She sat back against the stainless-steel fridge and cradled her arm. It had been three days since she’d broken her wrist. She’d slept for most of it, occasionally woken up by Sam knocking on her door with an ice pack or one auntie or another bringing her food. There had been a foggy conversation with Sabina that she needed to follow up on about canceling the packers and cleaners. It was fine; it would even save her some money to do everything herself. Once she could manage the pain. Everything hurt—her arm, her shoulder, and her back from sleeping on the couch. But she couldn’t sleep in Neha’s bed. It was better to keep the distance, stay on the sofa to remember that this was temporary. She leaned her head back. The hair she couldn’t put up got caught in something, and she yanked it out. Now her scalp hurt.
She swallowed the rising tears.
Your life is full, Meena. There’s no reason to cry. Her father used to say that whenever Meena was upset.
She never let herself feel sorry for her circumstances when, in the grand scheme of things, she was able bodied, unencumbered by chronic illness, and able to support herself. This was an inconvenience, that was all. Yet. Just once, she wanted to wallow.
According to Dr. Yan, her wrist needed eight weeks before the cast was removed. She would have to deal with it. She’d sent messages to all the editors she’d had meetings with to ask to reschedule one more time. This time she wasn’t rushing it. She’d wait until mid-November, take the time to clear the place out, list it for rental, and then rebook her flight to New York.
Deciding to forgo tea, Meena grabbed her camera bag and laid out her equipment on the coffee table. Fidgeting with her gear helped calm her mind, distracted her from wandering thoughts. She dropped her 70–200-millimeter zoom lens and let out a little screech. It cost more than a couple of months of rent. She picked up the lens, gingerly examined it from all angles, and gave a small thanks that it seemed OK. The only way she’d know for sure was by attaching it and shooting.
She laid the lens down and smoothed her fingers over it to assess it for unseen damage. She’d used it in Africa for a story on elephant conservation. Picking up the camera, Meena decided to attach a flash. It popped out and hit the corner of the table.
“Peanut shells.” Meena caught the flash and put it next to the 70–200. If there was damage, she didn’t want to know. Frustration rose even as she tried to squelch it. This cast was her enemy. So was being confined in this apartment. The walks in the neighborhood around the building were no longer interesting. Enough of the pretty streets and ornate doors. The piles of multicolored leaves were drying up. The city air was suffocating. She wanted to be in Pakistan at the K2 base camp or on the Trans-Siberian Railway. She wanted her arm free from restriction.
The knock on her door added to the agony. She wasn’t in the mood for food or ice. She didn’t want anyone to see her with her hair wild, her face unwashed, still in her tank top and yoga pants.
Meena answered the door. “Sam.”
“You look disappointed,” Sam said. “Expecting someone else?”
Meena shook her head. “Is there something you need?”
“What happened?” He pointed to her tank top.
“Water stain.”
Then he pointed to her hair. “And?”
She ran her hand over the giant frizzy nest. She knew it was a mess and didn’t need him to point it out.
“Well, you see.” She held up the arm with the thick dark-blue cast. “I have to deal with this, which makes it tough to deal with this.” She pointed to her hair. “It’s not as if I’m enjoying the tangles or the fact that I have to constantly shove it back because it’s always in my way. And this?” She pointed to her shirt. “All I wanted is a cup of tea, but this thick piece of plaster knocked it over.” She walked away from the door. Sam followed. “And this tank is on the third wear because the nearest laundromat is four blocks away and the idea of dragging my clothes there is a little too much right now. Any more comments about how I look?”