I nod, and my head bops into his jaw. “Listen, to me, though, okay? I think that it’s best for the both of us right now to let this just simmer for a minute.”
I sit up in the bed, tangled in blankets and wires and Link’s IVs. “What does that mean, simmer?”
He sits up a bit, too, but the IVs hold him back. “I told you, Saira. I won’t be the one who breaks your heart.” He’s looking down at his hands, which look weathered and worn, like they belong to a sixty-year-old, not someone who’s sixteen. “I refuse.”
“That’s not your decision to make,” I say, and I can hear my voice rising, sounding rash, even to myself. And besides, it’s way too late.
“Yeah, it is.” In his eyes there’s a warning, and I know exactly what he’s capable of—of banning me from even breathing the same air as him. He’s done it before. “I’m not saying we can’t see each other at all. I’m not.” He takes a deep breath. “But it can’t be like this.” He waves his arms around. “I can’t do it. To you. Or to me.”
In that moment, I want to disappear completely. I want to rip a hole in the tired linoleum, the earth to just shatter and swallow me whole. I want to rewind time to my first day here at Princeton Presbyterian and make it so I never ran into Link at all that morning, a few minutes ahead or behind, whatever, to stave off the sharp, stabbing feeling that’s shooting through me right now. I want the heat that’s blazing on my cheeks and my neck to combust, to take me out in a giant inferno, instantaneous and irreversible. Anything to just stop the pain, excruciating and familiar, but this time a thousand times worse.
Link sits up farther. “Listen to me, Saira. This isn’t fair to either of us.”
“Because life isn’t fair.”
“Right. And not everything happens for a reason, despite what they always say. So we have some choices to make. My choice is this: I need you to be my friend right now.”
I’m shaking my head before I realize it. “I can’t,” I say. “I can’t.”
“You have to,” a voice says. It’s Link’s mom, standing just behind the curtain, and I can see the salty streaks tears have left behind on her pale skin. “He needs you. Please.”
She walks up to where I’m standing, and for a moment I’m really afraid she’s going to hug me. If she does, I won’t be able to hold it together. I barely am right now. But instead, she takes my hand and leads me out of the room, into the hall, where the lunchtime traffic is bustling and loud. José appears—Link no doubt pressed the button—and he reaches for me, but I shake my head.
“Saira, I know you’re not technically on my son’s team,” Link’s mom is saying, but I can’t quite focus—I’m still back in that room with him, watching his face as he told me he doesn’t want to be with me. “But what you’ve done, it’s had a profound impact on the chance he has at surviving this. And I don’t just mean the videos, or Rock Star Boot Camp. I mean being there. Caring. Giving him a reason.”
I smile. But it’s hollow. Because the pain that comes with it is too much. Maybe Link’s right. I can’t live through this again. I can’t be the one who survives and carries the weight of memories forever.
“It’s a lot to ask, Saira,” she says. “But he needs you. Please, don’t bail on us now. Even if he pushes you away. Because you might be the light that gets him through this.”
I don’t quite know when my heart got so very loud. But it’s ringing in my ears like an incessant alarm I can’t quite reach, a warning about nothing and everything all at once. All I know is that I have to get out of this place right now, this place that takes and takes and takes and maybe only ever gives just a little bit. “I can’t.” I don’t even realize I’ve let the words escape, but she looks stricken. “I have to go.”
I run off before she can say another word, José hot on my heels. He catches up to me at the intern lounge, and I worry that he’s going to trip me up with words, reasons, rationales. But instead he just hugs me, and lets me cry, and so I do.
CHAPTER 43
I have to get myself together. José sits next to me on the couch in the intern lounge, patting my back tentatively every so often, and handing me a fresh tissue now and then. Aside from the occasional sob, we are silent. But I can almost feel the words waiting to burst out of him.
“I know.”
“You know what?” he says. He’s suppressing a smile, and I kind of want to throw something at him.
“I know I need to get it together.”
He nods.
