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CHAPTER 34
I head straight to my mom’s office after the meeting. She was super casual about things this morning—didn’t mention Vish at all. Which means she doesn’t know. Or she does and has just decided to torture me.
But I need some light to clear out the darkness that’s settled into my head. And I definitely need some chai. So Mom’s it is.
“Hey, beta,” she says as I push open the door. “Sit,” she commands, and I do.
The electric kettle yelps, and she switches it off, pouring steaming hot water into a mug along with some of that instant chai mix she keeps here for lazy days.
She passes me the cup. “How’d it go today?” The weariness has settled onto her shoulders and the corners of her eyes. She’s exhausted, and I can see her eyes taking me in, observing the same slump in me. “You look tired.”
If Dadi said anything about Vish and yesterday, Mom isn’t letting on. Which is probably worse.
“Yeah, I could use some chai,” I say, taking a big sip. I grimace. It’s pretty terrible, but it’ll do in a pinch. And this is a pinch. “Mom, do you know a patient named Alina Plotkin? She’s twelve. The same kind of leukemia that Harper had.”
Mom shivers a little, and I know what she’s thinking. But she pulls herself together. “I don’t see most of the oncology kids,” she says, “just the ones that come through my office. Which, luckily, there haven’t been many of. Why?”
“The family is pretty gung ho. And—”
“She’s not.”
“No.”
My mother frowns. She doesn’t like where this is going.
“Yeah, that’s too bad. But that’s the thing with oncology, the losses, while statistically small, are staggering nonetheless. It’s tough for any physician to deal with, let alone a new one. Especially one who’s sixteen.”
“There’s something amazing about it, too—I have a real opportunity to make a difference,” I tell her, and mostly myself. “To save lives. Except this time maybe … I can’t.”
My mother sits and takes a sip of her chai. She’s thinking about the right words to say to me, as both her daughter, and as a doctor, albeit a baby one.
“Before us, after us, there is always the cycle of life and death. We’re mere drops in the ocean, Saira, but it’s hard to remember that as we fall.” She takes a deep breath. “Anya is so very worried about Pinky. I wonder if she’ll make the wrong decision.”
“What do you mean?”
“To cancel the surgery.”
I take a deep breath. “She can’t. You can’t let her.” The surgery may not save Pinky. But without it, all that’s left is a death sentence.
“She’s two, baby.”
“I know. And I’d like to see three. And four. And ten. And beyond.”
“You know, and I know. But her mother—that’s her child. It’s a hard thing to put a child through that, even to save her life.”
“Mom, should I talk to her?”
My mother laughs ruefully. “Not unless you definitely don’t want Pinky to have the surgery.”
“She has to have it, Mom. She has to have a chance.”
“Right. I hope you remember that for all your patients.”
I swallow hard. She’s right. I’m too emotionally involved. But I don’t know how not to be.
Mom heads behind the desk, and I feel like a patient, waiting for my diagnosis. But instead of sitting down, she pulls open a drawer and removes a big, flat box—one I’ve never seen before. She comes back around and takes the chair next to me, the box on her lap. She uncovers it and inside lays an album, a weathered black leather cover. “All these files take up so much room,” she says with a sigh. “But this is my real patient record.”
She hands me the album, and it’s heavy with overstuffed pages. “There’s a picture of every NICU baby I ever treated right here, in this book,” my mom says, running her fingers over the pages lovingly as I flip through it. “From the very first, to Mrs. Mehta’s daughter last week. It’s the one thing I request of my patients right from the beginning. You see, so much of medicine is statistics and fear and harsh, cold realities,” my mom says, and her eyes are misty, though I’ve never seen her let tears fall. “But there’s also this: life and joy. The best of it all. That is what I would like for you.”
Maybe Mom is right. Maybe I’m making this too hard on myself.
