Set to Music

by Negeen Papehn

  I smile at her and nod, then give Carlos my undivided attention. He looks so pale now that I’m afraid he might pass out again.

  I’m terrified that my little brother has my father’s heart condition, but I keep my tone easy and light as I promise him that this is no big deal. I ignore the worry and push forward because Carlos needs me to. I change the subject, turning the conversation to the concert.

  “How about that crowd tonight, though? It was massive,” I say.

  Carlos gives me a shaky grin. “It was, wasn’t it?”

  I notice Dr. Zameeni watch me for a few more seconds before she turns to leave. As she grabs the next chart from her nurse and heads out the door, my gaze settles on her. She pulls on a strand of her curly dark hair and tries unsuccessfully to push it back into her ponytail, then gives up, huffing loudly. It makes me smile.

  “They definitely missed you,” Travis is saying to my brother.

  “Did Hugo take my place?”

  “Yeah. That boy can play,” I answer.

  “Did James take bass?”

  “Yup,” Travis answers proudly. He loves that one of his crew came to our rescue.

  “That’s awesome.” Carlos leans back in bed, the color returning to his face.

  …

  “Mamá, he’s okay.”

  “Hijo, you’re lucky I can’t reach you.”

  Even though she’s pint-sized, my mother’s threat still makes me shake. I won’t be surprised if she throws her chancla at me when she sees me.

  “I’m coming right now. Amelia, grab my purse.” I can hear her hand over the receiver as she yells at my aunt. I’m so glad I got Tía to move in with her after we started touring. I’d hate for her to be alone right now.

  “No, Mamá. They’re still running tests this morning and we’re waiting for the cardiologist to come in. It’s all taking forever, since we got here so late last night. And we’re not allowed to be in the room with him until they are done. I don’t want you in the waiting room. The hospital is full of germs.”

  “I don’t care! Mi hijito está enfermo and I need to be with him.” Her voice rises with her anger.

  This family is going to be the end of me. “Cálmate, mamá, por favor. I can’t have you getting sick, too.”

  “Ack, I can’t talk to you!” She yells so loud, Hugo starts cracking up while Mateo rubs his belly as if preparing for the treats he’ll consume when I’m on the outs. I roll my eyes. There’s a shuffle on the other line and I’m sure she’s about to hang up on me when my aunt gets on.

  “Hola, mijo. How’s Carlos?”

  “He’s okay. We don’t know anything for sure yet, but hopefully soon. Is she really mad at me?”

  “What do you think?” Tía laughs and I can imagine her face lighting up.

  My aunt has always been a positive force in my life. As much as Mamá is serious, her sister is easygoing. And it’s not because she’s had it easy. Not by any means. She lost my tío a few years after dad died. But she’s managed to not let her experiences get her down.

  Every tough situation I found myself in, she’s who I’d go to for help. She’d always say, “Life’s too short, mijo, to waste it on pain and tears. Live, laugh, and love. And when it looks bad, just remember Dios has a plan for us.” Her advice has become my own personal hymn, as well as a tattoo on my back.

  I sigh and focus on the current problem. Mamá showing up at the ER and murdering me in the waiting room. At least there are doctors nearby. “Great.”

  “No te preocupes. I got your mother.” Having my aunt deal with Mamá is reassuring. If anyone can keep her from killing me, it’s Tía. “Do you want us to come there?”

  “No, not yet. Last night was a busy night for emergencies, I guess. I’m pretty sure they’re going to keep him for a few days, so once we move into an actual room, I’ll send one of the guys over to get you two.”

  “Okay, mi niño. Let us know if they tell you anything and when we should be ready.”

  “I will. Te amo, Tía.”

  Chapter Five

  Darya

  “Why is the television so loud?” My head is now pounding along with my feet and I have no room left for unnecessary noise.

  “Because the Cocoa Puffs I’m crunching are making it hard to hear what’s happening on the show.” Niloo rolls her eyes at me for not already knowing the answer to this question.

