by Sajni Patel
Except I wasn’t getting rammed by a deadly car. Just thrown into another “don’t-cry-in-front-of-people” moment.
I put on a shy, shaky smile, my pulse spewing blood through my veins, and hurried to my seat.
I’d turned into a celebrity overnight.
Nineteen
Really good things were almost always counterbalanced with really sucky things. Some called it karma, kismet, cosmic balance, luck, what have you. I would do anything to have it transform into a literal being so it could suffer my sentient wrath.
I’d skipped up the driveway, bubbling with all the feels. I’d barely made it to the porch when Mama ripped back the door. We startled one another, our eyes wide, our bodies still for a split second.
Her frazzled hair and red-streaked eyes and dilated pupils were enough to tell the same old story again.
“What happened to Papa?” I asked.
“Get in the car. He passed out again. His blood sugar dropped. He has pain in his stomach and head and back,” she said.
I didn’t peep another word and didn’t realize Papa had been sitting in the car on the street all this time. He slumped against the passenger side window, his eyelids halfway closed in what one might’ve thought was a drug-induced haze. Drool shone on the corner of his mouth. The bones of his face protruded beneath pale skin.
I gulped, my throat raw and dry, as I quietly slid into the back seat with my backpack. I placed my hand on his shoulder and kept it there until we arrived at the hospital.
Mama pulled up to the ER where Papa’s doctor and a nurse waited with a wheelchair. She must’ve called ahead of time, like before. Everything happened in a blur. They helped Papa out of the car and into the wheelchair.
The nurse immediately bent down and took his vitals. When she said something to the doctor, he allowed the nurse to go ahead of us.
Dr. Khan spoke in a hushed tone with Mama, who hurriedly walked alongside him.
“Mama,” I interrupted. “I’ll park the car.”
She looked at me, confused, before nodding with realization. “I’ll text you the room and floor.”
“K . . .”
She, with the doctor, walked through the sliding glass double doors of the ER and turned the corner. I followed their ambiguous shapes as the wall changed from clear glass to opaque squares to cement.
I slipped into the driver’s seat, closed the door, and gripped the steering wheel so hard it could’ve broken. No matter how many times we’d been in this exact same situation, the intensity never dulled. The struggle to keep hope alive was harder than any fight in all the world. The surge of anger and disparity drove mercilessly into my soul, a jagged sword being thrust in and out until I was left in shreds.
But the ER curbside was not the place to break down.
A parking stall on Level Two of Parking Garage N, facing the highway in the distance with a security camera just behind me, seemed like a much better place.
A fraught mess of good and bad things were happening, an affair of optimism and despondency. Instead of letting go, because crying in this moment felt like forfeiting hope, a severing betrayal that my fragility couldn’t take, I let only the buildup of tears slip. But not one more. One more tear would lead to a million, uncontrolled ones. One hiccup would lead to relentless sobbing. Even the thought of giving in made the frayed tips of hope brush against my soul, threatening to drain away.
Papa would not die. Not this day. Not this year.
With shaky hands, I texted Lily and told her the situation. She responded the same way she had every time I’d sent a text like this.
I’m on my way!
I swung my backpack over one shoulder, locked the car, and followed Mama’s instructions to the ICU on the fourth floor, room 460. She stood at the nurses’ station with three doctors in white coats and two nurses. I clenched and unclenched my hands, wanting to stand with her and hear every word, but instead, I went to Papa’s room.
A dozen tubes and wires snaked from beneath his sheets to machines on the walls. They glowed with numbers and words and symbols.
“Papa?” I asked and stood over his bed.
He didn’t move, didn’t blink, didn’t twitch. He was asleep. Which was good, I supposed. He needed rest and peace and maybe sleeping made him forget the pain.
I dropped my backpack to the bench and lifted the open blinds to let in more light. They said sunlight was good for the body, mind, and soul.
I picked up a chair and set it beside the bed facing the window, sat down, and said, “You’re going to be okay, Papa. We’re going to be okay. This is just a setback, like the time I fractured my shin and couldn’t fight for six months. We’ve had a lot of setbacks, but that’s fine because we always get back to where we were. This is another one of those times.
“Not sure what happened, and not sure what the docs are telling Mama. Doesn’t matter, because we’re ready for anything. We’ll fight through anything, right? Y’all taught me that we don’t give up. We always fight. And that’s what we’re going to do.”
The machines’ beeping and IV bags’ dripping haunted the silence. My heart skipped around in my chest and a hundred awful thoughts careened through my brain. Research said positivity did miraculous things for people. And that’s where I had to go. If not for me, then for Papa.
The adrenaline of the school’s support still stuck with me, so I pulled at it and tried my best to put on a happy voice.
“So, something super amazing happened. Maybe that would help? Some good news? You always said a little goodness goes a long way, how we have to be kind to people so we can be a powerful force for good in the world. You said it comes back to us in unsuspecting forms. I finally told people at school about Muay Thai. Did you know there’s a social group page run by the coaches for girl athletes at Connally? Even if it’s not a school sport, you can join.
