The Last 3 Minutes – Episode 1

Sita

Michigan – September 1985 – Nineteen days until

She was awake at 6:30.

Blue jeans, black jeans, skinny brown. She paused, considered, fretted. She cocked her head, then pulled out the conspicuously unfashionable brown pair with two fingers, her arm outstretched as if they reeked. She dropped them in a corner of her bedroom where she had already discarded a couple of sweaters and skirts. 

The clock radio played a staticky Tears for Fears song. Sita Sundaram-Wells punched it off, her frustration mounting. A week ago, Amma had taken her shopping at the Equator Mall. Neither of them enjoyed going there, but Amma desperately wanted them to do something together. They came home with a giant bag. Gina washed all the clothes, ironed them, and stacked them neatly in the drawers where they now taunted her. 

Sita had slept fitfully, and hoped the morning would bring a sore throat, a mild fever, an obvious malady to prevent her from going to school on the first day. But she was fine except for that old, thin current of fear. She feared she would start to feel something in her head, in her stomach. 

On the first day of high school, she knew everything would be the same, and nothing would be. A big billowing welcome banner would be hung under the school archway. Overeager parents would take pictures of embarrassed kids who were neatly pressed for the day. Ana would be waiting near the banner, too, because that is where Sita and Ana had met on the first day of sixth, seventh, and eighth.

Sita got dressed in blue jeans and a yellow t-shirt. She examined herself in the oval mirror above the dresser: an ordinary teenager, fourteen years, eleven months, and four days old. She was average height for a girl her age, but taller than her very petite mother. She had long black hair reaching almost to her waist. Her skin, the color of milky coffee. Her face, serious. She forced a smile. Hazel eyes inherited from her father, reddened now from poor sleep. Her shoulders were muscled from tennis, her arms thin, a couple of bright bracelets ringing her left wrist. On her right hand, a dark brown mole in the shape of a heart, looking like an imitation tattoo. 

She wondered how long she could hole up here, avoiding everything, killing time. She looked around the bedroom. The place was a dump, and utterly out of the habits that she used to keep. In one corner of the room were the rejected clothes as well as dirty laundry. In another corner were the decaying remnants of quick, lonely meals: a bowl with some stale cashews, a black banana peel, a couple of unidentifiable plastic wrappers, a yogurt container. The floor was islanded with her favorite old stuffed animals. They used to be on the bed, but her growing adolescent body needed to stretch and roll at night, she was uncomfortable in her own skin, and even mere contact with one of the stuffed animals would wake her like a shock. A week ago, she had shoved them in the closet, but in a fit of nostalgia she had taken them out, and did not bother to put them away. There were also old magazines, a couple of notebooks, shoes, a lightbulb. She could not say why the lightbulb was there. 

Sita began with the most revolting part, the food, and threw everything into the wastebasket, even the bowl the cashews were in. She grabbed the lightbulb and tossed it in, too. She tied up the trash bag, then moved more quickly, sweeping up the stuffed animals and returning them to their rightful home on the bed, hoping they would not bother her tonight.

She piled the clothes on the bed, too, and began to sort them. She glanced at the clock. 7:04. It was still early. She would bring familiarity and order to her room before running the gauntlet downstairs and heading off to school. 

But then she began to feel nauseous. 

First, the usual flutter in the stomach. It was not like being nervous; it was deeper and grew more powerful, like heavy wings beating inside. The vertigo hit her, then her vision blurred. And finally, worst of all, she felt herself being lifted up as if trapped in an elevator rising much too quickly. Then the inevitable fall. Everything dropping away, the nausea getting unbearably intense. There was a thud inside her head.

“Shit,” she hissed. 

She was unhurt, of course.

 The clock said 7:01. 

The clothes were heaped in the corner again, the stuffed animals strewn across the floor, the food and wrappers in their repulsive spot, the lightbulb lolled nearby, too. Everything exactly as it was, not a millimeter out of place. 

She gave a small choked laugh, whispering, “I’m not crazy.”

Sita chewed on her lower lip, and picked up the lightbulb, putting it back in the wastebasket. That was all she could muster. 

***

She left the room. As soon as she got to the bottom of the carpeted stairs, she was hit with a wave of yelling, laughing, complaining, chewing, and slurping. Everyone was already at breakfast. She stood in the hallway watching, resenting all of it. They didn’t see her yet, and she couldn’t bring herself to join them right away. 

