she says, setting herself down on the sofa a bit too prim and proper, like a stranger. I sit in the armchair on the left side, also quite formally, deciding to follow her cues. “Connecticut doesn’t have great Indian food.”
I nod. “Most places don’t.”
“Well, not like Dadi’s anyway.” She stares at the table for a minute. “So I went to go see Vish when I got back. He told me what happened.”
I wonder what that means. Like, me and Link? The stuff with the hospital?
“All of it.” She’s still staring at her hands, as if her nail polish will magically change colors. Or something. “Even you and him.”
It’s like the ground drops from under me. He told her. It feels like a sock to the stomach, like a betrayal. Even though I knew it would happen eventually, and that eventually was soon. It was always his secret to keep, but it was something that lived just between the two of us, something we shared. And now it’s not.
“I would have understood, you know. I would’ve played along.”
“It wasn’t my decision to make.”
“But you went along with it,” she says. “Kept it from everyone. Even me. Even though I was your best friend.”
I shrug. She’s right. That’s true. But it was Vish’s secret, and I had to protect him.
“You didn’t tell me about Link, either.” She looks at her hands. “Even though I was there for you. I was helping.”
And she did. Continued to help me, and Link. Even when I ruined everything.
I open my mouth to speak, but nothing’s right.
She wasn’t talking to me. It was complicated. I didn’t know what to call it. It was all a mess anyway. I’m a mess anyway. Always have been, always will be.
“It’s been months—even years—since you’ve bothered to make time for me. You say you want to be a regular kid, but every time I try to get you to do regular kid stuff, you blow it off. You blow me off.”
She’s right. It’s true. But lately, it hasn’t been like it used to be. “You’re always just so focused on Cat and the other kids. Like they’re your world.”
“They are my world. I’m seventeen. I’m in high school. It’s senior year. They’d be your world, too, if you were still in school.” She takes a deep breath. “And in any case, I wanted you to be part of my world. Like you’ve always been.”
“I didn’t feel like I could.” The words tumble out in a rush, like the first few hiccups when I’ve eaten something too spicy. “There were so many things I didn’t feel like I could say to you anymore. For too long.”
“Since Harper.” The name sounds wrong coming from her mouth. Like she’s talking about a stranger. “You always held that—held her—against me. It’s like she lived in this massive space between us, even though she’s been dead so long.” I know what she’s thinking: growing like a tumor. One that can’t be cut out.
Tears slip down my cheeks now, but there are too many to stop them. “You could have stayed. She needed you. I needed you.”
“I was just a kid,” she says. “But you held it against me forever. Every single thing. Collecting them all, like a list in your planner. Compiling them to pull out whenever things didn’t go your way.” She sighs and hands me a tissue.
Then she stands, as if to leave, even though Dadi hasn’t brought the chai yet and would be devastated.
“Don’t go,” I say, grabbing her hand.
She sighs. “There’s no reason to stay.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. I’m looking down at the glass coffee table, and I can see the tears about to spill in my reflection. “Things changed so fast, and I wanted us to be the one thing that could stay the same.”
“But they’re not the same. You’re Saira Sehgal, a doctor, Girl Genius, big-time. Everything’s all set for you. I’m just a high school kid who’s about to graduate, trying to figure myself out, and scared of everything. When I tried to tell you about my fears, you scoffed at them. So I stopped trying.”
That sounds familiar. Like something Taara said recently. Or even Vish. “Maybe we’re all just scared. Even me.”
She sighs. Maybe that’s a cop-out. But I don’t know how to fix this. Not this time. “Anyway, I’m going to Yale next year. I applied early decision, and Madame Yulia is going to write me a recommendation, which means it’s a done deal. Even if I am a generic white girl.”
“That’s amazing!” I want to hug her, but I don’t. “Congratulations.”
“And, well,” she says, waving her arms a bit, “this is a big mess you’ve made. But I know you, Saira. You’ll figure it out.”
I want to ask where we go from here, but that’s the thing: We don’t know.
“We’ll figure it out,” she says. “But you know, it’s okay if it’s not the same.”
It has to be, because it’s already different.
“We’re not the same as we were at eight or fourteen or even two months ago. We’ve always been different people, and we need to accept that,” she says, sounding way smarter than me. “Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes you have to let go to stay together, in whatever little way you can. And that’s okay. Sometimes growing apart is part of growing up.”
That’s when Dadi brings out the chai, and Lizzie pastes on her too-perfect actress smile and pretends things are just the same. Or maybe, somewhere in her head, they sort of are. They’re the way they have been, for her at least, for a long time now. And she’s okay with that, maybe. It’s not all a show, I know. But it pinches still, to know how much of her I’ve already lost.
