Chapter 4 Rupi #2
I pull my sweatshirt over my head. The Underground Tattoo T-shirt under it is wet with sweat, but I can breathe again, and I follow her.
For the next few hours, the woman drives me all over the place.
At least she does it in silence, because not letting on that I’m shivering and feverish is taking all my energy.
Finally she drops me off under the porch of what I can only hope is Simi’s hospital.
How many can there be in this matchbox-size town?
I make my way in, hoping that my face is going to make it easy to find Simi.
My sister and I have almost identical faces, albeit very different body types, a fact our mother loved to remark upon.
One of my girls is a bat, and the other is a ball.
That was our mother—as unfailingly cruel as she was neglectful.
I’m five feet six—a good four inches taller than Simi—and I’ve always been nothing but skin and bones even though I’m the one who can eat an entire pizza by myself and still have room for a milkshake.
Simi, on the other hand, has never cared about food.
I spent hours trying to feed her as a child, but Simi would rather do anything else than eat.
How my sister always looked like a curvy little children’s doll is anyone’s guess.
The only other difference between us is our hair.
Simi has our mother’s lush locks that cascade down to her waist. She was always terrified of scissors going anywhere near her head, and I made sure they never did.
I oiled and braided her hair every morning and every night. It was so thick and long that my hands hurt, but I loved it. Taking care of it had filled me with purpose and satisfaction.
My own hair, on the other hand, is barely there.
Simi insisted it was because I never let it grow out and constantly experimented with it, but it was a chicken-and-egg situation.
I had to keep cutting it because it grew out wispy and ratty.
Truth was, the scar I hid beneath it hurt when it grew out.
Other than the body types and hair, we look like identical twins.
The same medium-brown skin, neither light enough for what the aunties called “fair” nor dark enough for them to call “dusky.” The same neither small nor big nose.
The same little too-wide and pouty mouth we’d inherited from our mom and the same heavy-lidded hazel eyes that slanted up at the edges that are the only thing I remember about our father, a man Simi never met.
I find a young male nurse at the information desk, tell him I’m Simi’s sister, and ask for her.
“You look just like Nurse Naik,” he says, blinking in surprise. “But she isn’t here today.”
“Can you tell me where I can find her?”
“During the week, she usually works at Dr. Johnson’s clinic.”
My head hurts so badly, it feels like it’s going to explode. My belly and my legs aren’t that far behind. I lean on the counter between us. “How far is that from here? Can you write the directions down for me? My phone was stolen.”
“On no. Do you want me to call the cops?”
Gosh no! The last thing on earth I want is for anyone to call the cops. Ever. I smile my most helpless smile. “I just need to get to my sister.” It’s become a chant in my head. I need to get to my sister.
“It’s past nine, the clinic is closed. Did you want me to call Simi for you?”
Finally we’re getting somewhere. “That would be incredibly helpful.” I try to keep the desperation out of my voice and cling to the counter to keep from sliding to the floor. My belly churns.
The guy calls Simi and puts it on speaker. We wait for her to answer. After a few rings, the call goes to voicemail.
Come on. Can I please catch a break? Please?
“Can you try one more time, please?” Keeping the edge of panic out of my voice is getting harder.
The guy calls again. Nothing.
“Can you try her landline?” I ask. If she has one, the hospital she works at should have it.
“Do you have the number? It’s not on file.”
The string wrapped around me, which has been holding me together, snaps. I give up on pretense and lean limply against the counter. My insides are fully churning now. The ugliest burrito-laced belch pushes into my mouth, and I gag. I should never have eaten that stupid thing.
The guy steps around the counter and comes to me.
“Hey, listen, are you okay?” He squeezes my shoulder.
“You know what, give me a minute. Let me check something.” He goes back behind the desk and taps his keyboard.
“We have an emergency number listed for her, and I think this counts as one. Let me call that, okay.”
I want to hug the guy, but my stomach is cramping, and I wrap my arms around myself instead.
He dials, and the person answers on the first ring.
“Hello, this is Tom from St. Joe’s. I’m looking for Simi . . . No, nothing is wrong . . . Well . . . Her sister is here, looking for her.”
There’s the longest pause, during which my heart spins and slides between hope and desolation as reactions pop on this Tom person’s face.
The fact that the spasms in my belly have turned into an unholy agony doesn’t help.
This might be the worst day of my life, which is saying something.
Just as Tom is getting somewhere with the person at the other end, the most brutal jolt of pain rips through my stomach.
“I need a restroom. Right now,” I say to Tom.
He’s obviously seen enough of these situations and runs with me to a door that is blessedly close by.
I run into the bathroom so fast that my brain must’ve been left behind.
I barely slam the door shut when things fly out of me in all directions, and my insides spin like they’re whirling around the eye of a particularly nasty storm.