Cousin Ram was hunched over the waffle maker, singing a Tamil pop song to himself. Gina, the goddess who did everything for the family, was bustling around the kitchen, wiping and cleaning. Amma was at the other counter, writing notes for the children’s lunches as if they were still five years old. Hari was dressed in a white button-down shirt, and he wore his wool cap, something old men would sport fifty years ago. He was reading the newspaper out loud and very seriously. He said something about President Reagan, and Amma shook her head. Casey was at the table, smirking because she was about to do something. She had on shorts and a Wham! t-shirt. Her hair waved in three different directions. Sita watched Casey pick up a waffle from the big plate in the middle of the table and fling it. It nailed Hari on the bridge of his glasses. 

“Hey! What the –” Hari shouted, his voice squeaking. 

“That waffle was burnt. I was aiming for the sink,” Casey said. 

“Well, you were way too low!” Hari whined. 

Casey shrugged. She narrowed her eyes and blinked. Sita noted that this was one of thirteen deeply annoying things Casey had started doing in the last year. 

The twins were at it. For Sita, this was normal, real, reassuring. Hari was scrawny and small for his twelve years. His curly hair poked out from under the wool cap. His big ears stuck out, too. He had small, intense eyes. Casey was totally different from him and from Sita. She was tall and athletic. She had short hair and a pale complexion, much lighter than hers. She had slight freckles, too. Her nose and mouth were too large for her face. The three children looked like they came from three different sets of parents. 

Finally, Sita walked into the kitchen. 

“Hey sis!” Casey boomed. 

Amma turned to her. “Morning, sweetie!” She came over and kissed Sita on top of her head. “I can’t believe it! Ninth grade! It feels like just yesterday–”

“Yeah, yeah!” Casey snorted. “The princess is all grown up now.”

“Casey!” Amma said sharply. 

Sita mustered a faint smile.

“I can’t believe you’re officially a high schooler!” Amma sang. 

“Good morning, Sita!” Ram said, handing her the plate. “Your amma said waffles are your favorite. I’ve never made these before. I hope they turned out okay.”

Ram, new to America, was always trying things in the kitchen. 

“Sorry,” Sita said, “I’m not really hungry.” Ram looked crestfallen, and she quickly added, “But thanks.” She passed the plate back to him. 

Amma’s eyes were wide with the usual concern. “Not hungry?” she asked. 

“I’m just not.” She needed a convincing lie. So she said quickly, “Butterflies.”

“You’ve got to eat something even if you are nervous.” Amma insisted. 

Sita stood there, letting a memory bob through her head – her father making waffles on a Sunday morning when he was not working. 

“Sita?” Amma asked.

She looked at her mother and shook her head. “I’ll just have some juice.” Then she added, “I can pour it myself.”

She gulped the orange juice, knowing they were all watching her, furious about it, resenting the way they pretended everything was fine.

Before anyone spoke to her, she was back in the hall, grabbing her backpack. It was almost empty. She had a couple of pens and a half used notebook. She used to love shopping for school supplies, but not this year. She was heading for the door, planning to shout a goodbye, but Amma raced over. 

“Wait!” she said with alarm. “You forgot this.” She held a bulging red lunch sack.

“Oh, thanks,” Sita said. She decided to take the lunch. It would make Amma feel better. 

Gina was right behind her, She was a large woman, very pretty, dark hair always tied in a bun. “What’s the rush?” she asked. “I’ll drive all of you. Casey and Hari will be ready in a few minutes. Asha, is that okay with you?”

Before Amma answered, Sita said, “I can walk.” She grinned so no one would worry. 

“Walk?” Gina gave a little laugh. But there was a look on her face as if Sita had suggested she would hitchhike. 

Amma said, “It’ll be more fun if you all go over together.”

“I like walking. It’s a nice morning out.”

Amma put a hand on her shoulder. “Sita.” She didn’t know if there was going to be a question or an admonition. 

But finally Amma sighed and muttered to Gina. “It’s okay. Let her walk, and the other two can go with you in the car. I’ve got patients soon, anyway” Then she turned and gave Sita another kiss. “Have a good first day, Cheetu. Call me at my office from the payphone at lunch. I want to know how your day is going. You have a dime, right?” She gripped Sita’s hand in hers. Sita hoped she would let go soon. 

But not yet. Amma added,“Oh, and don’t forget you have an appointment with Dr. Durbala at three today.”

“It’ll be fine,” Sita insisted, dragging out the word. “I’m fine.” She smiled again to show everyone how fine she was. 

Now Casey and Hari were standing in the front hall, too. Casey was whistling the song, “We are the World” out-of-tune. Hari wiped his perpetually runny nose. Siat clenched her jaw. The whole crew was arranged there like they were sending her off. They gave her the look, the one everyone used. Everyone thought she would blow up at any moment. 

