Page 9 of Six Days in Bombay

Chapter 6

The next night, I arrived for my shift in a brilliant mood. Mira was healthy again and back in her modern apartment. And I would get to see Amit, something that made me nervous and excited at the same time.

Last night, as soon as I entered our flat, my mother had peppered me with questions. I described to her in detail what the women at the Singh party were wearing, what people thought of my emerald dress, what Gayatri Kaur looked like, what delicacies were served, a few of the conversations I’d overheard. I left out the ones I wasn’t meant to hear. Thankfully, my mother attributed my giddy retelling to the glamour of the event, not to the moment Amit and I had shared, which I would also keep to myself.

Rebecca came into the stockroom as I was changing. “Mira Novak is back.” She reached in her locker for her uniform.

“Back?”

“She was brought in again. High fever. I heard she was at some fancy do last night. Probably not the best idea, given how sick she’s been.” She pinned her hair up and put her cap on her head. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

I sat heavily on the bench, replaying scenes from the Singh party. Had Mira been hiding her pain?

Rebecca leaned against the closed door of her locker. A smile was playing about her lips. “She’s a bit of a princess, isn’t she? Always getting what she wants. I wonder if Dr. Holbrook would have allowed her to go home?”

I felt defensive on behalf of Amit. I wanted to tell her I was there when Mira said she was leaving the hospital and there was no arguing with her—which supported Rebecca’s claim that she was a princess. That much was true, but there was so much more to Mira than that. I opened my mouth to explain but thought the better of it. Rebecca was goading me. If I responded, I might say something I would later regret.

Rebecca pushed herself off her locker. “She may not make it this time.”

My breathing slowed. “What do you mean?”

“Just that. She’s really sick. She should never have left the hospital. But you would have known that, being her night nurse.” Did I see a glimmer of satisfaction on her face before she left the room?

I tied my apron hastily and pinned my hat on. My heart was beating fast, faster. Mira had seemed so lively at the party last night. How could she have relapsed so quickly?

I rushed to her room. Mira’s forehead was lined with sweat. I wiped it down with a cold washcloth. I took her pulse, which was slow. I checked her chart. She’d come in two hours before my shift and was administered morphine for the pain. Dr. Holbrook hadn’t seen her, but Amit had, and he’d recommended more morphine in another hour. Mira opened her eyes when I called her name.

“I’m going to take your temperature. Open your mouth,” I coaxed.

“Sona,” she said. “The paintings.”

I looked behind me. They were gone of course. The paintings had been removed yesterday when Mira was discharged. Probably sent back to her apartment.

“Downstairs,” she said.

“Downstairs?”

She nodded, just barely moving her head.

There was only one floor below us. The equipment room.

I was still holding the thermometer. “The paintings are in the equipment room?”

She nodded again. She swallowed and then let out a jagged scream. My stomach churned from seeing her in so much pain.

I put the thermometer in my apron pocket and reached for the syringe. I cleaned her skin and plunged the needle into her vein, giving her only half the amount in the vial. The other half would have to wait for another hour. Within seconds, she calmed down.

My breathing was labored. I’d almost felt my heart stop. I went to the room sink and splashed cold water on my face. Right, I told myself, I needed to do something, take action. Mira had sweat so much she would need a change of sheets. I would go to the stockroom to get fresh sheets and towels. But first, I would talk to Matron or Amit or Dr. Holbrook, whomever I saw first, about why she had relapsed.

It happened during the twenty minutes I left her room.

Don’t allow yourself to get too close to the sick . Well, it was too late now. Mira was not just another patient to me. I ran to Matron’s office. It was empty. Dr. Holbrook was in surgery. I looked for Amit on every floor. Where was he? I hurried to the stockroom to pick up a clean set of sheets and towels and get back to Mira. I was still a few doors away when I saw Rebecca leave Mira’s room and proceed down the hall in the opposite direction. I slowed. What was Rebecca doing in Mira’s room? Had Mira called out for someone to help while I was gone?

