I nod.
He stands, unraveling the tangle of the IV stand and bag. “I should go.”
I nod. “Or you could stay.”
He’s grinning down at me, and I know he wants to. Stay. But I can tell today has taken its toll, too, in the short, quick breaths, and the wary stance.
“We can’t,” he says. And it kills us both a little, I think.
I nod again. “But just so you know. Whether you’re eight or eighty, you only get so many chances at a real connection.” Then I grin. “A friend once told me that.”
I watch, a bit sad, as he grabs the IV cart. But instead of walking out, he locks the IV and untwists it from his wrist, disconnecting it. Freeing himself.
“That’s better,” he says. “Three’s a crowd.”
CHAPTER 32
It’s past nine when I get home, and my mom is waiting for me at the door when the car pulls up.
I wonder if she can tell what I’ve been doing. If my lips look as bruised and used and happy as they feel. If the heat that warms my cheeks will give me away. But she just seems mad.
“What took you so long?” she says. There’s worry in her voice, but it’s also laced with annoyance. “I even had you paged. And Dadima made muttar paneer. She left you a bowl on the kitchen table.”
I nod. “Patient drama, but thanks, Mom. I’ll warm it up after I change into my pj’s.”
Vish texts then. He’s done with his edits. Should I send you the cut?
I text him back: I’ll be right over.
I go upstairs, wash up, and change into pj’s, pulling a sweater on over them. It’s hot for September, but the AC is still blasting—I know to Papa’s chagrin—and it’s freezing upstairs. I brush my teeth, splash water on my face, and stare at myself in the mirror. My eyes are bright, like I’m about to cry, and my cheeks are still flushed, from the heat of the shower and the linger of Link’s kisses.
When Vish and I kissed a few times, it was nothing like today. It didn’t make my heart go thump thump thump or that little kernel of want grow in the very center of me. It didn’t make me want to forget everything else and just spend every waking moment kissing him. And doing other things, too.
“You didn’t eat.” Mom’s peering in the door. She’s in her pajamas, her usually straight bob curling. It’s late. She’s usually in bed, reading, by now. And Papa’s usually out cold. Unless he’s watching Bollywood films.
“Can I go to Vish’s?”
“Now?” She looks at me like I’m a fool for even asking.
“Please.”
“No. You have work tomorrow. Vish will have to wait.” She pulls the bathroom door closed, and I hear her putter toward her bedroom.
I text him back: Can you come here?
Ten minutes later, he’s at the back door—signaling with pebbles like he used to when I was a kid. I open it, lifting a finger to my lips to shush him.
“They’re all asleep.”
He frowns. “You didn’t tell them?”
I shake my head. “But there’s muttar paneer.”
I fix him a bowl, too, and we sit in the breakfast nook, where he sets up his laptop.
Two minutes later, Vish hits play on his computer.
It starts with Link and his guitar—Lucy, he calls it—and some solo riffs and singing. Then some narration that documents his time with his band, Linus. And then him walking down the hall, his constant companion, the IV stand, in tow. “I may have cancer,” he says, “but it doesn’t have me.”
Then there’s more playing and some video—that Vish must’ve shot when I wasn’t around—of Link and Arun playing video games in the lounge, him laughing with José, him and a few of the younger oncology patients making crafts. Then him and me—in my lab coat—talking seriously.
“That’s it! Hit send. It’s great,” I say, and I can’t stop grinning. “I mean, like really, truly brilliant.”
“I knew you were smitten, but man, watching you watch this makes me realize just how gone you really are,” he says, laughing, too loud. I poke him and he hushes. “You don’t even know.”
I wonder if I should tell him about tonight. But it feels a tiny bit like a betrayal. Even though it’s not. Not really.
“So you guys made out?”
“How did you know?”
“Man, Arun and I were taking bets.”
“That’s really gross.”
Vish laughs again, but then looks serious. “Is that, like, safe for him or whatever? You can’t…”
I bury my head in my hands. “Oh my god, stop!”
