If You See Me, Don't Say Hi by Neel Patel

Author:Neel Patel
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Flatiron Books

the taj mahal

It was Mallory who introduced us in the first place: at the shopping mall, then her party.

It was winter; I was visiting from L.A.

“L.A.,” Mallory said. “Wow.”

There was nothing wow about it. The hospital had put me on leave—something about “indecent behavior.” As far as I was concerned, I was the best OB/GYN they ever had.

“You’ve unraveled,” Dr. Barnes said. “The rest of the staff feels uncomfortable around you.”

“On what grounds?”

“On the grounds that you exposed yourself to Dr. Rosenberg.”

“I did no such thing.”

“You offered him sex.”

“That’s preposterous,” I said, glaring. “That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard.”

Then I took off my blouse.

It wasn’t always this way; in high school, Mallory was the adventurous one. Mallory was the one who got drunk off rum punch and strawberry Boone’s. Mallory was the one with the tattoo; now she wore rust-colored sweaters and khaki-colored slacks, looking, at thirty-two, like the type of woman we swore we’d never be. We ran into each other at Target, on a Saturday afternoon. Mallory pushed a shopping cart.

“Sabrina? Is that you?”

After high school, I had become glamorous while everyone else in my class had faded out of their glamour. Mallory included. She had a thick waist, loose skin; her blond hair had faded to brown. Meanwhile I was bronzed like honey, my hair the color of a cocoa bean. I wore extravagant clothes. The night of Mallory’s party, I wore a raspberry cocktail dress from Neiman Marcus.

But it was meant to be a casual party.

I told her there was no such thing.

* * *

The party was typical: cheese boards next to a platter full of crackers and grapes. Mallory had strung up Christmas lights—colored ones, not gold. All night long she chased me around the house carrying store-bought appetizers and boxed red wine. She introduced me to her friends. They were the usual sort: women who wore Christmas cardigans over stonewashed jeans. Their makeup was of the drugstore variety. Probably they were schoolteachers or nurses and probably they were afraid of me because I was a surgeon. A specialist. A god.

Sabrina lives in L.A. Can you imagine?

They couldn’t imagine. They couldn’t imagine that a week ago I had gone to a dive bar and popped a Klonopin into my mouth—then gone home with the DJ. His name was Yousif, and the next morning, four hundred dollars were missing from my purse. They would never understand me, these women, so I smiled at them, and nodded my head, and answered their questions about the traffic in L.A., and then, when I couldn’t stand it any longer, I opened my bag and popped another Klonopin into my mouth. Then I started drinking. When I returned, Mallory had opened a bottle of champagne. Happy holidays, everyone! I imagined spilling it on her floor. I wondered if she would get on her hands and knees to clean it up. I was thinking about this when Mallory’s boyfriend walked into the room, opening a can of beer, and suddenly, just like that, I began to think of something else.

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