The Rearranged Life
Page 16
“Just say yes!” I want to scream. The self-loathing gnaws at me from morning to night, wondering if an extra activity stacked onto my resume would have made a difference, or if that intro physics class really tanked my chances that badly. What more could they want?
“Nithya, it takes one yes, that’s all,” my father tells me on the phone when I voice my worries.
“What if I don’t get in?”
“You have to be patient. Sometimes these schools have different reasons for saying no to exemplary students.”
“Yeah, like somebody else was better.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. You won’t know, so face forward, and go strongly ahead.”
James’ sentiment is similar.
“Nithya, you’re never going to find out who beat you and why out. You have two more schools to go. Just hold out, homie. It takes one yes, and you’re in. All those no’s won’t matter.”
“What if they’re both no’s?”
“Then you’ll handle it. Just don’t work yourself up right now. Those letters are in the past, and now you have new futures to look forward to. Chill out,” he says soothingly.
It’s easier said than done to ‘chill out’ when two bold messages arrive my inbox. Fate might be playing a cruel joke, or it might be the greatest gift to end the mystery about where I’ll be in a few months, but the final two schools, Emory and Columbia, have sent their letters on the same day.
It’s okay. James, Sophia, and Luca are coming over, so you’ll have good news when they’re here for dinner.
Here goes nothing. I open Emory’s first.
Dear Ms. Kolluri,
We regret to inform you…
I click out of the e-mail before I finish it. There’s no point, now that I know. It’s okay. No Emory. Close the door on it and move on. I remember all the pep talks my parents and James have given me before clicking on the next e-mail, all the times James has mentioned closing the door on something opens up possibilities in something else. Columbia’s letter waits. It all rests on this. I take a deep breath in.
I click.
We regret to inform you…
No. No, no, no. I stand up and scan the e-mail for a JUST KIDDING! and an offer of admission, but I catch the word waitlist. This can’t be. I hit the power button on my laptop, thinking maybe I just imagined all of this, but when I take steps toward my bedroom door to go to the kitchen, I end up on the floor, sobbing.
Tuesday
I manage to get out of bed and shower. The reflection in the mirror gawps at me. You failed, it says, without moving her lips. I can’t argue. I put another pair of pajamas on, and go back to sleep.
Wednesday
The same routine. Sometimes I lie there with my eyes open, unblinking, unmoving, and unaware that life is continuing onward. The phone rings off the hook, but I don’t want to answer it. I text my parents and tell them the news because I can’t bring myself to speak to them on the phone. I reply to James’ worried message with two words: I’m fine. Sophia knocks throughout the day and even calls me from the next room, but I have nothing to say.
Thursday
It had to be my resume. It was too formulaic. I should have continued working at the lab. I should have continued with THON. That physics test I got a B on changed everything. My interview answers were weak. I should have done more activities.
Friday
This feels like the end of the road. Every dream I’ve had about my life has always resided on this crucial step. Medical school was required to become a chief resident. Passing boards and excelling were needed to open a practice. My reputation, built brick by brick and patient by patient, would be of a renowned health educator and practitioner. My dreams were built in the sky, and earth isn’t going to measure up now. I never thought about anything else. I don’t even know where to start in order to move forward. For someone who has always been so prepared, I am completely at a loss–I never planned on needing backups. It’s why I worked so hard to begin with.
Choosing not to pursue other interests always made me feel focused. If I wanted to pursue medicine, I should only pursue medically related activities and interests. The logic seemed sound at the time. To concentrate my hopes on one thing was supposed to make me look better to the admissions committees. Now, the entire plan has been proven unfounded. Because I focused only on one thing, I have no other ideas about where to go or what to do. I want to break the Failure isn’t an option coffee mug on my desk. Failure is the only thing I’ve managed.
When something you’ve hoped for with every breath falls through, you begin to point out everything you may have done wrong to deserve this kind of karma. Did dating James throw off the universe so much that I got what I wanted taken away from me, because I may be taking what my parents want from them? It’s ridiculous, but it’s hard not to grasp at straws. What else is left?
I went to the temple every Friday growing up, I didn’t drink, I never did drugs, I always listened to my parents and for the most part, treated them with respect. I’ve always been kind to others. I can list all my good qualities until the cows come home, but in the grand scheme of it, where did it lead?
The window overlooking College Avenue has become my home base for the week since eating and going out became so unappealing. Sophia tells me she’ll call James, but I muster up a ‘no’ resounding enough for her to step back and say she understands. I don’t want him to see me like this. I don’t want anyone to see me like this. It doesn’t stop him from texting every day.
Nithya, talk to me. Don’t shut me out.
I am here if you want to talk. If you don’t, I’ll come armed with junk food. This is something we can fix together.
Baby, I just want to help.
They all go ignored.
A knock on the door midafternoon irritates me. Sophia has likely gone against my wishes and invited James. Before I manage to shuffle to the door, the knock sounds again.
