by Saumya Dave
“I guess we have a lot to discuss,” Simran says. “About us. I made a list.”
“Of course you did,” Kunal says, laughing for the first time since they’ve been together.
He jumps off the bed and closes the door. Not that there’s any point. The walls are so thin that his three roommates will likely hear every bit of their conversation anyway.
When he comes back onto the bed, Simran says, “Before I went to India, everything in my life felt off. I was restless. And confused. And then, being there showed me that I really needed to get away from everyone to remember who I am, what I want.”
“And that is?”
She pulls away from him. “I want to have my own life that I’m proud of. I don’t know exactly where the next few years are going to take me, but for the first time, I don’t care. I don’t care about not knowing. I just want to find work that feels challenging and fulfills me. Something where I can write about people and make an impact in a way that aligns with me, not you or my parents.”
Kunal’s gaze moves from Simran to the floor. “I see.”
“And really, I owe you an apology, because I realized how you must always feel when you go on your trips. I’m sorry for not understanding that before.”
“That means a lot coming from you.” Kunal smiles. “And I’m glad you were able to experience that.”
“I can see now how great it must have been for you to connect with everyone during your trips. Feel like you were making a difference.”
His phone rings again. This time he quiets it without looking at it. He clicks the tiny side button down so it will be silent from now on.
“I guess we should get through this,” Simran says, removing her list.
“Wait,” he says. “I just need to know one thing from you. Do you want us to work?”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Yes, it is. Do you want us to work?”
“I do,” Simran says.
“Okay.” He’s entering full-on planning mode. “I’ve been thinking about everything a lot. I really believe we can start over and that there’s no need to get into everything from the past.”
“There isn’t?” Simran asks. “At all?”
The blur of the past year enlarges before her. Meeting Neil, eating dessert with him, kissing him, going to India, being with Nani, going to the school, her mother leaving their house . . .
Kunal straightens his shoulders and looks at her. “I don’t think it’ll help either of us to keep dwelling on anything that’s already happened. I want to move on.”
“I do, too,” Simran says.
He squeezes her hands. “Simran, if we’re going to do that, I need to know you’re serious. Really committed to us.”
“I am,” Simran says.
“You can understand why I have my doubts after everything.”
“I do.”
“So I think we should establish things going forward.”
“Such as?”
He runs his thumb down her arm in a swirling pattern. “How do you feel about premarital counseling?”
“What?”
“We would talk to so—”
“I know what it is. I just didn’t think you’d ever want to do it. You’re serious?”
“I am.”
“You would want to sit in front of a stranger and talk about your feelings for an hour? You don’t even like being on the phone for more than ten minutes.”
“Yes, but I think it would help.” His face drops. “And I think we need it. I really do. We have so many issues that we should work through in the next ten months. And we’ve talked about this before. Real relationships take work. Hard work.”
Simran takes a deep breath. “Then where would you like to start with the, uh, work?”
“How about we both try to make more of an effort with each other’s interests? I’d like it if you could come to a dinner Dr. Maude is hosting next week.”
“For everyone from the trip?”
He nods. “And how can I do something for you?”
She stares at him, bewildered. Who is this scripted man?
At least he’s trying, a stern voice in her head says.
And wasn’t she just thinking that her own mother should give her father a chance? Why shouldn’t she do the same?
She pictures her schedule for the next month. “I would like it if you came to a book signing with me.”
“Which book signing?” he asks.
“Laura Martinez. That psychologist who writes pop psychology articles for The New Yorker. She has a new book out about how people become sociopaths. She’s doing a reading at the Strand next month.”
“Okay. I’ll go. We’ll go.”
They order pizza, the food they both missed the most when they were out of the country. They watch two episodes of Modern Family.
And then, after they’ve settled back onto his twin bed, they start to kiss. It’s been so long since she’s felt Kunal’s lips against hers. His hand slips under her shirt. She watches him slide out of his scrubs.
“I’ve missed you,” he whispers.
“Me too,” Simran says.
And it’s true. She did miss him. This.
She runs her hands across his back. Lets herself relax. He throws her black lacy bra and underwear (she matched for once) on his desk.
“Damn, that was nice,” he says an hour later, pressing his body even more against hers.
“Hmm,” Simran says.
She feels the thump of his heartbeat and hopes it will quiet her racing thoughts.
But it doesn’t.
After Kunal falls asleep, Simran stares out of his nearly opaque window. It looks dirty no matter how much it’s cleaned. An ambulance wails every half hour. Yellow and red lights reflect into the bedroom. A cluster of men argue in Italian.
She considers calling her mother and leaving her eighth voicemail of the week. But there’s no private space to talk without the risk of waking up Kunal or his roommates. Somewhere around one a.m., Kunal gets up and goes to the bathroom. Simran sees a light winking in the spot where he was sleeping. She digs under the twisted sheets and retrieves his phone.
Three missed calls from Rekha.