  “Why are you even here?” I kick off my shoes and make my way over to the couch my sister is claiming as her own. “Scoot over.” I pry the bowl of chocolatey goodness from her uncooperative hands and take it for myself. I put a big bite of soggy deliciousness into my mouth and feel my childhood awaken. My stomach rumbles with appreciation.

  “Maman’s annoying.”

  “She’s always annoying,” I confirm. “What did she do that has you invading my apartment for the third time this week?”

  “You know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d really feel like you didn’t love me.” She gives me a playful shove.

  “Sadly, you don’t seem to be getting the hint.”

  Niloo throws her hand up against her chest in mock heartbreak. “You’re so mean,” she declares, then giggles. “Maman’s just being Maman. Don’t know what her deal is lately, but she’s been under the weather for the past week and just super moody.”

  “Is she sick?” I suddenly realize I haven’t seen my mom all week. My back-to-back shifts leave time only for showers and passing out across my bed, sometimes wrapped in a towel because I don’t have the energy required to put PJs on.

  “I’m not sure. She says she’s fine, but her energy level is super low and she’s irritable. Maybe it’s just an age thing.” Niloo shrugs.

  “I’ll swing by and check on her tomorrow.” I shove another spoonful of cereal into my mouth and lean my head on the back of the couch, closing my eyes. “What was she complaining about, anyway?”

  “Oh you know, the standard Friday night conversation when you’re not around. ‘Why are you wasting your time in cosmetology school? Why can’t you be more like your sister?’ She has to keep reminding me that you’re a doctor. As if she gives me a chance to forget it.”

  “Eh, don’t let it bother you. You know how she is. Typical Iranian mom. You do you, baby sister.”

  “I am. She can say whatever she wants. And speaking of jobs, you look like crap.”

  “Yeah, well, you would, too, if you hadn’t slept for over twenty-four hours.” I melt farther into the couch cushions. “Oh, guess who came into the ER tonight.”

  “Who?” I hear her clicking the buttons on the remote, channel surfing. My lids are so heavy, it feels like I’m dreaming.

  “Ternura,” I yawn.

  Crash goes the remote as it skids across the floor. The couch shifts aggressively and my head bounces twice against the edge. Two hands grab my shoulders before I’ve had the chance to open my eyes.

  “What?”

  “Chill.” I rub the back of my skull. When I take in her wide-eyed amazement, I laugh. “Yeah, Carlos was rushed in because he passed out on stage. Then Anthony showed up.” Her eyes get even bigger. “You know I just violated HIPAA statutes by telling you that, so don’t go blabbing to your friends.”

  “You’re on a first-name basis with them?” Her excitement is barely contained as she bounces up and down on the couch cushions, making my milk slosh around the bowl. She’s like a child with unlimited funds for a toy-shopping spree. “Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God!”

  “Relax. We aren’t best friends or anything. He was just my patient.”

  “Tell me everything. Every detail. Don’t leave anything out. How hot are they?”

  I shrug. “They’re good-looking.”

  Niloo pushes a few inches away from me, cocking her head to the side as she dissects my response.

  “What is tha
t?”

  “What is what?”

  “That,” she says, pointing at me with her index finger. “Why are you not excited about this?”

  “I’m exhausted. All I want to do is sleep. And I didn’t even know who they were until tonight.”

  “How is that even possible?” she asks, exasperated by my lack of enthusiasm. “And here I was hoping you’d tell me something Grey’s Anatomy-ish happened in the supply closet.”

  “Niloo!”

  “What? A girl can dream.” She grins. “But seriously, how hot is Carlos?” Her giddiness is bursting at the seams as she rambles on. “But then, Anthony has that total suave, silent type vibe that is just so damn yummy! Is he really a badass?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer. “I can’t decide who I want more. Who would you choose?”

  Anthony. Definitely Anthony. “I don’t know, Niloo.”

  “You’re no fun.”

  “Sorry,” I laugh. “It’s been a long night.”

