Symptoms of a Heartbreak

by Sona Charaipotra

  “Yeah, I’ve been hiding out in here between sessions. I’m outpatient right now, I think they’re going to readmit me as in-patient in a minute,” he says, looking at his arms, touching some of the bruises. “It’ll get worse before it gets better. But it will get better.”

  His nostrils flare, pink around the edges, and I can tell he’s due for a nosebleed in a second, so I grab a tissue from my bag and hand it to him.

  “Oh, thanks.” He dabs at his nose, completely unselfconscious. “Guess you’re used to that, too, huh?”

  My phone buzzes again. “Something like that,” I say. “Anyway, gotta run. Someone’s waiting for me.” Did that sound weird? “Nice meeting you, Link.”

  “You too, Saira with an i,” he says, and grins.

  I walk super carefully toward the door, waving as I step out of it. Once it’s closed, I lean against it, and try to calm myself down. My pulse is still racing, there’s a trickle of sweat settling into the small of my back; my cheeks and neck are flushed and warm to the touch. Why am I so worked up? Must be the dust. Or a potential cologne allergy. I should do an allergy panel. Or something.

  My phone buzzes again. I can’t answer. I can’t do anything at all, really. I hear him behind the door, muffled sounds slipping through and then the low, slow strum of a guitar. It’s a gentle thrum, his voice quiet above it, hushed, like a lullaby, even though I can’t quite make out the words. The rhythm of my heart mellows to the music, and I take a deep breath, then another, letting the sound settle deep into my muscles, easing my body in a way it hasn’t in days, months, years. Exhaustion washes over me, making me want to slip out of this body entirely, the way Dadi always says old souls can, and back into that room. Just to listen.

  I can’t believe myself. I’m totally my mother’s daughter, eavesdropping on a clearly private moment. And not able to walk away.

  I will myself away from the door, catching my reflection as I’m about to step away. There’s dust in my hair, and my eyebrows are still too much for my small face, and the T-shirt looks old and tattered instead of vintage cool, like it would on Taara. My jeans have a ketchup stain—or is it blood?—faded and pink, on the left thigh, and my sneakers are so close to death that Mom would command me to bury them already if she saw them. But maybe she’s right. Maybe it’s time for an upgrade. Of all of me.

  Quietly, I tiptoe away. I have to get to a mirror. Or a shower. Or call my sister. Yes, Taara. She’ll help me figure this all out. Stat.

  CHAPTER 9

  It’s nearly seven p.m., and I’ve been waiting for forty minutes. Almost the end of my second week in, and this has become the usual. Mom’s late. Of course. She’s been texting me, but I’m still mad, and deliberating calling a car service. I’m sick of sitting in the intern lounge, where Cho is hovering, itching for another argument, so I stash my doctorly stuff in my locker and head downstairs for some fresh air. I head to the main hall elevator bank, and there he is.

  Link.

  Waiting by the elevators, humming to himself with his headphones on, his guitar slung over his shoulder.

  I haven’t seen him since that day in the lounge, almost a week ago. And, I’ll admit, I haven’t stopped thinking about him since.

  I freeze, wondering if I should wait and let him get on and avoid making a fool of myself again. But something makes me take one step and then another and then another until I’m standing next to him, absolutely quiet, staring at the ratty Chucks on my feet. Hoping he’ll notice I’m standing there, but not quite ready to, like, you know, say something.

  Like maybe: So what kind of guitar is that?

  Or: Fancy meeting you again. You come here often?

  Or even: Man, these are the slowest elevators known to humankind.

  Or: What med sked are you on for the recurrence? You think it might help if they ramp up the methotrexate?

  Okay, maybe not that.

  Instead I drop my backpack, and my tablet and a copy of Living with Childhood Cancer: A Practical Guide to Helping Families Cope fall out of it and onto the floor. Oops.

  “Hey!” he says, slipping his headphones down to his shoulders. “How’s it going?”

  I stumble as I reach to pick up my bag, and when he does the same, we bonk heads.

  “Ouch,” we both say at the same time. “Sorry,” we add, rubbing our heads. Then he laughs, and so do I.

