What a Happy Family

by Saumya Dave

  “Again? You mean you thought I was going through one of those times?” Natasha asks, referring to the blurry, exhausting periods in college when she struggled to get out of bed for days. Karan was able to help her the first time but had to call the girls after that.

  Payal shrugs and says, “I don’t know. I guess so.”

  Natasha’s friends exchange a questioning glance with each other. She looks at each of them, and the truth of why they were so eager to meet today comes into focus.

  “Is this some kind of intervention?” she asks.

  “I didn’t think of it that way,” Ifeoma says, “but I guess you could call it that.”

  “Oh, well, I appreciate you all caring, but I’m fine,” Natasha says. “Really. There’s nothing to worry about.”

  Suddenly, it’s too warm in here. The light buzz from her margarita morphs into a pang of nausea. She wishes she could leave this conversation. This restaurant. It occurs to her that no matter where she goes these days, she doesn’t fit in anywhere.

  “Okay,” Payal says with a nod. “We won’t worry.”

  Natasha knows that isn’t true and they’ll keep worrying. She cuts a massive piece of hotcake, submerges it in syrup, and puts on her best cheerful voice. “I’m so tired of talking about me, especially when I don’t know what’s been going on with you two. I’ve been so behind!”

  “Well . . .” Payal shifts her eyes, seeming unsure of whether to move on. “I wanted to tell y’all in person that I got my first med school interview! At Emory!”

  “Oh my god!” Natasha shrieks as they clink their glasses together. “That’s amazing! I’m not surprised at all.”

  Payal beams and adjusts the ruffles on her floral off-the-shoulder dress. “Thanks. I’m telling myself to stay calm because there’s no guarantee, but still, it’s a fucking interview at Emory!”

  Hearing the word “fucking” come out of Payal’s mouth is a giveaway that she’s drunk. She orders another round of margaritas and updates them on her latest Bumble date (hot, boring) and her travels to Iowa for her temporary consulting job (monotonous, almost over). Ifeoma thinks Jordan plans to propose after their second year of law school.

  Even though everything seems back to normal on the surface, Natasha can tell her friends are making sure to keep their updates upbeat and light. She takes it all in as though she’s suspended above the table. One part of her wants to have fun, be rooted in the moment, and pretend everything is normal. But a bigger part is on the verge of panic, a panic that presses on her sternum and makes it hard to breathe. All her friends have their shit together. They’re on paths that guarantee health insurance and a solid future, while all she has is a smothering sense of uncertainty. There should be a word for feeling happy for your friends while wondering when you’ll be able to feel that same happiness for yourself. Usually, being around the girls makes Natasha feel free and understood. But today, it just reminds her of how lonely she really is. She doesn’t truly belong anywhere.

  They get the check, then walk around Krog Street Market for another hour. When they stop for chocolate croissants, Ifeoma notes, “Another reason why Miranda is the best Sex and the City character. She actually eats food.” The rest of them murmur in agreement.

  After they eat, Natasha climbs into her used silver Camry and reclines the seat. Her car smells like weed no matter how many times she has it cleaned. Not that she can afford that now anyway. The money in her account dwindles by the day even though she isn’t doing much. Maybe Zack can help her out. He’s lent her money before and not told Suhani.

  She turns on the air-conditioning and points the vents toward her eyes. The cold air jolts her awake. An old R & B song is on the radio and takes her back to college, the last time she remembers being close to happy. Will she ever feel that way again? That carefree and full of hope for the future? Why is it so hard for her to just be content?

  The song ends and she’s back in the present. It’s funny how some parts of her life are measured more with soundtracks than with time.

  Just as she’s about to pull out of the parking lot, she sees a couple walk toward the entrance to Krog Street Market.

  But on second glance, it isn’t just any couple.

  It’s Karan with another girl.

