Set to Music

by Negeen Papehn

  Somewhere in the process, the paparazzo loses grip of his camera and it crashes into the concrete, smashing into a thousand pieces. A groan is collectively heard among his colleagues as everyone freezes. Anthony’s head of security shakes his head with frustration, urging the Castillo brothers to leave. He closes the door of the SUV and does a double tap on the hood. The driver pulls away. He joins his men and they begin breaking up the crowd.

  How does Anthony live like this? The fact that this photographer could so unapologetically violate another human being’s privacy in this way makes my stomach roil.

  “What the fuck just happened?” Trina startles me.

  “I don’t have a damn clue.”

  We watch as Ternura speeds away, leaving the remnants of our brush with fame behind.

  Chapter Nine

  Darya

  Niloo is pacing the waiting room as I enter the office. Her back is stiff and her brows are pulled in tight, a contradiction to the serene white and green interior of the doctor’s office. Black-and-white photos of landscapes surround us. Cool, calm places patients can daydream about while sitting on the plush white chairs.

  Her gaze snaps up when the door clicks back into place, her eyes locking with mine. Relief should flood her features, but instead, her worried expression remains. The already-forming boulder in my stomach sinks even further into my body cavity. I square my shoulders and ease the tension from my limbs, the picturesque version of calm and collected, trying to be the yin to her currently petrified yang.

  “Where is she?” My tone is even and light, devoid of the heaviness weighing me down.

  “Still in the room. She’s getting dressed.”

  “What did the doctor say, exactly?”

  “That he wants a chest X-ray,” she answers. “Wait, no.” She’s flustered and I reach out to rest my hand lightly on her arm.

  “It’s going to be okay.”

  “She hasn’t been honest with us, Darya. She’s been in to see Dr. Wang multiple times over the past few months for the same issue.” She shakes out her palms then rubs them across her jeans, a nervous habit she’s had since she was young. Fear consumes her hazel irises, muting their vibrancy. “He put in a request for a chest X-ray two months ago!” Anger beats beneath her fear. “He looked concerned.”

  “Well, did he say anything else?”

  “He did. But you know me. I’m not good with all this medical stuff.” I can tell she’s about to cry.

  “Okay, let me see if I can talk to him.” I squeeze her arm then step up to the reception window.

  A receptionist with rosy cheeks and pale blue eyes greets me. “Hi there.” She smiles. “What can I help you with?”

  “My mother, Pooran Zameeni, just saw Dr. Wang and I was wondering if I could have a word with him?”

  She eyes me carefully, taking in my ER attire. “Give me a moment to see if he’s available.”

  She stands as a dark-haired, older nurse approaches the bay in a pair of fitted turquoise scrubs. They whisper for a few seconds, then the woman finds me with her gaze. She smiles, but I can tell she’s annoyed by the interruption to their busy patient flow. I don’t blame her; we hate it when a wrench is thrown into the rhythm. I smile apologetically, hoping my identical outfit, just a lighter shade of blue, will prompt some camaraderie. She nods then heads back in the direction from where she came. The receptionist walks to the front window to address me.

  “His nurse is going to see if he can speak to you as soon as he’s done with his patient.”

  “Thank you.”

  Just then, Maman joins us in the waiting room. She notices me standing at the reception desk and throws Niloo a questioning glance.

  “Hi, azizam. What are you doing here?”

  Before I have a chance to answer, she begins coughing furiously into a paper towel she’s holding. I think I spy a tinge of pink across the stark white material, but she quickly folds it and hides it inside her fist. Nonetheless, the dread I’ve been harboring since I got here magnifies.

  “I was always planning on meeting you guys.” I lie. “I just overslept. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t worry, eshgham.” She pats my arm. “You work really hard. You deserve some rest.” She sighs, as if taking her next breath is too much work. Was her skin this pale a few days ago? Did she have those dark circles under her eyes?

  “Let me take you home, Maman,” Niloo offers.

  She nods obediently. When she realizes I’m not following her, she glances over her shoulder. “Aren’t you coming?”

  Just then, Dr. Wang’s nurse pushes the door open and peeks out. “The doctor can see you now.”

  Maman’s forehead furrows into a scowl, and I raise my hands in surrender. “I just want to get the details, that’s all.”

  She shakes her head, her lips twitching to say the words sitting squarely on her tongue. But then her eyes soften and she takes another long breath, deciding it’s not worth the fight.

  “Okay, eshgham. It’s not necessary, but if it makes you feel better.” She turns toward my sister. “Let’s go, dokhtaram.” Niloo shoots a worried glance at me, then grabs Maman’s hand and walks her out the door.

  I turn and follow the nurse back down the hallway. Dr. Wang’s office is on the larger side for private practices, with five exam rooms. They’re all currently filled with patients, indicated by their closed doors and the charts rested in their plastic bins. At the end of the long stretch is a solitary door, slightly ajar. The nurse pushes it open for me and waits politely until I enter. Dr. Wang sits behind a large oak desk.

