The Rearranged Life

by Annika Sharma

  New Year’s Eve always brims with optimism, the only day out of the year to hold such promise, where everyone can begin with a blank slate. I love that.

  “So what do you want this year?” Nishanth turns to me.

  “Resolution,” I answer after a moment’s pause.

  “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to make?”

  “Yeah, but I want some clarity. This year, I’ll know where I’ll go to medical school. I’ll graduate. I’ll make big choices. I want to know, with certainty, that I’m heading where I need to be.”

  “I guess I understand that.” The countdown to midnight starts up as he speaks.

  Everyone around us begins screaming, “Ten! Nine! Eight!”

  “What do you want?” I ask above the noise.

  “New beginnings,” he replies, loudly enough for me to hear but softly enough that it is meant only for me. “New people. New places. Fresh starts.”

  I get the feeling he’s talking about more than new business ventures.

  His face is inches away, and his eyes bore deep into mine. Brown meets brown, and it feels like they belong as one. As he gets closer, painfully slow and way too fast, James’ face flashes inside my eyelids as he says, “I want to be with you.”

  My heart races. I don’t have time to pinpoint whether I want Nishanth to kiss me because I like him or because I want to forget James. Nishanth’s lips are about to touch mine.

  Do it, Nithya. James isn’t important. Nishanth is so good for you.

  My eyes close and I wait for his kiss, feeling like tonight could really be a new beginning. His hand pulls me in at the small of my back.

  Boom!

  A firework, enormous and red, explodes and showers the river with burning debris. We pull apart, jumping at the noise, and laugh out of nerves. The couples around us kiss and I take a picture of us on my cell phone, cuddled up in the frigid air. Nishanth looks like he wants to try again, but I point out some skating children, their cheers loud and full of life. Someone hands me a party popper, and I snap the end off, spraying confetti and sparkles all over us. Despite the missed kiss, it feels like we’re starting something new tonight. The celebration seems appropriate.

  “We ate enough macaroni to feed a hippo, how are you still hungry?” he whispers as we raid the fridge when we get home.

  Our parents and siblings are thankfully asleep, so there are no nosy questions.

  “I always have an appetite for ice cream.” Our faces glow in the refrigerator light.

  We plant ourselves across from each other in the same bay window we sat in during Thanksgiving weekend.

  “So are you getting a job after graduation?” I whisper.

  “Yeah, probably. I may work for a corporation to gain some skills before setting off on my own. How about you? Where are your interviews?” He shoves a spoonful of banana split into his mouth.

  “Emory, Baylor, and Columbia.”

  “The big Columbia interview! Are you excited?”

  “I am trying to keep my expectations low. Then I won’t be disappointed.”

  “You’ll have nothing to be disappointed about. You sound like you’re super involved, really intelligent, and social. You have to get this.”

  “Thanks, that really means a lot to me,” I say softly.

  “So, I can’t believe I never asked this, but why do you want to be a doctor?”

  I open my mouth, fully intent on being honest and telling him what I told James: that I don’t know anything else. But the words get stuck in my throat. My breaths become shallower as I begin to panic. What is stopping me from telling him the truth? Don’t be a coward, Nithya, just tell him you don’t know what else you’d be good at. He’ll understand.

  But the words don’t come.

  Instead, I remember him calmly ask me for cereal and brush off our conversation to Anisha as if it didn’t matter, and then never again text me to talk about it. And I remember his comment about Indrani’s dyslexia, it’s just easier to keep up appearances than to be honest about it. And the remarks about being in love with Anna, but the conveniences mattering more than she did. The catch with Nishanth, I finally realize, as the breath stops in my chest, is that I would always have to meet his expectations. I would hide if something bothered me, and play the doting girlfriend. The ease of being with him, of going along with the pretense, was a selling point until now. Suddenly, it seems like a life sentence.

  I finally exhale.

  “Because I want to help people,” I say.

  awn breaks, and the morning light shines through my blinds. I’ve been up, showered and dressed, for an hour. Wrapped in my Penn State throw blanket, I stare at the anarkali hanging off the back of my chair. The embroidery sparkles in yellows and oranges, catching the colors of the rising sun.

  In many ways, it looks like the path I’m supposed to take. Pristine, clean, uncomplicated. Bright. But when I look closer, the flaws make it interesting. A sequin spiral twists in the opposite direction from the others. A small tear lies above the sparkling silver border near the bottom, a result of tripping on it as I got up from the dinner table last night. As I put it back on the hanger, I catch the faint scent of Nishanth’s cologne.

  It’s all in the tiny, mismatched details. What most would see as mistakes on an otherwise perfect piece of fabric are what I now see as the most fascinating stories. The out-of-sync spiral makes me think of a tailor in India, huddled in a mud house, distracted by shouts of her three children dressed in rags outside. The small tear reminds me how Nishanth offered his hand with a chuckle as I tried to catch my balance. The cologne makes me feel his arms around me.

  A soft knock at the door makes me look up.

  “Good morning, beautiful!” Nishanth holds two cups of coffee.

  “Good morning! This is so sweet,” I tell him gratefully.

