“Have a seat,” Pete tells me, and when I do, he hands me my mug of coffee. I look away, embarrassed, as he cleans up my mess.
“You should call Pravat if you’re feeling up to it,” Pete says. “He’s been worried about you.”
Pravat. My memory stirs. “Did I talk to him while I was sick?”
“Yeah.” Pete explains to me what happened, and I listen, shocked. I barely remember any of that. My boss sent me home? Pravat had to call Pete for me? I vaguely remember being on the street and getting yelled out by someone and talking to some man with a long beard and a knapsack. My cheeks heat in embarrassment.
A sudden thought has me sitting up straight. “You didn’t call Pah, did you?”
“No. I didn’t want to worry him unnecessarily, but I have to be honest—I got close to it. Do you remember going to the emergency room?”
“Yeah. Some of it.” I came to myself lying on a padded table with an IV stuck in the back of my hand. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. “I’m going to go lie down for a while,” I say, getting up from the table and heading for my room.
“The doctor thought maybe you overworked yourself. He wanted to run tests, but you wouldn’t allow it.”
I nod.
“You won’t let it happen again, will you? You’ll eat and sleep better?”
“Yes. Of course. I hadn’t realized I was driving myself into the ground. I’m sorry I worried you guys.”
Pete insists on cooking me some breakfast, and when I’m finished eating, I go back to my room to lie down. I should be concerned about work and everything I’ve missed, but all I feel is numb. I don’t know how long I lie in bed before finally reaching for my cell phone and calling Pravat.
“Rama?” He sounds so agitated; I immediately feel awful.
“Yeah, it’s me. I’m sorry I worried you.”
“Are you all right?”
“Much better, yes.”
Pravat releases a deep breath, and suddenly tears spring to my eyes.
I’m emotionally unstable. I know this. A psychiatrist would tell me I’ve kept things bottled up too long. That seeing my aunt sitting in Pete’s living room triggered a breakdown. I’m furious with myself for being so weak, and I’m furious that I somehow dragged Pravat into this.
“I was ready to get on a plane and fly out there,” Pravat says.
“What? You would have come here?”
“Of course. I was going to drag you back to the hospital if I had to.”
I take a moment to digest that. Pravat would have disrupted his life to fly thousands of miles to make sure I was being taken care of. I don’t know what to say.
“Tell me how you’re feeling,” he demands, and when I start to reassure him again that I’m fine, he interrupts. “The truth, Rama.”
“I’m still a little out-of-it,” I say softly, wiping at my eyes.
“Pete said you seemed fine when you walked into the room that night and then you just lost it.”
“I can’t talk about it,” I finally whisper after a long, drawn-out moment. “Please don’t askme to.”
I know I just verified that something other than exhaustion triggered the breakdown, but I don’t want to lie to Pravat.
“All right. But don’t you think you should talk about it with someone?” he asks.
I grunt, having no answer that would satisfy him. I’m not dredging up those vile memories with a therapist.
“I wish I were there with you,” I say instead.God, I’m so tired. How can I still be this exhausted?