Marilyn stirred her juice with the straw. “I don’t want to disappoint anyone—my family, friends. Even Dr. Heasley—he’s been so supportive over the past two years. Such a smart man. You know he has three boys?”
Anil smiled, waiting for her to continue.
Marilyn sighed. “I’ve been fortunate. Two kids, five grandkids, a wonderful husband—God rest his soul.” She made the sign of the cross on her chest. “This”—she gestured around the hospital room—“isn’t really living to me. I can’t enjoy my garden or help out at church. I’ve had a good life. It’s inevitable now, isn’t it?” Her voice caught on the words. “It’s all up to God now.”
Anil hesitated before nodding. Even the most spiritual of his patients rarely wanted to discuss it, but in her case, the end was inevitable. “Yes, now it’s a matter of the time you have left. But you can choose how to spend it.” He reached over and held up the juice bottle, encouraging her to take a sip.
Marilyn looked out the window. “Everybody wants me to fight. They say I’m a fighter.” She turned back to Anil. “But you’ve got to decide what’s worth fighting for, right?”
MARILYN SPENT three more days on the oncology ward, and Anil went to see her each evening before he went home, sometimes staying for an hour while she tried to get down some of her dinner. They discussed God and heaven. She was a devoted Catholic, but she asked Anil about the Hindu belief in reincarnation. “If it were me, I’d like to come back as a bird of some sort, maybe an eagle,” she told Anil as she fingered rosary beads. “Wouldn’t it be lovely to fly, to see the whole world from up there?”
Another evening Marilyn asked, “Are you married, Dr. Patel?”
He shook his head.
“Girlfriend?”
Anil shook his head again, thinking of his mother’s reminders to begin looking for a wife. Marilyn’s question felt different somehow. As she rested her head back against the thin hospital pillow and gazed out to some point over Anil’s shoulder, Marilyn said, “My husband wrote me a poem every year on our anniversary. The first one was simple: Roses are red, violets are blue. You love me, and I love you.” She smiled and shook her head. “He said he didn’t know what else to get me the first year, since it was our paper anniversary, but then it became a tradition. Every year, no matter what other gift he bought, there was always a poem with it.” She laughed. “He got better at it too. The year our daughter was born, he wrote a limerick:
There once was a lady from Dallas,
Who no one would ever call callous
Until she went into labor,
And then every neighbor
Heard her curse her husband with malice!”
Her deep throaty laugh seemed incongruent with her thin frame, and Anil couldn’t help but join in her merriment.
“How did you meet him?” Anil asked.
Marilyn sighed and wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “At a dance hall. He was in the service, and he’d just come back from a tour in Korea.” She shook her head once. “He looked so tall and strong in his uniform, that’s what drew me in initially. But that’s not why I fell in love with him.”
“No, why then?” Anil crossed his legs and leaned back into his chair. His shift had ended a half hour ago.
“He walked me home after the dance and we sat on the porch, talking all night.” Marilyn turned to look out the window again. “He told me what he saw over there, terrible things.” Her forehead creased. “He opened his heart to me. He wasn’t afraid to show me his weakness. It was a remarkable thing, in that time, for a man to do that. That’s the key thing about a strong marriage. It gives you a safe place to be yourself, entirely, even the weak parts.” After a pause, she added, “Especially the weak parts.” Marilyn grew quiet and continued to gaze out the window.
Anil thought of Amber, of how hard he had tried to show her the best version of himself—the one who could run fast, tell funny jokes, even line dance. He had thought it a good sign, an indication of the strength of their relationship, that he wanted to reflect his best self with her. But had it even been a version of him at all, that idealized person who bore little resemblance to him? His flaws, his weaknesses—those he’d hidden from Amber.
Clay has a memory, Leena had said. Where it had fractured was always the weakest part, obvious if you looked for it. And yet, she’d kept those damaged pieces, just as she’d held his weaknesses comfortably.