  You can’t argue that he’s thoughtful. Ten points for kindness. Then my logic chimes in again. It’s not a game and if you couldn’t admit that you’re not sure about why you’re pursuing your goals, you’ll never be able to admit anything else.

  “Did you sleep well?” He towers over me before I scoot down and offer him a seat.

  “I woke up really early. Sometimes my mind goes a little too fast for me.”

  “I know the feeling. I just kept thinking about last night and how fun it was.”

  “It was a really wonderful time,” I agree, thinking of the playful teasing and the delicious food. I did enjoy myself.

  “And I kept thinking about how badly I wanted to do this…” He brushes the hair out of my face and moves in.

  This time, my mind doesn’t race ahead. It doesn’t doubt. I know what to do.

  “Nishanth.” I gently put my hand on his chest and turn my head so he kisses my cheek.

  “What’s wrong?” He searches my eyes for an answer.

  “I just don’t think this is the right time.”

  “We can do it later.” His mischievous smile makes me laugh.

  “I like you. So much,” I tell him truthfully. “But there’s someone on my mind right now, and I need to know if there’s something… and until I do, I can’t… and shouldn’t only give you a part of me.”

  He looks wounded, but recovers fast. “Wow, second place again. You’re going to give me a complex.”

  “Thank you,” I say genuinely, knowing he understands exactly what I mean.

  He gently touches my cheek and says nothing, only getting up and leaving the room.

  Nishanth and his family leave after lunch, a flurry of goodbyes at the door. Hugs go around. Madhu Aunty and Amma are already planning a shopping trip next month in Baltimore, where the Dhavalas live.

  “Ugh, these weekends always go by too fast,” Anisha whines.

  “My birthday is next month, come down for a sleepover!” Indrani suggests, and they launch into plans.

  “Be careful driving. The ice is difficult,” my dad warns Aditya Uncle.

  “We aren’t in California anymore, To
to,” Aditya Uncle replies, deadpan.

  Nishanth stands next to me, and I feel a small stab of sadness that he may leave in the same awkward way he arrived, where our chilliness was surrounded by everyone else’s warmth. I break the silence before we let the traces of our friendship fade.

  “No hard feelings?” I ask. It sounds like a request.

  “No,” he tells me after a second. “Sometimes it takes a while for things to work out. Other times, they don’t work out at all. We’ll stay friends.”

  It’s a heavyhearted goodbye, but I don’t have time to mope. I have interviews in the next few days. Then, I have something important to tell James.

  edical school interviews can often feel like an interrogation. During the three I attend, all scheduled within two weeks of one another, there are moments of high hopes and moments of attempted intimidation by the stricter members of the interview teams. The power suit I wear along with the three-inch black heels make me feel like I’m a CEO. I’m confident when I go in even though the interviews are designed to make people squirm, to face up to the pressure, and show that in a millisecond where a surgeon nicks an artery or a patient suddenly begins to seize, you won’t freeze. I had written down my answers to prepare and rehearsed in airport terminals to within an inch of my life. Sometimes I wish my real answers were written next to the ‘rehearsed-until-they-sound-natural’ ones, at least for comic relief… Which I need, considering the nights after the first two interviews where I lay in hotel room beds, staring at the ceiling and rehashing every question and how I would have handled them differently had I had a chance to tackle them again.

  “Why Baylor?”

  “Why Emory?”

  “Why are you different?”

  “How are you similar to everyone else?”

  Columbia is next. Though I should sleep, I sit, wide awake in front of my laptop and Google every medical school interview question I can find to prep for my trial by fire. This is the one I want. The last one in this interview onslaught is the one I’ve been hoping for since I was a little girl.

  We have a meeting the next morning. Each interview candidate sizes up the others as we listen to the heads of the school speak to us about what to expect. I arrive at the morning interviews the recommended ten minutes early, give a firm handshake that isn’t too gentle or domineering, and turn my chin up like an old pro as the interviewers stare at me from across the table.

  “Why Columbia?” Predictable.

  “I’ve had a dream since I was young of being a doctor with a moral compass. Jean Baker Miller was a role model.” The notable Columbia alumni and all she did for social change through medicine always stood out to me. “I want to do the same. I hope to create a social change in how patients are viewed. Their health is important. Their money, the profit, none of that matters. Columbia’s mission states that it wants to create leaders and visionaries in all areas of health care. That’s what I aspire to be. It’s why I’m here. I want to create social changes in how women’s health is viewed and treated, and make it less taboo to talk about. The global health programs interest me, too. I would like to take the medical expertise that I could gain here and create a movement in India to support women.” This last part comes unexpectedly. It’s a dream I never realized I had.

  The interviewers mmm and nod, writing down on their papers. I wish I could take a peek at their thoughts.

  “What makes you want to be a doctor?” The lady in a blue suit asks. Also predictable.

  “I love to learn,” I say. Simple is better. “Medicine is constantly evolving. There’s an inherent need to consistently stay up to date. I’m fascinated by everything the body can do, from typical physiology to rare cases. I’ve learned a lot in college, but I want to continue to do so, for the rest of my life, while offering people some peace about their health. After all, someone else’s health concerns may not be our primary one, but it’s theirs and that needs to be validated by someone who has knowledge and keeps gaining it.”