“But, like, germs?”
“If he was severely immunocompromised, it would be an issue. But he’s not. Though that’s really not any of your business.”
“But it is yours, as his doctor.”
I frown at my bowl, which is nearly empty now. “Yes.”
“Just be careful, Saira.”
“Okay, Uncle.”
“No, really, I mean it. Like, of course be careful, if that’s something you’re thinking about. But be careful, too. With, like, your heart.”
“I am.”
“You never got over Harper. This would be way worse.”
“He’s not going to die.”
“You can’t control that. Never could. Though you always try.”
“Can’t you just be excited for me?”
Vish then takes my hand. “I am. Truly excited. You are my favorite, Saira. I want you to have everything you want.” He sighs. “But what you want is always the most impossible thing.”
I frown, nibbling my lip. “I know.”
He nods. “So please. Be careful. For both your sakes.”
I stand, clearing bowls and spoons, when Dadi comes marching into the kitchen, her footsteps quiet as a cat.
“Yeh ladka yahan kya karahe?” she says, loud enough to wake the dead. Or even Papa.
“Shhhhh, Dadi.”
“Why is he here?” she says, as if he’s not standing there. As if he can’t hear her. “You, boy. Go home. Saira. This is not done.”
“Dadi, it’s okay. We’re working on a project.”
“No, it’s not.” She gathers the dishes, slamming them around in the sink. “Go now.” She points to the door, and Vish mad-dashes out of it. “You, upstairs. Now.”
I nod. Dadima’s livid, in her own seething way. Which means Mom is definitely going to hear about this in the morning.
CHAPTER 33
I check my phone one last time as I get into the elevator, hitting the button for eight. I texted Lizzie eighty times last night, and not one response. But she’s been all over social, posting pics from acting camp—some new director dude—and pointedly responding to every comment but mine. At least she hasn’t completely unfriended me. Yet.
As the elevator pings open on eight, I shove my phone into my pocket. Time to focus. It’s bright and early on a sweltering August Tuesday, and as much as I want to head straight to Link’s room to see him, I know I have to play it cool. He was breathless and exhausted when I finally walked him “home” last night. Even if he’s not neutropenic—with a problematically low white blood cell count—all that kissing couldn’t have been good for him. It could increase the risk of serious infection, like bronchitis or pneumonia, which could weaken his system right now. But every time we stopped, well, we didn’t. I’ve never felt anything like this before, so reckless and out of control. We have to stop. We have to. And as a doctor, it’s my responsibility to take charge of the situation. So no more making out.
I’ll just have to focus on other things. Dadima made palak pakore with chai this morning, so I bought a stash of the spicy spinach fritters to the office for José and Alina. The brown paper bag is streaked with grease, and as I bustle into the room, Mr. Plotkin looks at me warily. Alina peers over from her massive bed. She looks smaller every day, which worries me. José’s bustling around her, adjusting the bed, checking her IVs, prepping the files for me.
“What do we have today?” he ask
s, taking the thermos of chai from me immediately. He’s grown accustomed to a morning cup of Dadima’s adraki blend in the a.m., claiming it clears out his sinuses.
“Pakore,” I say, opening up the bag. He reaches in tentatively and grabs one. “Chickpea-battered fritters, usually veggie. These are spinach and onion.” I hold the bag out toward Alina. “You want?”
She shakes her head, looking a bit green. She rarely refuses food—and loves trying new things—so I’m a bit startled. But I pour her a mug of chai and offer it. She shakes her head again. José grabs the mug instead. “Don’t mind if I do.”
He perches on the lounger for a second with chai and pakore but shoots me a look that says we have a problem.
“Guys, maybe take the snacks to the lounge and offer them to the others, too?” I say, pointedly. I need to talk to Alina alone—and that means shuffling Mr. Plotkin out of here, too. “I’m sure they’d appreciate it.”
José nods, and then grabs Mr. Plotkin’s arm. “You haven’t been to the patient lounge yet, right? They just refreshed it—come on, I’ll show you.”
