The Most Likely Club, page 23
She moved into the kitchen, where she heard Dev rattling around the cutlery drawer.
“Well, look at you,” he said, looking at her admiringly from head to toe. “Scrubbed out, I see.”
“You don’t want no scrub,” she said, moving closer to him. She wanted to kiss him but knew not to get too close. He had been complaining of a sore throat, and this morning he said the pressure behind his eyes was excruciating. Priya couldn’t risk getting sick. She had far too much to do at work the next few days, especially in light of her trip out west to see Suki. The likelihood that she would actually board the plane felt slim, but she liked clinging to the hope that she could offload her patients to the other docs and get ahead (technically, catch up) on her management duties so she could get away. She owed Suki so much. Her entire life, actually.
“Huh?” he asked, looking at her quizzically. She would have liked to see him in a tux tonight, to enter the party holding hands. Maybe turn some heads, even if they were mostly angled at Dev.
“TLC. ‘No Scrubs.’ You don’t remember that song? We used to sing it in the cadaver lab.” She hummed it and began to sway in time. What was this dress doing to her? She was reminded of tagging along with a colleague a few years ago to a Zumba class. Priya lasted all of two numbers before the teacher had them moving their arms and feet one way while sending the hips off in the opposite direction, and Priya bolted for the door.
The teacher had caught up with her afterward in the locker room.
“You might prefer Zumba Gold,” she said, unselfconsciously peeling off her unitard. “It’s the same moves, but a little gentler. It’s designed for more mature women.”
It was awfully immature to voluntarily gyrate to “Bamboleo,” Priya agreed. It took her a moment to realize “mature” was code for “old.”
“Can’t say that I do,” Dev said. “But you look great. I’m sorry I can’t go with you.” Dev was still rummaging through the drawer, moving around the silverware with no regard for the divider system put in place by the overpriced home organizer Priya had hired a few years back, mistakenly believing that labels and cubbies would be a cure-all for the chaos.
“What are you looking for?”
“The ice cream scooper.”
“Under the microwave. Second drawer. Fourth divider from the right.” Her photographic memory had been a major boon in medical school. Now it was mostly useful to find lesser-used utensils, AirPods buried in couch cushions, and car keys.
“Great.” Dev retrieved it and dug into the pint of open Ben & Jerry’s melting on the counter. Her family members were fond of abandoning perishable items. Why wouldn’t they be? They weren’t the ones going to the supermarket for replacements.
“Dairy isn’t great for sinuses, honey,” she said. “I’m sorry I didn’t have time to make you dinner. I guess you’ll order in.”
“It’s fine,” Dev said around a mouthful of Chunky Monkey. He eyed his latest toy, a brand-new Garmin running watch. How was it that he had time for six-mile runs on the weekend and she sometimes had to forgo basic personal hygiene?
“You better go, hon. There will be traffic.”
Traffic was a plus. Schmoozy parties were her kryptonite.
“I’m leaving. Asha and Bela are both going out. Bela is sleeping at Kara’s house and Asha at Lucy’s. They have rides so don’t worry about getting them there. And Vid is at robotics until eight. Jack’s mom will drive him home. I’m just gonna run up to Vid’s room to get his math stuff organized. If you’re not in bed when he gets back, can you make sure he studies a little? He has a test tomorrow.”
Dev gave her a thumbs-up that wasn’t particularly reassuring. She dreaded mounting the stairs again in her heels, but removing them was an even greater feat. The leather straps crisscrossed her ankles twice and necessitated working a strap through a minuscule metal buckle.
Vid’s room was a disaster, as per usual. She hopscotched over sweaty jerseys, weaved between crumpled pairs of underwear, and nearly wiped out thanks to a tangle of wires. How many electronics could one child have? She counted a gaming computer, school laptop, iPhone, headphones, and PS5. There were at least twenty wires spiderwebbing across the carpet. The kid, leg brace be damned, needed to clean up this mess immediately. The room was unsanitary and unsafe. If he tripped over the wires, he’d end up with another injury, and she had no time for that.