When I entered the room, I could tell something was amiss. Still carrying the sheets, I ran to her bed. Her pallor was a sickly gray and her lips were turning purple. Her breathing was so shallow her chest barely rose. Her skin was clammy. I rang the red bell next to the bed—the one that sounded the general alarm—to summon help while I checked her pulse. Faint. Even so, I asked, “Miss Novak?” She’d been doing so well last night. What had triggered the recurrence? We had all hoped for a full recovery.

Within moments, Matron burst into the room, followed by Amit. I stepped aside to await orders. Mira’s chest was no longer moving.

Amit pressed his stethoscope on Mira’s chest. He checked inside her mouth, the needle mark on the inside of her elbow where I’d given her the morphine shot. He stretched her upper eyelids to check her pupils. He pumped her chest, then checked her heartbeat with his stethoscope again. He did this multiple times until, with a sigh, he stopped. He glanced at Matron and something passed between them. Matron kissed the cross on the chain she wore around her neck. My hand flew to my mouth to keep from crying out. Amit shot me a look, a silent apology.

Just then, Mira’s husband stepped into the room. Filip Bartos stood perfectly still, his eyes scanning the room: Mira, Matron, the doctor, me. He looked alarmed, the strongest expression I’d ever seen in his face.

Amit said, “Mr. Bartos, I’m dreadfully sorry. I know this must be as much a shock for you as it is for us. Yesterday, she seemed to be on the mend.” He went to Mira’s husband and gently touched his arm. “I tried to get in touch with you several times before she was discharged yesterday. I tried to dissuade her from leaving the hospital. In my opinion, she needed further analysis, but as you know, she was determined to go.” He paused, searching the other man’s face to see if he’d understood. Filip Bartos merely stared at Mira’s lifeless body. Amit dropped his arm. “We knew the morphine was no longer working as well as it should have. Perhaps we missed something. I’m so sorry. She will be missed. I will miss her.”

I glanced at her chart. Dr. Holbrook had doubled her dosage since she’d been readmitted to the hospital. Why hadn’t he just taken Amit’s suggestion about considering alternative possibilities for Mira’s treatment?

Filip’s face had lost what little color it had. “If Mira wanted to go home, Dr. Mishra, she was going to go home. You don’t—didn’t—argue with Mira.”

Her strong will was one of the things I’d admired about Mira. Was it what had led to her death? I closed my eyes and tried to contain the tears. I’d seen patients die before, and I’d been saddened by their passing, but I’d never been this close to them.

“Let’s talk in my office.” Amit led the painter’s husband by his elbow out of the room. As he passed me, Amit hesitated, as if he wanted to say something. Mr. Bartos’s eyes met mine. They were pleading with me, wanting me to do or say something. I could see he was grieving, but I couldn’t find the words to help him. Instead, I turned toward the bed. It was Mira and not Mira. It looked like her. But it wasn’t her anymore. It was the same way I’d felt about the sketch of Indira that Mira had made.

So many things would change. Our conversations about things Mira knew and I didn’t would cease. Her laughter. Her ability to make my day more interesting. How she made me feel like I belonged in her world. I would no longer feast on her stories of the places she’d been, countries she’d lived in, exotic people she’d known. She’d been more than a patient; she’d been my friend. She wasn’t just leaving the hospital; she was leaving me. I talked to her in my head the way I’d been talking to her just half an hour ago. Mira. Why did you go? I need you. I have more I want to ask you, more I need to know, more I need to tell you. You made my world come alive. You made me feel. Feel as if I mattered to you, to myself. Please. Don’t go!

But she wasn’t listening. She’d already gone.

***

Matron covered Mira with the top sheet and allowed the attendants to take her away. There was so much blood where the painter had lain. I sat dumbly on a chair, still clutching the stack of clean sheets I’d brought. My brain was working furiously, running through my movements before I left for the stockroom. I’d put the cool washcloth on her forehead. I’d taken her pulse. I’d tried to give her water, but she hadn’t wanted any. Before leaving the room, I’d made sure the temperature in the room was to her liking and the window was open to allow fresh air.

