by Saumya Dave
“Mom, depression is a lot more complicated than that. There are a lot of reasons someone can have it. Sometimes people have a chemical imbalance, and that’s not their fault or anyone else’s,” Suhani says. “And just because she didn’t go through what you did doesn’t mean everything’s been easy for her. All of us have had to figure out how to fit in here and worry about honoring everything you and Dad sacrificed. You had things pushing you, motivating you, to make it here. We didn’t. I think Natasha always felt like she wasn’t good enough, like she wasn’t making you proud or happy by being herself. And that’s a lot to carry.”
Bina pulls her cardigan around her. A thought settles into her mind. She tells herself to keep it there, but it emerges as she absorbs the truth of her daughter’s words.
“I’ve been a bad mother.” Bina stares off into the distance. “I really have.”
“Don’t say that!” Suhani says as Anuj gives Bina a side hug. “That’s not true at all. We’ve all had misunderstandings, and now we just need to be there for her.”
Bina’s stomach grumbles. She clutches it and laughs.
“Let me grab you something from the cafeteria. You’ll need your strength,” Zack says. He turns to Suhani. “Do you want anything?”
“No, but I’ll go with you,” Suhani offers.
“It’s okay.” Zack starts walking away. “I’m good.”
“Beta, is everything okay with you and Zack?” Bina asks.
“Of course.” Suhani flashes a tight smile. “I think we’re all just worried because of this situation.”
To anyone else, this explanation would be enough. But Bina takes note of the high pitch in Suhani’s voice, the tension in her shoulders. Suhani may be better at lying than Natasha, but there’s always a brief moment that exposes her.
“Are you sure?” Bina presses. “Because it seems—”
“That’s weird,” Suhani interrupts as she pulls out her phone. “I have texts from Mira Auntie asking if you’re free. She says she’s been trying to reach you.”
“Oh! Right.” Bina digs through her handbag, which is packed with way too many snacks. Her phone now has fifty WhatsApp messages.
“What the heck is going on?” she mutters as she scrolls through the endless threads with her friends. Usually they’re filled with sassy memes or recipes or fun videos or Ayurvedic remedies. But today there’s just a flurry of words. First, a slew from Mira:
3:00 p.m.: Have you heard from Kavita?
4:24 p.m.: She’s not picking up her phone.
7:30 p.m.: It’s been three hours and still no answer.
8:55 p.m.: Bina, any luck? I’m getting very worried.
9:30 p.m.: YOU HAVE TO SEE THIS!
The last message is followed by a link to Samachar in America, the online Gujarati newspaper Bina, Deepak, and all their friends have been reading for years. Bina clicks the link. She gasps when the article fills her screen.
Local Women’s Group Threatens Cultural Integrity
A women’s group started in Atlanta by Bina Joshi, wife of Dr. Deepak Joshi, is spreading dangerous ideas that threaten the integrity of South Asian culture. Joshi named the group Chats Over Chai in an attempt to make it seem innocuous. However, Dr. Bipin Patel has stated that this group is spreading unhelpful messages within their community.
“I’m very concerned,” Dr. Patel said in an exclusive interview. Patel’s wife, Kavita, was a former participant in the group.
Bina stops reading. A flash of rage swallows her whole. She scrolls through her contacts and calls the only person who will know what to do.
Twenty-Two
Natasha
Ireally don’t need this. I can walk.” Natasha leans back in her wheelchair.
Shelly, the same nurse who took Natasha’s vitals in the ER, pats Natasha’s shoulders. “It’s protocol, sweetheart. I know it’s not fun.”
Shelly’s sparkling Minnie Mouse brooch and round glasses make Natasha want to give her a big hug. Well, those and the fact that Shelly is clearly giving Natasha special treatment since she’s Suhani’s sister. She took Natasha on the “extra-scenic” route through Atlanta Memorial Hospital by wheeling her past the nursery with all the adorable babies and the new cafeteria that has freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. It’s similar to how teachers used to get excited when they’d learn Natasha was related to Suhani, until they realized that she was exactly the opposite as a student.