I busy myself updating Alina’s vitals for a minute, checking her fluids and heart rate, doing a quick analysis on her meds. Then I perch on the edge of the bed for the most important part.
“How are you doing, Alina?”
She shrugs, not quite looking at me. Her color is a bit more yellow than usual, and she’s definitely lost weight.
“José noted that you’ve been rejecting meals?”
“I can’t eat. Nothing tastes good.”
“You have to eat. Or—”
“Feeding tube.” She swallows hard. “I know.”
“You don’t want that.”
She shakes her head, looking down at her hands.
I offer her a cup of orange juice. “Drink this. You need the nutrition.”
She sips tentatively, grimacing at the taste.
“Sour?”
“Everything’s sour.”
I nod. “It’s the meds. Maybe we can readjust—”
“I’m going to die this time, Saira. I’ve already accepted it. I just wish everyone else would.” She takes a deep breath. “But if I talk about it, they panic. Especially Bubbe. And this isn’t just killing me. It’s killing my family. They sold the house, but it’s not enough. There’s so much debt now, my mom’s gone for days at a time, my sisters have missed weeks of school. And for what? The miracle isn’t coming. Not this time.”
“You can’t say that, Ali. You’re young, you’re strong, and we’re doing everything we can.”
“It’s not enough. And it’s too much. I don’t want it.”
“Alina, your family loves you. They want the best for you. They want you to get better, to live a long life. To live your dreams.”
“But what about what I need? I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I’m uncomfortable all the time. This is not a life worth living. And even if, by some miracle, we can get rid of it this time, it’ll always be with me, looming, like a shadow. I’m ruining everything. I don’t want to live like that.”
I don’t know what to say. And I didn’t when Harper said the same thing, all those years ago. I just knew I needed her not to disappear on me. And now, here we are again.
“I know you’re doing everything you can, Saira. And I’m grateful for that. But I need you to do one last thing for me. Take care of them when it happens. They’ll need someone. They’ll need you.”
No, they need her. She has to fight.
But I’ve heard these words before—from Harper. Children can be so wise. But in the end, they’re just children. They can only fight so much.
So I just nod. And pray for a miracle.
I walk out, staring down at her file. Her bills are still overdue, despite the GoFundMe, which covered a large chunk of the outstanding expenses. And honestly, the prognosis is not strong. But we have to do everything we can to save her.
Right?
* * *
We meet in the oncology office to do our updates. Davis is raging today—I can tell by the way she’s pacing and plotting.
As soon as we’re seated, she dives right in.
“I don’t know whose idea this was,” she says, though she’s looking right at me, “but I’m really upset that Dr. Charles and I were not consulted before Brendan Jackson was enrolled in the trial.”
“I actually mentioned it to Dr. Charles before filing the paperwork,” Arora says, looking sheepish. “Yes, I should have set up a paper trail—that was my error. But what’s done is done.”
“And Brendan’s showing a lot of improvement, thanks to the drug trial. It’s only been a few days, but already his white blood cell count is up,” Howard says. Ms. Ruby asked that she be the primary physician on the case, and for once, Ericka agreed. “It’s no guarantee, but he seems to be improving. We’re monitoring him closely and reporting in to the trial physicians on a daily basis.”
“We’re going to have to pull him,” Davis says, unflinching. “It’s just too controversial a trial, and for the university to secure ranking, we need to be as clean and lean as possible. This type of ‘progressive’ action could ding us in the long run.”
“The patient’s condition is improving.” I bite my tongue for a second, regretting the interruption. But it’s true. “Why would you stop a course of treatment that shows all signs of being successful midrun? That doesn’t make medical sense.”
“It’s in the best interests of both the hospital—and the patient,” Davis says. “The boy’s grandmother Ruby Jackson has filed a complaint, citing reckless endangerment in our course of treatment.”