  Natasha slumps in her seat even though she knows they can’t see her. She studies both of them. Karan, in a baby blue polo and gray shorts. His hair is shorter than usual but still thick and fluffy with a curl at the ends. Does he look tanner? Fitter? Both? He’s almost the same height as the girl. Karan used to always complain about being five-six, but it was one of Natasha’s favorite things about him. She didn’t have to stretch her neck or stand on her tiptoes to kiss him.

  The girl doesn’t look familiar. She’s in a sunflower-yellow dress and powder-blue heels. Large Chanel sunglasses cover her eyes. Her brunette highlighted hair is styled into big, bouncy curls. A black YSL bag with a gold chain hangs from her bony shoulder.

  How is this possible?

  Karan says something. The girl laughs. He looks relaxed, at ease.

  Natasha considers getting out of the car and saying hi, as if it’s a total coincidence that they’re passing each other at the entrance to the market.

  But something anchors her to the seat. She ignores the voice inside her demanding that she look away. No, she has to take in every single detail. She sees Karan the way that girl probably does: a cute, sweet, polite guy. Of course she’ll hang on to him. Who wouldn’t?

  That’s the type of person your mom would love, Natasha thinks, hating herself as soon as the insecure thought takes hold of her. Another follows, then another: She’s better than me. She’s prettier. She looks less complicated. She dresses up for you.

  Her self-doubt always operates in this opportunistic way. It just takes one thought to give birth to another one, until she’s lost in a web of her own making.

  Karan and the girl start to join the crowd. Natasha watches them until they disappear.

  Fourteen

  Suhani

  You are one of our top candidates for chief,” Dr. Wilson says as he taps a pen against his mahogany desk. “I’m sure you’re not surprised to hear that.”

  “That’s great news,” Suhani says in a way she hopes is both confident and modest. Everything she’s worked for since her intern year at Atlanta Memorial Hospital has led her to this moment: every agitated patient she helped soothe, every weekend she got here by seven a.m. instead of sleeping in and cuddling with Zack, every shift when she didn’t have time to eat or pee.

  She fiddles with her engagement ring and digs her nude heels into the carpet. Before she left the apartment this morning, she put on an extra layer of her plum Armani lipstick, aptly named Attitude. It’s her go-to when she needs to look fiercer than she feels.

  Part of her wants this meeting to hurry up so she can get it over with, while another part wishes she could freeze this moment, this feeling of getting recognized for all the work she’s done.

  “I know your father has already prepared you for a lot of what’s ahead,” Dr. Wilson says. “You’ve done a great job of building on what he’s taught you and also integrating your own clinical style into your work.”

  The wall behind Dr. Wilson has framed diplomas from all the places where he trained: Emory undergrad; Harvard Medical School; Johns Hopkins psychiatry residency, where he was a chief resident; child psychiatry fellowship at Yale; geriatric psychiatry fellowship at Emory. A massive red textbook titled Freud is on his desk. Underneath it, Intimacy and Infidelity. Sometimes being in Dr. Wilson’s office makes Suhani feel like she’s in a New Yorker cartoon. She’s spent hours in here reviewing difficult patient cases, discussing residency applicants, and receiving evaluations on her performance. Hours establishing her career as a psychiatrist.

  “Thank you,” Suhani says. “His career has always inspired me, but my mom’s
also a big part of why I went into medicine. She actually gave me my first toy stethoscope when I was four.”

  Dr. Wilson leans back in his leather chair. He’s wearing a black designer suit, gray tie, shiny shoes, and thick, black-rimmed glasses that Suhani once read were described as “geek chic.”

  “Really? I didn’t know that.” He takes a sip of black coffee from a mug that reads program director in red letters.

  Of course he didn’t know that. There was no space on the residency application to discuss Mom’s steady mixture of criticism and affection, the way it was given in the exact doses to ensure Suhani would always be motivated to make something of herself.

  “Yeah, she’s the one who always checked my report cards for all As and was concerned about me being well-rounded for college. She was really upset when I took my first practice MCAT and got a terrible score.” Suhani cringes at the memory of Mom standing in her doorway, covered with a contagious disappointment.