“But, beta, know this,” she says, closing the book and tucking it back into the box. “You have to make your own choices. Some of us pick an easier path, and some of us are strong enough to handle the pain. In any case, beta, I’d advise you to tread carefully if oncology is the path you choose—learn how to detach.”
“Easier said than done,” I say, thinking of little Pinky, and the life-changing surgery that awaits her. And Alina. And Brendan. And Link.
“Then think about what’s right for you. No specialization is easy—medicine is, of course, about life and death. But there can be joy in it, too. That’s why I chose my specialization. I get to work with parents and children. There’s a lot to love about that.”
I nod. I know I have a lot of choices ahead of me. And not all of them will be right.
But there’s one thing pulling me, no matter what.
* * *
Lincoln’s not in his room. His mom is there, and she smiles at me when I poke my head in. “He’s been talking about you,” she says, and I wonder if she notices the blush. “About how well it’s going. With all the posts and stuff. I think it’s smart. With your reach, it could really make a difference.”
“I’ll do whatever I can,” I say, the heat still flaming my cheeks. I feel like she can see the traces of fire his kisses left. If she knew how selfish I am, how I’m endangering her son in spite of all I know, she’d never forgive me. I can hardly forgive myself.
“Well, I won’t tell if you don’t,” she says. “Anyway, you know where to find him. And thank you.”
My feet carry me there automatically, as if the soothing strum of his guitar, Lucy, is beckoning me. I hear the muffled melody seeping out from under the door, the familiar cadence and rhythm embracing me like an old friend.
I lean against the door, savoring the words, even as half-formed as they are. “There it is again, the space between us. / There it is again, the great divide. / There it is again, the space between us. / An endless cycle. / Like time and tide.”
It’s a bit mournful, though the riffiness—is that what it would be called?—still makes it sound catchy. Like something that would do well on Rock Star Boot Camp. Which reminds me … I knock on the door to give him a warning, even though it feels a bit awkward, and then push it open.
He’s sitting on the couch, the guitar in his lap, and he grins at me when I walk in.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
Do I wave? Sit next to him? Kiss him hello? I don’t know what to do with myself, because my body automatically starts dictating things. But I have to do what’s right for him, so sharing germs is definitely out. Maybe.
He pats the couch next to him, though, so I take a seat. Not too close. Like, there are still several inches of space between us. Or there were. Because then he leans and kisses me on the nose.
“You okay?” he says, looking at me funny. Then crossing his eyes. “You look dazed.”
“I just, uh, I’m part of your medical team now.” I’m his doctor. For real.
“I mean, not really. But we’ll figure it out.”
I nod. “Vish sent me the updated video. Want to see it?”
Link shrugs. “Tell him to send it. I trust him. And you.”
“You sure? He added the last part, you know.” I gesture to his head.
His hand flies to his now bald head, and he rubs it with his palm. And it’s like an invitation, because I can’t help but reach over and touch it, too. It’s smooth, but the peach fuzz that’s already cropping back up is like tiny l
ittle spikes. “New growth,” I say, reaching to rub his head, and he grabs my arms, pulling me nearly into his lap. “That’s a good sign.”
“You’re a good sign,” he says, then kisses me.
But I pull back, shaking my head.
“We shouldn’t. We can’t.”
“Touch is good for kids with cancer,” he says with a smirk, and I laugh. But when he leans forward, I shake my head again.
“Nope.”
He sighs and leans back into the sofa, his face a bit sulky, his mouth a bit pouty. Which makes me want to kiss away the tension. But I don’t let myself. Even though his hand has inched its way over to mine, tracing my palm like he did before. Even though every cell in my body is screaming with the need to touch him back. It’s just hormones. And chemistry. And maybe something more.
But I can’t. We can’t. For so many reasons.
“Wanna play me your song?” I ask, and he turns to me and grins.
“Okay,” he says. “But not here.”
“What?”
“I have my car.” He grins at my confusion. “Come one. There’s someplace I wanna go.” I frown. “We can tell my mom if you want. But I’ll be under doctor’s supervision.”
