Papa knocked at my door bright and early this morning, and this time he wasn’t about to let me get out of it. “The next Saturday available is not for six months,” he warned, offering up a kachori as enticement. It worked, because here I am. The last place I want to be. Well, almost.
“You ready?” Papa says as we inch up into the queue. There are four cars ahead of us, and the waiting is excruciating. There’s a horrible pain in the pit of my stomach—nerves, maybe, or just the sadness of losing Alina, which has been relentless in its constancy.
I nod.
“You’ll be relieved when it’s done, beta.”
I lay my forehead down on the top of the steering wheel. “It won’t change anything.”
But I know. It’ll change everything. Because that’s it. When I get my license, the last vestiges of my life as a kid—as brief as it was—will be gone. I’ll officially be Dr. Sehgal. A grown-up. An adult. A certified mess.
Rap, rap, rap. I look up, and the driving test administrator’s knocking on Papa’s passenger side window. It’s time.
Papa gets out, making small talk about cool September Saturdays with the man, who’s balding and gray, like Mr. Plotkin if he was fast-forwarded to old age. Which he will be. That familiar lump—the one that used to belong just to Harper—pops up in my throat. I’m so not ready for this. But it’s too late now.
The man takes a seat and clears his throat. Maybe he misses someone, too. “I’m Mr. Calvin. Ms. Sehgal, is it? First time?”
I shake my head. I’ve tried and failed more times than I can remember now.
“Well, maybe this one will do the trick,” he says. “Pull up to the intersection there, and we can begin the exam.”
“Yes, sir,” I say, feeling more like a child than I have in months.
“Okay, Ms. Sehgal,” he says, and I wonder if I should correct him. Dr. Sehgal. But it’s not worth the drama. “Let’s go straight down this path, and then make a left at the four-way intersection four blocks down.”
I do exactly what he says, then make a left, slim and trim, remembering Papa’s warnings about too-wide turns.
“Good, Ms. Sehgal. Now let’s come to the next four-way. How do we proceed here?” I can see him from the corner of my eyes, making small notes about my actions—the way my hands land on the wheel, my use of blinkers and signals, my timing as I turn. It kind of makes me want to laugh, but it also makes me want to cry. Life and death, my mom said, two sides of a coin. Cancer kills. But people die on the roads every day. Is it better to go fast, not knowing? Or slow, living through every punishing moment?
“Ms. Sehgal?” he says again, sounding irritated.
“Yes, sir?”
“Parallel park, please. Here, at the curb. You already passed the other spot.”
Shit. That means I’ve probably failed already. Should I just call it quits now? Might as well. I’m not ready for this, anyway.
But then I remember Link’s words in the car that day. No, not the “I refuse to be the one who breaks your heart.” Though I’ll never forget those. He said something about parallel parking, how it’s a little give, a little tug, meeting in the middle. I veer the car right and touch the curb a teensy bit. Oops. But not all is lost. I reverse, pulling back, the way Vish showed me, and manage to align the back wheel to the road, about six inches away. Now it’s just bringing the front into alignment, right? What was it Taara said? Turn the wheel in the opposite direction for surprising results. Just like life. I do it, and it works. The wheels align like magic. The car is perfectly parallel to the curb.
“Interesting methodology, Ms. Sehgal,” the man says, grinning. “But it worked.” He scrawls something on the paper. Oh gods. I failed. I know I failed. Again. “Pull out and drive back to the starting point, please.”
Oh well. What’s one more failure?
“Congratulations, Ms. Sehgal. You passed.”
“What?” I say. Papa’s already rapping on the window, grinning, waving his arms in curiosity.
“You passed. Congratulations.”
“Thank you, but it’s Dr. Sehgal,” I say to the man, then abruptly erupt into sobs.
He looks shocked. So does Papa, who opens the door, nearly pulling the man out by the arm. The guy scurries off, slip in hand, looking worried.
Papa jumps into the passenger seat. “What happened, beta? Why are you crying?” He’s rubbing my shoulders and my back, wiping tears from cheeks like he did when I was little. “It’s okay. You can take it again.”
