Symptoms of a Heartbreak

by Sona Charaipotra

  Or maybe I’m being too harsh. After all, her kid is sick. But Anya Auntie’s been my nemesis ever since I yelled at her at a family party for pinching my cheeks every time I saw her as a kid—“so cute, so chubby”—so rude! She didn’t like being called out on her bad behavior, and it blew up into this really messy thing about “respecting your elders.” I was fourteen, though. So don’t touch my face.

  “Ms. Sharma, protocol dictates that Dr. Sehgal be here, at least for the intake portion of Priyanka’s evaluation,” Arora says. “Then we can decide—”

  “I’ve already decided. I don’t want her on the case.”

  My mom pokes her head into the room, her white coat wrinkled and stained with I don’t want to know what, her mouth trying to smile instead of pucker. “Anya, I thought I heard you. Ramesh told me you were here with Pinky.” My mom rushes over to the baby, lifting her for a cuddle even though she’s still asleep. She sits, tucking the child into her lap like the pro she is—at mothering and at doctoring. “What’s happening? Do we have a diagnosis yet?”

  “We’re getting started,” Arora says, his voice ever patient. He’s so not cut out to tackle dragons and lions. “It seems Ms. Sharma would prefer that Dr. Sehgal, Junior that is, be taken off the case.”

  “Hanji, then that is what needs to happen,” my mother says, decisive.

  “Mom!” I say. “I have information that could be pertinent—critical—to the diagnosis.”

  “So list that information in detail on the chart and go.”

  “Mother.” I clear my throat. “Dr. Sehgal, I have just as much right as Drs. Cho and Howard to be present for this evaluation. I have the same medical qualifications and am an intern in the same program. And, in fact, I have more right—even need—to be here, if you consider that I was present for the actual incident.”

  “You don’t have the same rights because the patient’s guardian hasn’t granted them to you,” my mother says tersely. “Case closed.”

  “But—”

  “Dr. Sehgal, I’m telling you as a member of the board at Princeton Presbyterian—and your mother—that you must abide by the patient’s wishes. And in this case, the patient is a minor, so her parents’ wishes.” She looks at Arora scoldingly, and Dragon Auntie nods vigorously. But what pinches the most is Cho silently laughing behind us. “You know that.”

  “She’s right.” Arora shrugs, defeated. He turns to me. “I can’t override the patient’s request—even if I do think it’s in her best interest to keep you on the case. Dr. Sehgal, will you note your findings on the file, per the consulting physician here’s recommendations?” Then he nods toward the door. “And in the meantime,” he says, “step outside.”

  I do my best not to suck my teeth at Arora or my mother, and head toward the door, feeling the heat of Dragon Auntie’s glare burn my cheeks as I walk out.

  Patient Name: Priyanka “Pinky” Sharma

  DOB: December 22, 2015

  DIAGNOSIS: Aggressive high-grade medulloblastoma

  PROGNOSIS: 20 percent success rate with surgical treatment

  Priyanka “Pinky” Sharma, 2. Of Indian descent, Punjabi. Family history of heart disease and diabetes, late onset manifestations. Child experienced a grand mal seizure at a local restaurant and was attended by oncology intern Saira Sehgal, who requested a follow-up visit. Emergency admitted the patient and ran a battery of tests, including blood work, a pulse ox, CAT scan, and an MRI, which revealed a coin-sized tumor. Dr. Abhishek Arora and team diagnosed this as an acute growth occurring, aggressive high-grade medulloblastoma in the rear cerebellum region.

  Dr. Arora suggests transfer to a facility with comprehensive molecular profiling options before an invasive procedure is planned.

  CHAPTER 8

  We’re in the intern lounge, wrapping up patient paperwork, and I can feel Cho itching to pat me on the head every time I get an answer right, like a kitten. But I’m not a kitten. I’m a lion. And I’m about to roar.

  “And why would you use this methodology?” Cho says, quizzing me on the patient chart we’re going over like a tutor instead of my peer, my equal.

  “Cho, you don’t have to quiz me. We both graduated med school, remember?”

  “What, so no one’s allowed to question the great Girl Genius? Guess you only take orders from Mommy.”