“Because it’s my job.”
“And because, when it’s all said and done, no matter what, Link’s your friend.”
I feel a sob rising. “My friend.”
“Saira, he needs you. More than you know.”
“I don’t think I can.”
“I know you can, niña. And so do you. You’ve known since you were tiny. You’re a healer. Even if it hurts.”
“Even if it kills.”
José gives me another hug, then holds me at arm’s length and gives me a once-over. “You chose this life. Because you knew you could handle it. And we all believe in you—me, Dr. Arora, Dr. Charles, your mom. Link’s mom. You can handle it. And he needs you.”
I nod, but the shivers from my sobs still shake my body. I don’t know if I can handle it this time. But I know I don’t really have a choice. Because I can’t give up on him. Not now.
“Okay, let’s get you cleaned up and ready for your first day back,” José says, handing me a tissue. I look at my watch. I better hustle. “It’s going to be a big one.”
I look at him sharply—there’s something he’s not telling me. “What?”
“Look, just take it easy this time, okay?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, heading over to the coffee machine for a cup. I dump several glugs of creamer in, along with three sugars. I take a sip and grimace. Perfect.
“I mean, a lot has happened while you were gone. Some of it good, some of it, not so much,” he says. “But you’re still on probation, so don’t put your fists up right off the bat. Go easy.”
“Davis been talking to you?”
José peers down at me. “Listen, a lot of people have had it rough—even rougher than you, little girl,” he says.
That pinches. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, what you think you see is not always the truth. Sometimes it’s worth digging a little deeper.”
I frown into my coffee cup.
“Davis has been doing this for longer than you’ve been alive, Saira. Way longer. She knows the system inside and out. Yeah, it’s made her cold, a bit. But she also knows how to work it so that things balance out as much as they can.”
“I can’t believe you’re taking her side,” I say, and I can feel the pout coming on, as much as I try to stop it.
“Look, I wasn’t gonna tell you this, but she’s the one who asked me to start the fund for Alina. You know, the one that’s been paying for all of her medical bills?”
I nearly spit my coffee, I’m so surprised. I thought it was Dr. Charles.
“It was her.” He’s smiling, like he got me good. And maybe he did.
Maybe I’ve had her wrong this whole time. Like a fairy god-doctor behind the scenes, making magic happen. Or maybe not. “I mean, she’s still super rude to all the interns, especially me.”
“But, Saira, you’re rude AF to her, too, sometimes. Have been from day one.”
I frown again.
“And like I said, she’s had it rough. She lost her wife recently. To cancer. So go easy.”
Oh.
* * *
José wasn’t kidding about today being intense. Five minutes before we start our rounds, Lily Sanchez from hospital PR shows up in the lounge, bursting with news.
“I hope you brought something presentable, Saira,” she says, giving me a once-over. “Because ABC News will be here at four—they want to shoot you and Link for a segment on Nightline next week.”
José shakes his he
ad, then slips my phone from my pocket.
“What are you doing?” I say, trying to snatch it back.
“Texting Lizzie. She’ll know what to bring,” he says, and Lily nods with satisfaction.
“No prints,” she adds, her four-inch heels clacking as she marches off. “And maybe get a blow-out.”
“And you need those eyebrows done,” José says, texting.
Cho steps into the lounge then, and frowns. “What’d she want?” he says, then sees me. “Oh, you’re back.”
“Yup,” I say.
“Did you hear about the Nightline segment?” José says, a little too excited.
“For Link?” Cho says. “We shoot at four, right?”
“Yeah, and they want Saira in it.”
Cho frowns. “Of course they do. But she’s not even his doctor,” he says, his mouth a straight line. He shrugs. “Whatever. If it’ll get us the match we need, that’s all that matters.”
José and I nearly sputter in shock. That was definitely not what we were expecting.
Cho frowns. “I talked to Be The Match. Some close calls, but nothing usable so far. And we’ve got more than twenty thousand samples.”
I swallow. We only need one. But it has to be the right one.
