The White Coat Diaries, page 13
“What was the patient being seen for?” I ask.
“Cataracts,” Stuart says. “The attending meant a complete eye examination.”
We all dissolve into laughter as Stuart’s face goes flame red.
“I think we need to toast,” Clark says, clearing his throat. He raises his glass of orange juice. “To Norah not contracting hepatitis from her patient. Well done, Shocks-a-lot.”
We toast with our juice and coffee cups. I look around the table at our matching starched white coats and smile. For the first time in my life, I have a group of friends, a clique, a squad. What I feel is more than just a sense of belonging; it’s a thrill of momentum, like being swept up in a wild current. Our shared purpose is to help one another stay afloat, and everything else seems secondary and unimportant. The world outside the hospital is on the shoreline, quickly shrinking out of sight.
Suddenly I remember that Diwali is next week.
* * *
* * *
I stare at my reflection in the gilt rococo mirror over the vanity in Paul and Reena’s new powder room. This mirror is more visually interesting than I am. I’m wearing a black knee-length dress and a gray cardigan. It probably wouldn’t kill me to wear more makeup.
Paul and Reena purchased this sensible three-bedroom, split-level house in need of renovation earlier this year and have just finished remodeling the kitchen and bathrooms. The gilt mirror is typical of Reena, whose decorating style is solidly at the intersection of Liberace and a Dollar Store.
When I open the door, a silver-haired woman wearing a glittery red sari and a gold headband is waiting for the powder room. “Norah? Hello, beti! Don’t you look adorable!” She squeezes my face between her hands.
I wince, my stomach dropping to the floor. “Hi, Nimisha Auntie.”
“What’s different?” She takes a step back to better see me. “The hair? No. Have you gained weight? That must be it. Oh, thank goodness, because you were far too skinny last year. What an improvement.”
“Thank you,” I say, unsurprised. The backhanded compliment is Nimisha Auntie’s forte.
“Have you seen my Dimple? She’s expecting again!” Nimisha Auntie smiles, her eyes wide, her nostrils flaring, her lips pressed tightly together. She looks like a cartoon lizard.
“That’s so great.” I glance at my phone. “Another grandchild? Good for you. How many does that make now? A full half dozen?”
She cackles merrily, unfazed by my attempt at passive aggression. “And Dimple’s husband is taking our whole family on an all-expenses-paid trip to Bermuda to celebrate! Your ma needs a son-in-law, Norah. She has too much stress. Ever since your papa died in that car accident, I’ve been telling her, ‘Rupali, you need to get Norah married. A widow with an unmarried daughter is a curse on the family.’ It sounds harsh, but you know I say this to her out of love. Who bought her first winter coat for her, after all?” She makes a clicking sound with her tongue, and her voice drops to a loud whisper. “You should hear the ladies at the community center talk about her. She used to have so many friends, but now . . .” She shakes her head. “No one wants to associate with a cursed widow.”
Ma would be livid if I ever dared to speak rudely to Nimisha Auntie. She’s lectured me before about the way I greet her and the other aunties with “Hi” instead of—as she would prefer—pressing my hands into an obeisant namaste while bowing. Ma is fervent about the Indian tradition of showing deference where it’s due, and because Nimisha Auntie is older than me and a cherished family friend, no matter what ridiculous garbage spews from her mouth, I have no choice but to respect her. And she knows it. I stay silent, my lips pressed together, my hands clasped in front of me.
“I know some very nice boys I could introduce you to, Norah. My cousin has a family friend, and they have an engineer son. He’s a very nice boy. He’s not what you would call good-looking, but at your age a girl can’t be picky. And everyone eventually gets ugly, right? Right?” She cackles again.
“Some of us more so than others,” I mumble as she disappears into the powder room.
Paul and Reena come down the hall, sprinkling holy water from a copper pot onto the floor. A priest from the Hindu temple dressed in a white tunic and khaki trousers follows them, chanting in Sanskrit.
“Excuse us,” Paul says. “Just blessing our house here.”
Reena shoots him a look. “Can you take this seriously, please?”