“Have a good day, everyone,” she said. She looked at Hari and Casey. “I’m sure I’ll see you at school at some point.”

Amma finally let go of her hand. And then she was out the door. After it closed behind her, she felt like she could finally breathe. She chewed her bottom lip, put her hands on her hips. She had on her prized Nikes, and flexed her ankles. 

She ran to school in the unusually languid morning air. 

***

Red Cedar Junior and Senior High School was a comfortable burrow in a comfortable Michigan suburb. Sita was in high-school now, but she would be in the same big building she had been in last year. 

Ana was waiting under the banner. The other girls were not there yet. When Ana saw her coming up the curved school walkway from Great Lakes Road, she squealed. She dropped her backpack and came running towards Sita, bouncing. “Oh my God!” she screamed. “I’m so glad to see you!”

She wrapped her arms around Sita in a suffocating hug.

“How are you?” Ana shouted, her voice still on full blast. 

It was like old times.

Sita had not seen Ana over the summer because of the trip to India, and she did not do a good job of keeping in touch. But Ana didn’t seem to hold it against her. 

“I’m doing alright,” Sita said coolly, “How was your summer?”

Ana smiled so hard Sita thought her teeth might fall out. “You plus me!” Ana cried, making a plus sign with the index fingers of her hands. “We have so much to catch up on.”

“Yeah.”

“So how was India? Boys? Developments? You’ve got to tell me!” Everything she said ended with multiple exclamation points. This boiling enthusiasm was not new, but Sita felt it much more today. 

As Ana jabbered, she linked arms with Sita and led her back to the dropped backpack. Ana picked it up with her free hand, and they continued to march up into the school. Ana shared a disjointed story about her cousins and their boring trip to Wisconsin. The only fun thing was when she fell out of a boat in a lake. 

The girls got their schedules in the office. They were in the same math class for first period that morning. So they went to Geometry and sat at the front like they always used to. Ana kept looking over at Sita as if making sure she was still there. Sita smiled at her like she was supposed to.

The teacher, Ms. Goldstein, went over the preliminaries. She was young and new to the school. She had very short red hair and thick glasses. She told the students the class would be a lot of work. Ms. Goldstein started by having them work in pairs. 

Ana’s commitment to math did not last long. “Before you got to school this morning I saw Stephen,” she whispered. 

“Who?” Sita asked. She had honestly forgotten.

“Stephen!”

Still a blank. 

“Stephen Bates! Duh?” She cried. “You know, from last year?” 

Ana went on, “He’s the tall boy with beautiful eyes, plays football. And the trumpet!”

“Oh, right.” Sita nodded. She still could not picture him.

“Well, he was in line for the outside water fountain before you got here, and I was behind him, but he let me go ahead! Can you believe it?”

“Wow, really?” Sita said.

“Really!” Ana beamed. “I’m going to sit near him at lunch. Can you come with me?”

“Sure.”

They parted ways after Geometry with a pledge to later meet outside the lunchroom. Sita met Ana’s soulful goodbye with a weak smile and a nod. Then she moved through the current of kids, carried along to English class with Mr. Kim. She knew she owed Ana more than lukewarm, one-word answers. They had been friends since kindergarten. They loved the same books. They survived the god-awful Mr. Doyle in fifth grade. She promise herself to make it up to Ana at lunch. 

Sita felt better for a moment, even smiled to herself, and then her eyes lost focus as she went up the stairs. The loud churn of students around her echoed dully. She hoped it was merely hunger. She clenched her hand, anticipating the flutter in the stomach and the awful feeling of soaring upward. She walked slowly, but stumbled on a step. Someone reached out and grabbed her elbow. The place where the person touched her went numb; a strange iciness shot up her arm from the elbow, a metallic and cold shock. 

But the dizziness suddenly disappeared, her head totally clear. There was no lifting up. No thud. No rewind. She could not explain it. 

“You okay?” the person asked, removing the hand from her elbow.

“Oh!” She paused on the step for a second. She mumbled, “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks, yeah.” 

It was a boy she did not know, and yet, she thought she recognized him. He was about her height, cute if she paid attention to such things, hair with too much mousse. He had a messenger bag slung across his shoulder and a Cure pin on the strap. 

“You don’t sound fine. You looked like you were going to fall,” the boy said.

“No, I’m totally okay. Really!”

The boy still looked at her skeptically.

Then she ventured, “Have we met before?”

“Us? No. I’m new here.” Then he asked, “Where are you headed?”

“Room 212.”

He smiled brightly. “Me, too! I have Mr. Kim for English.”