Shelly removes a brass key and opens the two doors leading to the Psychiatric Unit. They really need two doors? A sign on the second door answers her question: staff, keep door locked behind you to prevent patients from leaving.
Natasha isn’t sure whether to scream or cry. There are dozens of people walking up and down the unit in skid-free socks and gray scrubs, the same types of scrubs she was forced to change into in the emergency room. She had to put her clothes, phone, ID, ChapStick, and hair clip into a plastic bag that was given to a security guard. The only way she’ll be able to use her phone while she’s here is by filling out a request to have it for fifteen minutes a day under supervision.
Some of the other patients make direct eye contact with Natasha, while others, the ones who worry her more, stare at the vinyl floor in a daze. Shelly wheels her past a room that’s empty except for an old piano and a stack of dusty gym mats. The one next to it has large wooden tables with benches that remind her of summer camp cafeterias. A stale smell, like old bread and mildew, permeates the entire place.
Shelly helps Natasha out of the wheelchair and gives her a brief run-through of the unit. Natasha can only process it in snippets. Visiting hours are strictly enforced. Only certain items can be brought by visitors for patients. There are multiple therapy groups throughout the day.
Natasha goes to her assigned room after she gets a folder, notebook, pencil, and printout of the rules. It’s freezing and sterile, and there’s one flickering fluorescent light that makes Natasha think of every creepy psych-ward movie she’s ever seen. Two twin beds are bolted to the floor. Suhani once told her that some patients tried to end their lives by having the beds collapse on them, and ever since then, all beds were fixed to the floor. A sink and mirror are at the back of the room. There are no handles for water, just buttons, so there’s no risk of anyone using the metal parts to hurt themselves. Natasha’s roommate is fast asleep and facing the stone wall.
“Try to get some rest,” Shelly said before she left the unit.
Take me with you! Natasha almost screamed. Please! I’m not like these other people!
She lies in bed and stares at the tiled ceiling. So this is what it’s like to be committed to a psych ward. This is where she really is. She feels like she’s suspended above her body, watching herself in this stiff, cold bed.
Without her phone, Netflix, or music, all she can do is think. Maybe I can somehow use this in a stand-up routine. She used to reassure herself this way whenever anything shitty happened. At least it’s material. Dad always claimed Natasha had a knack for making the most concerning situations entertaining in retrospect, whether it was how she negotiated getting a D raised to a C or the way she talked back to misogynistic family members in India. You refuse to play by any rules, Dad would say with a mixture of amusement and disbelief.
To Natasha’s surprise, she feels a sharp, aching pang for her family. Mom’s probably gazing up at her own ceiling, her thoughts spinning like the fan as Dad snores next to her. Suhani’s sitting up in bed, her face stained from the blue light of her laptop as she makes an action plan to ensure Natasha has the best possible hospital stay. Maybe she’s even on the phone with Anuj. Zack is next to her. He and Suhani will be okay. They have to be. They’re her ideal couple. If they can’t make it, there sure as hell isn’t any hope for anyone else.
Her thoughts are interrupted by her roommate murmuring, “What time is it?”
“I dun
no,” Natasha says without peeling her eyes from the ceiling. “Super late.”
“Natasha?”
Natasha’s head snaps up. How does her roommate know her name? She slowly turns and registers the features one at a time. Thick, dark hair that’s matted from hours spent against a pillow. Petite and perfect-postured frame. Rings of eyeliner.
Holy shit.
Alexis Diaz.
Her role model, Alexis Diaz!
The Alexis Diaz is her roommate on the Atlanta Memorial Inpatient Psychiatry Ward. How?!
“Wha . . . what are you doing here?” Natasha clutches her sheets. If she was a character in an old Disney Channel movie, Alexis would be a fun and friendly figment of her imagination.
But she’s real. And here. The woman whose videos Natasha’s memorized, whose Wikipedia page she turns to for motivation, that woman is in her own uncomfortable bed right next to Natasha.