  As she watches Dr. Wilson nod with understanding, she reminds herself to stay professional. He isn’t her therapist. Suhani’s always admired people like Vanessa, who can put their guard down at work, but she’s never been able to be like them.

  “And she also understands people in a way nobody else does. Why they do certain things, if they’re hiding something, what they want—you know, all that insight about human nature that you can’t really teach.” Suhani smiles as she thinks of how much she’s always enjoyed Mom’s social commentary, whether it came from a place of curiosity or was straight-up gossip. “Anyway, if I do become chief, I want to start some initiatives that can have a big impact, maybe shift the way certain things have been done in the field.”

  “How so?” Dr. Wilson asks.

  Suhani’s heart rate increases as she tells herself to go for it. Make the pitch. Show Dr. Wilson that she’s thought this through and is the best person for the job. “I’ve been looking into the barriers that hold women back from getting mental health treatment. One of the biggest hindrances is the lack of research around how different events, like menstruation or childbirth, play a role. I worked to create the partnership with the ob-gyn clinic because I realized some of those patients avoid psychiatrists when they really could be helped by one. And I’m glad residents are able to learn from a variety of cases, but I think we can take that partnership one step further.”

  “Meaning?” Dr. Wilson raises an eyebrow with interest.

  “I think we should see if our residents can provide counseling to the ob-gyn patients who need it. There’s a lack of interventions for the parts of women’s mental health that are less understood, whether it’s the emotional changes in the postpartum period or the psychological scars of abuse or the potential impacts of birth control. I’m worried we are missing the chance to see patients during their stressful times because what they’re going through is just put in the category of ‘women’s issues.’”

  She’s taken back to that first meeting she had with her dean in med school. It was a struggle to just get out of bed, let alone dress up, and finally say what she had been ignoring for weeks. How did she not know then that something was wrong with her? She was nauseated the entire time she sat in that stiff, low chair, from where she could see the parking lot dotted with cherry blossoms and people—happy people—jogging. Even though her dean handed her a list with the names of therapists near campus, both of them knew Suhani wouldn’t go.

  “You know, that sounds like a great idea. And something we could definitely use in our program,” Dr. Wilson says.

  “Really?” Hope blossoms in her chest.

  “Really.” Dr. Wilson smiles. “I knew from the time I interviewed you that you’d do big things here.”

  On his desk, there’s a picture of his wife—blond and big smiled, Miss America pretty—and twin sons outside the Fox Theatre. From Suhani’s conversations with him and the gossip around the department, she’s gathered that the Wilsons live a cosmopolitan life. Their high-rise apartment overlooks Midtown. Even though the kids are ten years old, they’ve never eaten at an Olive Garden, shopped at Macy’s, or played at Chuck E. Cheese.

  Without children, she and Zack can live an equally sophisticated life. He’ll continue to thrive at his healthcare start-up while her days will be spent seeing patients, sitting on boards, and eventually becoming a program director herself one day. She can build a future that’s the opposite of her mother’s, one that’s free of slathering peanut butter and jelly on slices of bread, finely chopping vegetables, and brewing endless cups of chai for guests.

  “So, I’ll be in touch soon,” Dr. Wilson says. “We just have to finish speaking with the faculty members on our selection committee and get their perspectives on our top candidates. Due to some staffing changes, we’ve actually had to bring on some new faculty members to be part of the selection committee. You might remember a few of them from the gala night. Two of the internists and one of the neurologists were all part of the group that was introduced at the end of the reception.”

  Suhani makes sure to keep her expression even. Roshan was the only neurologist on that stage. This has to be some sick joke. Her ex has a say in whether she becomes a chief?

  She considers asking Dr. Wilson for the names of the faculty members but decides that’s weird. And Roshan wouldn’t sabotage her, would he? That would be a new low and even he couldn’t stoop there.

