Chapter 10
I eye the iguana staring at me. The last time someone made such direct eye contact with me was when I was told to piss off after I corrected a passenger’s pronunciation of Schermerhorn Street.
Dudes hate to be corrected, especially by women.
I look away from the iguana and shudder.
I look back, and it’s still staring at me with its huge eyes.
It sort of reminds me of the kid I used to babysit who would stare at me wide-eyed before he burst out crying.
Though Ammi and Thathi not so subtly remind me that my body is a ticking time clock, I cannot imagine taking care of a child when I can barely take care of myself.
Amaya seems like she could keep a small child alive while balancing a demanding legal career and managing to not look like a total slob.
Suddenly, all the little things I couldn’t have cared less about—like my split ends and my chewed-up nail beds—come into sharp focus.
We walked into the animal hospital’s office a few minutes ago and were told to take a number.
“You and your animal will be assisted soon,” the receptionist said, not even bothering to look up to see that we didn’t have an animal.
And by the look of the waiting room, soon more likely meant at least an hour.
I keenly feel the passage of time like someone stuck in traffic who has downed one too many iced coffees.
My anxiety heightens even more. I continue to make a list of all the problems I have: piles of bills, no job, being accused of murder and facing life in prison…
I close my eyes and see my brother’s face.
The image almost always comforts me. Lately, thinking about him makes me worry about my parents.
My father seems slower and older. He coughs and his back seems to hurt more than usual.
Something is wrong with him, yet no one is telling me what.
It’s inevitable that eventually both my parents will die; the reason they had two children was to leave my brother and me with each other.
Is there a point soon when I will be all alone?
I’ll feel like an orphan, even though I don’t think the term applies to fully grown adults.
And sadly, there’s no rich uncle to adopt me as his adult daughter.
I open my eyes. “I’m sorry I’m not better at this. At remembering all the details we need to know to investigate properly,” I say to Amaya, shifting uncomfortably in my chair, which is stained with God knows what.
“Why are you apologizing?” Amaya asks, not looking up from her phone. “Women apologize too much. Do you notice men apologize a lot less?”
She does have a point. Alex says my tendency to say sorry, even to the furniture I occasionally bump into, is a habit I need to stop. Yet I want to apologize, because I feel disappointment from Amaya, as if somehow I have already failed her and wasted her time.
“I know I seemed annoyed,” she says. “I realize I frequently come off as frustrated. This job wears you down a bit. Long hours and few resources.” Amaya pauses and straightens her back.
She meets my eye. “You shouldn’t be here.
I’ve thought about it more. It’s not protocol.
After this, you should go home and rest and see your parents. I know they’ll be worried about you.”
I desperately think of what to say to convince her that I need to stay and be a part of the investigation. This is my life. Yet so far, I’ve added nothing except a hope that somehow the victim came from this animal hospital’s office. My heart starts to beat faster, and my palms become sweaty.
“This is how investigations work. There’s a lot of dead ends and false leads,” Amaya explains as she continues to scroll through her work email.
She’s made the animal hospital a de facto office and doesn’t seem bothered by the slow service.
I can see dozens of emails on her phone.
Unlike my inbox, which is mostly spam from a fast fashion website I used one time back in 2013 and Nigerian princes wanting to give me millions of dollars if I only give them all of my personal banking information, Amaya’s appears to be filled with important things.
I want to ask her what would happen if we fail here, but I don’t want to interrupt her furiously replying to emails.
True crime rule number two: Leads are the freshest in the days after the crime and become colder the more time passes.
It’s why cold cases are so hard to investigate.
It’s why the delay in getting information complicates things.
Witnesses forget or become more reluctant.
Video footage is erased. Evidence is lost or destroyed.
I close my eyes and try to imagine the murdered man.
He was wearing sweatpants and a sweater.
Dressed comfortably and simply. He didn’t seem like someone just leaving work.
He had a black-and-orange backpack. Then my mind draws a blank.
I wish he had something memorable on like the Naked Cowboy who only wears a tight pair of underwear while he roams around Times Square…
Well, maybe not that memorable. Just something I could remember.
I already tried multiple times while at the precinct to replay every single moment of that night again and again, hoping for some clue, some clarity; each time, my mind came up short.
I hadn’t paid attention. I was listening to my stupid podcast, focused on driving to the airport.
I desperately hope the video from the intersection shows something.
I look down at my nails, mangled from years of nervously biting them.
My pants suddenly are too tight and my lips are dry.
Now my breath feels shallow. Breathe in and breathe out, I remind myself.
Clear my mind. Instead, thoughts of my parents disappointed in me, of everything Amaya has to do in so few days, and of being prevented from helping the investigation fill my head.
I see Ammi crying and Thathi trying to comfort her.
Suddenly, all my problems are laid out. Not just this murder charge.
I look disheveled (which is putting it politely), eat unhealthy, can’t do my job if people are getting murdered in my cab, can’t remember critical information, have no friends in the world beyond Alex, and disappoint myself and my parents every single day.
I try to squeeze my eyes shut, as if this will turn off the panicking thoughts.
It just helps me visualize them more vividly.
