Page 114 of The Art of Taking Second Chances

“Yeah, that was pretty smart of you. But here, I did paint a perfect picture, one that I wanted.”

In bold oil pastels, the canvas said:

Tara

Sameer

Forever

I hid my smile behind a forkful of cake.

“Yeah, missy. I bested you. Accept it.”

“Never,” I said, and stuffed my mouth with cake.

He leaned in to kiss me when his phone went off in the bedroom.

“You should get that,” I said.

“Don’t move. I’ll be right back,” he said and walked into the bedroom. When he returned a few minutes later, his face was pale with worry.

I leaped off my seat. “What happened?”

“Tara, I’m sorry, but I have to go back to India.”

“Sangita?”

Before he could respond, his phone rang again. “Amar, yes, Riya called me. I’ll be on the next flight. Can you be with her until I come? Hey, wait for me if anything happens.”

After listening quietly for a few seconds, he said, “Yeah, see you soon.”

He stepped forward and hugged me. “I’m scared, Tara.”

“I wish I could come with you. But Amar’s there. Lean on him. He’s your anchor.”

“You’re my anchor. He’s my mast.”

Chapter 34

Sameer

Idropped Tara off and returned to pack a quick bag. Amar was scheduled to leave for Mumbai, but I requested he stay back. I would need his support. Sangita had stopped responding to medication, and even the painkillers weren’t enough now. She was in constant pain and ready to give up. I was partially responsible for her being in this state—alone and unloved. My insides churned as I drove to the airport for a 2 a.m. flight.

During the long flight, I made a mental list of things I would need to take care of—hospital formalities, legal ones, social obligations, the cremation, last rites. I was prepared for it all, except for the one thing that really mattered: facing Riya. How does one console a child who is about to lose the only parent she has known?

When the wheels touched down in New Delhi, there was no change in Sangita’s condition. She was still with us, Amar informed me. A small consolation. As I entered through the giant doors of the intensive care unit, I spotted Riya and Amar on a bench in the hallway. Amar rose promptly when he saw me, and Riya’s eyes lit up. I walked up and put an arm around her shoulder. She let her head rest against my chest for a moment before pulling herself upright.

“You should get some rest,” I said.

“No, I want to be here when it happens,” she declared, pushing her palms under her thighs and leaning slightly forward, eyes fixed on the door to her mother’s room.

Amar beckoned me away from her to the large windows.

“What’s the status?” I asked.

“She’s on a ventilator.”

“What does Vishal mamaji say?”

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