“That’s cool,” she said, trying to sound like an ordinary, not-fuzzy girl.

They both stood there, smiling awkwardly. 

Finally, she said slowly, “So…. Do you want to go there now?”

“Right! You mean together?”

“Well, it’s not a date or anything.” she said, pleased to find a joke. 

He grinned. “Let’s go!”

They went up to Room 212, not saying anything. Her dizziness was gone, but she was secretly glad he was going with her.

She had been in Mr. Kim’s eighth grade English class, too, and she thought of him as the best teacher she ever had. He was in a different classroom this year, but everything about it was familiar: the same quotes posted in big cursive letters on the high walls, the photographs of American writers, the vintage recipes in colorful frames, the Turner landscape prints, and the sturdy plants growing in pretty terracotta pots in the corners. It was more comforting than home. 

Mr. Kim gave Sita a hug. He was tall, skinny, and the kind of teacher kids sometimes had a crush on. He had very short black hair, wide eyes, and a mole above his mouth. She had always thought he was around thirty years old, though she could never really tell with adults. He was born in Korea, and grew up in America. 

“I’m so glad you’re in my class again this year,” he said to her with his usual warm smile. “And how was the big trip this summer?”

“It was good,” she said, starting with the answer she had rehearsed. “Going to India was great, seeing my family and everything. But you know, it still feels very weird.” She stopped for a moment, trying to remember the next line. “Like…. without Dad,” she finished quietly.

He nodded, his lips pursed in sympathy. “I know,” he said. “If you ever want to talk after school, you can always stop by my room.” 

“Definitely.”

“And by the way, I have your younger sister in my seventh grade class.”

“Cool,” she said, faking it nicely, “Casey’s going to love your class, too.”

Then he looked over at someone next to her and asked, “And who’s your friend?”

Sita turned with a bewildered look on her face. “Oh! You.” 

She did not realize the boy who helped her on the stairs had been standing there the whole time. 

He held out his hand to her, as if he wanted to shake, but she just stared at it.

“Chris Chen,” he said.

“I’m Sita,” she said.

Mr. Kim shook the boy’s hand, too, and said, “And I’m Charles Kim. Now we’ve all met!”

The bell rang, and the students started to sit down. 

“Welcome everyone! Welcome!” Mr. Kim shouted above the scrape of chairs and settling of notebooks and pens. 

After everyone had quieted, he said, “Let’s get started with a great year of world lit! You’re all freshmen, and ready to take on some challenging books, right?” Mr. Kim grinned. He swung his arms and strolled across the front of the room. “A bunch of you had my class in eighth grade. So those people know my class can be fun. But it won’t be a cakewalk.” 

Then he went on, “Now, because I don’t have much of a life, I emailed each of you a packet over the summer. Did you all get it?”

A few nods. Parker Roose raised his hand. Without waiting to be called on he said, “I got it, but my dad said I didn’t have to do any homework over the summer.”

Mr. Kim nodded. “Noted, Parker. Good to see you again.”

He went on, “Anyway, for those of you who didn’t get it or have a chance to read it, the packet included an introductory letter about me plus a short story by Ursula K. LeGuin.” He scanned the room. “So how many of you read it? Raise your hands. There’s no shame if you didn’t get to it.”

There were twenty five students in the class, and half raised their hands. Sita had read the story twice after she received it, and it stunned her. If the summer had been a normal one, she would not have stopped thinking about it. . 

Mr. Kim said. “Tonight, I’d like everyone to read the story – or reread it. Just be forewarned, it’s a little dark.”

Parker barked again, “A little dark? Man, it’s really sick!”

Mr. Kim smiled with amusement. “I thought you hadn’t read it!”

“I didn’t look at your packet, but I’ve read that story before.” Then he added after a beat, “I’m actually very well read.”

Mr. Kim laughed. 

Chris Chen elbowed Sita slightly, whispering, “Who is this kid?”

She was not sure how she felt about the boy acting like her new confidant. 

The fifty minutes sped by, and Sita wanted the class to go on. Chris kept looking over at her with a grin. She largely ignored him.

When the bell sounded, the voices in the room swelled, and everyone headed out.Just before Sita left, Mr. Kim called her name, and she turned. “It’s really good to see you,” he said.

For a moment, she felt like her old self. “It’s good to see you, too, Mr. Kim.” Then she added, “I love that you made your classroom look the same as it did last year.”

“Catch you tomorrow.” 

Out in the hall, she saw that Chris Chen was up ahead, talking to a group of kids. He caught her out of the corner of his eye and flashed a little thumbs up. She hurried on to the next class. She had a peculiar feeling as she walked. Not dizziness. But she wondered what the boy meant with the thumbs up. 