“I can help with your hair.” It’s Howard, who’s just walked in—late. “I have curlers in my locker.”
“That would be great,” I say. She smiles at me, but she looks how I feel. Tearstained and worn out.
In the end, I don’t have time to do anything but change—and let José powder and lip-gloss me up. The afternoon is a blur of intake updates, new patient introductions, and a full half hour of scoldings from Ms. Ruby Jackson, who was “so very disappointed” that I disappeared without informing her. But now that Brendan’s cancer is nearly gone thanks to the trial, she’s pleased that I’ll be returning full-time. “Just get your license now, baby, and you’ll be all set.”
I wonder if she’s been talking to Dadima.
The last appointment on my schedule for this afternoon is with Alina Plotkin. Howard and I visit her together, and it’s weird, because despite her peace offering this morning, we’ve barely talked. It’s all just perfunctory but cordial—“Pass the test tubes,” or “Would you suggest upping the dosage on the IV?” I worry that Alina will sense it, but I’m armed with the jalebis Dadima sent as a distraction.
When I walk into her hospital room, though, I realize Alina’s far beyond fretting about our intern drama.
She’s passed out cold in the bed, wires and tubes attached to every visible patch of skin. Her arms and legs are bloated, and her face—what little I can see of it past the feeding tube—is puffy with water weight. That means her kidneys have started to shut down.
Mr. Plotkin leaps out of his chair when he sees me, and offers a hug, crushing me with his urgency.
“I’m so glad you’re back,” he says. “Alina missed you a lot. She was just talking about it the other day—back when she was still up. And José said he texted you to check in, but that your phone was shut down. She kept waiting for you to show up, but—” He breaks down then, sobbing on my shoulder as he towers over me, and I stand absolutely still, unsure of what to do.
José puts an arm around him, tugging him away gently. “It’s okay, Mr. Plotkin,” he says. “Let’s give Saira a minute to reacquaint herself with Alina’s situation.”
Howard updates me, rattling off a litany of cancer-related ailments that have made Alina’s system start to shut down. “She’s got reduced liver function and circulation, and the feeding tube has been in place pretty much since you left. What we’re really worried about, though, is congestive heart failure due to the overload of fluids in her system.”
I nod. “But they don’t want to intubate her yet.”
“It’s too much,” Mr. Plotkin says, his voice cracking. “She didn’t even want the feeding tube. All that pain. She’s still breathing. Let her breathe.” He looks at me. “Right?”
Howard glares at me from across the bed. I know what she’s telling me, silently. That might just be what kills her.
CHAPTER 44
The patient lounge has been set up with all kinds of lights and these weird umbrella things, like it’s going to rain or something. I can’t really get excited about it, but Vish is thrilled. He keeps talking to a production assistant who’s helping set up, following him around and asking questions. “So the silver thing is to divert the reflection?” he says, and I giggle. I’ve never seen him actually flirt with anyone. He’s almost as bad at it as I am.
“Look this way,” Lizzie says again. “No, up, like you’re looking at the ceiling.” She coats my lashes with another layer of mascara, and I fight the urge to rub my eyes. The only thing I know how to do makeup-wise is kajal and lip gloss, so José was smart to call in the expert, as awkward as it was at first. She also stole a cute red button-down dress from Taara’s closet, which adds a nice pop of color under my lab coat, even though we had to pin the top to make sure my boobs don’t manage a great escape.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I say as she glosses my lips.
“No talking!” she says. But she’s smiling down at me.
“We’re almost ready to go,” the PA announces, and looks around. “Where’s our star?”
Vish hovers on the edge, taking everything in. He’s still banned from the house, and I haven’t really had a chance to talk to him—to tell him I didn’t tell anyone anything. That his secret is still his to share. But this isn’t the right place or time. So I just let him bask in the glow of the TV lights. He’s earned it.
Cho hustles forward, marking himself as the man in charge. “They’re just cleaning him up. He’ll be here in a second.”