As though the diarrhea isn’t bad enough, vomit spurts out of me.
I have no idea how long I stay in there, having my insides emptied out.
A knock on the door breaks through my misery.
“You okay in there?”
Define okay.
The urge to laugh grips me. Along with the urge to start crying.
Which is a skill I’ve never developed. My belly does another threatening dance, reminding me that I can do neither without horrible consequences.
Another startlingly painful cramp grips my belly.
For the first time I realize that whatever this is, I might not survive it.
How many times can I beg the universe for a break? How many?
“I’m fine,” I say, but my throat is so raw that the lie doesn’t make it all the way out. “I’m fine.” I force myself to try again, making the lie louder.
“I’m sorry.” There’s genuine regret in his voice. I hate when people apologize for things that aren’t their fault. “Do you need help coming out?” he says.
What the hell, Tom? Can’t a girl even die in peace?
“Just washing my hands,” I say, using whatever energy I can dredge up to scrub my hands with soap.
“Hang on, I’m going to get someone to help you.”
Holy fuck. I’m in a hospital. If I don’t get myself together, they’re going to treat me. I cannot let that happen. I have no paperwork, and I’m not supposed to be in the country.
Cops. Immigration. Deportation. It all flashes like police car lights in my racing mind.
Nope.
Not today, you assholes.
I make my way out of the bathroom.
“Tom! Wait!” How I have the energy to chase after him, I don’t know, but I grab his arm. “I’m fine. Really.”
Obviously he doesn’t believe me, but he stops.
“I just need my sister.” And a hot shower. And a new life.
“Tom? Hey . . .” A round-faced Indian man jogs up to us. “Holy shit,” he says when his gaze lands on me. He presses his hand into his mouth, an inordinately overwrought reaction. “Wow.”
Granted, I look like I’ve just crawled out of a swamp, but is the horror really necessary?
My smell must have reached him by now, because he winces and lets out another “Wow!”
I decide then and there that I will kill this man, whoever he is, if I ever hear him say the word wow again.
“You look just like her,” he says. “But completely different.” That declaration is accompanied by a quick scan of my hair and clothes. Another wince. It must be the pain that shoots through my back and wraps tight around my belly, but the urge to kill the guy returns full force.
“You are?” God bless Tom for thinking of all the important questions.
“Prem Gupta. We just spoke. I’m . . . um . . . Simi’s friend.”
He blushes like a freaking pomegranate when he says the word friend. Also, what the hell? Who names their son Prem in this day and age? It’s like calling your son Lover, only more simpering.
As if to punish me for that mean thought, another cramp twists my insides, and bile shoots up my throat. I swallow it back. I need to get out of this place before Tom remembers his threat to get help.
“Thanks, Tom. We’ll leave now.” I grab Lover Gupta by the arm. “You were very kind. Thank you.”
I start walking toward the exit.
“You sure you don’t want to see a doctor?” Tom calls after me.
Go away, I want to scream. But I raise a hand, shake my head, and keep walking.
Well, thank god for Prem Gupta, because I couldn’t have walked out of that hospital without someone to hang on to. If he gets me out of here, I might reconsider killing him.
“You don’t look very good. You sure you don’t need to go back in there?”
“Where’s my sister?” My stomach gurgles angrily. If I soil myself in front of this stranger, I am never ever going to forgive the universe.
“She’s babysitting my nieces.”
“Why didn’t she answer her phone?”
“She keeps her phone on silent when she naps with the babies.”
Simi is napping? My life is over, and my princess of a sister is asleep? Great shitballs, I’m going to throw up again.
The next thing I know, I vomit all over Prem Gupta’s shoes. How is there anything left inside me after the mayhem in the bathroom?
“Oh god,” he says eloquently, looking like he’s going to throw up himself. “I’m taking you back inside. You don’t look good.”
If he says that one more time, I’m going to make the effort to throw up on him again.
“You’re burning up. You need a doctor.”
Where did Simi find such an astute man?
I tighten my grip on his arm with every ounce of strength I have left. “We are not going back into that hospital.” The world spins. Darkness pushes into my vision. “Just take me to my sister. Please.”
“Listen, didi, um, I don’t think—”
I yank on his arm. “If you take me back in there, I will kill you with my bare hands.” The guy’s face swings close, then away, then ripples like water.
“Promise me.” My voice is a croak, a sob, and a scream all rolled into one.
“Just promise me you won’t take me back in there.
” I shake him by the arm. Or I think I do, because everything is starting to dissolve around me. “Promise me. Please,” I whimper.
“Okay okay,” he says. “Fine. Just hang on. Stay with me.”
Relief floods through me. I cling to those words as his face fades and everything goes black.