Also, she wondered why he seemed so familiar. 

***

At lunch, Sita was ready to join Ana at Stephen’s table, but Ana chickened out at the last minute. So they sat at the regular table with Stephanie, Jenn, and Fan. A couple of new ninth-grade girls had attached themselves to the group, perhaps thinking they were popular. The new girls just sat and listened, chewing slowly.

Sita was quiet, too. Ana elbowed her, and dragged her into the conversation. “Sita spent six weeks in India this summer.”

“Oh yeah!” chirped Stephanie. “How was it? See any snakes?”

Sita rolled her eyes, but Stephanie did not notice. “The trip was fine,” Sita said. “But we actually almost canceled it.” 

“Really?” Jenn asked.  

“My mom was nervous about flying. There was that other plane, the Air India one back in June.

“Awful,” Ana said. 

Sita nodded. “It took off from Montreal and then blew up before it got to London. But in the end, we decided to go.”

Fan shifted in her chair. “We have to change the subject.” Then she said, “I had to go to China this summer. It really sucked, but I liked seeing my nainai.” 

Stephanie scrunched up her face . “Nainai? What’s that?”

“My grandmother, moron!”

Ana cut them off with a raised hand before it escalated. She turned to Sita and said, “Did you see your grandfather in India? You haven’t told me about him in ages.” 

Sita said nothing, and after a long silence, Ana finally asked, “I’m sorry, is he… is he dead?”

Sita shook her head. “Oh no, he’s still going strong. I just didn’t get much of a chance to talk to him this time. I’ve got, like, seventeen cousins, and all these other relatives. Everyone wanted to catch up and talk to me and my brother and sister. You know… ” She trailed off. 

Ana let it go. Sita’s friends knew not to push her too hard. That was why she remained friends with them. Before the summer, she adored these girls even though she was so different from them. Sita had a whole life they did not know about. Other kids at Red Cedar thought she was peculiar, though no one called her an outright freak because she could carry on a conversation and she was good at sports. Other kids noticed that she faded out and seemed distant. They saw her looking unsteady when she had her spells. They thought her memory played tricks on her. 

Sita nibbled at the food Amma had packed. A turkey sandwich with lettuce and cheese, a sliced apple and some corn chips. Her friends were talking about music and movies. Everyone loved the Prince album. The girls had listened to it a hundred times over the summer. And Madonna, too. They had all seen Back to the Future, and raved about it. Stephanie’s parents took her and her sister to Washington D.C. for a Springsteen concert. 

Eventually, the girls flipped to gossip. They picked over other kids’ summer relationships that were not relationships at all. Stephanie said she heard Pauline Roberts did something gross with a boy in her parents’ bathroom, and then she got caught. 

Sita used to love those muckraking tidbits at school. Now she felt like she was observing and hearing the girls from far away. She found a chocolate heart in her lunchbox. There was also a note in Amma’s very precise handwriting, “Miss you! It’s going to be a great day. You are always my brave Cheetu.” 

She remembered then that Amma had asked her to call on the school payphone at lunch. She could not bring herself to do it. 

***

She had orchestra at the end of the day. Some kids’ parents forced them to play a musical instrument in high school. She started the violin back in fourth grade, and kept doing it because she loved the sound of the instrument. She loved being in a group playing together. She loved Vivaldi. 

When school let out, Sita thought she would make a clean escape, but she ran into the girls in the courtyard. The sun was warm. Jenn was doing cartwheels. Fan was complaining about the chores that awaited her at home. Ana was speculating about Stephen Bates. Sita still thought she could slip away. She took a small step back, and then another. For half a second, it felt like relief. Then Ana looked up sharply, and stopped telling her story. 

“You’re leaving?” she asked.

“Yeah.” Sita looked down. “I’ve got a doctor’s appointment.”

“Hey! I forgot to ask you,” Stephanie chirped. “I saw you with a new kid this morning. You were walking upstairs with him!”

For a second Sita was confused. Then she remembered. The familiar boy, Chris. “We were headed up to Mr. Kim’s class,” Sita said. 

The girls looked at her expectantly, but Sita said nothing else. 

“Well, maybe we can all do something this weekend,” Ana said. 

“That would be fun,” Sita said. 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Ana asked. 

As if on cue, the other girls melted away. 

“You’re okay?” Ana repeated. 

“Totally.” 

“Alright,” Ana murmured, “I don’t want to make you late for your doctor.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow!” Sita said, dredging up a little more enthusiasm. “And we should definitely hang out this weekend. It will be like old times.”