Marilyn elected not to pursue further treatment. There were no eagles in the hospital gift store, but Anil brought her a colorful stuffed parrot, which made her laugh out loud. She gave him a worn copy of her favorite book, an illustrated version of the poem “Desiderata.” “I know it by heart.” She winked at him.
On the day Marilyn was due to check out of the hospital, Anil brought in milkshakes from the fast-food joint across the street for them to enjoy on the roof of the hospital. Then he wheeled her down to the front lobby, stuffed parrot on her lap, where her daughter helped her into the waiting minivan. As he returned with the empty wheelchair, it occurred to Anil that the patient he felt best about treating during his two months on the oncology ward was not one whose life he’d saved but one who was going home to die in peace.
FOR THE next week, Anil met up with Charlie every night at the diner to rehearse his pitch to Dr. Tanaka for the research project. He practiced until the words came smoothly and Charlie agreed he was ready.
Anil located Dr. Tanaka’s office in the Cardiology Department and approached it with a quivering stomach. He knocked on the door, then waited for Dr. Tanaka’s muted response to enter. Anil reintroduced himself when Tanaka showed no sign of recognition and launched into his pitch. He was able to get through the first sentence, proud of himself for not stammering, before Tanaka held up his silver pen to interrupt.
“Dr. Patel, I’m glad you enjoyed the cath lab. I don’t believe in veiling it off like some people. I like to take all my residents in there at some point, so they can see the true power of cardiology. I believe there’s no finer specialty. But, unfortunately, I’m already committed to overseeing one resident research project, and I don’t have time to take on another. Do you know Dr. Crandall?”
Anil nodded, his ears humming in harmony with the fluorescent lights.
“Perhaps you can team up with him,” Tanaka continued. “Trey has a very interesting research study on early incidence of MI. I’m excited about the prospects.”
Anil thanked Dr. Tanaka for the suggestion. After leaving the office, Anil bypassed the elevators for the privacy of the stairwell, raced down three flights of stairs, and pushed through the exit door into the frigid air.
WHEN ANIL returned home, a thin blue slip addressed to him was lying on the kitchen counter. He held the frail aerogramme between his fingers and studied it. Alternating navy-blue and red-cadet stripes chased each other around the perimeter of the pale blue envelope. He didn’t recognize the handwriting. Instinctively, he brought it close to his nose and detected the faint aroma of something—cardamom?He took a knife from the kitchen drawer and slipped its sharp tip into the seam.
Back home, aerogrammes were always treated with great care and respect. The onion-skin paper folded onto itself to make its own envelope, and there was a prescribed space in which to write: one small page and one-third of the other side, favoring writers with small penmanship and readers with strong eyes. When Anil had first moved to Dallas, his mother sent him monthly aerogrammes to update him on all the family news; at the bottom were a few sloppy lines written in his ailing father’s hand, a visual sign of his decline. Anil had not received an aerogramme since Papa died.
He read Leena’s letter standing in the kitchen. When he looked up afterward, the room shifted a bit, tilting on its axis. He gripped the counter to stabilize himself, then slid over a few paces to the sink and pulled up the faucet handle. He stayed in that position for some time—he couldn’t be sure how long—watching the stream of water, the compressed bubbles changing its hue from clear to white, ch
anging its shape. When the urge to vomit had finally passed, Anil splashed water onto his face and neck, then immersed his whole head under the current. He longed to rid his mind of the images, but one was etched there permanently—Leena’s leg covered in angry, red, puckered skin.
Anil tore off his hospital scrubs and put on his running clothes. He left the apartment with only the house key clutched in his palm, digging into his skin. He ran without knowing where he was going, across busy intersections and down unfamiliar streets, afraid that if he stopped running he would explode. He was seething with anger, but he knew his rage was aimless: the offenses against Leena had occurred long ago and far away. Who was there to punish now?
By the time Anil returned home, his lungs burning, dusk had set in and he had found a viable object for his rage. His mother had judged Leena without knowing a thing about her.