  “Ternura,” she sighs, melting back into the couch cushions. “I wish I were there.” She suddenly snaps back up, causing the Cocoa Puffs to go sliding off my spoon and back into the bowl balanced below my lips. “Do you think you could get tickets to their concert? They’re playing a few shows here.” Her hopefulness is innocent and childish, oddly reminding me of Carlos.

  “They may be canceling their tour. I think Carlos has something going on with his heart.”

  Niloo’s face crumples with disappointment. Or maybe concern; it’s hard to tell.

  “Poor guy,” she says. “Can I come to work with you?” The pleading in her eyes almost has me agreeing to let her shadow my day in the ER, but I’m pretty sure dragging my twenty-four-year-old sister around while seeing patients would not go over well with my supervisor. Not to mention the shit ton of rules we’d be breaking.

  “No, you can’t come to work with me.”

  “Jeez.” She throws her hands up in defeat. “Can you at least get me an autograph or a damn selfie or something?”

  “Sure,” I chuckle. “I’ll try my best.”

  “Thank you,” she huffs. Then leans back on the couch, a dreamy grin pulling at the edges of her lips. “Ternura,” she says again. “You’re so lucky.”

  Part of me hopes my luck gets me another chance to see Anthony. The other part knows that for Carlos’s sake, it’s better if my luck has run out.

  Chapter Six

  Darya

  “Maman?” I call, as I make my way through the front door.

  “In the kitchen.” Multiple deep, rumbling coughs follow.

  I glance into the living room and find it strangely disheveled. Or at least, less tidy than my obsessive Iranian mother usually has it. The navy throw blanket across the back of her white leather couch is rumpled and unfolded. The blue and white Persian rug that sits beneath her glass coffee table is skewed, turned too far toward the right, making it asymmetrical to the room. There are fresh vacuum lines running across its surface, so maybe she just didn’t notice she moved it? There’s a day-old cup of tea sitting on the end table.

  I stop and tidy up, folding the blanket and repositioning the rug. The unworldly need for cleanliness my mother instilled in me won’t allow me to just walk away. I move throw pillows around and straighten everything. How did she fail at making Niloo as meticulous as I am about these things?

  The artwork hanging on the wall above the couch catches my attention. I’ve always loved the image painted across its canvas: an old man threading a rug while his wife expertly unravels the silk for him. It’s the only thing Maman kept of Dad’s after the divorce. That, and the house. Everything else ended up in a pile on the lawn that I had to stop her from throwing a match into. But this painting reminds her of her parents, so she decided Dad wasn’t worthy enough to cause its demise. Now, every time I look at it, it reminds me of Mamanbozorg and Bababozorg, too.

  I grab the half-filled mug off the table and make my way to the kitchen, mumbling obscenities beneath my breath at Niloo for being too lazy to help around the house.

  I enter to find Maman sitting at the table, exhaustion claiming the arch in her back as her shoulders slump forward. There’s a hot cup of chayee in front of her. Billows of steam rise toward her face from the tea’s surface, hiding the fine lines around her eyes behind a hazy blanket.

  “Hi.” I lean down and kiss her forehead. She looks really tired, making me think she must be sick. I make sure to notice if she’s running a fever. But her skin feels cool beneath my lips.

  “Hi dokhtaram.” She coughs a few more times, then inhales sharply, wincing.

  “Are you all right?” I can feel my face contort with concern.

  “Khoobam, eshgham. Don’t worry.” She pats my arm but I don’t believe she’s fine. “Chayee mekhay?” She doesn’t wait for my response, just stands and makes her way over to the stove to pour me a cup. She switches on the tiny Persian radio sitting on the kitchen counter.

  Omid’s voice fills the room with his hip-swinging melody, “Dooset Daram.” Maman starts singing under her breath to his well-known lyrics. She begins to sway from side to side, her arms raised, hands doing seductive circles, as she spins slowly around. Her smile’s wide and energetic, in contradiction to the tiredness of her body. Despite my distress over her current condition, I can’t help but giggle.