“Paul!” I hiss under my breath. “What is Nimisha Auntie doing here?”
Paul shrugs helplessly. “Ma invited her.”
“Why didn’t you stop her?”
“I can’t just kick her out.”
Reena scowls at us both. “You guys, can you discuss this later?”
I follow them back into the living room, which is filled with guests who, for the most part, are feigning interest in the ceremony while eagerly awaiting the arrival of appetizers. Paul, Reena, and the priest sit on a blanket spread over the hardwood floor, in front of a gold altar decorated with tea-light candles and a statuette of Ganesha, the god of good fortune. The scent of sandalwood wafts from a burning incense stick. They place flowers at the feet of the tiny deity, then press their hands together in prayer as the priest concludes his chant with a deep and resounding “Om.”
The guests congratulate Paul and Reena, the priest is dismissed, and someone switches on a television channel featuring Bollywood music videos. Kai is passed from person to person, having his cheeks pinched and squeezed by dozens of doting, cooing aunties. He tolerates this patiently, sucking his thumb and then wiping the saliva on each woman’s sari.
A stentorian laugh comes from the direction of the kitchen, momentarily drowning out everything, even the music videos. Vikram Uncle.
“High-heel shoes are idiotic!”
“I like how they look,” Reena says, glancing at me in exasperation as I enter the kitchen. She’s sliding a tray of naan out of the oven. Ma is seated at the kitchen table, her blood pressure cuff inflating around her arm. Across the table from her, Paul picks over a platter of crudités.
“You’ll be in a wheelchair by the time you’re my age!” Vikram Uncle loads a cocktail napkin with mini pakoras on toothpicks. He smooths his mustache, an unruly handlebar-type thing that’s always getting food caught in it. “Reena, as a scientist, I am telling you that Boyle’s law says that volume and pressure are inversely proportional. Small shoe, lots of pressure on your toes. It’s simple physics.” He scoffs and gestures at the air.
Reena tosses her dark hair over one shoulder. “Norah, I don’t believe in doctors, but will wearing heels give me bunions?”
“I think,” I say, “that it depends on the type of shoe—”
“Norah’s not really a doctor yet,” Vikram Uncle says, waving me off. “She’s still in school.”
I bristle. “I graduated from medical school, actually.” Under my breath I add, “Several months ago.” I take a seat at the table.
“She’s officially Dr. Kapadia now,” Paul chimes in.
Vikram Uncle shrugs. “Well, whatever, but she’s still learning. She’s a trainee.” He says it like he assumes my job is to deliver flowers while dressed in a pink-and-white-striped outfit with a matching hat.
“Eat something, Noonie,” my mother says, the blood pressure cuff still around her arm. “You know how we both get light-headed when we don’t eat.”
“I don’t get light—”
“You’re so tired. You work too hard. Look at you, bags under your eyes.” She pushes my bangs off my forehead. “Vikram, couldn’t you hire Norah to come work for you?”
“Thanks, but I’m going to practice medicine,” I say. “You know, I’m going to actually be a doctor. Like we’ve discussed.”
Vikram Uncle snorts his disapproval. “Eh, doctors. They’re ten cents a dozen. When I came to this country in 1972, the doctor was king.” He raises his pointer finger into the air and waves it about. “All the immigrants wanted their kids to become doctors. I went to my doctor last week, and you know who I saw? A nurse practitioner. A nurse! And she calls herself ‘Doctor.’ They let any Tom, Dick, or Jimmy practice medicine these days.”
“Harry,” I say. “It’s Tom, Dick, or Harry.”
“Eh, whatever.” Vikram Uncle shrugs. “Harry, Jimmy, Barbara. English expressions make no sense.”
Paul smiles at me sympathetically. “You know, you all may be surprised to learn that, in some circles, being a doctor is considered very prestigious.”
I smile back and mouth, Thank you. I catch Reena rolling her eyes.
“Utpal, I am aware that being a doctor is prestigious,” Vikram Uncle says pointedly, using Paul’s given name. “But there’s no money in it anymore. It’s a dying profession. Pun intended.” He grins with satisfaction.