“Dr. Sehgal,” the producer says, “I think you and Link can sit right here on this sofa, and we can put his guitar to the left here. Link will tell his story, you’ll give us a bit of medical background, and together you can tell viewers how to submit a sample for Be The Match—”
That’s when José wheels Link in. They’ve powdered his face a bit to cover some of the bruising along his jaw, and his head is freshly shaven. He’s wearing a leather jacket over his hospital robe, and despite the smile on his face, he looks exhausted.
He scrambles out of the wheelchair and to the sofa, taking a seat next to me, and the production assistant gets right to work mic’ing him. Vish hovers, Lizzie frowns, and Link grins at them. “Glad you’re here, guys,” he says. Then he turns to me. “You too.”
My heart leaps for a second, but I remind myself that this is work, business, or whatever.
“I promised your mom,” I say, and for a moment his smile falters, and the little stab of pain he feels pricks me, too. But I can’t let myself fall back into that easy rhythm with him. It hurts too much. And it will hurt even more later.
Within minutes, the cameras are rolling, and the host, Lara Ahn, from the medical reporting team, starts the segment. “We’re here today with Lincoln Chung-Radcliffe, whom Rock Star Boot Camp fans will remember as the top-twenty finalist with an endearing rasp and definite front-man potential. But before he could take his shot at the top spot, his run on the show was curtailed by a longtime nemesis—cancer.”
She turns to Link, and I can see the interest in her eyes—even though he’s way too young for her, right? And, like, succumbing to cancer. I can see Lizzie glaring at Lara from behind the camera lights.
Diagnosis: Cougar baring teeth.
Prognosis: No way she’s gonna get this prey.
“So, Lincoln,” Lara says, leaning in a bit.
“Link,” he says with that bright smile, showing off the little gap between his front teeth. “Link Rad, if you will.”
She laughs. “This is not your first encounter with cancer, right?”
“Leukemia. I was diagnosed when I was thirteen, but we caught it early, blasted it with chemo and radiation, and I was in remission for a while. I almost remembered what it felt like to be a normal kid.
Played basketball, made music—”
“Had a girlfriend?” Lara asks with a smirk. “What? Inquiring minds want to know.”
Link blushes and laughs. “Yeah, had a girlfriend. Hi, Risa.” He waves to the camera, and I pretty much die. That’s cold. “Then I signed up to do the Rock Star Band Camp thing—and made it right through to the second round.”
“And that’s when Link found himself back here at Princeton Presbyterian for follow-up testing. Am I right, Dr. Sehgal?” Lara asks.
“Yeah,” Link says, before I can speak. “I met Saira with an i my first day back—and I thought she was a patient, too.” He’s grinning at me now, but I’m having a hard time playing along. “Turns out she’s a sixteen-year-old doctor.”
Lara turns to me, and I want to knock that practiced smile off her face. “Saira, they call you the Girl Genius—and thanks to your campaigning on Link’s behalf, there have been more than twenty thousand submissions to Be The Match in the last month, right?”
“Well, we’re far from in the clear. So please, get tested. If you’d like to get tested, you can go to BeTheMatch.com to learn more now. There are so many people waiting. You might just be the one who can save a life,” I say, thinking carefully about my words. “And Link still needs to find the right donor so he can go on being amazing and making music. Anyone who’s watched him on Rock Star Boot Camp knows just how talented he is.”
“So we’ve heard,” Lara says, grinning at him. “Link, your mom told me you’re working on some new material. Care to play us a tune?”
Vish helps him get the guitar out of the case and onto his lap, and Link winces as he readjusts the strings a bit. Then he starts to strum, humming along at first, the melody swirling and familiar—a riff on the song he’s been toying with in this very room for months.
“There will come a time / when all I leave behind / is the melody of your name. There will come a day / when the words we used to say / will all but fade away. / Will you still remember / the moments we spent together / all those times we swore forever…”
Symptoms of a Heartbreak Page 27