“I passed.” I sob some more. “I passed.”
“It’s okay, beta,” my papa says, stroking my hair. “It’s okay. I know we’ve all been very hard on you this year. Too hard, maybe.”
I can't stop crying long enough to say a word. So Papa just continues. “But honestly, bachoo, you are so much stronger than we give you credit for. And maybe we underestimate you. I always talk to your mom about all this—the medical school, the internship, oncology, and tell her it’s too much. But she’s the one who knows, and she says you can handle it.” That shocks me out of my tears. Because that’s definitely not what my mother said to me. “And she’s right. You’re a strong girl; you can handle it. Maybe it’s why God introduced you to Harper, and to Alina, and even to Link.” He frowns a little as he says Link’s name. “Because you were meant to do this work.”
I nod.
“Now let’s go get that license.”
* * *
I drive my dad home, and Dadi’s full speed ahead, as if the hospital stay never happened at all. Thank gods. She’s got the kathoris hot and ready with chole and thari wale aloo, but I have something else on my agenda.
“Papa, can I take the car?” My dad’s shoulders jump when he hears the words.
“I knew it’d be coming. Just not so soon,” he says, thumping his chest like the dramaebaaz he is. But then he gets out, and waves. “Be safe, bachoo.”
“Okay.”
I turn the key in the ignition, and set the GPS for Rosewood Cemetery, for Alina’s funeral, even though I’m wearing a blue summer dress. She would have approved. This will be one of the hardest things I’ll ever have to do. My first solo ride will not be a bright one, but that’s what being a grown-up’s all about, right?
CHAPTER 48
I get to work early on Tuesday morning, hoping to sneak into Link’s room to see how he’s doing—even though Vish and José texted me, like, every three minutes yesterday and gave me the play-by-play, and by all accounts, he’s doing fine, still asleep, doesn’t even know what day it is.
But once I’m there, I’m thrown into the thick of the chaos—new patient intake, file updates, rounds. It’s two o’clock before I even manage a second cup of coffee. Then I’m paged over the speaker—not unusual—and my heart sinks for a minute. This could be bad. But when I get to the nurse’s station, José tells me that there’s been a meeting called, and my presence is demanded, along with Howard and Cho. Uh-oh.
We gather around the conference table, and Dr. Stevenson—the head of neurosurgery—is there along with Arora, Charles, and a few people I don’t recognize. This doesn’t bode well. Howard, Cho and I exchange anxious glances.
Charles raps on the table to get everyone’s attention, and we all sit up a little straighter in our seats.
“It’s with some dismay that we’ve called today’s meeting to announce to you that Dr. Davis is taking a—perhaps permanent—leave of absence,” he says, his face grim. “Unfortunately, some evidence has come to light, including information shared by patients, nurses, and Dr. Davis’s own assistant, that demonstrates to us that she has not been able to make the wisest choices lately. We feel the trauma she faced after losing her wife last year has caused her to make some shaky decisions, and she agrees that a break to seek professional help is smart. She’s cleaning out her office today and will be gone as of tomorrow. We wanted you to hear it from us, rather than through the office grapevine.”
“Grapevine” is such a funny word. But wow.
Davis is out. I’m not quite sure whether to laugh or cry, though all signs point to me crying pretty much all the time lately. Cho looks shocked, and Howard a bit relieved. I should be, too, right? But I just feel exhausted.
Arora clears his throat, as usual. “I know some of you have struggled in building a secure, trusting relationship with Dr. Davis, and this, uh, explains a lot. As you know, I am always here if you want to talk, and if there is anything that concerns you regarding this matter, please do not hesitate to reach out. In the meantime, I will be looking over the HR files Davis left behind on all of you, and reevaluating what needs to be included.” He looks at me for a minute, and I look down at the table. There could be some pretty incriminating things in that file, I know. But I have to own them, for better or for worse.
I’m shocked to find myself knocking on Davis’s office door, just a half hour after the meeting. She answers herself—the assistant is gone—and doesn’t look very surprised to see me.