In a daze, I glanced at the sheets in my arms, wrinkled now where my fingers were clutching the fabric. I loosened my hold on them. I regarded my fingernails, buffed to a shine. My nursing apron: white as the Himalayan clouds in Mira’s paintings. There was no evidence of the painter’s distress, her passing. Had it really happened? Was I in a nightmare? I pinched my arm. I looked at the red welt that was beginning to swell. I pinched harder. My eyes filled, and this time, instead of blinking them away, I let them roll down my cheeks.

When Mira talked, I saw the world as if I were in her skin, looking through her eyes. Chartreuse and azure and bloodred and turquoise—I saw the colors of her paintings as she saw them, as energy. That’s how she talked about her work. As if by some strange force, her paint and brushes compelled her toward the canvas; she wasn’t in control of what or how she painted. Did I understand? she asked. I nodded. Because I did . It was like that with me and people I liked. I was drawn to them and reveled in their company, fascinated by their stories. I remembered verbatim all the things they told me, all the things she’d told me. The people she talked about, like her mother, imitating the haughty expression she wore. When she talked about her father, she stroked an imaginary beard, the way she said he did when he was deep in thought. She was a wonderful mimic, and her imitations made me laugh.

Matron was standing in front of my chair. I looked up at her. I could see her mouth moving, but I couldn’t hear the words she was saying. She frowned, then shook my arm. I jerked back, the touch startling me, bringing me to the present. She and I were alone in the room.

“There will be questions, Nurse Falstaff. Do you understand?”

I merely stared, my jaw slack.

“Nod if you understand.”

Mutely, I nodded.

“We will want to know everything that happened leading up to Miss Novak’s death. You may want to write it down. Minute by minute.”

“I left the room for twenty minutes,” I said helplessly. I extended the folded linen toward her, as an answer. I wanted Matron to tell me it wasn’t true. That I was dreaming, as I often did at night, the one where Papa was boarding the train for England, leaving me standing on the platform, alone, clutching the kathputli doll he’d given me. He never once looked back.

I retracted my arms, hugged the sheets to my chest. Why did you go, Mira?

Matron gently unfolded my arms and lifted the linen from them. “Experience comes with time. Perhaps the dosage was double what she should have received? Or perhaps the time between doses had been too short?”

My heartbeat quickened. I looked up at her, alert now, and shook my head. I wiped my eyes roughly with my palms. “No, Matron. I followed the doctor’s directions on the chart precisely. Miss Novak needed a dose before it was time, so I gave her a half dose…” Tears continued to flow onto my nursing apron, much as I willed them not to. I pulled a handkerchief out of my skirt pocket and dried my eyes properly.

“You’ve been working long shifts seven days a week. That can wreak havoc on a person’s ability to think clearly. Perhaps you were overly tired—”

“Ma’am, I don’t think— No, I know I didn’t—” I searched for the right words. “—cause this. I would never have done anything to harm Miss Novak. The long shifts are not tiring for me. I enjoy my work. I enjoy taking care of my patients.” I regarded Matron through wet eyelashes, willing her to believe me. I wanted to tell her I wasn’t crying because I was sorry I’d made a mistake. I was crying for the loss of a friend.

Matron’s eyes went to the enamel pan and syringe that lay on Mira’s bedside table. She walked toward it. The vial of morphine lay in the pan.

“You left a vial of morphine and a syringe in the room? What were you thinking? Haven’t you been taught never to do that?” Matron’s voice brimmed with astonishment.

Puzzled, I joined her at the table. I had removed the pan and the syringe when I left the room. Then I remembered seeing Rebecca leave the room. What had she been doing in here?

My vision blurred. The room tilted. My legs felt unsteady. I turned to Matron. “I don’t know how it could have happened. I didn’t overdose her and I did not leave anything here.”