“Ruby Jackson is an old fogy who just wants her ‘wisp of a boy’ to die in peace,” Cho says with shocking ferocity. “The mother has signed off on the trial—and in fact, she was the one who suggested it.”
I nod. “This seems like personal family drama playing out in an unfortunate mess, but both Dr. Howard and I vetted early trial results before we applied.”
“Saira’s right,” Cho says, and my jaw nearly drops. “Brendan Jackson’s condition is markedly improved. To take him off of the trial now would be effectively killing him. Grandma’s gotta step down.”
“We can look at other options long-term, but as of right now, I’d recommend continuing the current course as we research other options,” Howard says firmly. “They only take a hundred patients, and this opportunity won’t come again for Brendan Jackson.”
Arora clears his throat. “I think my team is right, Dr. Davis, and I stand by them. If you and Dr. Charles insist on reversing this course of treatment at this stage, I’ll have to take this to the medical advisory board.”
Davis’s eyes blaze. “Moving on. Plotkin payments are still not quite up-to-date, but we have continued to administer treatment,” she says. “Sehgal?”
“Her condition is deteriorating despite our interventions,” I say. “I think the family is well aware. But they have asked us to continue to do everything we can. Which means, it seems, that she’ll need a feeding tube next.”
Nurse José nods. “I’ve been tracking her intake, and it’s reduced by about seventy percent in the last few days,” he says. “I’ve started TPN, but the lack of nutrition is not doing her any favors.”
“Sehgal, talk to the family about the feeding tube and other possibilities if she continues on this path,” Arora says. “Reiterate that getting her to eat is critical, or these ‘options’ will become necessities.”
I nod, making notes in Alina’s file. “She has voiced reluctance to receive the feeding tube. But her parents insist on following through with necessary next steps.”
“And Lincoln Chung-Radcliffe?”
“His condition is holding steady as we hunt for a donor,” Cho says. “We’ve reached out to local organizations, ethnic media and other, to get the word out. It’s happening, slowly but surely.”
“Good,” Davis says. “It’s a long shot, but keep at it. Odds are slim, so getting the word out is
critical in a case like this.”
“Well, I think I know something that will help,” Arora says, his voice smiling even though his face is serious. “As of this morning, Dr. Sehgal has been reinstated, unofficially, as part of Team Chung-Radcliffe, at least for social media. She’s been helping Lincoln’s mom Maggie with his social media, and they are making big strides on spreading the word.”
Watching Davis scrawl her notes with a heavy hand, the weight of what Arora says hits me. Lincoln’s now my patient. Officially. I don’t know whether to be thrilled or terrified.
“And last but not least, Pinky Sharma,” Davis announces.
“The mom finally signed the paperwork, thanks to an intervention from Dr. Sehgal,” Arora says. “Ah, that would be Sehgal Senior. Surgery is scheduled for Friday at seven a.m. It’ll be all hands on deck. Except for you, Dr. Sehgal.” He pauses. “Be prepared. This is a big one.”
The others nod gravely. I swallow hard. Pinky needs this surgery, but she’s so little, who knows how her body will handle it. I just know I have to be there, no matter what.
GOFUNDME:
Alina Plotkin
Two years ago, at the age of 10, our happy-go-lucky daughter Alina was your average fifth grader—she loved going to the beach, baking with her bubbe, and cheering on the US gymnastics team at the Olympics. Then she was diagnosed with cancer.
In the two years that she has faced the disease, Alina has had to give up a lot. She’s missed her baby sisters’ birthday, starring in the school play, and countless homework assignments. She’s missed going to her fifth grade graduation, the start of middle school, and lots of other big moments in the life the average 12-year-old.
Alina was diagnosed with leukemia, which has taken its toll. She’s hopeful that with the right care and continued treatment at Princeton Presbyterian, she’ll be headed back to school next fall.
She keeps her spirits up by reading messages from you, and watching the “Kids’ Baking Challenge,” which she hopes to audition for once she’s out of the hospital.
Symptoms of a Heartbreak Page 21