“Sehgal,” she says. “Come in. Here to gloat?”
I shake my head, standing, like a kid at the chalkboard, waiting for a pat on the head.
“Well, you should. So few opportunities to truly win these days. You were a worthy opponent.”
Nemesis. She means nemesis. “I’m sorry to see you go, Dr. Davis. And even more sorry to hear about your wife.”
She nods curtly and sits behind her desk, looking around the office like she’s memorizing it. “After Leela died, this was my home,” she says, but there’s nothing bitter in her voice for once. It sounds different without that hard edge. Almost lovely. “I was grateful for it. I mean, you know, grief does funny things to people. I couldn’t handle it. So I started spending all my time here, and I didn’t understand why others weren’t doing the same. Sorry if I was hard on you, kid.”
“It was a learning experience.”
She grins. “Good for you. That’s certainly a way to look at it. And you’ll have others. Worse than me. Heck, I’ve heard similar things about your mom—not an easy boss, that woman. Not an easy mother, too, I’m sure.”
She’s right, though there’s no way I’m giving her that one. “What will you do now?” I ask instead.
“Oh, my daughter Kavya—she reminds me of you, actually—she’s in California now. She does cancer research at UCLA. She said she can use me as a lab tech. Haven’t done that in about twenty years. But you can’t yell at a test tube, so I should be okay.” She shrugs. “I’ll tell you this, kid. You did what you could. And you did good. For Alina. And the others. Especially Link. Maybe a bit of vested interest isn’t a terrible thing.” She’s looking at the photograph on her desk when she says it, stroking the image of her dead wife. “Maybe I could’ve, should’ve done more.” She looks up at me. “You would have liked Leela. She was a spitfire.” She grins. “Like you. Always causing trouble.”
I try to shrug it off but smile instead. Might as well embrace it.
“We met at this very hospital thirty years ago. Your mom was a resident then—you should ask her. Caught Leela and I making out in the intern lounge once. Never said a word. I always liked that about her. No one suspected two women back then. And she kept our secret for us, until we were ready to share it.”
“Anyway,” she says. “I’ve been hard on you. But with good reason. You’ve got so much potential. Grow into it. Don’t waste it on impulsive choices. And weigh the risks you take. That trial worked for Brendan—and thank god for that. But not everyone does,” she says, looking down at the picture again. “I mean, maybe Alina would have lived if I made different choices. Or if you had. We all make good decisions, and bad ones. Got to learn to live with both. That’s the hard part. But I think you’ll be okay. And I don’t know what Dr. Arora has planned, but you’ve got my vote, if it counts for anything.”
She looks up, smiles one last time, and waves me off. “See you, Dr. Sehgal.”
And I try to hide my smile as I walk out the door, still in shock.
* * *
Of course, my feet carry me straight to Link’s room. It’s dark, the curtains drawn, the lights dimmed, the hum of the machines the only sound. Except for Howard, sitting in the chair, knitting quietly as she watches his vitals.
“Hey,” she whispers, putting down her knitting.
I walk over to the bed, and I can’t help it, even though she’s there, watching, I put my head to his chest, just to confirm it’s still there, that familiar heartbeat.
“He’s okay. I think, honestly, miraculously, that maybe he’ll be fine,” she says, her breath catching. “Though it’s too soon to tell.”
I nod. “I wish I could have been there.”
“I wish you could have, too,” she says, and her voice sounds a bit mournful. “But also, I’m glad you weren’t. It would have been so, so hard. It still will be, because he has a long road ahead. But he’s got a great team, and his family. And you.”
I sit in the chair next to her, then stand, rethinking it. There are so many things I want to ask her. So many things I want to say. Like how could you do that? And I sort of totally get it. But instead, I say, “You know, if it’s real, you and Dr. Arora, you should figure it out. Because someone very smart once told me that it’s rare, and you can’t control it. Finding something real like that. You love who you love. And you only get so many chances.”
Howard looks down at her knitting for a long moment. “I know,” she says. “But things … This is more complicated than that. I think it could be real. But it’s too soon to tell. And Abhi’s got himself all sorted out, and I’m just starting. I can’t drop everything I’ve worked so hard for just to figure that, us, out. I have to focus.”
