My pager buzzes on my hip before he can answer. My patient, the kindergarten teacher, has been moved to the recovery unit.

She is still asleep and hooked up to monitors, but within the next half hour the sedation will wear off and I can tell her the good news, that her operation went well and her wound will heal without much scarring.

When she has had time to recover, I will tell her the bad news.

The mass I removed from her gallbladder is on its way to the pathology lab, where it will be sliced thin, stained, and examined under a microscope. In a few days, I’ll get a report from a pathologist confirming my suspicion that the tumor has already sent tentacles into an otherwise healthy liver.

“How are you feeling?” I ask her later in the day, when I stop by the recovery room. She is pale and bleary-eyed from the anesthesia.

“Tired,” she says, though she manages a smile. “Like I just ran a marathon.”

Her mother is at her side now. She flew in from Chicago and looks duly grateful that her daughter can find lightness in the moment. I leave them to the inimitable comfort they bring each other. They’ll need me more later.

I leave the hospital and take the train to Manhattan to meet Mom for dinner. She is in town for a luncheon. I can’t recall which of her many causes this one is for, or which of her many connected friends invited her. I check my watch and hop on a train to Midtown to meet her at her favorite Indian restaurant. Mom is craving spice tonight.

“Hey, sugar!” Mom says, the door chime ringing in my wake as I enter the restaurant. We hug, and she gives my hand a squeeze, like I’m still a little girl.

“Have you been here long?” I ask.

“Just got in, but I ordered us some pakora to start. Figured you’d be hungry.”

“You figured right. I’m famished.”

Mom dotes on me with the same precision and focus she always brought to her work.

“How’s Dayo? I haven’t heard you talk about her in a while,” Mom says. She’s always relieved to know I’m spending time with my best friend. She’s waited a long time to see me with people in my life. And apart from Mom, Dayo is the only person who knows anything about my past.

“She’s good, thanks. Busy as ever. How was the luncheon?” I ask once we place our orders. When the pakoras arrive, we waste no time digging into them.

“Mmm,” she says, dabbing a napkin to her lips to catch the tamarind sauce. “Remarkable. The vaccination program has been very successful in parts of rural Pakistan.”