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Amir just stared at me, and slowly smiled. “Come, eat something. You’re too skinny.”
Back at the table I gobbled the lamb biryani, Hoover-style, like my father ate. Amir sat across from me, watching. Gracefully maneuvering his fork and knife, he delivered a piece of lamb into his expert mouth and closed his eyes, savoring the flavor of his dish.
“Do I mix well with the seasoning?” I asked.
Amir laughed. “My pervert girlfriend.”
“Perverted, or honest?” I was hisgirlfriend?
“You look sleepy, sweet girl.” I made my way over to the couch. He covered me with a blanket, my chilled feet sticking out the bottom. He sat down, lifted my head onto his lap, gathered me up and held my bare feet as if he knew exactly what I’d been feeling, then flipped on the plasma with the remote. Above the screen was a photograph I hadn’t noticed—an odd, perfectly pointed mountain piercing an impossibly blue sky.
“Wait!” Something about the mountain made me spring up. “We need to study!”
He stroked my hair, coaxing me back onto the couch. “Shhh. Lie down. Tomorrow is another day.”
21. Esther Silverblatt
The next morning the team room reeked of stale Chinese food. “Who died in here?” I held my nose dramatically. No one looked up. Why wouldn’t anyone speak? Our younger med students, Gotam and Matt, shook their heads. I was proper fucked. The Nurse Teapot news had gone viral. Everybody knew.
“Amir.” Shay was walking in behind him, speaking. I braced myself—now it would all come crashing down. “There’s been an unexpected complication.” But it was clear from Shay’s intro that this was not about us.
“What happened?”Yes, what happened?
“Ms. Louis, our twenty-seven-year-old who came in for an obstruction, developed ischemic bowel. She expired at 4:27 this morning.” The collective somber mood of the team room had nothing to do with my narcissism.
From the sound of it, Ms. Louis had been tenuous. With an abdomen full of dead gut, making it through the night would have been nearly impossible. The window of opportunity to relieve her obstruction had passed, leaving only the “peek and shriek” procedure as a last resort, the insertion of a laparoscopic camera to confirm everyone’s darkest suspicions: the bowel had turned from healthy pink to sinister black.
The following night, Amir and I decided to unwind at a local Middle Eastern restaurant, to process the tragedy of our patient’s death. Two Israeli guys worked the counter, cursing in slang Hebrew at one another. Lamb shawarma rotated on a vertical spit, sweating grease into a collecting pan. The restaurant was basic—diner-style tables, napkins in a silver box, and grab-your-own plasticware, but it boasted the best (and only) falafel around. On each square table was a small, cheesy, quasi-romantic candle. “Falafel is for lovers” should have been their slogan.
We had dressed casually, jeans and T-shirts. Amir pulled out my chair for me, true-gentleman style. We glanced at the menu, settling on the falafel, hummus, and tahini. The heavy blow of our patient’s death, the pressure from the boards, and our myriad sleepless nights were all starting to die down. Amir had finished studying and there was a random lull in the level of busyness of our work. We could finally...relax. We wanted to fill our bellies past the point of fullness—sanctioned gluttony in honor of our decompression.
Amir had a look of consternation on his face, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t. “Are you okay, Amir?”
“Sure. I’m fine.” He looked up and blinded me with his beautiful stare. “Rory?”
“Yes, Amir.”
“You must know this already, but I want to say it. I love you. I love you like crazy. I’ve never felt this way about a woman before, sweet girl.”
A few tears slid down my face, as I struggled to catch my breath. “Amir? I love you too.” I stood up and walked around the table, crawled on his lap and kissed him passionately, my salty tears filling both of our mouths.
The food came, piping hot and smelling delicious. Still atop Amir’s lap, I wrapped my falafel in a pita, slathering some hummus and tahini sauce on top. Just as I prepared to dive in, a familiar figure walked through the front door of the restaurant. My parents’ friend—er, acquaintance—Esther Silverblatt, the middle-aged Jewish town crier. I jumped off of Amir’s lap and took my seat.
Yenta Esther was in her late fifties, the proud mother of two, and a walking stereotype of the obnoxious Jew. She had a mouth like a 1965 Buick Wildcat, both because her crooked teeth were shaped like the front fender of the car, and because she would motor it off a mile a minute.
“Rory?” A distant howl. “Is that you?” A closer kvetch. “Oh my god! You’re a medical student now! You know I still want you for my boys!”
Her twins shared the same face hidden beneath unfortunate cases of cystic acne. Did she completely miss the Arabian Apollo I was seated across from?
“Who is THIS?” Her whiney, kvetchy screech seemed to land on top of my falafel like a fly uninvited to the picnic.
“Oh hi, Mrs. Silverblatt. Amir, Mrs. Silverblatt. Mrs. Silverblatt, Amir.”
My polite prince plastered on a smile. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Why don’t you ever call, Rory? Jeremy and Jason wouldloveto hear from you!”
“I’m real busy with school, Mrs. Silverblatt.” Gag—I would sooner spend the day shopping for Clearasil with the junior medical students than call J and J.