  That hits—my mother’s interference earlier still stings like that jellyfish that got me when I was ten.

  “Better than sucking up to Davis and company twenty-four-seven!” I say. “But I guess that’s part of the curriculum at Yale.”

  José dramatically takes a seat and makes popcorn-eating motions.

  Cho peers down at me, grinning. “If you were actually smart, you’d realize that you should be doing some sucking up, too.”

  Howard shimmies her way into the little space between us, putting a hand on each of our foreheads and pushing back. “All right, all right,” she says. “Break it up.” She’s actually an inch or two taller than Cho, so she stares him straight in the face. “You, pick on someone your own size.” Then she turns to me. “And you, go take a break.”

  José busts out laughing. “I haven’t seen drama this good since Grey’s Anatomy,” he says. “Which is the reason I became a nurse. I thought there’d be more hot docs.”

  Cho frowns, not sure whether to be pleased or insulted. Then remembers his mission: “Yeah, Saira. Time for a time-out!”

  I storm off without another word. I do need a break. A long one. That’s the thing about being an intern: You’re on. The whole time. For, like, ten hours straight. Well, actually, ten hours for me. Sixteen for the others. I don’t know how the other interns hack it. Because after eight patients in two hours, I’m exhausted.

  “I’ll bring you back a double espresso,” I say to Howard, and grab my bag. I can feel my phone vibrating in it. I’m not ready to face Lizzie and her mounting demands about evening plans. I want to crawl into bed and sleep through the weekend.

  Maybe I underestimated how much work this is going to be. My mom makes it look so easy—she does rotations, runs a private practice, and manages a household with three kids, a dog, a demanding mother-in-law, and a very messy husband. All without saying so much as oof. Maybe that’s why she needs twelve cups of chai a day. I could use one myself now. My mom has a secret stash of actual chai in her office, along with a contraband hot plate, and I think about swiping some, but I’m just too mad. She’s being a total daayan lately. (Dadi would roast me for calling my mom a witch, even though she would, too, if she could get away with it.)

  I text Lizzie. She’s only got a few weeks left before her summer acting camp. Maybe I should ask her to meet me for pancakes at the diner down the street. But I know I won’t actually have time to sit and eat. Maybe I’ll go grab a real coffee, though. Their hazelnut brûlée is amazing.

  I head to the lockers and I stash my coat and scrubs, changing into jeans and Taara’s super-soft vintage Nirvana shirt, which she doesn’t know I stole from her closet. Then I start toward the back elevators so none of the other staff will spot me.

  I drum my fingers against my legs, trying not to look to the left at that darkened hallway. The one that’s been beckoning. But it’s inevitable. Harper’s face pops into my head.

  The elevator dings and opens, but my feet have other plans. I walk down to the far end of the hall, past the patient rooms, away from the nurses’ stations. Away from the administrative offices, in a wing only the janitors really ever visit. Or at least that’s how it was back then.

  Harsh, flickering lights flash overhead. The eerie, dark quiet of the hall sends a shiver through me.

  This is the one place I’ve managed to avoid so far in the week I’ve worked here.

  The place where Harper and I hung out the most when she was sick.

  I stand in front of the door for a minute—dull gray steel, a square window makes up the top half, covered over with privacy paper that’s thinned with age and holes. A small sign calls it the
patient lounge, and a keypad sits untouched above the handle. I punch in the numbers from memory—one-six-two-six—not expecting the door to open.

  But it does.

  I hesitate for a minute, then shake it off, trying to laugh. It’s just a room. A dusty, old, underused room. A place to take a real break.

  I step through and pull the door closed behind me. It’s like walking into the past, like maybe some part of Harper is still here. Or some part of eight-year-old me.

  My heart is racing—sinus tachycardia, I self-diagnose, an accelerated beat due to emotional distress or excitement. I take a few deep breaths and focus, the way Mom taught me, and wonder if I should maybe step right back out that door. Clearly, my body’s telling me I’m not ready for this.

  But my mind floods with memories of the hours Harper and I spent here, playing endless rounds of Monopoly with our earrings as the game pieces, since the original ones were all missing, or watching old movies—actual video tapes—like Anne of Green Gables or The NeverEnding Story on the VCR that was never upgraded. The deep breaths don’t help at all.