  I grab my bag and my tablet, and he picks up the book, peering at it curiously before he hands it back to me. “They’re still making the newbies read this, huh?” he says with a grin, that dimple denting his cheek again. “You’d think someone would have written something new by now.”

  “Someone should.” I shrug, then add: “I guess it’s considered a classic.”

  “Yeah.” He looks down at his shoes, frowning suddenly. “I think they’re gonna readmit me.” Then he looks up and smiles. “I’m about to live it up while I can.”

  “Oh yeah?” I say, and look at my smartwatch. Force of habit. “Wild weekend plans?”

  He grins. “Yeah. You?”

  “Pj’s and old Bollywood films with my dad.” I grin back. “I like to party.”

  “I love Bollywood movies! I’ve watched a few online. You’ll have to rec some. What’s your favorite?”

  “Two: Bobby, which is, like, way, way old. And Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge. Which is, like, slightly less old.”

  “Shah Rukh Khan, right?”

  “Yeah, one of his early ones.”

  “Maybe we can watch sometime,” he says, then bites his lip, so the dent in his cheek digs deeper. “I mean, like, in the lounge or something.”

  I smile. “Sure. My…” I swallow Vish’s name before it slips out. “I can get a copy on my laptop.”

  Howard walks toward the elevator, fresh from a shower in the intern lounge. She’s ditched her lab coat and work wear for a slinky summer dress that shows off all her curves. She sashays over and strikes a pose, waiting for me to comment.

  “Sizzling,” I say, obliging.

  Link nods in agreement. “Hot date?”

  “Damn straight,” she says, laughing.

  Then she grabs my arm, leaning in close. “You did great today, by the way.”

  I turn beet red. “Thanks.”

  The elevator pings. Link and I step into it, but Howard stays, looking at her phone. “Oh, I forgot my keys.” She waves and runs back toward the intern lounge.

  “She’s new, I think,” Link says after hitting the button for the lobby.

  “Yup,” I say, looking straight ahead. Withholding is not lying, right?

  “Seems nice.”

  “She’s amazing,” I say, still not looking at him.

  “Good. It’s important to like your doctors,” he says, all Obi-Wan in his wisdom. “You’ll be spending a lot of time with them.”

  I nod. “A lot.”

  When we get to the lobby, my mom’s still not there. But Arora is—and dressed in a suit. It’s the first time I’ve seen him without his lab coat, and he looks very dapper. Do all doctors dress like this off-duty? I definitely missed that memo.

  He waves, and my first instinct is to duck, or leap away from Link. “Hey, Link. Saira.” Arora grins at me and at Link, and we both wave back awkwardly.

  I decide to be busy, focus on my phone, and text my mom.

  I can still feel Link watching me, though.

  “You need a ride somewhere?” Link says.

  “Nah. My mom’s driving me home. She’s perpetually late.”

  Link smiles again, the light in his eyes and his smile blinding me. “I remember.”

  I can feel the heat at my throat, the erythema coloring my cheeks. Breathe, I remind myself. “She writes it off as a brown-people thing, but it’s signature Rana Sehgal.”

  “Sehgal. Saira Sehgal. I like it, Saira with an i,” Link says. He pulls keys from his pocket, then heads toward the door. “See you around.”

  That’s the problem, I realize with a thud in my stomach. He definitely w
ill.

  And that will ruin everything.

  I wait for an appropriate moment or two to pass, look at my smartwatch again, wave at Arora, and run out the door to wait at the car. Too. Much. Stress.

  * * *

  It’s nearly eight by the time we pull up in front of the house, and I’m exhausted. We rode home in silence, which was fine with me. All I want now is my dadima’s thari chicken, then a piping hot cup of chai and my pajamas in front of the TV while I binge-watch old Amitabh movies with Papa. (He likes to school me in the classics.) Lizzie’s been texting nonstop about yet another pool party at Cat’s house, and as I climb out to follow Mom up the front walk, my phone buzzes. I send it to voice mail, then it starts ringing again. Lizzie is relentless.

  “Lizzie again?” my mom asks irritatedly as she unlocks the door. “Pick it up already.” She bustles inside and I follow as I answer.

  “Hello?” The scent of Dadi’s thari chicken—thick with cumin and cinnamon—fills my nostrils as we step into the front hall.

