Honor: A Novel(11)

“That will be good.”

They stood looking out at the sea until a nurse came into the room. She said something to Nandini in rapid-fire Marathi while Smita looked from one to the other. She heard the word “American” a couple of times, the nurse looking visibly upset. Finally, the woman turned to Smita and said, “It is past visiting hours, madam. You must leave.”

“She’s here,” Smita said pointedly, nodding toward Nandini.

“Matron has made exceptions for Miss Shannon’s caretaker and the tall gentleman. But please, guests are allowed only during visitation hours.”

Smita sighed. “Okay.” And when the nurse didn’t move, she said, “Please give me a few minutes to make some plans.”

“Five more minutes.”

Smita followed the nurse out into the hallway. Mohan was at the nurse’s station, talking to the same young medical resident as before. Mohan spotted her, said something to the young man, and approached her. “You’re leaving?” he asked.

“I’m being kicked out.”

“They’re very strict about visiting hours. But I could try . . .”

“It’s okay. It sounds like they’ve already made an exception in your and Nandini’s cases.” She heard the bitterness in her voice and knew that Mohan had heard it, too.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She shook her head. “It’s fine. The fact is, I still have to prepare for Birwad. I need to contact that lawyer. And also, I was told by Nandini that I must buy more suitable clothes for our trip.”

Mohan looked embarrassed. “We are all under pressure,” he murmured. He then brightened. “By the way, I just got some good news. They are putting Shannon at the top of the list. Hers will be the first surgery of the day tomorrow.”

“Great. What time should I be at the hospital?”

“Let’s see. They will take her in by seven. But nothing is going to happen until eight. And it’s a long surgery. Even if you came by nine or ten . . .”

“I’ll be here at seven.”

“There’s no need to come that early. You are going to have a long day of travel tomorrow if you leave after the surgery.” He smiled. “Nandini has made it clear that she will not leave until she is sure Shannon is going to be okay.”

Smita went back into the room. Shannon was sleeping soundly. Smita gave her a light kiss on the forehead, then stood watching her. Pain had carved new lines into Shannon’s face. As she watched, Shannon moaned softly. Smita felt a rush of sympathy. Shannon was usually so gregarious and outgoing that it was easy to forget that she had no family. Once, only once, when they were both drunk after a work party, had Shannon spoken about the childhood spent in foster homes. Smita admired Shannon—here she was, in a country not her own, being looked after by a translator who clearly adored her and a male friend who was ensuring that she was receiving the best of care.

And then there’s me, Smita thought. I dropped everything to rush to her side. Why? For Shannon’s sake, for sure, but also to prove that I know how to be a real friend. Well, the joke’s on me. Because Shannon doesn’t need my friendship or company—she just needs my professional commitment.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Smita whispered to Nandini, and before the woman could respond, she slipped out of the room.

Smita called Anjali’s number as soon as the cab had pulled out of the hospital. It rang a few times before a voice said, “Tell me.”

“Oh hi,” Smita said, taken aback by the abrupt greeting. “Is this Anjali?”

“Speaking. Who’s this?”

Even though Smita knew it would get stiflingly hot in the cab, she motioned to the driver to roll up his window. “My name is Smita. I’m Shannon’s colleague. And I’m taking over the Meena Mustafa story for Shannon?”

“Oh yes.” Anjali had the clipped accent of upper-class Indians that Smita remembered from her girlhood. “Her assistant said you were flying in from the States.”

Smita didn’t bother to correct her. “Yeah, I just got in late last night.”

“How is Shannon? Did she have her surgery?”

“It’s scheduled for tomorrow morning.”

“Good, good.” There was a hint of impatience in Anjali’s voice, the sound of an overworked woman who was routinely pulled in a hundred different directions. Smita knew that tone only too well.

“I was calling about the verdict. Shannon feels that I should leave tomorrow—”

“Don’t bother,” Anjali said, interrupting her. “We just got word a few minutes ago that there’s been a delay. There won’t be a ruling tomorrow.”

“Oh. Why not?”

Anjali gave a bitter laugh. “Why not? Because this is India. Apparently, the judge hasn’t finished writing his judgment.”

“I see.”

“So, will you still be able to come later?” Anjali asked. “Or will the paper not do a follow-up?”

Maybe they’ll run a wire story? Smita thought. “Is the Indian media covering the story?” Smita asked. “Maybe we can just—”

“Please.” Anjali’s tone was dismissive. “Do you think they can be bothered with such a story? After all, these were Hindus killing a Muslim. So who cares, right? It is, how do you say it—dog bites man? No, they’re too busy covering movie stars and—cricket.”