  They nod again, wearing impenetrable expressions. Tough crowd, I think, picturing the committee from Baylor who jovially spoke in their southern accents about patient care and how I saw myself fitting in. My palms sweat with the short responses, which continue through the questions about what activities I’ve participated in, what has shaped me, what makes me different, and what I bring to the table. All of the questions are ones I’ve prepared for–James’ voice plays in my mind coaching me through the answers I’d written down while we practiced.

  “What interests you outside of medicine and getting into medical school?”

  My preparedness goes to hell.

  “I love to read,” I say, quickly. Too quickly. “I used to dance, as well–but it ended up taking a backseat.” To what? I can hear them ask in their minds. “Well, not a backseat. I guess I lost interest.” Now it’s a lie. Slow down and think. “I spend a lot of time with friends, reading, watching movies. I do what I can to stay busy outside of academics,” I give them a gracious smile, but it’s more like a grimace.

  Then, the interview is over. They give me polite goodbyes and handshakes. The girl going in after me looks hopeful as she greets me, and I acknowledge her, but her face quickly falls at the expression on my face.

  Overall, it wasn’t so bad. That last question, though… Why couldn’t I answer? It’s unsettling that every one of my pastimes has been related to medicine. I’ve always thought I engaged in them because they were my interests, too, but suddenly, I have the crazy thought that I should have joined an art club or something. It’s okay, when you get some acceptances, it’ll all pay off. Yet my fumbled answer sticks in my mind.

  y suitcase is haphazardly thrown in the corner of the living room, unpacked, as Sophia and I sip hot chocolate on the couch. My leggings, scarf, and oversized sweatshirt feel so comfortable compared to the pantsuits I’ve donned as a uniform over the last week.

  “It’s over! This entire process. Now you just hear back. You made it!”

  “We’ll see what happens!” I shrug, but it’s somewhat disingenuous. A weight has certainly been lifted from my shoulders. Though waiting is horrible and something I’m not particularly good at, this situation with James has changed my perspective. I have faith now in how things will turn out.

  One thing, however, is clear. I do have to make my own decision.

  The first week of the spring semester ticks by, but my unresolved problem hangs over the novelty of returning to school. My parents and Anisha, who I spent the rest of break enjoying and reminiscing with, my heart bursting with love, are now one hundred-fifty miles away, and the distance puts perspective on this entire affair with James. I haven’t seen him either. The space between all the associated parties doesn’t isolate me. I haven’t had the opportunity to think without my emotions in the way, and that is key when coming to this sort of fork in the road.

  I have the power to call the shots. But I haven’t. I sit back against my swivel chair, huffing. My parents have influenced most of the decisions in my life. When is it my turn?

  The Columbia interview forces me to think over and over again that I may not be as independent as I thought. I followed a traditional, safe path by settling on medical school. I did the leadership activities because they would look good on my resume. I loved the Red Cross, but if I had been more open minded, would I have participated in something more creative? Suddenly, my entire life seems formulaic, like I have boxed myself in. James is on the outside, waiting for me to break out.

  From the moment he saved me from the guy who drugged me, to the conversations we’ve had in class, to the study dates, to the confident way he asked me out, to the way he grabbed my hand on that first date was all James, and he was the one who moved in to kiss me. Whereas I… I have allowed myself to be a victim of circumstance for too long. For the first time, I have an open road in front of me, one to pave, set in stone, wear out in the dirt, drive on, or trample all over.

  To think for myself is surprisingly satisfyin
g. The choices I have made thus far can’t be changed, and I might still go to medical school because I want to. I will still listen to my parents because they won’t lead me wrong… But I have the choice to date James if I think they are. It is a devastating mistake not to take this chance to discover for myself what love can be like. James is there in my mind, looking into me with his green eyes, imploring me to take a chance on him and buck the rules. He dares me, exhilarates me, and my nerves spark.

  I try to listen to my brain, instead of my gut or my heart, both of which can lead one to impulsive decisions. I want this to be well thought out. Is James someone I want to build something with or not?

  For once, my thoughts are silent. There is no you’re screwing this up with your family, or, remember where you come from. The hush goes on for miles with crickets croaking in the background. My brain, gut, and heart are in agreement. This is right. This is what I have to do. James, loving, sweet, intelligent James, is who I want to be with, and it’s time I grow a pair of ovaries and tell him.

  Meet at the arboretum in a half hour? I text him.

  I tap my feet against the carpet and wait. A minute seems endless, each second passing by at the speed of plastic decomposing as he finally texts back.

  -Sure. See you then.

  When I arrive at the arboretum, I glance at my phone, noting I have about ten minutes before James shows up, so I sit on a bench in the pagoda, shivering from the brisk January cold–but the view makes up for it. It flurries, and the orangey-red hues of the sky fade slowly on the horizon though it is only five in the evening. I lean back to watch the snow, and I am at peace, the exact same way it felt when I decided I would come here for school.

  My parents had been asking the tour guide questions left and right. I tried to stay engaged, but I had known, in the depths of my soul, I was where I was supposed to be.