“I’d like that,” Ana said quietly. “I miss those times.”

“Me, too.” Sita said. She gave Ana a hug so she would know they were still good.

***

Dr. Durbala’s office was about a mile from school. Sita enjoyed the walk, which was gently downhill. Hamilton was not a town where people walked even when the weather was perfect. The streets were wide, fit for vans or station wagons full of children. She walked along Great Lakes Road where the sidewalk was wide, but there were stretches when she had to walk on the overgrown grass. The traffic whizzed by in a heavy drone. One time, someone honked and waved out a window, but she was lost in thought and did not see who it was. 

She arrived at the concrete office park with a dentist, a tax attorney, a computer consultant, and the psychologist, Dr. Durbala. Sita had been seeing her since she turned thirteen, a perverse birthday present from her parents, especially Amma, who thought Sita’s strange imagination and her understanding of time were signals of a deep and distressful psychosis. This was Sita’s forty-seventh visit to the good doctor. 

Amma still thought Sita was making progress. Her father had thought so as well. The only reason Sita kept coming now was because she thought he would have wanted her to. The irony, of course, is that her father did so much for children and Amma and his patients that he never had time to take care of himself. He died on New Year’s Day, eight months ago. After he died, Durbala and Sita had something else to focus on. She no longer had to dwell on her other problem.

Inside the office, Penny, the receptionist greeted her with the usual warm and drawling hello. She took her familiar seat in the waiting room near the terrarium. 

“Hi there, Barney,” she said, peering down. 

The plump frog just sat there on a branch where he always did. He rarely moved, but he did stick out his tongue occasionally. She picked up a magazine. There were stories about Phil Collins, cool hair trends, and birth control. She flipped through it idly, frowned, and then put it down.

Durbala came out right on time, and led Sita back to the office. The place was not uncomfortable, but it was very formal: the dark bookcases, the wall with big black and white photos of cities around the world, the fresh flowers in a vase on the table, a straight-backed chair for Durbala, and something a little plusher for her patients. 

“So,” she started after they sat down, “How did the first day of school go?”

Durbala clutched her gray notebook, and kept a small, tight smile on her face. 

“Not bad,” Sita said. She knew Durbala hated two-word answers, but the doctor was always so unnaturally calm. 

Durbala cleared her throat, which was her sign of subtle disapproval. “Did you enjoy reconnecting with your friends?”

“It was fine. They’re all the same.”

“You didn’t communicate with them over the summer. Did they ask about your trip to India?”

“Well, I didn’t communicate with them because I didn’t need to. Plus, we were gone for six weeks.”

“Remember, Sita,” Dr. Durbala said in her serene voice, “There is no judgment here.”

“Well, yeah, today at lunch they did ask about my trip to India, and….”

“And?”

“They were more interested in other stuff.”

“When we first started our sessions, you spoke very highly of your friends, especially, ah. Hmm. I’ve forgotten her name..”

Sita exulted in the rare lapse on Durbala’s part.

“Especially Ana,” Sita said. “She’s my best friend.”

“And is she still? Your best friend, I mean.”

“She would say so, yes.”

“And you?”

“Who knows?”

“Do you value your friendship with Ana?”

“She knows me well. But we’re not the same anymore.”

“That’s to be expected, of course. Are there other friends whom you trust?”

Sita considered the question for a long time. 

“Let’s change subjects,” Durbala said, leaning forward. “How have your symptoms been? Any nausea, dizziness, troubling thoughts, or hallucinations?”

There was that awful word, the one that tarred her as a total lunatic, someone who might eventually need to be institutionalized. The memory of the summer’s India trip flooded back. She had no plans to tell Durbala any of it. 

“I felt a little sick to my stomach this morning,” she said. “But that was just first-day of school jitters.”

Durbala nodded. “That’s a good sign, then. According to my notes, it’s been nearly six months since the last visual hallucination.”

After her father died, Sita started concealing the weird events from Durbala. Since then, she had told her nothing about the dizziness, the lifting up, the rolling back. 

“Yeah, it’s good,” Sita said cheerfully.

“I am glad the medication is working.”

Sita took the little yellow pills daily when Durbala first prescribed them. But then she stopped, wrapping them in toilet paper and flushing them. 

Durbala tilted her head and said, “You are very guarded.” She wrote something in the gray notebook. “How would you describe your mood?”

Sita had long ago decided Durbala knew nothing about teenagers. She said, her jaw tightening, “I’m still a little sad sometimes. I have a right to be.”

