Chapter 1 #2
The brain pulses gently under the microscope, living tissue shimmering in the magnified light. That softness always amazes me. That fragility. That is what makes someone them—this quiet, trembling matter.
Dr. Vincenzo leans in closer, hands sure. He’s in his element now, and it makes him look almost…beautiful, in a terrifying sort of way.
He murmurs something to Dr. Klein, who nods, reaching for suction.
I pass Klein a fresh sponge.
Dr. Vincenzo’s voice snaps again. “No. Not that.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
He points at the sponge I just handed. “That’s not the right size.”
It is.
It is the right size.
It’s the size we always use.
My hands tighten around the edge of the tray. “It’s a four-by-four, Doctor.”
He looks at me like I’m a child. Like I’ve just said, the sky is green. “Then you should know I asked for a cottonoid.”
My mouth parts. He didn’t ask for a cottonoid. He didn’t ask for anything.
Not waiting for a response, he turns back to the microscope, as if I’m not worth the argument.
I pass the cottonoid. Dr. Klein gives me a quick glance in sympathy? Or apology? Or warning?
My cheeks burn so hot I think the mask might melt.
And then, because the universe loves to kick you while you’re down, something goes wrong.
A bleeder. Small at first—just a sudden welling of red.
Dr. Klein orders, “Suction.”
I hand it instantly.
Deanna adjusts.
Anesthesia confirms vitals are stable.
Then Dr. Vincenzo’s voice cuts through again, sharp as glass. “Who set up this suction?”
Deanna stiffens. “I did, Doctor.”
He ignores her and stares straight at me.
Oh God! He’s got a hardon for me and not in a good way.
“You,” he says. “You did.”
“I—” I start, because what? No. Deanna did. But even if I did, suction is suction. It’s—
“It’s weak,” he snaps. “It’s barely pulling. Are you incompetent or just careless?”
The word hits me like a slap.
Incompetent.
The OR goes silent in that way that makes your ears ring.
My chest tightens. My eyes sting.
I am suddenly aware of everything—the heat under the lights, the weight of my gown, the tiny beads of sweat at my hairline, the way my hands look so small next to his.
I think of my mother’s voice in my head when someone bullied me in school, “Beta*, you are smart. You are strong. You will not let anyone make you small.
And then I hear my own brain whisper back, tired and bitter, “Apparently, we will, so we can keep our job.”
“Dr. Vincenzo,” Dr. Klein says carefully, “the suction is working. We’re controlling the field.”
Dr. Vincenzo doesn’t look up. “If this is your standard, Rudy, no wonder your outcomes are mediocre.”
Dr. Klein’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t say anything. Because even doctors have hierarchies, and this man is at the top.
Rage slams inside of me. I want to scream at this man that he needs to get his head on straight because he’s behaving like an ass. But, of course, I say nothing. I don’t make a scene. I don’t do a Bollywood monologue under surgical lights.
But that surge of anger is enough to make my hands steady, to stop them from shaking.
I keep my voice even. “The suction canister is set to standard. I can adjust if you’d like.”
He finally looks at me, eyes bright and merciless. “I don’t want suggestions.”
Then he says, loudly, for the whole room, “I want competence.”
You know how repeated trauma dulls the nerves, how neurons eventually stop firing, and the pain fades?
Yeah. That’s not happening to me right now, because every single hit he delivers is reaching its target.
Deanna goes pale.
The anesthesiologist stares at the monitors as if they suddenly became the most interesting thing in the world.
Dr. Klein looks like he wants to disappear into the drapes.
I take a breath. What the hell else is there to do? I need the job. I can’t walk out of here and say suck it. I don’t want to either.
But I may have to if I have to work with this guy daily.
Hai Bhagvan! Will I have to find a new job now?
I don’t have the energy for that. But, you know what, I’ll do it. Nurses are in high demand. Maybe I can become one of those traveling nurses. This man can go fuck himself, then.
I hand over what’s needed. I do the work.
The bleeder is controlled. The room finds its rhythm again. The surgery continues.
By the time the procedure ends, my legs are heavy, my bones seem filled with wet sand.
The patient is stable. The drapes come down. The field is covered. Counts are correct.
We start to break down.
I help peel off gloves.
I wipe down the table.
I move like a ghost.
Dr. Vincenzo pulls off his gown, his gloves, his mask. His face is even more offensively handsome without it. Like the universe decided that his being a good surgeon wasn’t enough—that he needed beauty as a weapon, too.
He turns to wash his hands, scrubbing hard, knuckles whitening, and he says to Dr. Klein, like I’m not standing right there:
“Don’t schedule me with that nurse again.”
That nurse—like I’m not a person, and I know he knows my name because he barked it once.
Dr. Klein exhales slowly, as if he needs time to formulate his words. “Navya is one of our best.”
Dr. Vincenzo pauses. For half a second, his eyes flick toward me.
And there—just for a breath—in there I see surprise, because he didn’t expect anyone to speak up against him and for me.
He turns back to the sink. “Then your best is disappointing.”