  “Hey, where are you?” Lizzie’s voice is nearly drowned out by the din of the party in the background—bass thumping, poolside shrieks and splashing. I can see the scene in my head, and it looks miserable.

  “I just got home.” I kick off my shoes, phone glued to one ear, and head to the bathroom to wash my hands. Dadi doesn’t like us bringing germs into her kitchen. “About to eat.”

  “Thari chicken?” Lizzie says, and I can almost hear her drooling.

  “Of course.” I scrub my hands with soap and dry them on the pale blue hand towel. I look at my face in the mirror. It’s been just over a week, and it’s already showing the wear and tear of forty-hour weeks. How will I ever manage sixty? “You wanna come eat?”

  “No, actually, I need you to come here.” She’s shouting into the phone, so I put it on speaker. My mom’s already puttered away, out of earshot.

  “I told you I couldn’t.”

  “Vish’s wasted. Like, trashed. For real.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “And he’s being totally handsy with everyone. Not a good look.”

  “Can’t you drive him home?”

  “Uh, I would. Except I don’t wanna leave. I’ve been flirting with Eric all night.” I think she can feel me frowning, because she adds, “And, okay, I’m trashed, too.”

  “Call a car service.”

  “His parents would slaughter him.” Even though they’re vegetarians. But dammit. She’s right.

  “Okay, I’m on my way.”

  I run up to the kitchen, and the proximity of the thari wala chicken that I’m about to miss makes me want to cry. My dad has piled his plate high with chicken and a stack of ghee-slathered rotis; the pungency of the fresh onion, sprinkled with vinegar, lal mirch, and chaat masala, the mix of spice and sour, is making my eyes—and mouth—water. I reach over and pop a few cherry tomatoes in my mouth, pondering how to handle this.

  “Is Lizzie coming?” Dadima asks, excited, as she brings another fluffy roti over. She offers it to me, but I wave toward my mom, who’s settling in at the kitchen table, already in her nightgown. “Shall I make her a parantha?”

  Dadi loves Lizzie and her unabashed appreciation for Indian food. She doesn’t love Vish nearly as much because, in Dadi’s not-so-humble opinion, he’s half-Gujarati and vegetarian and therefore his food choices are decidedly wrong.

  “No, I have to go there. She needs, uh, homework help.” I suck at lying. But I do it so rarely, no one even looks up from their plates. “I mean, she’s at a study group. They need help. With chemistry. Nonorganic. Substitution reactions.” Do they study those in high school? “Vish’s there, too.”

  “Good,” Mom says. “It’s Friday night. You should see your friends. People your own age.”

  I ignore her. “I could just stay home, though.” I yawn. “I’m really tired.” I shoot a glance at my watch, then daggers at my mom. “And I have files to catch up on, since, I was, uh, dismissed from a case today.”

  “It’s protocol,” Mom says, not looking up from her plate. “We can’t make exceptions for you or anyone else. People already complain about nepotism and—”

  “It’s ridiculous. Anya Auntie says jump and you—”

  “Enough,” Mom says, glaring now. “Go. Be a kid. Have fun with your friends.”

  “But be home by eleven,” Papa says, his mouth full of chicken and roti. “And I’m going to rewatch Sholay without you.”

  “Okay,” I say, pseudo-reluctant. We’ve seen it, like, fourteen times already. I’m not missing much, except dinner.

  Dadi must’ve read my mind, though, because she walks up then with a little foil packet—a makeshift kati roll of thari chicken wrapped up in a parantha, still steaming hot.

  I beam at her. “Thanks, Dadi!”

  She hands me a plastic bag. “I made more for your friends. And egg-only for Vish. He still eats eggs, right?” She’s frowning.

  I nod and head up the stairs, my mom shouting behind me. “Wear something presentable!”

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, I round the corner toward Cat’s house. I could hear the music from five blocks away, this deep, relentless bass and what sounds like wordless shrieking over it. The cul-de-sac is crowded with Mercedes and BMWs, all very Princeton prep.