25
IT WAS TWO O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING AND THE WARD WAS empty. Anil was on call overnight and looking for a nurse to help move a large patient. Walking toward the nurses’ station, Anil could see down the entire length of the vacant corridor. He was about to turn around and head for the break room when he spotted a figure crouched down under the nurses’ station. He drew closer; the person was not wearing the scrubs typically worn by nurses, but a white coat. The upturned heels of dark loafers were visible under the hem of the coat, and a patch of rugged blond hair could be seen above the collar.
Anil stopped a few meters short of the station. He watched Trey rummage through the bottom shelf of the drug trolley, used by the nurses to move between patients’ rooms. Anil’s vision became blurry, then crystallized again. His ears filled with the abnormally loud ticking of a clock and the regurgitation of a fax machine. He saw Trey slip something into his pocket, then stand up and turn around to face him. Panic flashed through Trey’s eyes, but it was so quickly masked by his confident grin, Anil thought he had imagined it. “What’s up, Patel?”
Anil stood, unmoving. His eyes drifted to the drug trolley, then back to Trey’s face.
“Yeah, no nurses around. Had to get some meds for a patient.” Trey chuckled. “Gotta do everything myself around here.” He put his hands in his pockets and stepped away.
“Wait.” Anil reached for Trey’s arm. “What did you just put in your pocket?”
“I told you, Patel. I had to pick up some meds for a patient.” Trey shook Anil’s hand off his arm. “Now, if you don’t mind, I need to get back—”
“Why are you on this floor? Why didn’t you get the meds on your own ward?”
Trey’s stubble-covered face showed the weariness typical of a resident on night shift. But there was something else, a sort of nervous energy uncharacteristic of him. “Christ, Patel. What’s with the inquisition? What’s it to you?”
“You know you’re not supposed to pull meds off the trolley like that,” Anil said. “You need to have someone present and sign everything into the log. What’s in your pocket?”
“Christ!” Trey said. “It’s just a couple of tabs of Adderall for a patient with TBI.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small plastic cup with two tablets. “Ward 6 was out, so I came down here. Happy now? I’ll follow the procedure next time, officer.” Trey stormed off down the corridor.
SEVERAL HOURS later, after Anil was done with morning rounds and on his way home, he stopped off on Ward 6, glancing at the patient board as he passed the central station. He found Trey in the break room, recapping the weekend’s football games with the other residents, smiling and energetic.
“Trey, can I have a word?” Anil asked. Trey glanced up at him, the earlier trace of panic in his eyes now gone. He slapped another resident on the shoulder, excused himself from the group, and followed Anil out to the corridor and into an empty patient room. Anil closed the door.
“What is it, Patel?” Trey asked. “You want to rap me on the knuckles again for forgetting to follow procedure? I told you I’d write it up next time.”
“You don’t have any patients with TBI,” Anil said.
“What? So?”
“You said the Adderall was for a patient with traumatic brain injury, but the board shows no patients on this ward with TBI.”
“He was discharged this morning, okay? Look, Patel, I don’t need you looking over my shoulder. I can take care of my own goddamn patients. Why don’t you just worry about yours?”
“Really? Shall I check the discharge papers, then?” Anil was fed up with Trey getting everything he wanted. He didn’t get to play by his own rules, not this time.
“Holy crap, Patel.” Trey rolled his head back and shook his head at the ceiling. “What are you, the self-appointed ward policeman? I know how to do my fucking job, okay? You want me looking over your shoulder all day long, finding every little mistake? I bet I could find a whole lot of them. Now will you please back the fuck off?” Trey tried to push past him but Anil put his hand up, stalling until he could think of what to say next. He swallowed hard, the vague fear of a physical altercation creeping into his mind.
“What are you gonna do, Patel, huh?” Trey jammed his hands into his pockets and leaned forward. “There’s no written record, you said so yourself. So it’s your word against mine. You think anyone around here’s gonna believe you? Over me?” The corner of his mouth curled up.