“Nithyamma?” My father’s voice echoes down the outside hall. I must be delirious. The door creaks open, his eyes widen, and the pity crashes across his face. Not condescension, but heartbreak. Sophia stands in her doorway and also appraises my appearance. I suppose not eating for three days can make someone look a little zombie-like.
“Hello,” I croak out before giving him a hug. “What are you doing here?”
“Amma called Sophia to check on you when you didn’t answer your phone. We got worried.” He brushes the hair out of my face and kisses the top of my head.
“I’m fine,” I tell him, using the same monotone I’ve heard in my head when I typed those words to people who have asked. James, all three times a day. Luca, when he offers a hug. Sophia, every single time she’s come over to check on how I’m doing.
“You are not. Have you eaten?” He squeezes my shoulder to check if my muscle is still there.
Now it dawns on me why Amma has asked me all those times whether I’ve eaten. It’s like a thermometer, gauging whether I’m happy or not. I shake my head.
“First things first,” he says, “let’s go get something to eat.”
“Okay.”
“One more thing, Nithya…” He waits until I meet his eye, before hopefully asking, “Can you take a shower?”
anna,” he snaps me out of it as I gaze out at the mountains. The arboretum is uncharacteristically quiet today.
“Hmm?”
“Talk to me. We are worried about you.”
“I failed.”
“You are graduating. You did not fail. Why do you think this is a failure?”
“Nanna, this is what I wanted my entire life.” I look at him like he has three heads. “I’ve never wanted anything more than this, I did everything for it–”
“Did you do your best?”
“It wasn’t good enough.” My voice cracks.
“That’s not what I asked you.”
“I thought I did everything. I gave it my all. The lab research, the Red Cross, THON. I wrote a good essay. I kept m
y grades up. I did well on the MCAT. I thought I did okay on the interviews in January.”
“Kanna, you still have all those things. You talk about them like they are gone. You can still say you raised a thousand dollars by yourself to go to those orphans in Haiti. Medical schools cannot take that from you. No one can.”
“What’s the point?” I grumble. He watches me patiently as I pick the jalapenos out of the sandwich, though they are usually my favorite.
“Nithyamma, if you did those things only to get into medical schools, I haven’t raised you properly. You should feel wonderful about them. Maybe they weren’t what the medical schools were looking for, but they enriched your life. If you feel even a little bit of satisfaction, then they were not a waste. That is the point. We do things to help others, not ourselves. It is meant to be selfless, not selfish.”
I consider what he has said. The Haitian orphans were left parentless by AIDS. I was preparing for a trip with Habitat for Humanity when I learned about a local orphanage in desperate need of supplies. It didn’t take long to make the money–I was lucky I had so many friends in so many organizations that wanted to help a little bit. Nanna is right that my insides still dance when I think about a quiet boy who barely talked to me when I arrived and cried when I had to leave. He is right that it wasn’t the accomplishment of raising money that makes me happy when the trip comes to mind, it’s all I gained otherwise, the intangibles, that matter. But the accomplishments are what are going to drive me forward in life. The touchy-feelies of a charity trip won’t convince someone to hire me or help me build my future.
“I don’t know what to do next,” I say after a long silence.
“You will figure it out.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I know you.”
“I don’t even know where to turn.” I send those words into the air like a wish.
“Nithya, perhaps this is time for introspection. Think about whether you still want to be a doctor. If you do, then chase it. Or write a new story. This is your book. Just because medicine did not pan out immediately does not mean it never will. Or maybe this is an opening to a new chapter.”
“What should I do?”
“Relax. Think. Graduate. We will all figure it out together,” he says again.
For a flash, the bleakness of my new reality fades. A blank slate waits to be written on. Maybe I’ll be a writer. Perhaps I’ll research. Maybe I’ll go to India for a few months and work in healthcare there and apply again.
“Do you have friends who support you here?” He slows his efficient pace to match my mopey one on the walk back to my apartment.
“I have Sophia and James.” I omit Sejal’s name. I know he knows I don’t count her among my sympathizers.
“Who is James?” he asks, interestedly. “I don’t think I’ve heard you mention him before.”
In a dream world, I would have an acceptance letter in my hand as I told my dad happily how much I adored James. Because of the general contentment of achieving this goal, any feelings of disappointment would fade quickly. I wouldn’t feel so bad about breaking my parents’ rules because I would have made everyone’s dreams come true. Now, looking at my father’s sweet, concerned face, I can’t bring myself to tell him I failed him in every way possible.
“He’s a friend,” I mutter.
He looks doubtful, but doesn’t press the issue.
“Why don’t you come home for a few days? It’s Friday. You can come back on Sunday night. Amma would be happy to see you.”
“Why didn’t she come, anyway?”
“Because even Amma knows when you need Nanna time. Besides, she is a little worked up right now.” He smiles sheepishly. I grate out a laugh. Amma has to be worked up. Not only have I been out of touch, her shrill voice deafens me one hundred-fifty miles from home.