She poked her head into his bathroom. The smell of mildewed towels combined with dried urine lining the toilet made her gag. So Vid had great aim with neither the soccer ball nor his penis. Her eye caught the amber pill bottle next to the sink, striped with pastel warning labels. She picked it up and studied the small font. vyvanse. vidya agrawal. 30mg. take once a day.
Vid was two weeks into his meds. The dog, the organizational coach, the color-coding his binders, the whiteboard schedule on his wall, hadn’t been enough. He was still a ship lost at sea, and the only directional compass left to try was a stimulant. When Priya was in middle school, the kids that had to go to the nurse to take Ritalin were considered the bad seeds. Things were different now. Half the students in Vid’s class were on something. Still, Priya couldn’t shake the feeling that giving Vid pills was a personal failure. And yet. He was responding well to them. He remembered to remove his brace when he showered. He hadn’t forgotten to turn in a single homework assignment. And he just looked more energized, the perpetual glaze over his eyes evaporated.
Priya palmed the bottle, curling her fingers around the plastic. She weighed at least forty pounds more than her wiry son. This was a low dose they were meant to ramp up eventually. She had paperwork to do after she got home from the benefit. These pills were incredibly safe, otherwise they would never be given to children. She unscrewed the cap and pincered an orange capsule. Before she could reconsider, she placed the waxy pill on her tongue and cupped a handful of water from the sink to get it down. Wiping a dribble of water from her chin carefully so as not to disturb her makeup, she stared at her reflection. She felt better already. She had hope.
“Now I’m really going,” she called out to Dev when she was at the front door.
“Let me see you one more time,” he said. He was at the kitchen table with a James Patterson novel in one hand, a mug of tea in the other. Dev wolf-whistled. When they were first dating, she’d loved that he could do that. She partially married him because he could always hail them a cab when they were residents at Columbia, in Washington Heights, where taxis were sparse and preferred to cruise farther downtown rather than pick up brown people. “I want a picture of this.”
He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and she tried to casually glance at the code he entered. 720688. It was a meaningless string of numbers to her. After he’d snapped the photo, she said, “Dev, I know you’re not feeling well, but can you please grab my purse upstairs? I want to use the navy one with a strap. I know I’ll misplace this clutch. I’d get it myself, but you have no idea how hard it is to climb the stairs in these shoes.”
When she heard Dev reach the wooden landing of the second floor, she reached for his cell phone and punched in the digits. Her hand shook as she scrolled through the texts until she found the last exchange with M.
DEV: She’s going out tonight.
M: Great. I’ll come over after she leaves.
DEV: Fantastic.
M: You poor thing. She’s never home anymore.
It was exactly what she’d feared. Why had she given him the benefit of the doubt the first time around? Idiot, idiot, idiot!
“I think I got the right one,” Dev called, and she heard him padding down the carpeted stairs. She quickly but quietly put the phone back on the table.
“That’s the one,” Priya said, mustering all her strength to contort her face into normalcy. She took the bag from his hands and fumbled to place her lipstick and cell phone in it.
“Have a great time,” Dev said as she turned to leave.
“Fuck you,” she whispered in return.
* * *
• • •
“WHAT DID YOU say?” Priya was struggling to hear the person seated to her right at the benefit, a former hospital board member and CEO of one of the largest roofing manufacturers in the world. He was one of the evening’s honorees and Priya read in his bio that his company was a major supplier to Habitat for Humanity. She wanted to ask him about that, to the extent she could focus on anything besides her lying, cheating husband, but the man wanted only to ask her how he could manage his sciatica. And to discuss roofing shingles. He was very passionate about asphalt over slate.
Then an extremely coiffed lady to Priya’s left started talking to her, her face merely an inch away. She had definitely consumed an onion bagel at some point that day.
