Heart the Lover (46)

‘But Gastrell called you a natural prose stylist,’ Yash says.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘On the bottom of your paper on The Aeneid.’

Someday we will remember even these our hardships with pleasure. I remember Gastrell closing the book and saying that line with his eyes shut.

‘He didn’t write that,’ I say.

‘You guys took his Immortality seminar together?’ Sam says.

‘How could you forget it?’ Yash says to me.

‘I always wanted to take that,’ Sam says.

‘I was a little piqued by it, actually,’ Yash says.

‘Because all he called you was a genius with the most protean mind he’d ever come across?’ I say.

Yash smiles. ‘I wanted to be a natural prose stylist.’

‘He taught that class at the house, didn’t he?’ Sam says.

I nod. The striped couch, our feet touching under the coffee table.

‘Yeah,’ Yash says. ‘It was strange.’



Sam nods. He’s torn his cup in so many places it looks like a starfish. He tosses it on Yash’s tray table. ‘I’m going down for another. Any takers?’

We both say no.

It’s still quiet on the fifth floor. We can hear his steps fade slowly away down the hallway.

‘I didn’t want to lose either one of you that fall,’ Yash says.

‘And you didn’t,’ I say and we squeeze our hands hard together.

‘Not then. But I did lose you.’

‘We lost each other,’ I say.

‘I need to tell you, Hink—’

‘Knock, knock,’ someone says in the open doorway.

‘Jamie’s back,’ Yash says.

‘How’re you feeling, Mr. Thakkar?’ A nurse in braids and dark blue scrubs comes in.

‘I’m great.’

She goes around to his other side and replaces an empty bag hanging on the rack with a full plump one.

‘You?’ Yash asks.

She pauses what she’s doing to shine a big smile at him. ‘I’m good, too,’ she says and squeezes his shoulder. All in one practiced motion, she detaches a tube by his elbow, attaches a syringe, pushes the plastic lever to the hilt, removes it, and replaces the tube.



When she leaves I see Sam intercept her out in the hallway. I wonder if he’s asking her about the air pocket below Yash’s collarbone.

Yash’s family arrives then, all at once, from the hotel. I try to give up my chair to his mom, to Paige, to Aunt Sue, but they insist I stay right there. They bend over Yash briefly, ask how he slept, glance at the oxygen meter, give him a reassuring pat, then take their places: the men in the chairs around the room and the women outside the door. They settle in like colleagues at the office. This is their work now, this vigil.

Yash takes a long sip of his coffee and shuts his eyes. The room is full of male murmuring. Uncle Bill is sharing his thoughts on supply chain management with Jared. Arlo and EJ are discussing seeds and brackets and perimeter shooting, gearing up for the next round of basketball.

I don’t know if I will get him alone again.

Yash opens his eyes. ‘Can I tell you a secret, Hink?’

‘Tell me.’

‘I know you have to go in a few hours, so I just wanted to tell you first. I’m not dying.’

‘No?’

‘I’m getting better. I can feel it. I feel bad because everyone’s here, but I’m not dying anymore. Don’t tell anyone yet. I want to enjoy it a little longer, all these people. Is that bad?’



‘Of course not.’

‘I can tell them tomorrow.’

‘All right.’

‘But thank you for being here. I’ll never forget it. With everything you have going on.’ He looks at me with so much concern my eyes get watery. He squeezes my hand. ‘He’s going to be fine, Hink. He is. We’re all going to be fine.’

His mother guides a visitor through the door: pinstriped suit, damp hair, big cup of coffee. I vacate my chair for him, but he recoils from it, says he is just here for a quick visit, he should have been at the office an hour ago, as if Yash has held him up. I take a chair across the room anyway.

‘Marco,’ Yash says. I can tell he doesn’t like him much.

‘Hey, buddy,’ Marco says as if speaking to an eight-year-old. ‘We miss you down there. Nothing’s getting done. The place is going to the shitter.’

‘Yeah, Sebastian told me he’s considering resigning.’

Marco’s smile freezes.

‘Kidding,’ Yash says.

Marco lets out a breath. ‘Don’t kid a kidder, Yashman.’

Uncle Bill turns on the TV. The local meteorologist drowns out the middle of their conversation. It clicks off after the weather report.



‘No, I never wrote more than a few chapters,’ Yash is saying.

‘You’ll do it.’

‘Dubious at this point, Marco.’

‘You will. I’m going to look for it. I’m going to look for it a year from now.’ He looks at his watch. ‘Well, I gotta hit it. It’s good to see you, buddy.’ He shakes Yash’s hand. ‘Really good to see you.’ He backs up. Before he leaves, he smacks the doorjamb a few times then points at Yash. ‘I’m going to look for that novel of yours!’