They didn’t accept you! What were they thinking? They are such idiots. What else did they expect? You will show them. You are my daughter, after all. Then after a few hours of steam coming out of her ears, she would shuffle to my side to give me a hug and go through other options, all the while muttering snide remarks about the schools that dared to say no to a Kolluri. I agree to come home for the weekend and head inside to pack a bag.
ow’s it going at home? James texts while I watch my mom fry potatoes on the stove.
“Sometimes, you have to eat starchy foods to feel better!” my mom says.
I can’t say I disagree. The smell of carbs seasoned with chili pepper, salt, and cumin makes my mouth water.
I’m okay. It’s good to be back, I answer.
“You look too skinny!” Amma exclaimed when I had exited the car in our garage. “I’ll make your favorites today.”
I told her it was fine, she could make what she wanted, so she decided she wanted potato curry, spiced eggplant chutney, and mango pickle… Which, of course, has been my meal of choice since I could speak for myself.
The flavors of home soothe me, but it still feels like a large rock has settled where my stomach used to be. Every time I laugh at a joke Anisha makes about an old teacher she has now who I used to despise, or when my father mentions his new project at work, my emotions only reach the back of my throat, not my belly.
“Nithya, you have options,” Mom says as we eat.
I haven’t spoken a word, just the odd, “That’s good,” or an attempted smile.
“It doesn’t feel like it.”
“But you do. You can research, you can apply again next year, you can go to India, you can travel, you can pursue a master’s degree… There are so many things.” My dad becomes louder as he grows more passionate.
“That’s not what I wanted,” I mumble.
“You were never taught to have everything you want, kanna, you were taught to make the best of the things you have.” Amma sees options where I see dead ends.
“She’ll be fine. What’s the big deal, Akka? It’s just medical school. My English teacher always says there’re as many options in life as there are fish in the sea.” Anisha is also optimistic as we all sit in the quiet living room. Her words inadvertently sting–now I’ve been reduced to an eleventh grade English teacher’s metaphor about life.
“You wouldn’t understand, Anisha,” I snap, more sharply than I should. She looks wounded.
“You know, Nithya, she might be on to something. There are many fish in the sea to chase after, so to speak. There’s one more option you can consider…” Amma begins.
“Priya, not now,” my dad warns. He senses where this conversation is going. I don’t like this direction.
“If you’re unsure about your own future and need time to sort it out, you could connect with someone who has theirs set already. You could get married, Nithya.”
My nose stings, the surest sign tears are on their way. Not having a separate future, my future, makes me feel worthless. To talk about marriage and proving to someone I’m a good catch seems unreachable. Marriage was something I saw coming in a few years. The accelerated pace that it has become doesn’t sit right with me. A tiny part of me, an optimist who wants to rise from the ashes, roars with indignation at the idea that I would settle for someone else’s dreams instead of my own. You haven’t sunk that far, I protest in my mind.
And then, there’s James. The lies have finally caught up. This was supposed to be the weekend I told my parents our dreams came true, to mitigate the part where I didn’t do what we planned. Now, none of this is happening the way it should. I don’t know how to strike the balance of risk and reward.
“Nithya, don’t cry. You put too much pressure on yourself. It’s okay that you didn’t get into medical school. You will succeed at whatever you do, anyway. But if the road is open, why not look at this option too?” Amma offers gently.
“Priya, she needs some time. She should sort out her mind first.”
“What is there to sort out? She didn’t meet one goal, so she’ll meet another instead. She can build on some dreams while she
works on the others. She has always imagined being married.”
She doesn’t mean it flippantly, but the change in trajectory of my life angers me. Anger replaces the despair. My parents argue back and forth about whether this should be brought up now or later. Their words cause the pressure to build. Anisha chimes in to emphasize that she doesn’t see a big deal in any of this, and we all need to calm down. The cross-conversation is overwhelming.
“I’m dating someone,” I blurt out.
The conversation stops. Silence.
sychologists say the first four stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, and depression, are followed by eventual acceptance. The argument can be made that the same five stages apply to any adversity in life. I’ve been in the middle of depression about medical school for the last week. Amma, now with her own shock to handle, is about to start her cycle. Both my parents sit across from me in the living room, their eyes on my face. My medical school interviews were less intimidating. Now that we’re here, however, I know I can’t go back.
“You can’t date someone, Nithya,” Amma tells me so gently, I’m surprised. This is going much better than I expected.
“I know I’m not supposed to. It just happened.”
“You can break up with him,” she says lightly. “It shouldn’t have happened anyway.”
“What’s his name?” My dad approaches it practically.
“James.”
Their faces contort as it dawns on them this name isn’t Indian. They must have believed I was dating an Indian, still a no-no because I claim I’m not ready for marriage. This is unprecedented. Nanna’s face goes from calm to surprised. Amma’s shifts from forced cheerfulness to anxiety as deep as it is immediate.
“He’s American?” they exclaim in unison.