  I spot Lizzie’s perky pink Fiat, which she says she picked because it defines her as quirky and cute. Vish’s navy-blue Jeep is parked not far from it, the little Ganesha sitting stoutly on the dashboard, as if his mother’s protective gaze is following the boy’s every move. Most of my friends have been driving for almost a year, but I still haven’t passed—or even taken—the test. I keep meaning to get my license. But at the rate I’m going, my cousin Pinky will have hers first, and she’s only two. Right now it feels like one thing too many on my overloaded to-do list. Even though my work fate depends on it, if Davis has anything to say about it.

  As I walk toward the back gate, I tug at my dress and peer into the side mirror on one of the cars, making sure I look okay. Walking was a bad idea. My summer dress—stolen from Taara’s closet and decidedly snug at the chest—is already drenched with sweat. I pull my hair out of its usual ponytail and try to pat it to submission, the curls unruly in the mid-July humidity. I wish it would rain already. Maybe I should have put on lip gloss. Or eyeliner. Or something. I dig through my purse, find my ginger mints, and pop three, hoping to cut some of the onion breath.

  The last time I was here, I was twelve. Cathleen lives in a big, sprawling modern mansion, lots of lofty ceilings and exposed piping. There’s a massive kidney-shaped pool in the back, complete with a hot tub and outdoor showers. Cat’s house is always the place to be, I guess. I mean, even in the winter when the pool is heated. Or at least that’s what Lizzie says. I haven’t been to one of these parties. Yet.

  Cat used to be my friend, sort of, way back in the day, before Harper died. But she was always really Lizzie’s friend. So she bailed when Harper was sick. And so did Lizzie, to be honest. Now Cat is Lizzie’s “official BFF” at school. Even though Lizzie always insists that I’m her real best friend. That’s the thing about being a genius—you completely miss out on that whole normal school experience with your friends.

  As I open the black wrought iron gate and walk down the path of bluestone pavers, I wonder if I might see Link here, and my heart does this weird leap. He’s probably, maybe, definitely in high school, and it could be East Princeton, so there’s logically a decent chance I’d bump into him here. Which would be—probably not that great at all, actually, I tell myself, thinking of Vish.

  My heart is in my throat as I scan the backyard, which is all lit up and magical. Strands of fairy lights crisscross the emerald grass from one end of the football field of a yard to the other, twinkling like the stars that are missing from this suburban Jersey sky. The pool is the centerpiece, set back from a two-layered redwood deck, where the caterers have laid a spread of snacks and pitchers of peach and berry sangria—which
Lizzie told me Cat’s parents allow, since they don’t consider it to be real alcohol.

  There’s a DJ set up on the higher deck, and the pounding of the bass works its way in through my toes and right to my heart, the thump, thump, thump of it shaking me like a defibrillator. There are a hundred ways that I’m not ready for this—not nearly at all. In that moment, though, there’s a small voice inside of me saying, yes, maybe I am. Maybe Lizzie was right. Maybe this is what I’ve been missing all along. As shallow and insipid as these things look on TV, maybe there’s a reason they’ve been happening for a thousand years and will, barring the apocalypse, keep happening for a thousand more. Maybe high school parties can be fun.

  Kids are everywhere—in the pool, playing water volleyball, piled thick in the hot tub, or drying off on the deck with drinks and snacks. The living room’s wall of glass has been opened to the upper deck, and a few VIPs wander in and out of the house, too, where Cat’s probably holding court.

  I see a few familiar faces. But no Link. A girl whose name I forget stops me to say hello. “So you’re, like, a real doctor, now?” she says in that annoying, upspeaky voice that makes me sure I know her. “Can I, like, show you this sore on my toe?”

  “What insurance do you have?” I ask, but she doesn’t laugh. That’s when Lizzie finds me.

  “There you are!” I say as she drips all over me, fresh from the pool. “I was just talking to, uh—”

  “Yeah, you don’t want to get stuck with that. Let’s go get a drink. Don’t worry, it’s just sangria,” Lizzie says, but I can tell she’s already had plenty. Her blue eyes are totally dilated, and she’s got this too-wide grin plastered on her face. She’s shivering in her new two-piece, bright red with black piping along the edges, emphasizing the right spots. She looks gorgeous in it, and fits right in here, among the pale, golden Princetonians. I didn’t even think to bring a suit, not that I’d have the nerve to rock it here.