  He’s been Maman’s doctor for years, so I’ve watched the progression of his jet-black hair slowly become peppered with gray, and the creases at the edges of his eyes deepen with time. He wears a pair of reading glasses, resting halfway down the bridge of his nose, threatening to slip off the smooth, sloped arch. He looks over the rim of the frame and a kind, fatherly smile stretches across his face.

  “Darya. It’s good to see you.”

  “Hi, Dr. Wang. How are you?”

  “I’m doing fine, my dear.” He sets down the manila charts he’s holding and rests his hands on top of them, intertwining his fingers. “What can I help you with?”

  “I was just wondering if I could get an update on my mom’s status. I missed her appointment, and you know how she is. Never wants me to worry about anything.”

  Normally, Dr. Wang would be prohibited from sharing Maman’s medical information with me. Patient-doctor confidentiality and all. But I made sure to have Maman list me as one of the “authorized people” to receive her information. Plus, it helps that Dr. Wang knows I’m a physician. I think part of him thinks he inspired me in some way. Which he very well could have, but being a Persian girl raised by a single mom pretty much had “doctor” written in my future, with or without any exceptional physicians around to encourage me. Maman wasn’t settling for anything less.

  “She’s been having chronic respiratory symptoms, outlasting the usual duration for the common bout of bronchitis. We’ve tried multiple forms of treatment but are having a difficult time clearing up the infection. I’m putting in a request to have a chest CT done.” His eyebrows, now less distinct by the patches of gray hair that have claimed them, dip slightly, like wanting to pull into a frown. But his expert skills at hiding his concern in front of his patients keep him from doing little else.

  I catch it nonetheless; the attempt at presenting an encouraging exterior is something I know too well from my own day job. “What is it, Dr. Wang?”

  He doesn’t move to speak.

  “Be straight with me. This isn’t my first rodeo. I know you have more concerns.”

  “This has been going on for longer than I’m comfortable with. But your mother is a stubborn woman and refused to heed my advice.”

  Now my eyebrows are the ones that pinch t
ogether.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing,” he comforts me. “But I think we should err on the side of caution, don’t you?”

  I nod, a knot suddenly lodged in my throat as my mind cycles through the numerous possibilities, none of them good.

  “There’s no need to worry right now. Just make sure she gets the CT.”

  “I will. Thank you for taking the time to speak to me.” I stand on shaky legs and attempt a smile, but the worry I’m trying desperately to contain makes it feel strange and unfamiliar to my lips.

  “Anytime.”

  I head out of his office, my thoughts moving a mile a minute, as I struggle to keep from having a full-blown panic attack in Dr. Wang’s halls.

  When did Maman get so sick? And how the hell did I miss this?

  Chapter Ten

  Darya

  The oncologist is a woman in her late sixties with sweeping gray curls pulled back into a professional bun. A few have come loose, framing her milky-white skin and deep-set brown eyes. She’s addressing Maman, her voice a calm, cool quiet, only a few octaves higher than a whisper. Conveying the diagnosis seems less devastating if it sounds like a kind conversation between friends. But that isn’t what’s really happening here. The doctor is presenting us with news that will alter our three lives in ways we never wanted to imagine.

  Even before she began to speak, the subtle hints from her body conveyed the information I needed. And now, as she tries to deliver the blow in a way that is least catastrophic, I can barely hear her, my head submerged in a pool of water that’s drowning me. The walls of the office are closing in. I pull at the collar of my T-shirt, the material now a noose around my neck. Can someone turn on the air?

  Niloo sits beside me, her lips trembling in time to her limbs, willing herself to maintain a strong persona. But her body betrays her, much like Maman’s has done. The only difference is Niloo will just lose tears. My mother will be losing her life.

  Maman is to her left, staring between the doctor and me, anger blazing in her eyes. Odd reaction to the news; I’d have expected fear. But not Maman. She’s going straight into the anger phase of her diagnosis, because how dare the universe screw her this way?

  Indeed, Maman. How dare it?

  The doctor continues speaking but I’m catching only phrases: Adenocarcinoma. Most common in non-smokers. Found more frequently in women. Cells that secrete mucus.

  My mother has cancer.

  I already knew this despite praying I was wrong. After Maman’s CT scan, when “abnormalities” were seen and a biopsy scheduled, I just knew. Then the word cancer was thrown around, more scans done, laying down a map of where the culprit had traveled.

  “What stage are we looking at?” My voice is even, jarring in comparison to the havoc my nerves are in.

  “We’ve confirmed that it’s stage 3b.”

  Before she has a chance to continue, Niloo interjects. “What does that mean?”

  It means things just got more complicated.

  I shut my eyes and try to take steadying breaths. I don’t want to see my sister’s panic any longer, or my mother’s fury. I don’t want to witness the doctor’s kind, sympathetic eyes. I want to escape to the darkness behind my lids. But there’s no peace there.

  My mind swims with despair as I struggle to rid myself of the anguish gnawing at me. I try to push away the thoughts of Maman’s frail body, bones exposed because chemo has eaten up her vibrancy. I attempt to avoid images of her laid across her bed because she doesn’t want to die tied up to tubes and machines, but rather in the warmth of her own home. I fight not to think of Niloo falling apart, looking to me for the strength I know I won’t possess.