To Whom It May Concern:
It has come to our understanding that Saira Sehgal, MD, an intern in pediatric oncology at Princeton Presbyterian, has been suspended by the hospital’s administrator, one Dr. Hannah Davis, for a reported patient conduct violation.
Per the documents attached below, note that (a) Saira Sehgal, MD, was not on the medical team that supervised the care of Lincoln Chung-Radcliffe, the patient in the reported potential violation notice. However, she was on the publicity team formed by Maggie Chung-Radcliffe and Dr. Abhishek Arora, and therefore, frequently met with the patient, including off hospital grounds, to facilitate a successful m
edia campaign with Be The Match, in association with the TV show “Rock Star Band Camp.” And (b) that “evidence” of any such interaction between Sehgal and Mr. Chung-Radcliffe was from a meeting they had off hospital grounds for social media strategy purposes. Therefore, the hospital’s monitoring and documenting of the pair’s interaction constitutes a violation of privacy, and, as the suit below clarifies—filed on behalf of Mr. Lincoln Chung-Radcliffe—will be acted upon accordingly, if Dr. Sehgal is not reinstated in good standing immediately.
Signed,
Lily Ahn-Chung, Esquire
Chung & Bradford, Associates Princeton, NJ
CHAPTER 42
This September Monday dawns cool, crisp, and full of import. I have a meeting at the hospital today to discuss my suspension and whether it will become permanent, I’m guessing.
At breakfast, after two full weeks of being suspended—and grounded—my mother finally lets me have my phone back. Except it’s not my phone. It’s a new number, a kid’s line with limited data and texting, and it’s got all of these monitoring settings on it. Like something a twelve-year-old might use.
“We thought you were grown up enough,” she says over breakfast, as Dadi bustles in silence, annoyed to be left out of the discussion once again. “You know, being a doctor and all. But clearly we were wrong. So think of this as a new beginning.”
Taara’s face is grim as she watches. She’s been busy rearranging her film/TV/nutrition schedule, second-guessing every little thing. Which can be annoying. But mostly it’s been nice having her home. Like right now. She takes a sip of chai and squeezes my hand under the kitchen table.
“With new rules,” Papa adds for good measure.
Among their other rules:
My curfew is now eight p.m., and I must report to them my whereabouts at any given time—the tracking app on my phone will ensure that.
My schedule is posted in the kitchen for everyone to see.
I am to focus on studying for the boards and investigating research opportunities, since the stank from “the incident” will likely take a while to wear off, meaning I won’t be glowingly recommended to fellowship opportunities at Princeton Presbyterian or elsewhere.
“These terms, if you choose to accept them, will demonstrate to us that you are ready, willing, and hopefully able to behave professionally and thoughtfully.”
“And no more seeing that boy.” Papa is adamant. “Or any boys.”
“Even Vish?” It’s Dadi who asks this, shocking all of us.
“Yes, even Vish.”
“No, Pash. I think you are wrong to say that,” Dadi says, and Papa’s jaw nearly drops into his piping-hot sevian.
Taara nods. “He’s family, Pop. You can’t just cut off an arm like that.”
“I don’t trust him, and right now I don’t trust you,” Papa says, shutting Taara up. “He clearly knew about this. And so did you.” Even though she didn’t. “So no, Vish will have to reearn his place. And I’m just not sure he can do that right now.”
Mom nods, but I can see she’s already more pliable on this. Though it’ll take a minute. “Vish has his own things he’s dealing with right now, as I’m sure you know, Saira.”
That catches me off guard. What does she know?
“He probably could use your support,” Mom says. “Although I don’t think Sweetie Auntie is such a big Saira fan right now. And your papa’s right. If … and that’s a big if—you are going to see him, it will be here, at home.” She takes a sip of her chai. “Now, if you’re done with your breakfast”—she turns to Papa—“and you with your lecture, it’s time for us to go. You know how Davis hates it when we’re late.”
* * *
The conference room is full when we get to the oncology office. Ms. Clayton asks us to have a seat, and Mom and I strain to hear what’s being said inside, but it’s no use. I can tell it’s Davis, Arora, and Charles, and there is some heated discussion going on.
The phone on Davis’s desk buzzes.
“You can go on in,” Ms. Clayton says. “Good luck!”
Davis welcomes us with a glare. There are two empty chairs, thankfully between Charles and Arora, but that puts us right across from her warlike gaze. My heart flutters like a bird in a cage, and I feel like it’ll escape right up and out of my mouth in a second if they don’t say something soon.
“So, let’s start with the good news, Dr. Sehgal, and, uh, Dr. Sehgal,” Arora says. “I’m happy to say that Saira’s been reinstated at work.”
“On probation,” Davis adds with what passes for glee on her. “We’re going to be watching your every move.”