A chill ran up my spine. Or did I? How could I be sure? Maybe I was in a hurry and forgot to take the paraphernalia back to the pharmacy? I had been overwrought seeing Mira in such a state. Maybe I really did leave it in the room? How could I have been so careless?

She was frowning, her face and brows pinched. She seemed to be angry, disappointed and frightened at the same time. Was she afraid she would be blamed for my carelessness?

“There’s no need to make up the bed now. The authorities may want to examine the bed and the syringe and whatever else.” She took a moment, looked around the room, her eyes coming to rest on me again.

“You do believe me, Matron?” I tried to keep the desperation out of my voice, but I needed her to know I would never have been so careless as to overdose a patient.

Her eyes strayed from mine. She said, “It won’t be just up to me. We’ll leave that decision to the board.” She stopped just shy of patting my shoulder before withdrawing her hand. The accusation stood between us. “You have other patients to attend to. Go.”

Slowly, I rose from the chair, trying to recount every minute detail of the afternoon. Did I make a mistake in her dosage because I was so upset by the turn she’d taken? Was I only imagining that I followed protocol? I’d always been conscientious. I took my responsibilities seriously. The religious sisters at Wadia Hospital were Catholic like Matron, and so were some of the Indian nurses, having been raised in convents, but since I practiced no faith, the other nurses had kept their distance. The only nurse who’d befriended me was Indira. She’d been like a sister to me until her husband drove her away. Mohan told me she’d taken a job at another hospital. She would have understood how I felt. Who would support me now, attest to my competence?

The idea of a new patient in Mira’s bed filled me with dread. They would never be as interesting as Mira Novak. How would I compensate for my small life without hearing about her large one? The biggest risk I’d ever taken was kissing Amit, and I was sure it was because Mira had made me bolder, made me feel I could do extraordinary things, things I’d never thought myself capable of. You will love, Sona , she’d said.

A worm of doubt snaked its way into my memory. Was it possible that I failed to sterilize the needle? I knew Mira had been poorly so I was saving the leftover morphine for when she needed it next. Did I forget to note it on her chart? The clipboard had been removed so there was no way for me to confirm it. And why would I have left the morphine in the room like that?

What about Dr. Holbrook’s claim to Matron that Horace had been ordering substandard drugs for the pharmacy? Had I been giving Mira adulterated morphine? Perhaps the reason she recovered briefly was because Matron had reprimanded Horace after her chat with Holbrook? And if Dr. Holbrook had been right about the pharmacist but neglected to tell Amit what he thought, was he complicit in Mira’s death?

My thoughts turned to Rebecca again. Could she have given Mira the extra morphine while I was in the storeroom? But why? To get me in trouble? To spite Mira? After all, Rebecca despised me. She thought I’d deliberately pushed her when we were tending to Mr. Hassan. She complained to Matron about my fraternizing with patients. She always thought Matron favored me and told me as much: You’d have to murder someone to get on Matron’s bad side. But did she hate me enough to risk a patient’s life? Perhaps she only meant to hurt Mira, not cause her death.

Oh, why had I left the room? Would this have happened if I’d stayed where I was? Kept watch over Mira while she slept? But I only left the room to look for the three people who knew more about Mira’s care than anyone else. I was trying to help her. That’s why I wasn’t there when she died.

I went in search of Amit. I knew I should have been attending to my other patients, but my head was filled with the void left by Mira. His office door was open, but he wasn’t there. Disappointed, I decided to check in with Ralph Stoddard. He was getting nearer his discharge date, and I would be sorry to see him go.

“Who died?” he said as soon as I entered his room. Mr. Hassan was sleeping peacefully in his bed. His new novel, Anandamath by Bankim Chandra Chatterjee, lay by his side.

My eyes became watery, but I wouldn’t let the tears fall.

“Oh, dear, oh, dear. Sweet girl.” He held out his hands for me to grasp. He looked around his bed for a handkerchief, but I got there first. I rubbed my eyes with my own handkerchief, apologizing for showing such emotion.

“Not at all. Now tell me what’s happened.”