  I shake my head, trying to dislodge the defeat consuming me. I focus on the sound of my breathing. In for three, out for four. I let the whoosh fill my ears so I don’t have to hear her tell them that stage 3b means it’s no longer confined to just Maman’s lungs. I can’t listen when she says that my mother’s lymph nodes are involved, that it’s spread to her neck and along her body. I shut my eyes tighter when she begins to go over treatment options, because quite frankly, she and I both know that it’s a long shot. I swallow hard when she mentions something about surgery and how it’s compromised because of the potential damage it can do to Maman’s trachea.

  “It’s difficult not to harm other organs or get clean, clear margins,” the doctor clarifies. “Surgery, at the moment, isn’t a viable option with the current size of the tumors in your lungs. Once we’re done with our course of treatment, then we’ll reevaluate and decide what our next steps will be.”

  Niloo begins to cry. Maman puts her arm around her, her fingers brushing my shoulder. I’m grateful that the doctor leaves out survival rates and percentages because that would do none of us any good. Not now, not ever. I take one more slow, deep breath and open my eyes. The moment of escape and collecting myself is over now, and there’s business at hand.

  “So then chemo and radiation?” My eyes bore into the doctor as if this is somehow all her fault. It isn’t, and I know that, but I need somewhere to point my anger.

  “Yes. The combination of drugs we’ll be using in this situation is aggressive. We’re going to hit it hard and quickly. We’re hoping it will stop the growth and shrink the tumors.”

  Hope. There’s that pesky little word that moves mountains yet rains with disappointment. I don’t need false pretenses. I need numbers and statistics and outcomes. I need remission.

  “It’s imperative that patients have a good support system, and judging from these two”—she nods in our direction, that annoying kindhearted smile stretched across her lips—“it’s obvious that you have a fabulous one.” She leans forward in her chair, intertwining her fingers on the desk before her. “There will be days you don’t feel your best. But it’s all part of the process.” She oozes compassion.

  “And if the tumors don’t shrink in size after the chemo? What then?” I don’t want her sympathy directed anywhere near us. She gets to go home tonight and forget what’s happened to us in this room. I can’t help but resent her for that.

  “Unfortunately, that is a realistic possibility.” The pity in her expression deepens. “But we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. For now, let’s stay positive.”

  How many times have I used words like hope and positivity when delivering bad news? How many people stood facing me with the same look of defeat in their eyes, praying there was some light at the end of the tunnel? How many of them did I end up devastating?

  The walls are too close now and the room too cramped. I need out.

  The doctor’s gaze snaps to me as I stand, surprise flooding her features. I’m not sure if she expected that we would hang out in her office all day, wallowing in the news, but I don’t have time to sit here looking for comfort. I’ll find that in the research I’ll do and the doctors I’ll call for second and third opinions. Not here while sitting in plush, tan chairs, across from the woman who changed it all.

  “Should we schedule with your front desk?”

  “Y-Yes,” she stammers. “They have the information about where you should call.”

  “Great. Thank you for your time.” I reach out and shake her hand. I look down at my sister, who’s staring at me wide-eyed and terrified behind wet lashes. “Get yourself together, Niloo.”

  Maman doesn’t say a word. She smiles at the doctor, mumbles her thanks, and follows me out the office doors. We march to the front desk, get the information for our chemo and radiation clinics, then head to my car. Because that’s how it’s done. The Zameeni women do not crumble at the first sign of defeat. We do not go burrowing in a corner to cry ourselves to sleep. Nope. We pick up our fears, shove them down as far as they can go, then we come up with a plan.

  And that is exactly what I intend to do.

  Chapter Eleven

  Anthony

 
“Thank you, Hollywood,” Carlos yells into the microphone. “You’re amazing!” Everyone cheers and hollers as he gives them one last signature goodbye dance.

  To the concert goers, he looks like his usual self, but he runs a hand across his sweaty forehead and I’m not so sure. I can’t tell if it’s the spotlights, but is he pale? Panic nearly knocks me on my ass and I’m half a second from sprinting over to him when he throws me a warning look. The dumbass would rather keep this Superman act in front of his fans than worry about his health.

  When the management team suggested we do a makeup concert for the one we had to cancel while Carlos was in the hospital, my gut told me we shouldn’t. Now, as Carlos seems more and more off to me, I want to kick my own ass for not requiring they refund the tickets and call it a day.

  Hugo is busy disconnecting his base, a weird superstition he has about concerts and our rising fame. He refuses to let the stagehands touch his instrument because it will somehow jinx our lucky streak. But Mateo is standing beside the drums watching Carlos like I am.

  “Have a great night.” I wave my hand at the crowd as soon as Carlos starts heading off the stage.

  He makes it down half the steps and then rocks. I can see the fall about to happen and I run toward him, but I’m not fast enough. He loses his balance and tries to grab the rail but misses. His body goes limp and he tumbles headfirst down the rest of the stairs.

  Commotion explodes. Emmanuel and I rush to his side, and I lean down to grab him but freeze when I see the growing pool of blood. He’s facedown, his arms and legs spread out on the floor.

  Emmanuel stares at me, ghost white. “Do we move him?”