Charles clears his throat. “No, well, not watching every move. At all. Of course not. But I am pleased to say that your efforts on the case of one Lincoln Chung-Radcliffe, with the video and the social media campaign, have increased the marrow match submissions for him by some four hundred percent. That’s pretty astounding.”
Mom looks pleased. And I’m floored. That’s even better than I expected.
“Does that mean he’s found a match?” I ask, and I can feel my eyes glistening, though I will them to stop.
“Not yet. But it’s likely. And thus, we have a favor to ask of you, Saira,” Charles says. “Obviously, for, uh, reasons, we can’t allow you to get medically involved. It’s just not ethical. You have a vested interest. And that’s … understandable. In most cases, I would remove you from the case completely. But Lincoln Chung-Radcliffe’s parents have asked that you continue to work on this case in a consulting capacity.”
Dr. Arora nods. “The phone has been ringing off the hook—the media wants Link. And they want you, too.” He turns to my mom. “I understand, Dr. Sehgal, if you are uncomfortable with this in any way. Saira is, after all, still a child.” He looks a bit forlorn, almost pleading—exactly how I feel, actually. “But if she did some media interviews this could truly be the thing that helps us find a match and save Link’s life.”
My mom doesn’t say anything for a long time, just looks at her hands, resting on the table. Then she looks up at me, and Charles.
“I think this is a case where Saira should follow her heart,” my mother says. “And I’m pretty sure I know exactly where that will take her.”
Davis harrumphs, but Charles and Arora nearly get up and bhangra. “Thank you, Dr. Sehgal. I know this an awkward situation, and we always tell doctors to stay detached. But sometimes, the emotional investment is what makes medicine work. I think this is one of those cases.”
“Dr. Sehgal Junior,” Arora says, picking up a folder from his desk. “If you’re prepared, I’d like to reinstate you today. Unfortunately, Alina Plotkin’s case needs some immediate attention, and I’d like to get you looped back in. Shall we?”
I nod and rise, as do the others. My mom grins at me, then mouths, “Seven p.m.,” pointing at her watch, just so I’m clear that curfew’s still on.
And as I walk out the door with Arora, I can feel Davis’s eyes burning into the back of my head, the heat nearly curling my freshly blown-out hair.
Arora gives me the rundown on the patients on my rotation—Pinky’s progressing well, and her scans are still clean. Brendan Jackson’s second round in the trial has been nearly as successful as the first, so they’re monitoring it closely to ensure he remains eligible to continue, especially with Davis on the prowl to make cuts there. Link’s gotten nearly eight thousand marrow submissions from potential matches—and of those, twenty or so more closely echo his ethnic background, so while the odds are still slim, he has a chance. Be The Match is working as quickly as they can to process them all. “And Rock Star Boot Camp has requested his presence in Los Angeles,” Arora says. “But unfortunately, the effects of the heavy radiation cycle he’s receiving right now mean he’s not well enough to go.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your mom didn’t tell you?” Arora says, startled. “I thought you knew.”
“What?”
“He’s neutropenic now.
It’s not looking good.”
He looks at my face, and I know he can tell.
“Go ahead,” he says, a hand on my shoulder, steadying. “Meet me in the lounge at noon and we can go over the rest and reactivate your ID.”
* * *
José is in the hall, updating files on one of the computer floaters, and he catches me as a I race down it.
“Saira,” he says, arms wrapping tight around me. “I’m so glad you’re back. I have so much to tell you. I—” He sees me distracted and says, “Yeah, I tried to text you, but it kept saying message not sent. I guess your mom…”
I nod.
“He’s okay. In good spirits. You know him. But it’s hard.”
“Can I go in?”
José nods. “He’s resting, and I just gave him a dose of morphine, so I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you.”
The room is quiet but bright. Link lays motionless in the bed, on his side, his back to me. Monitors track every breath and heartbeat. I walk silently over to the machines and stare, the feed of numbers and lines and leaps telling me everything and nothing all at once.
It’s too much. I can’t stop looking, all the data scrambling together in my head, spilling truths and a future I can’t begin to face.
All I can do right now is find that heartbeat. I take off my shoes, carefully, quietly, and climb gingerly onto the bed, curling my body around Link’s like a big spoon, my arm slipping around his waist, my hand clasping his. For a few moments, all I focus on is breathing, our chests rising and falling together, the rhythm soothing my worries, at least for now. I lay there for a few moments, my head against his chest, his heartbeat in my ears. He plants a kiss on the top of my head, which is tucked just under his chin. “Morning, Starshine,” he says, and that does it. The tears spill, fast and furious, soaking the small space between us. “Hey.” He hugs me tighter. “It’s okay. I’m okay. Or I will be. I told you, things get worse before they get better. And this is the worse.” He swallows hard. “The worst.”
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