Call Tahera, you tell him. You must have been able to recall Tahera’s number. You wish you had Fiaz’s number, and Leigh’s, too. You wonder what your husband is doing right then.

One of the paramedics says you can ride with them. Someone must have helped you into the ambulance and handed you Seema’s bag. Bill says he will follow in his car, he must have found out where they were taking you.

The ambulance screams through San Francisco’s streets to the hospital. Yet how long the ride seems to last. The inside of the ambulance is lined with equipment of every kind but apparently none that can help your daughter. Was it only two nights ago, that dinner on the rooftop beneath that full promising moon, when you’d declared with so much certainty, “Nothing will happen”?

You imagine her calling out to you as her blood began to spill out of her body. You recall that day from long ago—the day your newly menstruating daughter bled uncontrollably—when you attempted to soothe her fears as she lay crying, her head in your lap. Both these daughters, the past and present Seema, lie on the stretcher beside you now, as do all your imagined versions of me, and you would give anything—your blood, and your life, too, for what use is what remains of your life anymore?—anything to keep us with the living.

Coda

1

At his home in Chennai, a husband, father, grandfather is busy with his daily correspondence. There are decisions to be made: Which proposals to support? Which speaking engagements to accept? Which invitations—to meetings, dinners, and receptions—to decline?

He has a routine he adheres to religiously since his wife’s departure. After waking up, he goes for his morning walk in the park around the corner, stopping first at the neighboring restaurant for his morning cup of tea. On his way back he picks up his breakfast from the restaurant, his usual order kept ready for him: two idlis and two vadas, the sambar and chutney packed in small plastic bags. He shaves and showers, dresses, then eats his breakfast reading the newspaper. When the maid arrives, she’ll clear the table, wash and put away the plates and dishes he’s used, then sweep and clean the house, while he works in his study.

Now he consults his calendar and makes plans: he has a full day, ending with the keynote speech he’s to give at the Indian Medical Association’s annual convention. When the maid is done housekeeping, he leaves the house and won’t return until bedtime. He looks over the speech, about the responsibilities of doctors in the twenty-first century, and makes a few final edits.

He ponders for a moment whether he should call his wife. But why should he? They should be the ones calling him.

2