Chapter 3 Old Friends
When I return to awareness, my body freezes.
Memory comes flooding back: I collapsed, I’m on the floor, and something is very, very wrong in my body.
But, as one of my therapists once told me to remember when I feel this way, my lungs are still breathing.
My heart is still beating. I may be stuck in a rut forever, but hey, at least I survived the accident that nearly killed me and now I get to walk around with the debilitating fear that it could happen again!
Needless to say, I stopped going to therapy.
Two breaths later, I take account of my surroundings.
There are no paramedics, no shouting or beeping or prodding, just hushed, urgent voices.
I prepare myself to stand and assure everyone that I’m fine.
A cool hand touches my shoulder, and I flinch back, eyes flying open to meet the gaze of a light-skinned Indian man looking down at me with concern.
“Are you okay?” he whispers. Something about him screams wrong.
“I’m fine.” I see people gathered behind him. “I’m fine,” I repeat louder.
The man follows my gaze, and then says, “She’s fine.” The people crowded around me immediately drift away. If I wasn’t so discombobulated, I would roll my eyes.
“Thanks,” I say.
He doesn’t seem to hear me. Then, without warning, he grabs my hand and studies it. “Did you touch it? How—what did you do?”
I snatch my hand back. Fuck. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He narrows his eyes at me, then offers me a smile. “Right. Of course not.”
“Thank you for your concern,” I add, because I’m still feeling shaky and this man does not seem inclined to leave me alone.
“Should we… find you something to eat?”
Though his tone remains polite and friendly, I balk. I’m in a public place and could certainly scream if I needed to, but I don’t want the drama of a confrontation.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I’m not interested.”
His brows draw together in confusion and he recoils, looking almost a bit disgusted. “Of course not—I’m old enough to be your gr—” He stops himself as a flash of panic crosses his face. “Forget I said that.”
He says it like a command, and I can’t help but laugh. Despite his oddness, some of the tension has started to leave my body. “I’ll do my best,” I say, pushing myself to my feet. When he doesn’t respond, I add, “Have a good day, grandpa.”
“How do you remember—”
“Nisha!” It’s unmistakably Aaron.
“Nice to meet you, Nisha. We’ll catch up later,” the man says, and then strolls away before I can say another word.
I don’t have time to process how bizarre and off-putting that conversation was, because Aaron is running up to me.
“What are you doing here?” The words sound harsh and angry, but I don’t regret them.
“It’s my lunch break. Dr. Levy told me to come resolve our issues.”
“And you came to the Art Institute?” Something’s buzzing under my skin, changing me.
“Diane said you were headed downtown. I thought I’d find you here.” He’s sincere, which makes it worse.
“So you’re a stalker.”
“I wanted to apologize. I didn’t know you worked here, or I would have said something, given you a heads-up.
Apologized for what happened. Cleared the air before we became coworkers.
” His shoulders hunch, and he becomes smaller.
He always did that when we argued, an unconscious response to my anger.
It used to be a warning that I was getting too worked up, back when I cared.
“We’re not coworkers,” I say. “Because you’re going to leave this position. I’m not letting you—”
“Nisha,” he interrupts softly. I hate that he knows better than to let me get into gear.
“I’m sorry that I made assumptions. I’m sorry I didn’t return your texts.
And most of all, I’m sorry for what I did.
Protesting an abortion clinic—what I did disgusts me now.
And I know I was old enough to know better.
When I saw you there… it changed everything for me.
I talked to a lot of people, read and researched. ”
“Oh, good,” I say. “You read a Jezebel article and now you’re cured?”
“Jezebel?” Aaron asks, face scrunching in confusion. “No, I…”
“Never mind. Just—why are you here?”
“I’m doing this all wrong,” Aaron says. “I should have started by telling you how sorry I am. I didn’t mean to disrupt your life.
I want to do this work. It’s important to me.
You don’t have to forgive me, but I hope you can believe me.
” I look at my hands, because I don’t know what to say.
For all my claims at the clinic, Aaron never actually lied to me.
He misled me about his true beliefs—or maybe I just assumed and never asked.