Yeah, focus. That’s been the hard part. “But you don’t have to choose just one thing.”
“Sometimes, though, you do. I mean, in all logical sense, you should. I should. We’re modern, smart, feminist, strong. Of course, we need to chase our dreams. Right?”
I nod. But I don’t buy it. Not completely. “I still think I’m right.”
She sighs. “Well, you are the genius.” Ouch. That hurt. “But, I mean, it’s not so simple for all of us. I worked for a decade to get here. Georgetown, Yale, my own nonprofit. This is my shot. I’m not going to throw it away because maybe he makes my heart leap a little bit.”
I mean, I get it. I do. And the old Saira—the one who got here on that blazing hot day in July, before the world shifted under her feet—would have said exactly the same thing. But this new Saira. Maybe she’s wiser that that Girl Genius. Just a little bit.
“Anyway. I’m quitting.” I nearly knock over the jug on the table, as I flail in shock. Howard grins. “It’s just too much. Too weird. Sticky. Him. Here. I already told Abhishek. I’ll be here through December, and he’ll look for another intern in the meantime. I’ll go to St. Jude’s. It’s not too far away, so we can still see each other, but it won’t be tense like this.” She waves her arms. “Then he and I can figure out what’s real.”
I nod. “I’ll miss you.”
“You will and you won’t,” she says. “And that’s okay. But I will miss you. And you can always text me. Especially when the Cho-splaining becomes incessant.” She picks up her knitting and leaves then, looking one last time at Link’s vitals.
I scoot my chair close to the bed, rest my head near Link’s, and lie there like that, in the dark, for what feels like forever, maybe, and just watch the rise and fall of his chest. Maybe he knows I’m there, feels my presence. Maybe he’s just gone, in that limbo space they always talk about. But for now, his breath, his heartbeat, they’re all here, all real.
CHAPTER 49
Late. Again. Mom and I rush to the elevators, and I punch the button for eight, checking my watch again. It’s nearly ten. And today, my eyebrows are impeccable.
“Reshma did a good job,” Mom says, approvingly, as the elevator doors close. “See, the others are a waste. In any profession, you really want someone who knows what they’re doing. And someone who wi
ll really give you what you need.”
I hit the button again, but instead of moving, the elevator doors open again. Sigh. So. Very. Late.
When the door opens, there stands a young man: brown skin, wire-rim glasses, lab coat, longish curly hair that always got him in trouble. Grinning.
“I thought I heard your voice,” he says. “Is that Saira Sehgal, Girl Genius?”
I do a double take. Yep, it’s him. My nemesis, if only he weren’t so swoon-worthy: Varun Khanna, MD. The second-youngest doctor in America. “Dr. Arora told me I might run into you here,” he says, stepping onto the elevator. He namastes at my mom. “Hi, Auntie. How are you?”
I frown. “What … what are you doing here?” Mom looks confused. Or is it amused?
“Oh, haven’t you heard? I thought Dr. Charles would have told you by now. Or your mom.” Mom shrugs. But she’s not good at lying, even silently. “I’m here doing paperwork for my internship. I start in January.”
He grins again, too pleased with himself, and when the door opens on eight, does this whole faux-courtesy thing, waving his arms. “After you,” he says. And I can feel his smug eyes on me, boring into the back of my head, as I trip over nothing on my race to the pediatric oncology wing. Because I’m late. Again.
Today’s the day. After two months, one week, four days, and thirteen hours, Lincoln Chung-Radcliffe has been declared officially in remission. The bone marrow transplant worked. “All of which is to say, Link, that you are officially discharged,” Cho says, his grin nearly swallowing his face. “You’re cleared to go home—although, as your mom mentioned, you’ll do one more round of chemo for good measure, and then the follow-up survival care.”
Link was grinning, too—until he heard that last bit. “Another round?” he says, his frown accentuating the dent in his cheek. “I thought that was the last of it?”
Symptoms of a Heartbreak Page 29