“They accepted me with gigantic, open arms. I could’ve had a lot of back and forth support over the years, a lot more girls for me to talk to about wins and fails and the horrible and funny stuff that comes along with being an athlete.
“But then they really stepped up, without me even having to ask, to help raise the rest of the money for USMTO. I know you and Mama tell me over and over not to worry about expenses and money, but I’ve known for a long time that our bank account has been drained. I was okay with not going, I really was. I’d get the chance another time.”
I took his hand in mine, remembering times when I’d been sick with a cold or the flu, and yeah it was nothing like what Papa went through, but him holding my hand always made me feel better. It made me feel safer. His warm hand on mine, almost twice the size, made the aches and pains and fevers shuffle away. There was absolutely no comparable feeling to having a father care for his little girl.
Back then, I didn’t know how sick he really was. He was just Papa. He was the one who protected me and raised me and played with me and tried to help me with math and then laughed alongside me because neither of us got it.
So, I imagined that holding his hand . . . maybe it would make him feel the way he had made me feel. Or maybe it would make him feel the way he’d felt holding my hand. That he was always there, always my shelter, always the stronger one.
He didn’t respond, but I knew he could hear me. And he needed to hear all the good words right now.
“No one at school knows why we don’t have money, but the moment I mentioned the costs being beyond my reach, the girls took it from there. They came up with all sorts of cool and fast and effective ways to raise money. I’m like a celebrity now.”
I sniffled, all too and unfortunately aware of how the excitement took a dropkick in the gut and dragged me back to the reality of everything. “You’d be proud, Papa.”
I looked over my shoulder, wondering what kept Mama so long, and startled to find her standing at the door, mut
e, and teary-eyed. Those sliding glass doors sure were silent.
I stood and met her halfway, hugging her. “What’s wrong? What did they say?”
She shook her head and wiped her cheeks. “Same as before. They’ll run tests and scans.”
Which meant any minute, someone from X-ray would come up and scan his chest. Then someone from lab would come up and, I kid you not, drain his blood into two containers that looked like glass soda bottles for a blood culture. Then every few hours, someone would draw his blood. And every few hours, nurses would check his vitals and give him medicine through his IV and change his IV bags often so he stayed hydrated. And then the doctors would consult with specialists for other tests and more invasive steps and yadda yadda yadda.
As was the deal with Papa’s relapses. It was a giant crap circle.
“It’ll be okay, Mama.”
“Is all that true?” she asked.
“What?”
“Papa is proud. We both are. I heard what you said. All that about your classmates and fundraising.”
“Yeah. I was going to tell you when I got home. We’ll get the money now, for me to go if . . .”
She turned my chin away from Papa to face her. “You’re going to USMTO. No matter what happens here, you’re going. Papa wants it that way, and so do I.”
“How could I even?”
“Because you’re strong and worked hard for this and because you’ll fight in remembrance of Papa if the worst comes.” She pressed her lips together, as if wanting to take back those last few words.
“How could I possibly fight in that state of mind?”
“Your focus. Muay Thai has always been your focus for hard times. Whatever sadness or anger or loneliness you might face, harness it. If nothing else, remember that Papa wants it that way. To try your best, not hold back, huh?”
I nodded but forced myself to imagine that Papa would be in the audience at USMTO watching every hit and cheering me on. He hadn’t been able to travel far or go into crowds, but in my dream, he was always right there beside the action.
“There’s nothing more we can do until the test results come in. There will be more in the morning,” she said.
“He has to stay overnight?”
“He has to stay until further notice. Take the car home. Do your training and chiropractor and massage appointments, study. I’ll update you.”
“No. I’ll stay here with you.”
“Kareena—”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“This is not going to interrupt your routine.”
“This is my family, the most important thing to me. And it’s not an interruption.” I cocked my chin at the backpack slumped over the bench. “I can study there, do lunges in the halls, weights and treadmill in the PT room like last time, and pick up on my appointments as usual.”
“You’re stubborn.”
I dropped my head back for a second and stared at the weird ceiling tiles before saying, “We go through this every time, Mama. This is not an interruption.” My hands landed on my hips, my tone getting a little sharper. “Just like a surprise punch or kick in a fight, a fighter must modify and redirect while staying on point. This is a surprise swing in life, and we are adaptable.”
She shook her head. “When did you stop listening to me?”
“Are you upset?”
She placed an arm around my shoulder, gently squeezed, and plopped a little kiss on my head. “I’ll never be upset with you wanting to take care of our family, beta.”
Twenty
The doctor gestured for Mama to sit on the chair beside Papa’s bed and said, “We’d like to discuss the results of your husband’s tests.”
She nodded but looked to me when she said, “Kareena, can you give us a minute?”
My legs turned to stone and my tongue itched with the desire to deny her. I wanted to hear what the results were, straight from the doctor’s mouth, not sugarcoated for what Mama thought was best for me.
Her sunken, red-streaked eyes and droopy expression were the only things that made me leave. She thought I was fragile, but she was wrong. Maybe I was wrong to think she was fragile too. But today was not the day to test her.