  I flip on the light switch, and the brightening reveals a pretty nondescript room, beige, concrete-block walls, a couple of rows of waiting room–style chairs, a sofa that’s seen better days, an ancient big box TV on a black console table, and, in one corner, a little kitchenette with a sink, a coffee maker, and small fridge, brown and noisy, like the ones they had in the studio I shared with my dad during my first summer at the Hopkins gifted program. There’s the bulletin board near the window, still filled with photos of patients, some healed and moved on, others dead and mourned. Right there in the corner is the one we stapled up there together taken just before she died. Her parents kept in touch for a while after they moved away, but I haven't heard from them in years, and I can't find them online. Mom says they split up. The thought hurts my heart.

  I touch the image, thick with age and dust, and uncover a memory of me and Harper, age eight, bright-eyed and flashing our gap-toothed grins.

  Before she lost her hair, and her will.

  Before I lost her.

  It’s all exactly the same, like we were here yesterday.

  A part of me is relieved, and a part of me is disappointed.

  I sneeze. Once, twice, three times. A fine dust coats pretty much everything in the room, and as I head toward the window to open the shades, I can see it come to life, particles twirling in the sun like they’re doing a little dance. Harper and I used to spin in the sunlight here, my dresses and her little-kid robe flaring around us, the beams hitting our faces. She missed the sunshine when they stopped letting her leave the hospital.

  I twirl a few times, and then I’m sneezing again, one, two, three, an endless fit of them, giving way to tears.

  They’ve just started streaming when I hear the word.

  “Gesundheit.”

  “What?” I freeze. In the glare of the light, I can just make out the shadow of a figure at the door.

  “Salud?” A male voice, amused.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “It means bless you. They both do.”

  The owner of the voice steps forward out of the shadows and peers at me, and I wipe at my face, trying to erase the tears.

  “Or maybe I should say jai mata di? Or waheguru? You okay?”

  It’s him. Cutie McFreckles. The guy from the elevator.

  I take a step back, right into the wall and the window. “Yeah, I uh—how did you know that?” My left hand automatically grasps the silver kara that circles my right wrist. “Waheguru” is what the Sikh side of my family says when I sneeze. Even Taara and I don’t use it very often.

  “One of my lacrosse buddies, Tarun, is Indian. His family says it whenever I sneeze. Which is a lot. Like you.” He eyes me. “Hey, you’re that girl. From the other day. In the hall. I saw you with your mother. She’s hovery. Like mine.” He steps forward, offering me his hand to shake, like we’re grown-ups. “I’m Lincoln. Link Rad. You’re the new kid.” His eyes travel to the image I was just looking at. The one of little me and Harper. “Maybe not so new?”

  I take his hand. It’s cool and strong. A ladder of bruises climbs his arm. When I look up, he’s smiling, and there’s a tiny gap between his front two teeth.

  Little bursts of energy fire through me like static electricity, zinging all the way to my toes. The small hairs on the back of my neck stand straight and tall, and I pull my hand away too quickly.

  His hand travels toward my face, then into my hair.

  I step back.

  “I’m not contagious. But you’ve got this”—he flashes me two fingers coated with dust—“in your hair. That explains the sneezing.” One half of his mouth lifts into a practiced smirk.

  This is the first time I can really get a good long look at him. He’s like someone right out of Lizzie’s favorite fansite: lean and tall, with floppy black hair that falls into hazel eyes that are sunlight bright against pale skin. Actually, it’s a little orangey. He should be checked for jaundice, maybe? He’s wearing a Beatles T-shirt, skater shorts, and kicks. His face is all planes and angles, long forehead, sharp cheekbones. And then there’s that tiny gap between his two front teeth. The little flaw in an otherwise perfectly straight, white, toothpaste ad–worthy smile. The thing that makes him human. Well, that, and the cancer, of course, which has made itself known with small bruises along his jawline.

  He’s got a guitar case slung over his left shoulder, which is the thing that usually seals the deal, right? I should be swooning—if I did things like that. Or maybe not. He seems like trouble.

  Diagnosis: Heartbreaker.

  Prognosis: I’m in trouble now.

