Nandini dries her hands on a maroon dish towel and darkens the iPod screen.
She turns off the light and walks toward the curved dual staircase that overlooks their high-ceilinged foyer. Simran insisted they put a table with a giant vase there.
Nandini’s steps make the wooden floors groan. She reaches the second floor, passes the three guest bedrooms, and does a quick check of Ronak’s and Simran’s rooms out of habit. When Simran left for college, Nandini sat on her canopy bed every evening, and hugged her daughter’s large stuffed animals.
Now, she continues to the master bedroom. Once she shuts the door, she tiptoes to the closet and removes a shoe box that’s buried under a pile of clothes.
The official papers came from him last week. Nandini flips through them, frantically and then one at a time. Maybe if she stares at the pages long enough, she’ll know what to do, what the right answer is. She scans the Times New Roman font again and again. Two hours pass this way until she surrenders to fatigue. She washes her face, puts on the same Oil of Olay moisturizer she’s used for three decades, and brushes her teeth. Her eyes close as she whispers a prayer to Ganesha for the things she will soon reveal.
Four
Simran
The next morning in lab, Simran reviews research study after research study until the computer screen makes her eyes sore.
Her master’s in psychology program is a mixture of lectures and research. People complete the program to apply for a PhD or do further clinical research, since the program isn’t enough to be a licensed psychologist.
She only has one month left in the spring semester, and after the summer, she’ll be done. The date, October 1, has been circled on her calendar since she started. Simran thought becoming a therapist would mean she’d someday see patients in her cozy Park Avenue office and say things like, “So, tell me about your mother,” before jotting down their responses into a leather-bound notebook and helping them arrive at a life-changing breakthrough.
Instead, she spends most of her days sitting in lectures, analyzing research papers about psychotherapy, and wondering about which greasy food cart she’ll pick up lunch from.
She scrolls through her text messages. The last one is from Neil.
Neil: How are the article ideas going?
Simran: Actually about to do some research now. At school so have to be shady about it since I should be working on my psychology project.
Neil: Ah, got it. Good luck being shady!
Simran: That’s so nice of you to even check in. Thank you.
Neil: I was wondering how you were doing . . .
Simran: I was wondering how you were doing, too
She puts her phone away just as she hears some footsteps behind her.
“Everything okay there, Simran?” Dr. Bond, the head of the lab, asks while clearing his throat.
“Oh, hi!” Simran swirls her chair around, almost knocking over a mug of lukewarm coffee. Her eyes meet his brown, short-sleeved, flannel button-down shirt as she keeps a sheepish grin on her face.
He glances at her computer screen. A HuffPost article about how women are perceived in the workplace is prominently displayed. This is her luck: her adviser doesn’t stop by while she’s sifting through research studies. He comes in during the one minute she’s doing research for a potential article. At least she closed the one from Cosmopolitan titled “The Complete Evolution of Kim Kardashian’s Hair.”
Dr. Bond is usually in his office or off at meetings where he creates dozens of new project ideas. He stays at school until eight every night and then takes the train back to Westchester. When anyone meets with him, he offers them a cup of Earl Grey and biscuits from his hometown of Newcastle, England.
He raises a graying eyebrow and motions to Simran’s screen. The man never expresses blatant anger, and she still can’t decide if that’s scary or commendable.
Kunal would freak out if she told him about this. He believes it’s inexcusable to not focus at school. His mind doesn’t even wander during hours of medical school lectures, so he wouldn’t understand why she had to read random articles when she should be doing her project. She wonders if that’s why she hasn’t told him that school’s felt a little tougher lately.
“I’m sorry,” she blurts to Dr. Bond. “I was just . . . finishing something up before I got started on my data analysis.”
Translation: I’m bored.
“Okay,” he says in an I-don’t-believe-you tone, holding out the second syllable of “okay” so it sounds like more “okaaaaaaaaaaay.”
Simran considers offering a guilty laugh but decides she’s not graceful or cute enough to pull one off. Before she turns her head back to the (now-blank) computer screen, he pulls up a chair next to her.
“Oh, hello,” she says, as if seeing him for the first time.
The clock says it’s almost eleven fifty. In ten minutes, she’s supposed to meet Sheila, who is in a neighboring lab doing human rights research.
“Simran, I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” Dr. Bond says. He takes a quick glance around the room to make sure it’s empty. “There has been some concern about the way you’ve been lately.”
“The way I’ve been? What do you mean?”
“I was at lunch with some of the professors, and your name came up,” he says. “There was more than one who thought you haven’t been as focused.”
“Really? Me?”
He nods and gives her a look that’s a mixture of sympathy and something she’s never seen on him before: disappointment. For a second, her parents’ faces flash through her mind.
“I, um, I’m sorry,” she says, slumping in the chair. “I’ve just had a lot going on lately.”
Dr. Bond and Simran exchange a tight smile. He buttons his tweed jacket. Dr. Bond must shop at a store called Tweed Daily. She’s often pictured his closet as the tweed version of Doug Funnie’s, the cartoon character she loved as a kid who had twenty versions of the same outfit.
“I promise I won’t let any concerns come up again,” she says.
“Well, it’s getting a little late for that.”
“What do you mean?” she asks.
“I’m afraid you’re in danger of being on academic probation.”
“What?” she whispers. “How is that possible?”
“For starters, your exams didn’t go so well last week, and as far as your research evaluation goes . . . well, you missed the last two meetings.”