Anil thought of Dr. Tanaka and Trey’s father on the hospital board.
“I didn’t think so.” Trey leaned in closer. “Don’t fuck with me, Patel. Mind your own goddamn business.” He swung open the door and left.
“HE’S RIGHT, who’s going to believe me?” Anil said, pushing the salt shaker around the Formica tabletop after relaying the incident to Charlie as they sat in their regular booth at the diner.
“Tough call,” Charlie agreed. “If you’re not sure what happened, it’s tricky. Maybe you should try talking to him again, see if he’ll come clean?”
Anil shook his head. “He didn’t seem very agreeable to talking. He looked more like he wanted to punch me.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, mate,” Charlie said. “You’ll come up with something. Don’t they call you the Great Decider back home?”
Anil laughed. “Yeah, that’s right.” He picked up the laminated menu card standing on the table. “And I just decided we need some pie. Banana cream or apple?”
While they waited for their dessert to arrive, they discussed their infectious disease research study. The data analysis had yielded some interesting conclusions, and they were beginning to map out the report they would write. Eventually, they reverted to their default topic: what their peers would be doing after residency. Rumors were swirling about who was applying for which specialties, and who was likely to be chosen. Anil had started his fellowship applications and was moving ahead with his cardiology research project, even without a sponsor. The conversation brought them back to Trey, who was favored for one of the few cardiology fellowships, and anger began to stir again in Anil.
“Hey, I heard the new CMRs are going to be announced at the end of the week,” Charlie said, cutting into a thick slice of apple pie with his fork. “Kirby, Choi, and your friend Mehta.”
“Really?” Anil spoke through a mouthful of whipped cream. “Sonia Mehta? Chief medical resident?”
Charlie wiped the crumbs from his mouth with a paper napkin. “You could not pay me enough to do that job—all that responsibility, all those interns.” He shivered.
Anil placed a forkful of pie in his mouth and let the cream melt away, thinking how it would feel pretty incredible to be selected as a CMR, to be recognized as the very best. “Sonia will make a great CMR. She deserves it.”
“Yeah,” Charlie said. “God knows she’s bloody well sacrificed enough for this job—her marriage and all.”
A prickling sensation traveled around Anil’s temples. “Marriage?”
“Yeah, you didn’t know about her divorce?” Charlie reached over and dug his fork into Anil’s pie. “I thought you guys were tight.”
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Anil pushed the dish toward Charlie. “I’m done.” He took a long drink of water, then held the cool glass between his palms. “Where did you hear that?”
“One of the other senior residents went to med school with her. I guess she and her husband got married halfway through school, and split up their first year here. I suppose it would be pretty intense going through this with your wife, the competition and all.”
Was he Indian? Anil was curious but didn’t ask. Instead, he craned his neck to look for their waitress, whose voice had been raspier than usual today. “Where is she, out for a smoke?”
“What’s the rush, mate?” Charlie said.
Anil checked his watch. “I need to get back and finish some charts.” He was suddenly eager to complete his rote paperwork. What a relief it would be to check medication dosages, to think about blood pressure readings and blood sugar levels instead of the new layers of unsettling information in his mind. Trey. Sonia. Leena and Ma. The accumulated stress of the past week had frayed Anil’s nerves. He felt ready to burst from the secrets he was holding on to; he wanted to let it all go, but not here in the diner, not with calm and cheerful Charlie.
“It’s all right, you go on,” Charlie said. “I’ll get the check.”
What Anil needed was to blow off steam with his favorite unbridled Punjabi, but ever since Baldev had come home from the rehabilitation ward a few weeks ago, he’d been inseparable from Trinity. She’d practically moved into their apartment, her yoga mat rolled up in a corner of the living room, her copies of The New York Times accumulating on the coffee table. Generally, Anil didn’t mind her presence. She cooked vegetarian meals for them, and brightened up the place with live plants she said would improve the energy flow. But right now, Anil wanted to vent his frustrations, and he couldn’t do it in front of Trinity.