  “Remember when Bababozorg would turn the music up really loud and dance with us in the living room?” I ask. “He’d put Niloo on his feet and spin her around while she laughed and laughed.”

  “I loved when my dad would do that,” Maman says. “He did that with me and my sisters in Iran as well. Every day, after dinner, he would play Iranian music and he and my mother would dance in the middle of the room while we bounced up and down around them. She would say it was our daily exercise.” She laughs, but it becomes a harsh cough. She splays her hand across her chest to catch her breath. “Roozayeh khoob.”

  Those were the good days. My grandfather stepped in and took over dad’s role when we needed him to. Even with his broken English, he still helped us with every school project, took us for long walks where we had deep philosophical debates well into our teens, and always loved to be silly. A warmth courses through me as I’m reminded of him, causing me to momentarily forget why I’ve come. But then, I notice Maman wobble on her feet, reaching out to catch the edge of the counter to steady herself. When she coughs again, wincing a second time, I’m up and beside her in less than a second.

  “Maman, does it hurt when you cough?”

  “A little. It’s nothing. I already told you.” She shoos me away.

  “When did it start?”

  I slip into doctor mode immediately, mentally jotting down her symptoms as I take a physical inventory. No fever. I grab her wrist as I help her back into the chair, checking her pulse incognito.

  “I’m not sure. I haven’t been able to shake this damn cold.”

  “When did the cold start?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. A few weeks. Maybe a month. But you know how coughs are.”

  “No, Maman, this doesn’t sound like a lingering cough. Has it been getting worse?”

  I rack my brain for the memories of the last handful of times I’ve been with her, trying to remember if she was coughing like this. I haven’t seen her much the past four months. And when I have, I’ve been so damn tired, I couldn’t see past my own Persian girl nose. I want to beat myself silly for missing this.

  “Let me get my bag from the car.” I leave before she has a chance to stop me. I always leave a medical bag in my trunk for emergencies and, with the uneasiness settling in the pit of my stomach, this is definitely an emergency.

  When I return a few minutes later, my mom is still sitting heavily where I left her. I take in the pallor of her normally striking olive-toned skin. The dark circles around her eyes make her appear hollow, the vibrant wa
rmth I’m used to seeing, hidden behind a strong wall of discomfort. My heart constricts, guilt rising in my throat as a ball of tears. Why haven’t I paid better attention? She’s needed me and I haven’t been here.

  I pull the stethoscope from my bag and carefully ease my mother’s folded frame back into an upright position. I rub the round head against my palm for a few seconds, hoping to cut through the chill of instrument on skin.

  “Take a deep breath for me, Maman.”

  Right then, Niloo saunters into the kitchen, a fiery ball of energy, as usual.

  “Hey!” she sings. “I didn’t know you were coming over.” She doesn’t even look in our direction, heading to the fridge, flinging the door open with such force the bottles in the door clang together violently. “Maman, where did you put my black sweater after you washed it?” she asks, oblivious to the state our mother is currently in. She doesn’t wait for Maman to answer, barreling through her conversation at light speed. “You will not believe where I just was.”

  “Shhh!” I snap.

  She finally whips her head in our direction and actually sees us sitting there, rather than assuming we’re her twenty-four seven audience, dying to hear the events of her day.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Quiet! I’m trying to hear.” I press the stethoscope against Maman’s chest.

  Niloo is by Maman’s side in less than three seconds, worry lines claiming her youthful features. Maman puts her hand on my shoulder and squeezes.

  “I’m fine, dokhtaram,” she assures me again. She lightly bats the stethoscope away and stands, brushing our worry to the side. “It’s just a bad cough. Nothing more. I’ll take some Tylenol.”

  Maman thinks everything can be resolved with a bottle of acetaminophen.

  “Maman, please let me listen. You got up too fast.” I throw Niloo a dirty look for being so damn loud, and she cowers apologetically.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re not fine. And this isn’t just a bad cough. It could be bronchitis. Or worse, pneumonia. I think I heard wheezing. Let me take you to my hospital.”