“What do you mean, dying profession?” Paul says. “People will always need doctors.”
“Insurance companies!” Vikram Uncle motions as though he were throwing dollar bills into the wind. “Everyone knows the doctors are all on the leash of the insurance companies. The doctor is an employee, not the boss. You can have all the prestige you want, but if you’re not the boss, pffft.” The gesture he makes to accompany this sound is, I presume, supposed to mimic air being let out of a balloon and the balloon shooting off at a tangent, lost and directionless.
My mother hasn’t been listening. “Did you see Meryl?” she says. “She looks so nice. She brought her friend.” She lowers her voice conspiratorially. “He’s boy.”
I head for the living room, weaving through a throng of guests until I find Meryl. She’s wearing a perfectly draped pink chiffon sari, her hair in a neat topknot.
“Happy Diwali!” she says, hugging me. She takes a step back. “Where’s your Indian outfit?”
I’m the only woman here not wearing a sari. “I came straight from work. I didn’t have time to drape my sari properly. It always takes me forever. Did you put that on yourself?”
She nods. “I remembered how to do it from Paul’s wedding. It’s easy once you get the hang of it. So, you remember Gabe, right?” She points across the room to where Gabe, dressed in a blue kurta top and jeans, a plastic cup of soda in hand, is engaged in animated conversation with several men. He claps one of them on the back and laughs enthusiastically.
“Oh, I remember him.” I raise my eyebrows at her.
“I know, I know,” she says, waving me off. “It’s very new. I left you a message a few days ago but—”
“I’m sorry, I’ve been so busy with work—”
“He’s really great, I promise.” She beckons to him, and he saunters over.
“Who are those guys?” Meryl asks.
Gabe shrugs. “No idea. Hello, Norah,” he says casually. “Great party.”
“I’m getting some mango lassi,” Meryl says. “You guys want any?”
I shake my head. Meryl mouths the words “Be nice” in my direction and is gone.
“You have my coat,” Gabe says.
“No, I don’t,” I say.
“Yes, you do.”
I sigh quietly. “Did you wear it here today?”
“No. Because you have it.”
“I don’t have your coat.” A moment later it occurs to me that I might. “Halloween . . .”
“Halloween.”
“That was your coat I wore home?”
He smiles.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t realize.”
“That’s okay. You were upset about Jelly not showing up. Did he ever tear himself away from—what did you call her—the Surgery Whore?”
“I said that?” My voice is increasingly panicked. “Out loud? To you?”
“All the way home.”
“You walked me home?”
“So where is he?”
“Who?”
“Who? Jelly. I want to meet him.”
“I wasn’t myself, you know. I don’t really ever drink alcohol. And I shouldn’t have said that about the Surgery . . . individual. She’s actually a very nice person and not a sex worker, and even if she were, that’s not something I would judge her for because as women we’re economically—”
“Ah, he’s not here. Is he with her?” He crosses his arms over his chest.
“What? No. I don’t know. No.”
“You keep looking at your phone.”
I cross my arms and tuck the phone under my elbow. “So?”
“Slept with him yet?”
I suck in my breath, setting off a coughing fit.
“Right. I didn’t think so,” he says.
“He just broke up with his fiancée,” I say between coughs. “He’s not really ready to be in a relationship right now.”
“Not ready? He told you that?” Gabe flashes a smile at Meryl, across the room at the buffet table.
“He was with his fiancée for two years. Of course he’s not ready. It’s obvious.”
“Uh-huh. So this is a Florence Nightingale type of thing you’re doing?”
“A what?”
“You know, he’s wounded, you heal him, he falls for you. Women love the rescue fantasy.”
“Do they?” I say, my tone saccharine. “You sure do know a lot about women.”
“You’re saying I’m wrong?”
“I’m saying you don’t know anything about me.”
“I know you’re a person who will wear a wet paper bag for someone who doesn’t bother showing up for you.”
I make an offended tsking sound while squinting. “That is not what happened!”
“You’re someone who lets people walk all over you. You’re doormat-ish.”
“I am not a doormat.”