“Wow, what a coincidence, right?” Alexis smiles and scoots to the edge of her bed.
“That is one way to say it.” Natasha isn’t sure why she laughs. Is it because of sheer surprise? Nerves? “You’re literally the last person I ever expected to see here.”
Alexis nods. “I checked myself in a couple of days ago because I knew I was getting to a bad place.”
“You’re here voluntarily?” Natasha raises her eyebrows. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. I have bipolar disorder. Got diagnosed a few years ago after I was running around naked on Peachtree Street and screaming I’d be a queen someday. They had to restrain me and stick a needle in my ass and put me in my own room here. It traumatized me so much that I’ll do anything to make sure I don’t go through that again.”
“Oh my God. I’m so sorry you went through that,” Natasha says. Hearing her role model discuss her mental illness so matter-of-factly gives Natasha an unexpected sense of comfort. Maybe she isn’t defective. Maybe it’s okay to be struggling.
“It’s okay. I’m in a better place now . . . well, not now, but in general,” Alexis says. “I know myself better than I did back then. I know when to warn the people in my life that I’m not doing well.”
“Are your parents supportive about everything you’re dealing with?” Natasha asks, careful to not give away just how much she’s researched Alexis’s life. From Alexis’s references to them in her YouTube comedy sketches and the pictures on social media, they don’t strike Natasha as the let’s-discuss-our-mental-health types.
“It took awhile and there are still days they don’t get it. Which I expected, them being conservative and Mexican and believing you just deal with whatever happens to you,” Alexis says. “But every month gets easier. My dad was super depressed after my parents came to America. He never got any help for it, but I think he and my mom now realize how much it affected their marriage, my childhood, our entire lives, really. But they’ve also always lived in neighborhoods with people who understood them and spoke the same language and ate the same food. I didn’t have that.”
“Yeah, I totally get that,” Natasha says, finding comfort in relating to Alexis even more than she realized was possible.
“So what happened with you?” Alexis asks.
Natasha gives Alexis a summary of the past day. It’s a smoother version of the one she provided for the nurses and Dr. Chan. Telling the story gets easier each time.
“Jeez.” Alexis shakes her head. “That really sucks. All of it.”
Natasha shrugs. Something about sharing the Karan part makes her feel especially pathetic. She’s supposed to be working to be a serious comedian, a woman she’s proud of.
“When are you going to leave?” Natasha asks.
“I’ll let the team decide that,” Alexis says. Her voice is coated with nonchalance, as though she’s simply deciding what to order at a restaurant, not considering how long she’ll stay locked up on a psych ward.
“They just decide when you’re ready?” Natasha asks in disbelief. How is a group of people supposed to know when she can go home?
“Basically.” Alexis nods. “Just so you’re aware, they are going to make you go through every detail all over again, but, like, to an audience. Nurses, a social worker, some residents, an occupational therapist. And then they’ll recommend something, probably a medicine, and tell you to go to as many groups as possible. The groups are going to seem cheesy and sometimes they kind of are, but they help. They really help. So does getting a therapist.”
“I actually had a therapist before,” Natasha says before she gives Alexis a brief run-through of her sessions with Dr. Jenkins.
“Girl, no.” Alexis puts her hand up. “Look, that woman sounds nice and all, but you need a therapist who gets it. Really gets it.”
“Gets what?”
“Everything. Being a woman of color. A child of immigrants. Having parents who went through some real shit.” Alexis holds up one, two, then three fingers with each point she makes. “All that stuff white people haven’t experienced but, you know, makes us who we are. Tell the team that’s what you want. Trust me on this.”
“I don’t know how my parents will feel about me going to therapy,” Natasha says. “My sister’s the only one who knows I saw Dr. Jenkins. And that sounds weird, especially since my dad’s a psychiatrist. But he and my mom don’t always get what I’m going through.”
“Of course they don’t,” Alexis says, unfazed. “But that’s sort of the point. You can show them another way. My therapist told me that going to therapy is to learn and unlearn. I’m supposed to learn about myself and also unlearn some of the toxic and unhelpful messages that my parents and our culture put in my head. Honestly, you should consider some family therapy.”