“Remember, Sita, there are no good feelings or bad ones. You have the right to feel whatever you feel. You have been struggling with a mental illness for quite a long time. Your father’s death in January complicated that illness.”

“I don’t agree with you. I’m not ill.”

Durbala’s face darkened slightly. “Does the label mental illness feel like a stigma?”

Sita said nothing for half a minute, and Durbala jumped in. “Stigma means a mark of disapp –”

“I know what it means!” Sita snapped. 

“So does it? Feel like a stigma? Just as a general principle. Let’s say someone close to you had a mental illness. Would that bother or worry you?”

“No, of course not. I would never hold that against someone.”

“Would you hold it against yourself?”

Sita gritted her teeth. She knew it was foolish to argue, but she did it anyway. “But see, I’m not sick.”

“Okay, okay. I understand.” Then she said, “You’ve told me in the last few months that you are not having hallucinations. I’m glad to hear that. Any theories about why they have gone away?”

Sita shrugged. 

Durbala consulted the gray notebook for a few moments. “As I follow the course of your condition, I would say that you started to get better after your father passed away. Does that seem accurate?”

Sita quietly considered the ways in which she might torture Durbala. 

“Does it?” the doctor asked again. 

“Dad’s death doesn’t have anything to do with anything.”

“The loss of a parent is perhaps the most profound and painful event a child can suffer. It can have very unpredictable consequences. Some children withdraw or become socially isolated. Others experience a bipolar condition, a swing from mania to depression, and back again. Others show no symptoms at all. In your case, it seems that the family tragedy had some kind of beneficial effect.”

For a second, Sita was going to explode. Her mouth formed a snarl. Then she slumped down in her chair, the realization hitting her.

“The gig is up, huh?” Sita asked.

“The gig?”

“Fine. You got me. I’m guilty.”

“My dear, Sita, you’re not guilty of anything.” “Then what are you trying to prove?”

“Prove?” 

Sita did not know why Durbala kept asking questions like that.

Durbala said, “I’m merely trying to facilitate your self-awareness. My only goal is to get us to a better understanding of your mental and behavioral habits. With that understanding, you’ll be healthier.” 

Sita saw no way out. She mumbled, “Over the last few months, I’ve still been having the spells.”

Durbala nodded. “I see. By spells, do you mean the visual hallucinations?”

“Yeah, sure.” She chewed so hard on her lower lip that it bled. 

“This is progress, Sita. Real progress.”

Sita’s eyes flicked down to her watch. Fifteen minutes to go. So it dragged on, Durbala covering the same old ground as she asked questions in a slightly different way. She led Sita on the grand tour of topics: her father, India, and menstruation. The latter had been a source of discussion in this room for quite a while. Sita’s pediatrician, Dr. Gibson had said she suffered from something called “delayed menarche with normal pubertal growth.” She had only gotten her first period four months ago.

At the fifty minute mark, Dr. Durbala tapped her notebook and smiled, saying, “Yes, well, that’s our time for today. I think we had a very productive session. Do you agree?” 

Sita nodded. “Yeah, I think so.”

In the waiting room, there was a tall young woman reading a magazine, and a boy who was probably nine, squirming in a seat next to his bored-looking mother. Sita peered into the terrarium and whispered, “See you next time, Barney.” Then she said goodbye to Penny who always looked happier as it got closer to the end of the day. 

She blinked outside in the bright sun. She wanted to walk home, but Amma had said she would pick her up. Sita dreaded car talk. Soon Amma pulled up in the Olds 88, the big blue car that her father had driven. 

As Sita got in, Amma leaned over and hugged her. “So how was the first day of school?”

“About what I expected.”

“That's good, I think! And how are your classes?”

“They’re fine. I got Mr. Kim for English again.”

“Oh great! You loved him last year.” They pulled out of the parking lot, and Amma added, “Before we go home, we need to stop at Mercer’s to get some milk and a couple of groceries. Shouldn’t take long.”

They drove in silence until Amma said in an Amma way, “You didn't call at lunch.”

Sita had expected it.  “I didn’t have time.”

“Well, did you at least get to see all your friends at lunch? How is Ana? I’ve missed seeing her around the house.”

“Ana’s the same. She was excited to see me.”

“And were you glad to see her, too?”

Amma and Durbala often pursued the same questions. 

“It was good to catch up with Ana,” Sita said, “I’ll invite her over once school settles down.”

They cruised along Great Lakes Avenue. Amma liked to drive too fast. She switched lanes and passed cars. 

Amma sucked in air, which sounded a little like sighing. But it was always a sign that a challenging conversation was about to start. “Sita, I am worried because you seem so distant lately.”