Nandini
“Did they try to scare you, too?” Yuwa Oni asks Nandini during lunch.
Nandini takes a sip of sparkling water. “Adam tried when he met with me, yes.”
Yuwa and Nandini first met last month during a department meeting. Yuwa went to medical school in Nigeria, moved to Baltimore with her husband, and is now the head of the Nephrology department at Hopkins. She stopped Nandini after the meeting and asked her to grab coffee. Nandini was taken aback by her initiative. The only friends she made in America were Ranjit’s friends’ wives. But Yuwa was the type of woman she wished she had known in medical school in India or at the clinic in New Jersey. The type who shared her ambition, her desire to be something more. She wishes Mami could meet her.
Mami. She’s not returning Nandini’s calls or posting on Facebook. Has Simran spoken to her?
“Fucking asshole,” Yuwa says. “I guess that’s what one has to be to get to the position of department chair, but still, what an asshole.”
Typically, Nandini would have flinched at the curse words, but today, she laughs. Yuwa’s freedom with words is refreshing.
They are sitting in the cafeteria. Every few seconds, someone’s pager beeps. Clusters of residents and attendings in white coats are in the tables around them. To her pleasant surprise, Nandini noted two weeks ago that a majority of the medicine interns are women, a stark contrast from when she was doing her training. The medicine interns are wearing their house staff ties and scarves, a Friday tradition that has been at Hopkins for as long as Nandini can remember. Nandini still keeps her Osler scarf from residency inside
her purse, folded up, hidden from view.
“My daughter gave me pep talks after I first told her about Adam,” Nandini says. “Suddenly, she’s so much more understanding and supportive.”
“Don’t you love how kids do that?” Yuwa asks. “Right when you think they can’t possibly annoy you more, they surprise you.”
Yuwa has two daughters in their twenties. One is doing microbiology research at Boston University and the other is a ballet instructor in New York City. Nandini pictures them as younger versions of Yuwa, brazen and outspoken and fierce.
“So true,” Nandini agrees. “But you know, I haven’t talked to Simran as much as I’d want to since I’ve been here. I’m sure she’s concerned. And sometimes, I pull up her name on my phone and then, I just can’t make the call.”
“Why is that?”
“I guess I’m worried she won’t entirely get what I’m doing here. I don’t know if anybody does. I’ve been so out of the loop with my family and everything happening with them. It’s just been so busy here.”
And my husband certainly doesn’t understand, she thinks. She is going to New Jersey next weekend and can’t imagine what Ranjit will have to say to her. Can she even blame him for being angry? She still feels guilty for not being home, not being available, for everyone.
“Why do you need anybody to get it?” Yuwa gazes at her, waiting for Nandini to answer.
Yuwa has a point. Why does she need anybody to get it?
“It’s just the way things have always been for me. I don’t even know how to be without people’s approval. I guess that’s how I’ve defined myself for so many years,” Nandini says, surprised at her own honesty. Being around Yuwa reminds her of how people describe dating: a sense of excitement intertwined with being understood. In just one month, she is beginning to see that true friendship has little to do with how long you’ve known someone and everything to do with faith. The faith that you can expose your rawest thoughts and still be accepted.
“It’s the way we’re raised, to always care about being accepted and not making ourselves a hassle. But you can’t worry about any of them right now, not your family, not Adam. Especially Adam. You of all people don’t even need to think about him.” Yuwa fiddles with the long silver necklace that she wears every day. She always wears vibrant accessories: silk scarves in bold jewel tones, fringed earrings that dance when she moves her head, turquoise enamel bangles that peek out from underneath the sleeves of her white coat. She inspires Nandini to wear eyeliner and brighter colors, to be seen.
“What does that mean, I don’t need to think about Adam?”
“Well”—Yuwa smiles at her—“I’ve heard that the residents are already so impressed with your teaching.”
“Really? That’s nice to hear,” Nandini says. She feels proud whenever she is able to show someone how to review labs or press an abdomen to feel for the edge of the liver.
“I’m sure. And I think they’re going to nominate you to speak at the AMA conference.”
“What? Me?” Nandini has been reading the American Medical Association newsletter routinely over the past two decades. Sometimes, she and Ranjit even considered attending the yearly conference. But speaking? The thought of being in front of a room full of doctors fills Nandini with a thrill she hasn’t experienced in years, maybe ever.
In medical school and even residency, she imagined her future would be full of hours spent at a podium, educating and inspiring people about what she learned. But over time, the image became smaller and blurrier, like a childhood memory, and she learned to let it go.
“Yes!” Yuwa says. “Look, I’ve only just heard it from a couple of them, so I don’t know what’ll happen, but you know how things are around here. The way people talk about you is everything in this political place.”
“That is true,” Nandini says. “And even being considered for this makes me happy.”