My heart is racing, my palms are even more sweaty, and now I start to feel certain I can’t breathe.
My perfect brother flashes through my mind.
He never caused my parents stress. I think about our last fight.
He was so angry with me that night. The pain in my chest increases, so searing now I can no longer ignore it.
I feel an electric pain shooting down my left arm.
I look over at Amaya, hoping I will not have to say anything to get her attention.
I don’t want to be dramatic. Everything is becoming fuzzy.
“Am-Amaya…” I stutter breathlessly.
“Hold on, just one second,” Amaya responds, still tapping away.
“Amaya…” I say again more loudly and with as much conviction as I can muster, “I’m having a heart attack.”
I know symptoms of a heart attack after my uncle had one. I am having all of them. I regret eating all that fried chicken last week, and my lack of exercise.
“What?” She looks up and sets her phone down. I must look really bad, because with wide eyes, she grabs my hand and gets me to my feet. The smell of the animals, the sterile office space, and the bright lights are all beginning to fade to nothingness.
“Come on, let’s go outside,” Amaya’s voice says amid the haze.
I’m not sure if I can walk, but I get onto my feet anyway. I want fresh air and I don’t particularly want to die next to the iguana.
“What are you feeling?” Amaya asks as she leads me outside.
“Chest pain, shortness of breath, arm pain.” The hallmarks of a heart attack, my brain yells at me for the second time.
Once outside, Amaya helps me to the ground and she pulls out her phone and dials 911, giving them our address and location.
“Breathe deeply: one breath in, one breath out. You’re going to be okay. Squeeze my hand,” Amaya says, her tone very different from the one I am accustomed to. She’s still authoritative, only there’s now a calmness to it.
I weakly squeeze her hand and she cups it in hers. She takes off her blazer, folds it to make a pillow for me, and cradles my head. I’m glad we are outside, as the fresh air calms me ever so slightly.
“You’re okay, you’re okay. Deep breaths, deep breaths. I know this is scary. I’m going to do everything I can for you. You’re going to survive this and you’re going to survive this case.”
For a second, Amaya reminds me of my brother in how she comforts me, easing my fears with reassurances and being present when I need it most. Before tests, my brother would bring me Nerds, Takis, and a Monster Energy drink.
The trifecta. If I was especially nervous, he would pull an all-nighter with me to help me study.
Like Amaya, my brother always tried to find a solution to my problems. He would have done exactly this had he been here.
And suddenly, the pain in my chest begins to ease.
—
“Are you okay?” Amaya asks.
“Yes, just a panic attack.” I say, waving goodbye to the EMTs who ran a battery of tests to make sure.
They offered to take me to the hospital just in case.
I declined. I hate hospitals. They told me to try to find a way to have less stress in my life, a statement met with a cackle so loud I’m sure they wanted to check that I hadn’t accidentally hit my head too.
I just have to find a murderer so I won’t be sent to prison for the rest of my life.
Once that’s done, life will be a little less stressful.
I’m embarrassed I’ve mistaken a panic attack for a heart attack, and I bet Amaya wonders if I’m the person who thinks they’re dying after one glance at WebMD.
I wonder if she thinks I’m some sort of hypochondriac.
Nope—I just live with them, and can already imagine the stinky and disgusting herbal “remedy” Ammi would be whipping up if she were here.
I may be closer to thirty than twenty at this point, but my parents still don’t trust me to make the right decisions for myself.
“Have you had panic attacks before?”
“Uh, once, a while ago.”
Amaya raises an eyebrow.
“It was the day my brother died. I had one in the hospital. He was undergoing new treatments, and I thought finally we had the answer, and then suddenly…”
“Oh my god, that’s awful,” Amaya says, her face tightening with genuine concern. I appreciate that she doesn’t make me tell her the details of how my brother died, and instead lets it hang in the air, now like a weight on both of us.
I hate talking about this, but I can’t help myself. “My parents saw my panic attack and they thought I was dying too. I’m so sorry they had to experience that. I’m not a spiritual person, but at the moment I wondered if I would die and get to see my brother again. And that thought made me happy.”
I don’t recommend telling someone about the worst day of your life within two days of meeting them.
I chalk up my uncharacteristic openness to the residual fear of having a heart attack.
When you think you’re about to die, you’re ready to leave it all on the table.
I’m alive and well now, and I wish I could take it back.
The moment between my brother, my parents, and me isn’t meant for others.
People always think I’m not strong enough.
Not strong enough to be a taxi driver in this city, not strong enough to get my life together, and not strong enough to live on my own.
Here I am, telling Amaya just as much through this story.
Amaya squeezes my hand again.
“It’s been so long since that last panic attack, I didn’t think I was having one again. I’m sorry about all the trouble. The delay. I know we’re on a tight time frame for the investigation.” I want to shift toward discussing my case again.
“Stop apologizing,” Amaya says sternly like it is a direct command, back to her old self. Then, her voice softens again. “The stress you are under, I can’t even imagine. Why don’t you go home? Rest. I can handle this, I promise.”
Just then, the animal hospital receptionist steps outside and calls our number.