“As I was saying, the pain starts in my groin, radiates to my rear end, and then goes into my hip. Here,” she said, taking Priya’s hand and placing it on the trouble spot. “That’s where it’s the sharpest.”
“Advil,” Priya said. “Try Advil and ice. If it doesn’t get better in two weeks, call my office for an appointment.” Two weeks. It seemed like a lifetime from now. She could be separated from Dev by then. She was certain in two weeks her life would look nothing like it did when she woke up that morning. Fucking M. Fucking Dev.
“Dr. Chowdhury, excuse me.” She felt a gentle tap on the shoulder and Priya turned to see a woman dressed all in black, an earpiece with a wire dangling over her shoulder. “They need you on the dais for the award ceremony.”
She rose slowly, feeling unsteady on her feet and not just because of the shoes. The room seemed at an angle, like all the plates and glasses were going to slide off the tables and come crashing to the ground any second. She looked up to center herself, but the bright chandelier crystals streaming from the ceiling made her dizzy. She reached for her water glass and took a large swig. Get it together, Priya.
“Right this way,” the woman said, and Priya watched as she crossed her name off a list on a clipboard. The letters were jumping off the page. One letter in particular. She saw M, M, and M. Ms so large they looked like their legs would strangle her, that the sharp corners would stab her in the heart.
“Are you okay?” The woman was looking at her like she had three heads. Priya felt her heart beating a mile a minute. Thump, thump, thump, like a hammer banging a nail. She looked up at the dais. It was like a Benetton ad. Faces of every color. Half were women.
“Double diversity.”
“Female and brown.”
“A shoo-in.”
“Dr. Chowdhury, what are you saying?” She didn’t realize she’d been speaking out loud.
The woman had forced her into a seat and was pushing a glass of water into her hand. The ice cubes clicked together and made a hissing sound that scared Priya.
“I have to go home. I have to leave right now.”
* * *
• • •
THERE WAS NO shortage of doctors in-house to examine her and someone, maybe it was the chief of hematology, declared her capable of driving home. Priya collected herself enough to convince them that she’d eaten some bad shellfish earlier and just needed to drink some Pepto Bismol, and mercifully, she was spared the embarrassment of being piled into an ambulance.
As she expected, there was an unfamiliar car in the driveway when she arrived. Her heart rate had slowed, but at the sight of the blue Saab parked next to Dev’s BMW, it skyrocketed again. She knew Dev was screwing a nurse from the hospital. They all drove Saabs. She peered in the window and gasped when she saw a baby car seat strapped in the backseat. Dev was involved with a young mother? How many homes did he wish to wreck at once? At least it wasn’t Melissa’s car. Unless she drove a loaner for subterfuge.
She struggled to fit the key in the front door lock, trying to be as quiet as possible. Priya was ready to catch Dev and his lover in flagrante. No more second chances; no more benefit of the doubt.
Stepping into the foyer, the first thing Priya noticed was the smell. Dal, she thought. And the sweet scent of freshly baked roti.
So Dev and M were sharing a romantic dinner before they got busy. Or maybe this was a postcoital feast. Or an interlude.
She stopped in her tracks when she heard Dev’s voice.
“Looks amazing,” he said. “I want all of it.”
Uch, how cheesy could he be? Purposely being suggestive in the way he spoke about the food. Gross.
“And you should have everything you want, sweetheart.”
Oh my God.
M.
Priya knew exactly who M was.
“So I just have to heat each container at three-fifty for twenty minutes?” Dev said.
“Exactly. Call me anytime you have questions.”
Priya darkened the entrance to the kitchen and stood watching Jeet stir a pot while Dev sat drinking a beer at the counter.
Jeet was M. M was Ma.
Her husband was secretly texting his mommy. Jeet must have borrowed a neighbor’s car again.
Holy hell. Priya didn’t know whether to laugh about how wrong she had been or cry about how pathetic her husband was. So she screamed.