Is it possible that people have noticed her hard work? She’s been getting to the hospital by six every morning, rounding with the residents, and rushing to Greg’s private practice. From there, she picks up an arugula salad and black bean soup from the local deli, which she enjoys in the solitude of the apartment she is leasing this month. Her evenings are spent reading the latest research studies and making study guides to review with the residents the following morning. The clinic in New Jersey, which had drained her, had also taught her how to work fast and under pressure. And while she has still been tired over the past month, it is a satisfying type of exhaustion, not the corrosive burnout she experienced in New Jersey.
“I’ll have to tell my daughter about that. And Greg! He’ll be so happy,” Nandini says.
She visits Greg in between rounds and then at night, before he drifts off into a disturbed, fragmented sleep. It is hard for him to finish his meals or even sit through an entire comedy sitcom.
Nandini finishes the remainder of her soup. “Maybe I’ll go see him now.”
Is it bad that she is excited to tell Greg about something good for her, when his body is breaking down? Maybe she should wait.
She says goodbye to Yuwa and walks out of the cafeteria, unsure where to go next.
Fifteen
Simran
Laura Martinez is even better than Simran had predicted. She talks about the most famous sociopaths in history, the way her audience can identify one in their personal lives, and reads excerpts from her book.
Simran looks over at Kunal, who is slumped forward, scrolling through some medical article on his iPhone, his eyes glazed over.
She nudges him with her elbow.
Kunal looks up. “Sorry. Paying attention now. Promise.”
She keeps a neutral facial expression. “It’s okay. I know sitting through an hour of couples counseling before coming here isn’t your ideal day.”
He shrugs, as if to say, Good point.
“But just try to pay attention for a second. It’s not your type of science, but it’s still interesting.”
He nods and straightens his shoulders.
In the past months, they’ve booked almost all their wedding vendors. They’ve sat in meetings, reviewed contracts, and had conference calls. They’ve looked at flights for their shopping trip to India. They’ve managed to keep their parents calm.
Forward motion, that’s what their therapist recommends. Keep moving, keep looking ahead. That’s how you prepare for marriage. That’s how you become an adult.
Simran and Kunal are sitting in the back row. The top floor of the Strand, the one reserved for readings, is packed. The walls are lined with filled, mahogany bookshelves. Lights are strung across the ceiling. The crowd is an eclectic assortment of thick black glasses and crisp button-downs and bold lipsticks and even bolder hair colors.
After Laura is finished with the reading, she sits behind a petite brown desk. A man wearing all black asks everyone to make a line. He tells them they will all have an opportunity to have their books signed and take a quick picture with her. He goes to each person in line, writes their name on a yellow Post-it note, and attaches it to the front of their book.
Kunal opens the front cover of the book and whistles. “Wow, you’d think they would at least give you a discount for coming here.”
“It doesn’t really work that way,” Simran says. “Besides, people don’t value books anymore. I don’t mind splurging on one I know will be good.”
“But you have so many you haven’t even read.”
“That’s because I haven’t had the chance.”
“Yeah, and then they just collect and take up space.”
Simran halts their discussion by pointing out the spines of books on the shelves next to them. The line inches forward. Kunal yawns.
“Hey, I just realized I never got to see all your pictures from the trip. I’ve only been able to look at the ones other people posted on Facebook. Want
to show me now?” Simran asks, with the eagerness of a mother hoping her baby will stay quiet during a long flight.
Kunal pulls out his phone and shows her photos of him with young children and mothers, the rest of the medical students, a couple of him and Dr. Maude. There’s one selfie of him and Rekha in a restaurant, a plate of plantains, black beans, and rice behind them. Kunal is sitting up straight, his arm extended for the selfie. But Rekha is leaning toward him, a dopey grin on her face, almost as though the picture interrupted a joke between them.
“Where was that?”
“Random café,” he says as he swipes to the next one.
“Those were great,” Simran says after they’ve looked through all of them.
When it’s finally their turn, Laura looks in their direction, stands up, and extends her arms. “I can’t believe you made it!”
Kunal turns to Simran. “Do you know each other?”
Simran shakes her head. “I mean, I’ve been to another signing of hers before. Do you think she remembers me?”
Simran waves at her. Laura walks toward them. Simran keeps waving. So does Laura.
And then, Laura walks past them.
She was looking behind them the entire time.
It’s like that time in middle school, when Simran thought the dashing Ben Kleinman was gesturing to her in the cafeteria for a full five minutes before she realized he was motioning to the cheerleader sitting ten feet behind her.
Simran follows Laura’s low-pitched voice, as does everyone else in line.
“Come on! You can hang out with me at the desk,” Laura says. In five seconds, she’s back at her desk, with a guy who dresses like Neil Desai by her side.
Simran takes a second glance.
It is Neil Desai.
But could it really be him? No, that’s not possible. Simran looks again. He seems a little older than she remembered. Refined. The stubble across his chin gives his face a novel ruggedness. She’s taken back to the feel of his lips. His woodsy scent. He takes a generous sip of champagne and flashes a Crest-commercial-worthy grin at some people in the back of the room. He always knew how to charm, even from afar.