Maybe it was my fault, too. I fiddle with my fingers, trying to stave off the overthinking, when I realize my pricked finger is healed, unblemished.
I rub my fingers together, willing my brain to work, but I’m too slow to figure it out.
“You know, I think it’s very brave of you to work at a clinic after everything—”
“What the hell do you mean, ‘after everything’?” I snap, and Aaron flinches. Some small part of me feels ashamed.
Aaron looks at his shoes, his throat bobbing for a moment before he speaks. “I… set up a Google Alert for your name. It made local news. It must be hard to go into a clinic every day. Any person would have trauma—”
“Shut up!” I hiss. His mouth clamps shut.
I hate his judgment and his pitying glances.
The fact that he set up a Google Alert for me is, after a moment of reflection, pretty sinister.
That’s the kind of behavior a stalker exhibits right before kidnapping you and chaining you up in their basement.
“You know nothing about me. It’s been years.
We’re not friends. You’re a fucking stalker. ”
Aaron’s eyes widen in a pitiful display of hurt. But I remember the way his eyes used to narrow when we argued, as though trying to fight back tears I never saw him shed. I’m right that there’s something off about him, right to suspect him. I wish I felt more satisfaction.
“I didn’t…” Aaron trails off just as his phone buzzes. “Shit. Dr. Levy gave me ninety minutes, and I only have thirty left. I’m sorry to leave things this way, but I have to go catch a cab.”
I roll my eyes before I can stop myself.
I almost say, Take an Uber, Luddite, but then I remember Aaron broke up with me because he thought I was having an abortion.
He ghosted me without even asking a single question.
I remember what happened after. So I say nothing instead.
Aaron flashes me his half smile. That hasn’t changed one bit.
Then he’s gone, and I’m left with a maelstrom of thoughts.
I take a deep breath and count by seven to ground myself.
My cut is healed. My skin is buzzing. I feel as though I have forgotten something.
It’s on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t reach it.
The feeling is overwhelming. I can feel my mind shutting down, closing off.
I should probably go back to work, but my brain is resisting movement or action.
I can’t stand hunched over in the Art Institute all day, though.
I know how to deal with this: small steps.
Once I start moving, I’ll be able to keep going.
I manage to coax myself into turning back toward the Nataraja.
I had thought myself alone, but the weird man from before is standing in the corner, glaring at Aaron’s retreating back.
Was he listening in? When he catches me looking at him, he just walks away, the bewildering cherry on top of this batshit sundae.
I watch him go, dumbfounded. A small tremor runs through me.
There’s too much going on to make sense of it all.
Aaron, the statue, the cut, that man. I should be searching for answers, but I let my body put itself on autopilot, and head back to work.
It’s a good thing our actual social worker is in, because apparently today’s been a doozy.
We have her three days a week—primarily on surgical abortion days—but our patients regularly need help getting connected to shelters, crisis counselors, food banks, and other resources even when they’re coming in for medication abortions or other services.
When she’s not there, it falls to me to pick up the slack, since working at a struggling independent clinic means wearing every single possible hat.
I was brought on to manage volunteers and community outreach, so I guess it’s not that much of a stretch beyond my job description.
I’ve been told that I’m very even-keeled, which is a kind way of describing the blankness that I can’t seem to penetrate, but I think it must also help that I look like some of our patients.
Or, I should say, I used to look like our patients.
Since abortion was outlawed in most of the states surrounding Illinois, we now regularly see white Southern women who have the money to travel here to pick up their mifepristone and misoprostol.
I don’t begrudge them that, and many make sizable donations to our travel fund so that pregnant people with less can make it here too.
But some of them clearly voted against the right to abortion, and they look on their fellow waiting-room denizens with open disgust.
Anyway, according to Diane, today one of the travelers started going off on a young Indian patient about how her generation was disgusting and irresponsible, causing a verbal—and very nearly physical—altercation.
Something about the crop top the young woman was wearing.
Diane is almost laughing retelling the story, so I know it can’t have been that bad—the increase in protesters just has everyone riled up.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Diane asks.
“As all right as I ever am,” I say, the response rolling right off my tongue.