* * *
His mom probably would have let us sign him out. But apparently, Link wants an adventure, because he’d rather sneak out the back hall, which is still dark and a bit abandoned. He’s disentangled himself from his IVs, and borrowed a pair of shorts from José.
The minivan is big and green with a giant white stripe. Hideous and homey. “We used to use it for the band. Back before the cancer.” He unlocks the door and waits expectantly.
“Well, get in.”
“Nope,” he says with that familiar smirk. “You’re driving.”
“I can barely drive a car,” I protest. “This thing—”
“Is so old, it doesn’t matter if you crash it. And I’m dying of cancer. So you’re good.”
“You are not dying.”
“And driving won’t kill you.”
“I dunno. It might. It might just kill both of us.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
He pushes me up into the seat, then gets in on the passenger side.
I look around, panic setting in, especially when I see the stick shift.
“Hands on the wheel, two and ten. Pull the gear and press the gas at the same time. Practice that. Yes. Again. And again.” He laughs. “Okay, now turn the actual key in the ignition. We’re about to blow this joint.”
He makes me turn left, then right, then left again, then straight up the ramp. And all of the sudden, we’re on the highway.
I try not to panic, but my hands are clammy, and sweat is dripping right down my face.
“We’re gonna die.”
“Yes, eventually.” He grins, his eyes on me, and then the road, and then me again. “Just breathe and look forward. The rearview will warn you if there are any problems. But stay in this lane and maintain your fifty per hour, and try not to worry too much about everyone else.” He laughs at that last line, realizing he’s just asked the impossible.
But I do what he says, and he hums his song as we go, soothing and sweet. And twenty minutes later, we’re pulling off the highway and into the salty sea air, with gulls swooping overhead.
The parking lot is empty, so I park the van across three spots and climb out, exhausted and drenched in sweat.
The sun’s about to set as we walk toward the water, our shoes abandoned in the van, the sand squishing underfoot. I’m carrying Lucy, the guitar, and we settle on top of a blanket, just a few feet from the waves.
He starts playing a song, and it’s something I haven’t heard before. “Gin Blossoms,” he says. “My mom used to listen to this song on repeat, back when I was younger. When I first got sick. It was one of the first ones I learned by heart, because there was a line that always stuck with me. ‘My fear, pretend, that I’ll never be in love again.’” He takes a deep breath. “That’s me. That’s pretty much all of me.”
I stare at him as he stares at the water, his bare legs bruised as they stretch out on the blanket in front of him, the waves just barely reaching his toes. Light glistens off the water and him with his bright eyes, blinding me here and there, and all I hear is his voice above the crash of the ocean.
“When they say everything happens for a reason, it’s a lie,” he says. “Children don’t suffer and die for a reason. I don’t know how anyone can even begin to justify their pain.” He turns to look at me then and takes my hand, tracing sand into the lines that mark my palm. “Sometimes I think about the nevers. I’ll never go to Greece. Or have those tacos again from that little town in San Diego, on the border of Mexico. I’ll never go to college. Or get to see my parents be happy again. Maybe I’ll never even get to see the ocean again. And I used to worry that I’d never fall in love, or realize that’s what it was, anyway, until after it’s gone. But I think I got that, Saira. Maybe this is it, this moment, here with you.”
I swallow hard. This can’t be all there is. But right now, for me, it might be enough. I hope it might be for him, too.
“Maybe I won’t be your last love, Saira. And sometimes I think maybe I’ll be okay with that. But you could be my last love.”
The thought triggers something painful in me. The realization that it’s too much to take on, as much as I want to. No. That’s a distinction I refuse to wear like a badge of honor. I can’t carry that weight around with me like I do Harper’s ghost. I won’t be able to breathe. But I can’t let go of his hand, either. I clasp it tight, afraid of something, of everything. “It’s a bit cold,” I say, shivering as the water curls up around our ankles. “Maybe we should get moving.”