  I stare so long, he finally says, “What’s the diagnosis? Are we both doomed?”

  I almost bite my tongue—literally. It’s like he’s in my head.

  Then he adds: “My cancer is probably worse than yours.”

  Oh. He thinks I’m a patient, too.

  And I’m starting to feel like one. My skin is clammy and my palms are slick with sweat. I’m definitely having some kind of reaction. Chemical, or maybe allergic. I sniff. The cologne maybe—it’s fresh but spicy, cinnamon and oranges. I take an involuntary step closer, then back, bumping into a nearby table. “Uh, I—”

  He mistakes my incoherence for emotional trauma. “Oh, too soon. Can’t deal. That’s okay.” Then, “You want some coffee?”

  “There’s coffee?”

  “Don’t get too excited. It’s not very good. And powdered creamer. We keep a secret stash, along with other contraband—cookies, Twix, beef jerky. The Korean BBQ stuff is mine, but it hardly tastes like the real deal. What’re you gonna do? Anyway, you gotta replace what you take. And don’t eat any of the cake donuts. Tommy’s very possessive.”

  He puts the case down and rummages through one of the cabinets near the windows. “So were you just admitted? Haven’t seen you.”

  “N-no,” I stammer. What is wrong with me?

  He frowns for a second and looks me over. “Oh, a readmit, huh? You look like you’re holding up pretty well.”

  “So do you,” I say. I don’t know why I don’t correct him. Only that I’m not ready to reveal any truths.

  “Yup. Prognosis: seventy-eight percent. Decent odds. Especially for take two. Metastatic leukemia, first recurrence,” he says, pulling out two strips of beef jerky and standing. He offers one to me. I shake my head. “Take two, essentially. If they’re talking marrow—which is likely next—I’m screwed.”

  When I raise an eyebrow, he explains: “My mom’s Korean, and my dad’s Scottish and Dutch. A rare mix for sure.” He shrugs. “Not much to choose from, gotta be hopeful. What did you say your name was?”

  “I didn’t. Saira. Like Sara, with an extra i. Sigh-ra.”

  He grins. “That’s a great name.” He leans down again and pulls out a bag of mini chocolates. “Twix? Nah, I peg you as a Kit Kat girl.” He offers it again, and this time I take it, our hands grazing for
a second too long. And then I start rambling.

  “My parents were obsessed with this sixties Bollywood star named Saira Banu. My sister is named Taara, which actually means ‘star,’ and she could be one. I mean, she’s gorgeous.” I’m babbling now, talking about her first year at Rutgers and missing her and I don’t know what else.

  “That’s cool. I’m not going to college. When I bust out of here, I’m going to audition for Rock Star Boot Camp. Have you been watching the latest season?”

  I shake my head. I haven’t seen the latest season of anything, except for maybe Dadima’s new favorite Hindi soap opera. It makes for soothing background noise.

  “There’s not a lot of real talent out there. I’ve been working on a new piece. Want to hear it?” he says, gesturing to the guitar case. “Unless you’ve got an appointment? I need to get more practice in front of strangers.”

  I should find his confidence annoying and overbearing, but he kind of reminds me of myself, and it doesn’t feel forced or fake like Cho. Or maybe it’s the way his eyes are taking me in, intent, looking for telltale signs of cancer, lurking, looming, like a shark in placid waters. I’ve seen people do it again and again—I did it endlessly myself this morning. I should tell him now, because the chances are almost 100 percent that he’ll end up on one of my rotations this week.

  But I can’t.

  I don’t want to.

  He’s pretty much the only person who’s talked to me like a normal person in years. Because he doesn’t know me as “Girl Genius.” To him, I’m just a girl. And maybe a patient.

  “Yeah, I’ve gotta go in, like, five.” A weird high pitch elevates my voice, and heat climbs up my neck and cheeks. What’s wrong with me? “Maybe another time?” Then I add, “I heard this is the place to be when you’re not hooked up to machines.”

  My phone vibrates. And he looks at me like, You gonna get that?

  I press the buzzer to shut it up without checking. I know it’s Lizzie again, yelling at me for ignoring her texts, but I want to keep talking to him. “You in here a lot?” Maybe this place has changed after all, if the kids are actually using it.