Natasha scoffs. “And you should meet my mom and then try to suggest that.”
Natasha pictures Mom scaring the poor therapist out of the room by using a combination of criticism and blatant scolding. Or even more likely, Dad and Suhani sharing their elite mental health knowledge and that scaring the therapist out of the room. Every scenario possible leads to the therapist getting scared and needing to leave the room. The world needs good therapists, and for the sake of them everywhere, Natasha just can’t suggest family therapy.
“I’m serious! Having a professional outsider to moderate can be a total game changer. I bet the team will recommend it for you. And you know,” Alexis continues, “getting a better grasp over all my shit has really helped my comedy.”
“Really? I thought comedians were supposed to be depressed and anxious. I’ve been telling myself that my anger’s a part of my comedic charm,” Natasha says, half-joking, half-serious.
“Ha, I used to think that, too. One of the biggest mistakes I made was justifying how bad I felt because so many of my idols struggled. But trust me. You can create better when you don’t have so much weighing you down.” Alexis folds her hands and reminds Natasha of the monks in India that Mom used to pray to. “And, speaking of creating, do you wanna tell me why you stopped my class? Yes, I noticed.”
A weight settles in Natasha’s stomach. “Um, do you not remember squashing my biggest dream? Telling me I didn’t seem like a comedian?”
“I didn’t say that!” Alexis’s loud voice takes away any residual fatigue that’s been lingering in Natasha’s body.
“Yeah, you did,” Natasha says as she remembers how Alexis’s words looped in her head for weeks.
“I said I didn’t see you as a stand-up comedian yet,” Alexis says.
“Same thing!”
“It’s not at all. Natasha, can you tell me what you even like about stand-up?”
“Of course,” Natasha says with a burst of confidence. “I like writing things and then, um, expressing them with the power of the microphone and feeling the greater purpose and fulfillment of the bright spotlight. . . .”
Alexis looks at Natasha with an expression that says, Do you even
hear yourself?
“Fine, so I hate being onstage, but who cares? It’s something I have to work on,” Natasha says.
“Maybe. Maybe with some time, work, and the stuff you can accomplish here, it’ll feel more natural,” Alexis agrees.
“But I love writing things that make m—”
“Exactly!” Alexis interrupts. “You love writing. And I remembered your writing from when you applied for my class. It was good. Really good. I think you’ve got something a lot of people would want to see. Doing stand-up comedy is writing and performing. I know that if you work on your writing first and then move to performing, you have the potential to someday be the type of comedian you want.”
“But I have been working on it,” Natasha says.
“I mean really working in a way that reshapes you.” Alexis makes a fist. “Not giving up when you get feedback. Not playing it safe. If you’re committing to this life, you’re committing to rejections and instability and travel and going against a world where women are told they have to be pretty and agreeable, not hilarious and aggressive.”
“So you’re saying I need to get out of my comfort zone and try harder?” Natasha asks. She could have gotten that advice from a collection of Instagram quotes.
“Yes!” Alexis says. “And work your ass off for you, not to prove something to your family, the guy you almost married, or even the world.”
Natasha lets Alexis’s words settle over her like a cozy blanket. Just one conversation with her makes Natasha feel like a different person, one full of possibility and promise. Mom always told her that there was nothing more empowering than being around a woman who let you emotionally expose yourself. Devi Auntie does that for Mom. Natasha used to think Anita Auntie did, too.
“I never thought I was trying to prove anything. But maybe on some level I was. I tried to get to this place where I wasn’t the weirdo anymore and where I had everything,” Natasha admits. “My best friend becomes my husband. My family proud of me. My friends understanding everything I’m going through.” Natasha’s voice becomes softer as she pictures her hypothetical life. Sunday brunches with her and Karan’s families. Being a bridesmaid in Ifeoma’s wedding. Suhani, Zack, and Anuj cheering for her at a comedy club.