“Priya! Priya, calm down,” Dev said when he noticed her. “What’s wrong?”
“There’s no need to get excited, my dear,” Jeet said. “Are you hungry?”
“Stay out of this,” Priya barked. She was still amped up from the pill and she liked it.
“Dev. Our bedroom. Now.” Priya turned her back and went up the stairs. A moment later, Dev’s footsteps followed.
“Listen, please, it’s not what you think,” Dev said. He was sitting on the edge of their bed while Priya paced the room. “I really did feel sick.”
“Pop quiz, Dev,” Priya said. Her voice was booming, but she didn’t care a lick if Jeet overheard this.
“Huh?” Dev looked at her, confused and with pleading eyes.
“What is Vid’s shoe size?”
He gave a blank stare.
“When are the kids due for their next dental checkups?”
He offered an embarrassed shrug.
“Name three of Bela’s teachers. You know what, name one.”
“Mrs. Halloway—no, no—that’s not right. Is there a Mr. Rogers?”
“Like in a red cardigan? No, there is not. You have to step up and help out more around here. And that doesn’t mean ‘warming up the car’ while I get everyone’s things together. Or running out for bagels the minute Wiggles vomits. It means being a full and complete partner. If the children need something, I want them to be able to turn to us equally for help. And if you’re going to have weekly poker nights, then I’m going to . . . Well, I’m going to . . .” Priya paused. She didn’t actually know what she liked to do when she was by herself. “I’ll figure something out.”
“Priya, can we talk about this? You don’t need to get so worked up.”
“What I am is hungry. I left before dinner was served. Make me a plate of your mother’s food and bring it up here. You can think about what I’m asking from you. And then send Jeet packing.”
19
Melissa
THE SALESWOMAN RAPPED gently on the door of the dressing room where Melissa was supposed to be trying on an emerald green cocktail dress with beaded straps.
“Do you need help with the zipper? It can be tricky to do it by yourself.”
Ha! As though Melissa hadn’t already been managing by herself for six years since her divorce. She was a contortionist when it came to maneuvering zippers and fastening bracelets.
“I’m okay,” she responded. She hadn’t even removed the dress from its hanger. She was sitting on the bench in the dressing room, texting with Nathan. He was helping her prepare for the mayoral debate the following evening. She hadn’t realized just how out of her depth she was until he cajoled her into a mock debate. What sort of tax breaks are you planning for small businesses? (She didn’t know. The tax code confused her.) If you are a proponent of public school, why did you send your daughter to Bellport Academy? (Because her parents paid half the tuition.) The local museum you proposed is on a Native American burial site. How do you plan to handle that? (How was she supposed to know what was underground?)
Thank goodness for Nathan. Wealthy, wonky, quirky Nathan, the classmate Melissa never expected to reconnect with. They’d met twice more for coffee to help her prepare. It was at these coffees, which often lingered for more than three or four hours, that she realized the value of having a partner. Someone by her side, cheering for her, not thinking about how the relationship might benefit him. It was the first time in a long time she admitted to herself she missed being married for more than lightbulb changing. There was always an awkward dance when the check arrived. She’d reach for it. “A campaign expense,” she would joke, but Nathan would wave her off and pull out a black credit card made of indestructible steel.
He always seemed to have a reason why he needed to be in Connecticut. Visiting his mother, a meeting with a pharmaceutical company in Hartford, a country house a broker insisted he see in Litchfield County. And these obligations always coincided with the moments she reached out for counsel. She knew he had a crush on her. Crush, with its juvenile inflection, was the right word. She asked how he remembered so much about her from high school, down to her favorite song—“Dancing Nancies” by Dave Matthews—though she already knew his answer. Nathan readily confessed to being “obsessed” with her in high school. It baffled Melissa that she hadn’t noticed prolonged stares or attempts at interaction. She must have been so busy looking up, at who was more popular, successful, social, athletic, that she managed not to look around.
