“Hi, bhaiya.” Nisha smiled, using the affectionate form of address for an older brother. She rolled her chair toward him, struggling over a gap in the pavement. Even with the exercises she did to strengthen her arms, she often had difficulty with uneven terrain.
Giving himself a mental kick for not greeting her at the door, he ran over to help. “Do you need a push?” Before she could answer, he grabbed the handles and eased her over the bump.
“I’m supposed to be learning to do things for myself.” She brushed her long, dark hair away from a face that was a softer, rounder version of his own.
“Why strain yourself when your big brother is standing around with nothing to do?” He opened the door to the vehicle and helped her with the transfer, waiting until she’d buckled her seat belt before stowing the wheelchair away.
“You have a lot to do,” she said when he joined her in the vehicle. “You should spend your evenings relaxing with your friends or going out on dates with hot women instead of driving me around. Ma and Dad are still waiting for some grandkids.”
“Not going to happen.” Nisha used a wheelchair because of him, because he had failed in his duty as a son. Relationships were for men who could protect the people they loved. Not one so focused on his career that he hadn’t seen the danger until it was too late.
“How was rehab?” he asked to distract her.
“Hard.” She fiddled with her seat belt. “How was firing people?”
“It’s a job, Nisha. It pays the bills.” He didn’t love the work, but after he’d given up his dream of becoming a cardiothoracic surgeon and returned to school to complete a one-year intensive MBA, the opportunity to partner with Royce had fallen in his lap and he couldn’t turn it down. Nisha’s medical bills were beyond anything his parents could handle and, as the only son, it was his duty to ensure she got the care she needed. Not that he would ever let her know. As far as Nisha was concerned, the insurance payments from the accident were still coming in.
“Sorry.” She gave him a contrite smile. “You always look so miserable when you come from work. I think the last time you smiled was when the Oakland A’s qualified for the playoffs.”
“I’ve been smiling inside through their four-year win streak.” He’d been a green and gold A’s fan since he played T-ball, even though no one in his family shared his love of baseball. “If you come with me to the Bay Bridge Series this year, I might even laugh when they hit five.”
“Maybe . . .” She looked away and his moment of pleasure faded. Nisha never went out. Except for her rehab and medical appointments or the obligatory family functions, she rarely left the family home after having had bad experiences with accessibility issues and awkward outings with her old friends. At twenty-seven years old, she should have been out socializing and pursuing her dreams, not spending all her time at home taking online courses and helping her mother prepare teaching materials for her third-grade class.
And it was all Sam’s fault.
Nisha had agreed to a traditional arranged marriage when she finished her college degree. Thrilled at the prospect of having grandchildren to bounce on his knee, Sam’s father posted her marriage résumé online. Over drinks one evening, Sam casually mentioned his sister’s search for a husband to Dr. Ranjeet Bedi, a highly respected cardiothoracic surgeon at the hospital where Sam was a resident. After reviewing Nisha’s online profile, Ranjeet requested an introduction. Despite their fifteen-year age difference, Ranjeet and Nisha connected. The families did their due diligence and approved the union. Six months later Nisha married a monster.
“Can you stay for dinner?”
“Not tonight. I’m taking possession of my new office after I drop you off.” He stared straight ahead so he couldn’t see the disappointment in her face.
Nisha always asked and Sam always refused. He spent as little time with his family as he could. Unable to deal with the fact that Ranjeet had never been held to account for his crime, Sam had turned his back on everyone and everything that could possibly be blamed—from the culture that embraced arranged marriages to the hospital that had refused to conduct an investigation into the “accident” that had happened on their property, and from the food he loved to the family that should have uncovered the true nature of the man who had married Nisha.
“You do get the irony of renting an office above a Michelin-starred Indian restaurant? It will be a real test of your will power not to eat the food.”
“It’s near St. Vincent’s Hospital.”
“Sam . . .” She gave him a pained look. “Please. I told you to let it go.”
Nisha had only partial memories of the accident. She remembered going to the hospital to meet Ranjeet for lunch, an argument in the stairwell, and then waking up in the emergency room. Ranjeet offered a different version of events. Indeed, they had met for lunch. They argued in the cafeteria over his long hours. She was upset that he had to cancel their dinner plans and ran away. He returned to his office. Half an hour later he was called down to the ER.
The hospital saw no cause for an investigation. There was no reason to doubt the word of a highly respected surgeon who wielded significant power in the hospital, especially since his colleague from psychiatry said it wasn’t uncommon for victims of trauma to piece together stories from fractured memories. They handed the matter to the insurers. As far as the hospital was concerned, the case was closed.
But Nisha continued to insist her story was true. After her marriage, she had discovered Ranjeet had a drinking problem and a vicious temper. Although he had never been physically abusive, his anger and verbal assaults scared her. It was not beyond imagining that he had lost control.
Of course, Sam believed her. He had never known his sister to be so certain about anything. He helped her divorce Ranjeet and then he started his own investigation, spurred on by rumors of a cover-up. But at every turn, the hospital shut him down. Disenchanted by a system that would protect someone whose actions were anathema to the fundamental principles of medicine, he walked away.
Still, he hadn’t given up the hope of one day bringing Ranjeet to justice, and that meant keeping tabs on the surgeon by staying in touch with hospital staff and the friends he’d made during his residency. One day Ranjeet was going to reveal his true nature and Sam would be there to catch him.
“I think the new office is going to work out well for you.” Nisha pointed to a hearse that had just pulled into the street in front of them. “It’s a good omen to meet a corpse when you start out on a journey.”
“You’re spending too much time with Ma.” Sam pulled up in front of the family home, a yellow four-bedroom, single-story rancher that they had remodeled to accommodate Nisha’s wheelchair.
“And you don’t spend enough.”