He shakes his head. “It’s not time yet.” He’s staring at the ocean again, his hand still in mine. “There are things—moments—that will never be. And there are things that always are. Just there. In the back of my mind. In some cycle of forever. We don’t ever actually have to live them. We just know they’re there, they exist, these moments. Like this one.” He turns to look at me now. “If I’m gone, that’s where I’ll be. Okay?”
I nod. I think I know what he means. Like those moments, twirling in the sun with Harper. All those years ago. Long gone. But they’re still right there. I can touch them. I can reach them when I need to. And that’s when I know. No matter what happens to Link, I’ll be okay. We’ll be okay. Because at least we get to have this.
“Okay.”
He pulls the guitar onto his lap and strums, slow and serene, and I watch the pain melt away, the edges all soft, like it’s just him and music and his audience of one. Me. Quiet and lovely, like maybe we have all the time in the world.
CHAPTER 35
The weekend looms large ahead of me, like a dentist’s appointment (yes, even doctors hate going to the dentist) or driver’s test (and no, I haven’t been practicing, thank you very much). I’ve committed to going to New Brunswick to see Taara, and what’s worse, took New Jersey Transit to get there. And the train was late. Now we’re in Taara’s tiny dorm room, and instead of going to get nachos at Old Man Rafferty’s, she insists on cooking on the tiny burner she’s illegally set up on top of the mini fridge.
“Is that Vish?” she asks when my phone pings again. It’s Link. We’ve been texting nonstop when he’s not in therapy. He gets the weekend off. And I’m stuck here.
“Yeah, he’s got a lacrosse game this weekend.”
Taara frowns over her omelet pan. “Oh, were you gonna go?”
I shake my head. “He knows I’m here.”
“Maybe he can come up next time.”
I shrug.
She flips the omelet, then tops it with pepper jack. “All set.” She cuts the omelet in half and serves it up on two plates with toast and chai on a large tray. “I love breakfast for dinner, don’t you?”
“Or nachos would be good, too.” I can’t help it.
“Maybe tomorrow.” She points to the
computer on her desk. “Or I can make you tofu mattar. I just posted the recipe. Fourteen thousand views and counting!”
I nod and start shoveling omelet into my month. I know I’m being a brat. This weekend is taking up precious moments I could spend with Link. But the temptation is too much. So this is better. But I have to stop taking it out on Taara.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she says. “This place can be a bit lonely sometimes.”
I can feel my eyebrows jump. Taara’s stunning and super fun. She has a million friends. In fact, no less than four people have knocked in the past hour, asking if she wants to hang. She’s turned them all down. Even the Greek biochem study buddy.
“You know what I mean. Like, everyone thinks they know you. But no one really bothers to really know you. It’s all so shallow.”
“Whatever you say.”
“What was college like for you?”
“Like high school was for you, I guess. I mean, I got up, Dad drove me to school, I went to class, you or Mom picked me up. And that was it. I was eleven.”
“Yeah. Must’ve been weird.”
“It was fine.”
“Do you ever regret it?” she asks over a biteful of omelet.
I think about Link, and the kissing, and how for a lot of teens, that’s just a part of everyday life. Even for Link. But for me, it’s one of a million moments I would’ve missed. Despite Lizzie. Despite Vish. Despite my dad’s insistence that I be a “normal kid.” Before, I realize with a start, I would have dismissed it as no big loss, as just a sacrifice to make, not thought about it too much. Because I knew—I know—what I wanted and what I had to give up to get it. But after that day at the beach, maybe it’s not so simple. Maybe I didn’t really understand just what I was giving up, exactly. But how do I begin to explain that to someone else when I can barely unravel it myself?
So I give the easy, satisfying answer. “Nope,” I say. Because I don’t think Taara would understand. Because nobody really does. “I mean, I got what I wanted. I gave up what I had to.” Even though it’s hard. Maybe too hard.
Symptoms of a Heartbreak Page 22