“Doormat-ish. You have some doormat-like qualities.”
“Well, you’re asshole-ish. You have some asshole-like qualities. And you look ridiculous in that kurta. Stop appropriating my culture.”
“Nice cardigan,” he replies.
My mother appears at my elbow, smiling gratuitously. “Oh, hello. Norah, is this Meryl’s friend?”
“No,” I say, staring at Gabe, wishing I could vaporize him with my eyes.
“Mrs. Kapadia, it’s a delight to meet you.” Gabe smiles charmingly. “The house-blessing ceremony was beautiful. Happy Diwali.”
My mother looks pleased. “Happy Diwali to you, too. You look nice in kurta.” She turns to me, her smile vanishing. “Norah, there’s someone I want you to meet.” Under her breath, she implores, “Keep open mind.”
A lanky young man with a ponytail and a black turtleneck sweater appears at her side, smiling eagerly. “Hi, Norah! I’ve heard a lot of nice things about you.” He extends his hand.
Oh no. No no no no no no.
I shake his hand. “Hi.”
“This is Ketan.” My mother beams at the young man and squeezes his arm. “He has master’s degree in biology and wonderful job. He wants to talk to you.”
My cheeks flush. I can’t believe she’s doing this, without my permission, right in the middle of the living room with all these people watching. I bet this was Nimisha Auntie’s idea. I glance at Gabe, swaying back and forth on his heels smugly.
Ketan smiles again and is about to say something when I hold up my hand. “Listen, I’m going to have to stop you right there. I’m sorry.” I clear my throat. Sorry is something a doormat would say in this situation. “Actually, I’m not sorry. I can’t talk to you.”
Ketan shakes his head, confused. “You can’t? Okay, maybe I can give you my phone number and—”
“No. Nope. I don’t want your number.”
Ma laughs uncomfortably, then glares at me. “Norah! Don’t be rude!”
A few of the other guests are now watching us with interest. Meryl appears next to Gabe, balancing a plate of appetizers atop a plastic cup of mango lassi. I steel myself. I won’t let Ma walk all over me.
“Ma, I’ve told you a million times. I don’t want to get married. Not now, maybe not ever. And I certainly don’t want to get arrange-married. I can’t believe you would ambush me like this!”
Ma stares at me as if she has no idea what I’m talking about. I turn to Ketan. “I’m sure you’re great, but I don’t want to be set up, okay? So, it was nice meeting you, but this”—I gesture between the two of us—“is a dead end.” There is a long silence during which Ketan gawps at me, his chin retracted as if he’s deciding whether to turn and run.
“I don’t want to marry you,” he says.
“What?” My mouth goes dry. I’m acutely aware of every head in the room swiveling toward us. No one wants to miss the unfolding of a train wreck.
“Yeah, I’m already engaged. So . . . I definitely don’t want to get married . . . to you.” He turns to Ma, whose mouth contorts so much that one side of it practically makes contact with her eyebrow.
“Norah, Ketan works at Vikram Uncle’s company.” Ma rubs her forehead. “I wanted him to talk to you about how great his job is.”
“Oh, it’s an awesome place to work. I love it,” Ketan says quickly, looking around for an escape. “I’m going to just . . . food.” He dissolves into the crowd.
My entire body cringes. My fingers and toes curl, and my head drops into my shoulders. I wish I could collapse in on myself and vanish, leaving only a dull gray cardigan crumpled on the floor to remember me by. “Ma, I’m sorry—”
Ma turns away, shaking her head, muttering angrily in Gujarati, and the guests turn back to their conversations. A few of them snicker quietly. I catch Meryl’s eye, and she gives me a pained smile.
“I kind of want to kill myself,” I whisper.
“Maybe just hide in the kitchen instead,” she suggests, her hand on my shoulder.
When I duck back into the kitchen, Vikram Uncle has moved on to a tray of paneer tikka, and his mustache is tinged with bright orange sauce.
“So, Norah,” he says, rolling the “r” in my name, “your ma says you need a job. Did you meet Ketan? First-class fellow. He works for me. He just bought a Mercedes.”