I don’t know what happens after that because my brain goes fuzzy, like a TV losing signal.
I leave the room with my face intact and my dignity in pieces.
The hallway outside the OR is bright and cold and full of movement—orderlies rolling beds, nurses walking fast, a family huddled near a wall with fear in their eyes.
I push through it all like I’m underwater.
My locker is down the hall, but I don’t go there.
I turn into the nearest supply corridor and keep walking until I find an empty storage room.
I step inside and shut the door behind me. The moment the latch clicks, my body collapses against the shelves.
I press my forehead to a stack of sterile packs and breathe like I’ve been holding my breath for an entire lifetime.
Okay.
Okay, Navya.
You’re fine.
You’re—
My throat tightens. My eyes burn.
I let out a sound that is not a sob, it’s more like a broken laugh.
His words don’t matter, Navya. They don’t. Don’t let some rich, arrogant surgeon mess with your head.
I wipe at my eyes with the back of my wrist, furious at myself.
“Bas bahut ho gaya*,” I say aloud. “Get it together. You’re twenty-five. You’re a grown-up. Only babies cry. And you’ve survived worse than a man with pretty eyes and a God complex.”
My voice echoes in the cramped space.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
I think of my mother, gone a year now, and how grief still sits in my chest like a stone.
I think of my brother at UCLA, who’s studying medicine and is so grateful that I’m supporting him through it.
I think of my father—wealthy, absent…another chutiya.
I think of the rent due next week. Of the cracked window in my apartment. Of the neighbor who yells at the walls at three in the morning.
And then I think of Dr. Vincenzo saying he wants competence and not my suggestions.
The storage room is quiet. My breathing sounds too loud.
I open my eyes and stare at the shelves.
“Bhagvan,” I whisper, because who else is there. “Help me. Please.”
It takes me fifteen minutes to get it together. I walk back to the nurses' station, and immediately, the head nurse, Carmen, makes the come-hither gesture.
I’m going to lose my job. I know it. When doctors behave like asses, nurses get fired.
She walks into her office. I follow her timidly.
“Close the door,” she instructs.
I do.
She leans her ass on her desk, and I stand by the door, ready to take my punishment and bolt.
Didn’t someone say they’re desperately looking for nurses in San Jose? I could go there.
“I’ve been looking for you.”
I nod, swallow.
“Deanna told me what happened in the OR.”
I nod again, swallow some more.
“I told Dr. Vincenzo that he can’t talk to staff like that.” Her voice is low, controlled, furious. “This is a teaching hospital, not his personal kingdom.”
What?
What?
What?
“I’ll do better next time.” I have no idea how, but I will. I’ll figure this new doctor out. I’ve done it before. I’ll do it again.
“Listen to me. You did nothing wrong.” She tilts her head toward the door. “And for what it’s worth…Dr. Vincenzo appears to have realized it.”
That chutiya? I don’t think so. He might’ve said the right things because you don’t want to piss off a head nurse, but really, he doesn’t give two shits. I know his type.
She purses her lips. “He’s having a bad day. He knows he messed up.”
Oh, poor Doctor, he’s having a bad day? Well, I’m having a bad day, too, Dr. Douchebag.
I smile wanly. “I understand. It’s alright.”
As if summoned by his own name, there’s movement outside—the muffled sound of footsteps, then the unmistakable pause of someone hovering. Then a knock.
Carmen’s eyes flick to her door. “Speak of the devil.”
My pulse jumps. “What?”
Carmen straightens and walks to the door. She opens it.
I don’t see him at first, only the shadow of a tall body in the hallway. Then he steps into view.
No mask now. No cap. Hair slightly damp at the temples.
His gaze shifts past Carmen—past her authority—and lands on me and pins me in place.
Carmen’s voice is cool. “Dr. Vincenzo.”
He looks at me. “I’d like to talk to Nurse Rana.”
Carmen glances back at me once, a silent question.
I don’t know why I answer. Pride, maybe. Or stupidity. Or because some tiny part of me wants to look him in the eyes and not feel small.
“I’m right here.”
His gaze holds mine. For the first time since he walked into the OR, he looks…uncertain.
Just for a moment.
Then his mouth firms, as if he’s made a decision. “May I speak with you?” Then his voice dips as he adds, “Alone.”
Carmen’s laugh is short and humorless. “No.”
His eyes narrow. “Excuse me?”
“You embarrassed her in front of an entire team for no fault of hers.” Carmen’s tone is deadly calm. “And you think I’m going to let you be alone with her?”
His jaw tightens. He looks at Carmen, then back at me.
“I was out of line,” he says curtly. “I need to apologize.”
Arrey, behn ke laude*, apologies don’t fix humiliation.
But I smile, and this time I don’t hide the sarcasm. “Well, then, Dr. Vincenzo, go ahead and apologize.”
* Oh God (Hindi)
* Idiot (Hindi slang)
* Asshole (Hindi)
* Bastard (Hindi)
* Child (Hindi)
* Enough. (Hindi)
* Hey, you son of a bitch! (Hindi slang; not a direct translation)