“It wasn’t until a couple days ago. How’s the new season? How was Yosemite?”
The worry in China’s eyes didn’t eclipse the fact that she was glowing. Her flawless skin and dark eyes were even more sparkly than normal, veritable gemstones. Their joy was so contagious, India smiled at her sister and returned Song’s hug.
The petite actress was wrapped in a hoodie three sizes too big and wore sunglasses indoors. Huge ones. The kind you might wear if you needed a disguise. Oh, and her hood was pulled up over her head.
Some of India’s trepidation settled when Song took both of Tara’s hands in hers and complimented her on her flowy elephant pants. It was a particularly kind thing to do, given how her daughters had been so focused on how sick she looked that they had to have been making her feel several times worse.
As they sank into the waiting room chairs—gorgeously modern but lacking in any warmth or comfort—Yash Raje’s face flashed on the TV hanging in the middle of the room.
China jumped up and raised the volume. According to the news anchor, Yash had been scheduled to attend a rally that morning. And he’d just canceled his appearance at the last moment. It was the first event he had ever missed in his relentless campaigning. His energy levels had been dialed up to a hundred for months now, if not years. The person on TV seemed to think that someone trying to do an event five days after he had been shot was surprising. But who in their right mind thought Yash was like anyone else?
“Have you spoken to Trisha or Ashna?” India asked China, who was looking as stricken as India was feeling. “Is he okay?”
China squeezed in to Song and Song threw a nervous glance around the empty waiting area. “I spoke with Ashna yesterday. She said he was out of the hospital and she sounded like everything was okay.”
“And the bodyguard?” India and Tara asked together.
“He’s still critical.”
India twisted in the stiff chair. “Ashna would not lie about how Yash is, right? I mean, it’s not like him to miss a campaign event. If he’s fine, he’s not the kind of person—I mean, he doesn’t seem like the kind of person who would miss a chance to speak to an auditorium full of voters.”
China and Tara cocked their heads in unison and looked at India as though she had suddenly taken off all her clothes and exposed an unfortunately located wart.
“You know what I mean,” she said, making the effort to sound less distraught than she had just sounded.
Obviously they did not know what she meant.
China blinked. “Why would Ashna lie about Yash being okay?”
Fortunately India didn’t have to respond to that because the TV was flashing footage of Yash’s girlfriend and they all turned to watch again. Naina Kohli was practically perched on top of his gurney, screaming his name, spilling tears into his face. India felt her throat constricting. Then the screen switched to a montage of pictures of the two of them doing all sorts of happy-couple things one might do if one had enough money to own a small country. The clothes, the chandeliers, the rocks in her ears, it was like thumbing through a catalog of a lifestyle magazine. Was this really the time for this?
“That woman is gorgeous!” Song said on a worshipful sigh. “But she should switch to waterproof mascara.”
China smiled smittenly. Song wasn’t wrong. Yash’s girlfriend was gorgeous with or without runny mascara. She looked like someone had engineered the perfect being using genetic material from Padma Lakshmi and Halle Berry with input from every fine-boned, perfectly proportioned woman who ever lived. As if the genetic lottery weren’t enough, she wore wealth and beauty with the effortless poise of someone who’d always had those things.
She was also an activist who had dedicated her life to rural women in all corners of the earth, as the person on TV was detailing with that oddly benevolent expression news anchors always wore when talking about charities and tragedies. Anyone with even a modicum of sense would choose Naina Kohli over anyone else. By all accounts, Yash Raje was a man of great sense.
The nurse called them in, and all thoughts of Yash and his lady love left India’s mind.
They said bye to Song, and she pulled her oversized disguise hoodie lower over her face and left. India and China flanked their mother as the three of them went in to see Dr. Kumar. He was one of those doctors who smiled a lot. This was more disconcerting than you’d think in a doctor.
“So,” he said, displaying eerily perfect teeth. “It’s not all bad news.”
What kind of tone-deaf thing to say was that?
“What is that supposed to mean?” China snapped. God bless her unfettered tongue.
“We have confirmation that it’s not pancreatic cancer.”
China sucked in a breath. Tara’s face turned into a mask. India shifted closer to her. Had they been expecting it to be cancer? Did Mom know they were looking for cancer?
It took some effort to remember how to move her lips. “Do we have confirmation of what it is?” India asked.
Dr. Kumar took their confusion in stride, which India took as the first sign of his competence, despite his misplaced smiling. He explained that with the back pain, exhaustion, and yellowing in the eyes, pancreatic cancer was what he’d checked for first. Fortunately, it wasn’t that, but Tara’s liver enzymes were elevated and based on her fibroscan she had cirrhosis in her liver.
The word dropped like a cold rock in India’s belly, but the doctor didn’t look like he was delivering a tragic diagnosis, so she waited.
“Mrs. Dashwood, do you—”
“Ms.,” Tara interrupted calmly. “It’s Ms. Dashwood.”
“Oh. Of course.” Dr. Kumar blushed and ran a quick hand over his bald head. “I apologize. Your records said you don’t drink and you’ve never done IV drugs. I just want to confirm that you never have.”
“I might have tried some wine once,” Tara said, her voice still utterly calm, the voice she’d used to respond to rude questions about her variously raced children. The quietness of a predator stalking her prey. “But that was more than thirty years ago.”
If Dr. Kumar smiled again, India was leaving. He smiled. “Have you ever visited a third world country?”
“Third world?” Tara said in a tone that made Dr. Kumar look like he was cursing the day he’d decided to skim over his diversity training. “I lived in India for ten years. But as far as I know it’s in the same world we all inhabit.”
To no one’s surprise, the doctor smiled. “That would explain it.”
The three of them leaned forward, waiting for more.
His smile turned just the slightest bit smug. “Did you get a blood transfusion when you were in India?”
Mom was visibly startled at that. For a few moments she said nothing, then she closed her eyes and focused inward, almost sliding into a trance. “I did fall out of a rickshaw when a cow ran into it.”
India and China turned to her, mouths agape. When she opened her eyes they were twinkling, as though the memory were a joy.
“The rickshaw landed on me, but I wasn’t hurt. Well, there was the broken ankle. Then we tried to pull the cow upright because she’d rolled over. She kicked the driver, but she seemed to like me.”
“Mom?” China was the one who prodded.