I walked into the hallway and gently closed the door almost all the way, keeping my hand on the door latch, and quietly listened.
“Because he’d gone septic last time, we immediately started a twenty-four-hour blood culture to rule out another blood infection,” the doctor said. “His kidney specialist will be in later. We’re checking all that as well. We’re concerned he may have hyperkalemia, so we’re testing his potassium levels. Several IV bags to flush out his system. Blood sugars, X-rays, CT scan to come shortly.”
Then he went over Papa’s most recent results. We didn’t know anything definitive yet.
I sighed and quietly closed the door all the way.
The halls were barren without a soul in sight, until the nurses’ station came into view. The desk bustled with scrub-clad nurses and doctors and secretaries. One of the doctors, whom I recognized as part of the team working on Papa, spoke with a man in a gray suit. Beside him stood Amit.
The doctor handed the suited man a flash drive. The man turned to Amit and said a few words, handing him the information. Amit deposited it into his backpack. He was as focused on the conversation as the other two men. No wonder he dressed so nice when he was around similarly dressed people.
Amit glanced over and saw me. We both froze. I didn’t really want him to know why we were here. It just seemed all too personal to tell someone outside of the select few who knew. But then his expression turned almost painful when he looked down at the papers on the counter in front of him, as if he had connected the dots and knew. But no way could he know. There was a law that protected patient confidentiality.
A nurse approached me and asked, “Do you need any help?”
“Sort of. I was wondering how much this visit will cost.”
She watched me more empathetically than pitifully. “It depends on a lot of factors, including insurance. I’m sure your mother—”
“She won’t tell me. Maybe you can’t, either, but I need a ballpark figure,” I said dryly, annoyed that every adult around here tried to protect me by evading facts. “Not even for my dad personally. Just a person in ICU who needs this much attention and treatment and tests.”
She sighed, as if she understood that my quiet demand meant more than just numbers. “About five thousand a day. Less with insurance, of course.”
Not if you have a bad premium and a cap on payout, lady. That much, I did know. Whatever little money Mama had in the bank had to go here.
“You know, we also do write-offs for certain cases. I can have a financial adviser speak with your parents,” she added.
“Total write-off?”
“Not likely, but maybe.”
“Covering meds and return visits?”
She shook her head.
“Thanks. Any help is a lot of help.”
“Okay. Let me know if you need anything else.”
“Kareena?” Amit asked, coming to stand in front of me as the nurse returned to the station.
“Hi. What are you doing here?” I inquired, hoping to sound chill.
“Helping my uncle with some work stuff. Are you all right?” he asked quickly, panicked.
I tried to relax, tried to ease the tension out of my face and fists. “For the most part. Are you here for your mystery work project?”
“Yeah.”
“Wonder if I ask him what you’re working on, if he’d tell me.” I cocked my chin at the man in the nice suit.
“No. But I’d get into a lot of trouble if you did that.”
I eyed the man, his head bowed over a tablet as doctors spoke to him. “He looks important.”
He glan
ced back at him. “My uncle is CEO.”
“That’s cool that you’re working with fam.” Not to mention fam who was way up on the pay grade.
“It’s not a hand-out, though. I got something he needs.” He turned to me again and changed the subject. “What are you doing here? Is everything okay?”
“Visiting someone.” He didn’t need to know. As much as I liked Amit, really, really liked him . . . he was new. Maybe fleeting. In any case, he wasn’t Lily level.
“Hope they’re all right. Not your parents?”
“Kareena,” Mama called from the edge of the corridor, signaling me over.
“My mom and I are visiting someone. I have to go. See you at school?”
“Yeah. See ya.” He gave a worried half smile, as if he knew. Maybe. Maybe my face gave it all away.
I turned and headed straight for Mama. Her attention fell away to the doctor who had been conversing with Amit’s uncle. He called her over to the station and I froze, realizing that both men spoke to Mama and Amit stood between me and them with a worried frown.
He didn’t pry but awkwardly stayed in place while Mama nodded and shook hands with Amit’s uncle before taking a packet from him. She returned without giving Amit another glance. She probably didn’t recognize him.
“What was that about?” I asked when we closed the door to Papa’s room behind us.
“Census survey.” She stuffed the packet into her purse.
“What did the doctor say about the results?”
“Still to come.”
I side-hugged her and she patted my head. “He’s stable. Why don’t you go home and shower and get some sleep? I’ll stay here.”
She flipped through the packet and sternly replied, “No.”
“Please?”
She mulled over the practicality of resting versus pacing a hospital room dead tired. Finally, she agreed, “Hah. Call me if anything happens. If the doctor says anything, if Papa wakes up, if he gets worse.”
Just like that? She never left him except to actually go to work. But as she pretended to focus on the packet, her lips quivered and her hands shook. Maybe she just needed a moment to herself. Maybe she just needed to vent. Alone. I totally got that. I had Muay Thai that helped me to channel my emotions. Mama was so busy . . . I didn’t know what she had.
