spell that has permeated the evening: the illusion that this is just another large gathering of their loved ones that happens for any reason, or none at all. Slowly, a cluster of people crowd around them to say their good-byes. One by one, they clutch one another, whispering wishes of safe journeys andpromises to visit soon. Gradually, the well-wishers slip away until only Kavita’s parents are left.
Kavita falls to her knees and touches her forehead to her mother’s feet. Her mother pulls her up by the shoulders and holds her close, embracing her tightly. She says only one word to her, although she repeats it many times. Shakti .
21
AN UNEASY PEACE
Palo Alto, California—1990
S OMER
S OMER HEADS TOWARD THE RECEPTION DESK IN THE LOBBY OF Lucile Packard Children’s Hospital to find her patient’s room number.
“Somer Whitman?” A tall doctor approaches her, rolling a suitcase behind him. “Somer, how are you?” He extends his hand to greet her.
“Peter,” she says, recognizing him from UCSF. He was an intern when she was a senior resident. “My gosh, I haven’t seen you in, what, ten years?”
“Yeah, must be,” he says, running a hand through his thick brown hair.
“I heard you went into infectious diseases. What are you up to now?” Somer remembers him being bright, going places. He reminded her of herself in that way.
“Well, I did my ID fellowship in Boston and tropical diseases at Harvard for a couple fun years. And I just got recruited as division head here, so it’s good to be back.”
“Wow, Peter, that’s great,” Somer says.
“Thanks. I’m heading to Istanbul for a couple days to give a talk. I’ll be jet-lagged for the next week, but hey—the work’s interesting, and it’s better than dealing with coughs and colds, right? How about you, you were interested in cardiology weren’t you?” He looks at her with genuine interest. She recalls how well they got along, how she encouraged him to pursue a subspecialty.
“Well,” she says, bracing for his reaction, “I’m working over at the community medical clinic in Palo Alto, so lots of coughs and colds.” There is simply no way to make it sound sexy. The cases are routine, there is little continuity of patient care, and the clinic never has enough resources. “But hey, I can pick up my six-year-old daughter from school every day.” She smiles and shrugs her shoulders. Is that a trace of disappointment in his eyes?
“That’s great. We have two boys, six and ten. Keeps you busy, doesn’t it?”
“Sure does.”
“Hey, I’ve got to head to the airport, Somer, but it was great seeing you. By the way, I never forgot that great diagnosis of neonatal lupus you made when I was a junior resident—I must have relayed that story a dozen times through the years, but I always credit Dr. Whitman.”
Somer smiles. “Dr. Thakkar now, actually. But glad to hear it. Good seeing you, Peter.”
A S SHE RIDES THE ELEVATOR , S OMER WATCHES THE FLOOR NUMBERS light up in sequence. Where have the years gone, and what happened to that ambitious medical student she used to be? She recalls that desire to work up interesting clinical cases, do research, ascend in academia. Now, she barely keeps up with her medical journals. Her career choices have meant losing pace with her peers, and yet even in her unassuming clinic job, she can feel like an imposter.
Then she rushes to pick up Asha from school, where she is known only as “Asha’s mom” by the other mothers, who seem to all spend a lot of time together. Somer has no time for the PTA and bake sales. She has no time for herself. Her profession no longer defines her, but neither does being a mother. Both are pieces of her, and yet they don’t seem to add up to a whole. Somer didn’t know that having it all, as she always believed she would, would mean feeling like she’s falling short everywhere. She tries to reassure herself that life is about trade-offs and she should make her
Kavita falls to her knees and touches her forehead to her mother’s feet. Her mother pulls her up by the shoulders and holds her close, embracing her tightly. She says only one word to her, although she repeats it many times. Shakti .
21
AN UNEASY PEACE
Palo Alto, California—1990
S OMER
S OMER HEADS TOWARD THE RECEPTION DESK IN THE LOBBY OF Lucile Packard Children’s Hospital to find her patient’s room number.
“Somer Whitman?” A tall doctor approaches her, rolling a suitcase behind him. “Somer, how are you?” He extends his hand to greet her.
“Peter,” she says, recognizing him from UCSF. He was an intern when she was a senior resident. “My gosh, I haven’t seen you in, what, ten years?”
“Yeah, must be,” he says, running a hand through his thick brown hair.
“I heard you went into infectious diseases. What are you up to now?” Somer remembers him being bright, going places. He reminded her of herself in that way.
“Well, I did my ID fellowship in Boston and tropical diseases at Harvard for a couple fun years. And I just got recruited as division head here, so it’s good to be back.”
“Wow, Peter, that’s great,” Somer says.
“Thanks. I’m heading to Istanbul for a couple days to give a talk. I’ll be jet-lagged for the next week, but hey—the work’s interesting, and it’s better than dealing with coughs and colds, right? How about you, you were interested in cardiology weren’t you?” He looks at her with genuine interest. She recalls how well they got along, how she encouraged him to pursue a subspecialty.
“Well,” she says, bracing for his reaction, “I’m working over at the community medical clinic in Palo Alto, so lots of coughs and colds.” There is simply no way to make it sound sexy. The cases are routine, there is little continuity of patient care, and the clinic never has enough resources. “But hey, I can pick up my six-year-old daughter from school every day.” She smiles and shrugs her shoulders. Is that a trace of disappointment in his eyes?
“That’s great. We have two boys, six and ten. Keeps you busy, doesn’t it?”
“Sure does.”
“Hey, I’ve got to head to the airport, Somer, but it was great seeing you. By the way, I never forgot that great diagnosis of neonatal lupus you made when I was a junior resident—I must have relayed that story a dozen times through the years, but I always credit Dr. Whitman.”
Somer smiles. “Dr. Thakkar now, actually. But glad to hear it. Good seeing you, Peter.”
A S SHE RIDES THE ELEVATOR , S OMER WATCHES THE FLOOR NUMBERS light up in sequence. Where have the years gone, and what happened to that ambitious medical student she used to be? She recalls that desire to work up interesting clinical cases, do research, ascend in academia. Now, she barely keeps up with her medical journals. Her career choices have meant losing pace with her peers, and yet even in her unassuming clinic job, she can feel like an imposter.
Then she rushes to pick up Asha from school, where she is known only as “Asha’s mom” by the other mothers, who seem to all spend a lot of time together. Somer has no time for the PTA and bake sales. She has no time for herself. Her profession no longer defines her, but neither does being a mother. Both are pieces of her, and yet they don’t seem to add up to a whole. Somer didn’t know that having it all, as she always believed she would, would mean feeling like she’s falling short everywhere. She tries to reassure herself that life is about trade-offs and she should make her
Similar Books