“Really?”

“You don’t talk to me, or your siblings, and –”

“I talk to Hari.”

She continued, “You’ve been cold to your cousin, Ram, and even to Gina. And worst of all, you won’t talk to Sunny Iya when he calls.”

“I’m just not up to talking with him.”

“Why? There is no reason. He misses you.” 

“I’ll talk to him next time.”

“I wish I understood.” Amma was quiet again for a moment, and then she ventured, “How did the session with Dr. Durbala go?”

“Fine.” I sighed. “You know, same as always.”

“Do you think it’s still helping?”

She never understood why adults asked questions that she could only answer one way. 

Sita did not respond, so Amma asked again. “Do you think it helps to keep seeing Dr. Durbala?”

“What if I wanted to stop going?”

“What?”

“What if I took a break?” 

Amma let the answer sink in.“I don’t understand.”

“The sessions don’t make much of a difference anymore.”

“Well, what does Dolores – I mean, Dr. Durbala say?”

“She thinks we’re making progress.”

“You should stick with it then.”

“But she doesn’t mean it, really. She always says we’re making progress. She’s said it forty-seven times!”

“Are you keeping count?”

The gas station whizzed past Sita’s window as they took a fast right turn onto Spartan Avenue. She knew Amma was getting agitated. Sita’s eyes left the gas station and glanced over at the steering wheel. Amm’s hands were gripped tightly there, thick veins popping.

“You have always resisted the help Dr. Durbala is offering you.” 

“Look, Amma. I know she’s, like, your friend and all, but she’s not helping.”

“We are not friends.”

“Well, you’re friends with her husband at work, and he’s Indian. I thought all Indian people in America were friends.”

“I don’t know what –” Amma shouted. 

“Asha, dear, you can count on us anytime,” Sita said in a mock Indian accent, thinking it sounded a little like Durbala’s tall husband. 

“You’re being cruel, Sita.”

Sita knew she had crossed a line. 

When Amma spoke again, her voice was tight and strained. “Are you still having those daydreams?”

“You mean, am I still having hallucinations?” Sita asked. 

“Are you?”

“No.”

Amma turned on the car’s blinker to turn left into the Mercer’s parking lot. The place looked very busy. As she turned, Amma sounded plaintive, “I only wish your father –”

But Sita did not want to hear it. 

She could not hear it. 

Instead there was a horrifying crunch of metal, the whole car slid sideways, spun clockwise, and screeched. Amma cried in terror, and jerked the steering wheel harder to the left, and they went flying up over the curb and banged grotesquely into a stop sign. Sita’s seatbelt snapped tight, and she whipped forward, then back again against the headrest. The car wheezed and whined. A big white delivery van that hit them veered and skidded away. It did not stop. 

Sita clutched her head, then covered her eyes. “Fuck,” she said, even though she never spoke like that in front of Amma. Her heart beat so hard it felt like it might fall out. Amma was sobbing. 

Sita needed to vomit. It was her fault. Then she remembered. Her father used to remind her to breathe. 

She inhaled deeply.

There was the flutter in her stomach, the vertigo. She felt like she was being lifted up steadily, and then she fell with a gentle whoosh. Much less rough than all the other times. 

It started over. 

Sita blinked. She felt like the breath was caught in her throat. 

“You’ve always resisted the help Dr. Durbala is offering you,” Amma said.

“What?” Sita asked, “What?”

The Olds was turning onto Spartan Avenue again. There was the gas station. 

“Amma?” Sita cried in a panic. She knew. But still. Panic. 

 Amma slowed the car and turned to look at her. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

She forced herself to breathe normally again. She touched the seat, the belt, the window. It was real.

“Sita? What is it?”

“Nothing,” she said, “It’s nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

She ignored the question. “You should slow down, Amma,”she said. 

Amma turned and looked at me with annoyance. 

“Watch the road!” Sita shouted. 

“We’re almost there,” Amma said. She moved into the left-turn lane, turned on the blinker, but Sita’s hand shot out involuntarily and touched hers on the steering wheel. 

“Stop!” Sita cried. “Stop now!”

Amma jammed the brakes, and they skidded under the traffic light, stopping with sudden force. A car behind them honked loudly. The big white delivery van went speeding in the other direction on Spartan Avenue. 

Amma was furious. “Why did you tell me to stop? Why did you grab the steering wheel? You should never do that when I’m driving! That van could have hit us if I had lost control of the car.”

Sita’s heart was beating almost as hard as it had been the first time. 

“Sita? Do you understand? That van could have hit us!”

It did. And then it didn’t.