“Mira—Miss Novak—she…” I couldn’t finish the sentence.

“But I saw her just yesterday. Timothy took me in that wheelchair all the way to the discharge station, and she was right as rain. Had a big blond chap with her.”

I nodded, struggling to keep my voice normal. “Her husband, Filip Bartos.” I cleared my throat. “Why don’t I take your pulse and your temperature?” I did that, while Dr. Stoddard looked kindly upon me.

“We could play a game of backgammon if that would help.” Through his horn-rimmed spectacles, I saw the rheumy blue eyes of a man who had seen his share of tragedy. Who was I to bring yet another to his doorstep?

I shook my head. He watched me write his vitals on the chart. “You’re being discharged in two days. You must be pleased.”

“Yes, but I will miss you, you know.”

“And I, you, Dr. Stoddard.” I forced myself to give him a smile. My lips barely moved, but it was the best I could do.

After tending to my next two patients, the new mother with the baby boy who lay next to her, and an elderly woman with piles (she took the place of the boy who’d had his tonsils removed), I went once more to Amit’s office. Still empty.

***

The broiler of the mechanical room made its own music—a low hum punctuated with a sharp clang at regular intervals. Mohan was dismantling a crate, the sort medical instruments arrived in.

I coughed politely to let him know I was there. He looked up, straightened and raised his brows. “I heard,” was all he said. Word of death traveled quickly in a hospital. Unlike Rebecca, he looked genuinely upset about Mira’s death. “How are you?”

I shrugged, afraid I would burst into tears if I said anything. I knew my eyes were red from crying.

Mohan wiped his paint-stained hands on a rag, which had seen its share of work over the years. It was a relief to know that he and I were friends once again. It would have been understandable for him to avoid me, his disappointment over my refusal to become his wife clouding our friendship.

“Did Miss Novak send paintings down here, bhai ?”

He looked over my left shoulder at a corner of the room. “Yes. I have them here. I was wondering if someone would be picking them up.”

“Before she died…” I had to stop to gather myself. “She told me the paintings were here. I assumed she wanted me to package them to send to her husband.”

Mohan walked to where the paintings leaned against the wall. He had taken care to put a piece of wood underneath them to keep paint and grease off them.

“Do you have any large sheets of paper? Brown. Large enough to wrap these?” I knew that all hospital equipment and their parts arrived in this room bound in paper or burlap or some sort of padded cloth. It was Mohan’s job to take the items to the right destination. But I assumed he would save the packing materials. In India, nothing was ever wasted. Everything could be repurposed.

He nodded. He walked to the shelves on the opposite wall and bent down to pick up a stack of flattened cardboard as well as some burlap sacks from the lowest shelves. He took these to his enormous worktable, which he cleared.

He and I lifted the four paintings from the floor one by one. We leaned them against the sides of the worktable. I stared at The Acceptance , wondering about the women solemnly preparing one among them for marriage. Who were they? Was the bride in the painting enjoying married life? Did she have children now? Who eased her burden after a day’s toil, after cooking the evening meal, after feeding the chickens and goats, after tending to her children’s wants and her husband’s desires?

I started to pack the Man in Abundance , the least intense of the paintings. I wondered how Mira chose her subjects, what inspired her to paint Paolo with three apples. I wish I’d asked her what the apples signified.

Mohan picked up the The Acceptance . He said, “Sona?”

I looked up. He stood the painting on its side, the back facing me. Tucked into a corner was a little piece of paper, folded over into a square the size of a matchbox.

“Should I take it out?” he asked.

I wasn’t sure. Was it meant for me or for Filip or for an art gallerist? I took a sharp breath and plucked it out of the frame. I don’t know why but my fingers shook as I unfolded the paper. It was a piece torn from her sketchbook. The slanted handwriting, which I recognized from the titles of her sketches, looked as if it had been scrawled hastily.

Dearest Sona,

I know you will take care of these. As will Jo and Petra and Po.

Yours,

M.

***