  Dr. Wilson stands as a signal that the meeting is over. “I’ve got to head to the Brain and Behavior wing for a meeting.”

  Suhani nods and thanks Dr. Wilson for his time. She prepares to go back to her office but as she sees him go toward the elevator, she’s compelled to join him.

  “I’m actually heading there myself,” she says.

  During their brisk walk, she and Dr. Wilson discuss everything from new Atlanta restaurants to upcoming hospital events to his own journey to rising in hospital administration. Suhani’s usually so on edge whenever she’s with him, so eager to make a good impression. But now a rush of relief washes over her. Her hard work is finally paying off.

  Atlanta Memorial’s sterile gray hallways are bustling with white-coated residents conducting afternoon rounds and nurses typing orders into mobile computers. A physical therapist pushes an old man in a wheelchair. An overhead page for a call from Pharmacy booms through the intercom.

  She texts Zack when Dr. Wilson stops to briefly talk to a colleague: I’m a top candidate for chief!

  ZACK: Of course you are! Not surprised.

  SUHANI: How’s your day?

  ZACK: Out of control. Still up for gimlets tonight at Little Spirit?

  SUHANI: Can’t wait.

  And then, before she can think, she adds, I’ve missed us.

  Zack texts back immediately. I’ve missed us, too.

  After Dr. Wilson turns at a hallway marked conference suites, Suhani steps into an empty patient room, savoring the quiet and the sunlight splashing the two stiff recliners that are pushed against the window for visitors. The rare moment of stillness infuses her with hope. Today is the day things will start turning around. She and her husband will be okay. Maybe everything from the past two months—all the misunderstandings, moments of irritation, arguments followed by grueling emotional hangovers—was simply run-of-the-mill marital adjustment. A standard rough patch, nothing more. And now they can finally move forward.

  She just has to take care of one more thing.

  In seconds, she’s pacing down the hallway again. The pain from her heels is overridden by her impending closure, closure she’s been craving for years.

  Roshan is standing outside his office, slipping his arms into his starched, spotless white coat.

  “Do you have a second?” Suhani says.

  “I was just heading out.” He adjusts his dark brown tie under the collar of his hunter-green button-down.

  “Then I’ll walk with you.” A quick glan
ce confirms that nobody else is around. Before they’ve even made it two feet, she turns to Roshan and says, “Are you going to get in the way of me being chief?”

  “What?” Roshan frowns.

  “You show up here and now you conveniently have a say in it. How are you even on the selection committee?”

  Suhani ignores the warmth spreading through her limbs, one that feels way too much like fear. It’s not Roshan’s effect on her; that atrophied years ago. This is just a combination of her meeting with Dr. Wilson and her light lunch—an apple, chopped salad, and lemon Spindrift—making her dizzy and disoriented. Mom often called Suhani’s meals “rabbit food” and remarked that it was “unacceptable for Indian people to eat like that.”

  “They’ve been needing an attending from neurology since the one who used to do it retired.” Roshan pauses in the doorway of an empty boardroom that has a stack of black folders and gold ballpoint pens in the center of a large wooden table. A projection screen displays the teal-blue homepage of Atlanta Memorial Hospital. Suhani follows him into the room and pushes the door closed with her heel.

  “So you’re going to give your opinions on residents you don’t even know?”

  “They probably wouldn’t take my input,” Roshan says. “Unless I had something significant to say.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Suhani challenges. The jerk always knew exactly how to push her buttons. She wonders if everyone has a person like that from their past, a person who occupies most of their revenge fantasies. Sometimes she wonders why she never told anyone, not even Natasha or Anuj, about what really happened with her and Roshan. But then she turns back to the same answer: shame. Shame can shut a mouth in a way nothing else can.

  Roshan looks unfazed, which only riles Suhani up more.

  “If you think for one second you’re going to get in the way of anything for me, you’re fucking mistaken, okay?” she says.