Mira Jacob - The Sleepwalker's Guide to Dancing

“And what’s it about, exactly?”

“What happened in the ER,” she said. “Did you hear about it?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And …?” He looked at her blankly.

Was he trying to irritate her? Amina gestured impatiently. “What did you hear?”

“Oh.” Anyan straightened, smoothing his mustache. “You know, that there had been some kind of miscommunication.”

Miscommunication? Amina almost laughed out loud. “I heard that he tried to save a kid who had died.”

The doctor gave a short nod. He had apparently heard that, too.

“Look, Dr. George—”

“Anyan.”

“Sure.” Amina felt the heat rising to her face. “Can you just level with me? Give me some idea of what’s going on?”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“I want you to tell me what’s happening to my dad. People know, right? That’s what Monica said. And if something is really wrong with him, then I should know.”

“I’m sorry,” Anyan said, shaking his head as if to clear it. “I’m just surprised that you’re bringing it up. You seem genuinely worried about him.”

“Aren’t you?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s fine.” He paused, waiting for her to accept that, and when she didn’t, he continued: “Look, I know Thomas very well. I’ve seen him under great duress, and I recognize that this was an anomaly, not a pattern of behavior. And even if no one wants to come out and say it, things like this do happen in hospitals. Medicine’s a human practice, with human errors. Thomas made an error, that’s all.”

“You really think that,” Amina said, unable to keep the wonder out of her voice.

“I do.”

“But then why would he try to work on a kid who was already—”

“Who knows? It was a friend’s son, right? It must have touched off something in him momentarily. At any rate, it was one incident in an otherwise sterling career, and no one was harmed by it. We don’t need to make it into something bigger.” He patted her awkwardly, the gesture fumbling between bedside manner and brush-off.

“But it wasn’t just one incident,” Amina said.

“Excuse me?”

“He’s had other incidents. Here. At home. I think he’s been hallucinating regularly.”

Anyan smiled thinly, as though waiting for a punch line. “What are you talking about?”

“That’s why I came home. My mother called and told me that he was on the porch all night talking to his mother, who has been dead for years.”

Anyan’s smile faded. “Talking?”

“Yes.”

“You saw him do this?”

“My mom has. And to be honest, I thought she was overdramatizing until I talked to Monica the other day. Now I’m not so sure.”

“But what …” Anyan shook his head at the car in disbelief. “What does Thomas say about it?”

“He doesn’t. That’s why I’m talking to you.”

It took a few moments for this information to find purchase in the doctor, moving, against the current of mentor and friend, to patient, to illness. Disbelief redirected to concern. Anyan turned from her, pacing a few steps before looking back at her. “Do you know how long these episodes last? Their duration and frequency?”

“No.”

“Is there any sort of manic or depressive behavior immediately before? Do you notice that he’s in a heightened state of activity, or—”

“Honestly, I have no idea. And I know you can’t just make a diagnosis with a bunch of sketchy details, but …” Amina trailed off hopefully, willing him to disprove her. He didn’t. She sighed. “I think I should bring him in to see you. I know it’s not totally kosher, and I’m sorry to put you in that position. But if it’s nothing, or, you know, even if it’s something, I’d just rather figure that out with you first before word gets out.”

“But he won’t come. I already suggested it to him once, right after the ER, when it was just due diligence. He said no.”

“I’ll get him there,” Amina said with an assurance she did not feel. Anyan smoothed his mustache. “And what about Monica? What does she say?”

“She doesn’t know about everything. I wanted to talk to you first. But she’s on board.”

“Okay then, I’ll talk to her tomorrow. See if she can switch his schedule around for the time being so that he’s not doing surgeries.”

“Yeah?” Amina said, relieved. “You can do that?”

“I have to do that,” Anyan said. “If what you’re saying is true — though I think we should give that a wide improbability, considering that you haven’t seen the behavior firsthand — then he shouldn’t be practicing.”

Amina nodded, feeling acutely ill at ease, as though she’d just sold classified information to the enemy, though she was unclear of who that enemy was, really. The disciplinary board at the hospital? Anyan George? The world at large, in which her father saw everything through the lens of his work?

“Your mother is watching us,” Anyan said, sounding a totally different kind of upset now.

Amina turned around just in time to see the curtain falling back across the dining room window. “I should go back in. So is there some way for me to set up an appointment without, you know, alerting the entire medical community?”

“Call me directly. Do you have my number?”

“Mom does.”

He opened the door to his car, putting his leftovers behind the front seat before folding himself inside. He moved slowly, as though the air around him actually weighed more, and Amina fought off the urge to apologize. No, she had wanted this, had sought him out specifically, guessing his admiration for her father would make him want to shelter Thomas a little while they figured things out. She waved as he started the car, and moved out of the way so he could leave.

Moldy eggplant. Curried potatoes. Something that looked like a pile of slugs but turned out to be decomposing okra. The following Saturday, as Kamala headed out to the garden and Thomas tinkered on the porch, Amina pillaged the refrigerator, rounding up its worst offenders. A few rutty-looking tomatoes sat on the back of a shelf, and she set them carefully on the counter. Then she went to the gardening shed, pulled out the wheelbarrow and loaded everything in, wheeling it back to the porch.

Decked out in a headlamp and overalls, Thomas was hunched over a clamp as she walked in.

“I’m making a chest,” he told her, not looking up.

“I brought you some things.”

“What things?” He looked up, blinding her.

“Ow. Come see.”

She led him outside to where Prince Philip hovered over the wheelbarrow.

“Leftovers!” Thomas said, opening a container. “My God, why didn’t I ever think of it?”

“Because you’re not the genius in the family.”

“Pssht!” Thomas thumped her on the head, pleased. “Meet me out back.”

She walked the wheelbarrow to the backyard while Thomas ran and got the truck, driving it through the tall grass and into a clearing. Kamala, weeding ferociously a hundred yards away, stood up, hands on her hips.

“Raccooner!” Amina shouted, and she went back to weeding.

“Did you see? I made a target.” Thomas pointed to a piece of plywood fifty feet away, emblazoned with the black outline of a raccoon.

“Holy hell.”

She helped him set up the Raccooner this time, and when she was done, she lined up the leftovers, smallest to biggest.

“Potatoes first?” she asked.

“You got it.”

They loaded it in and Thomas pulled the slingshot back. “Ready?”

She nodded.

“Psshooom!” he yelled as a clump of mustard streaked a wide arc across the yard, missing the target by a generous amount. Prince Phillip dashed after it.