Honor: A Novel(7)

“I’m sorry.” Dr. Pal’s face softened a little. “Maybe we can come up with a different drug cocktail for the pain. Or, if you’re willing, we can schedule surgery with someone else for tomorrow.”

Shannon glanced helplessly at Mohan. “What do you think?”

A muscle moved in Mohan’s jaw. “Is this other fellow as good?”

Dr. Pal was silent for a moment. “Shahani is our best surgeon. And this is a complicated case because of the old prosthesis.”

“Can you check with the pain team, immediately?” Mohan said. “To see if they can make her more comfortable? Only then can we make a proper decision, correct?”

Smita looked at Shannon from the corner of her eye, wondering if, despite what Mohan had said, there was something going on between him and her. She had never known Shannon to rely on a man like this. Then again, she’d never known Shannon to be in such pain, either.

Dr. Pal bowed. “I will report back,” he said, and left the room.

“Thanks, Mohan,” Shannon said. She turned back to face Smita. “Smits,” she said, “this is why I asked you to come.”

“I’ll stay through your surgery and after,” Smita said immediately. “I have tons of vacation time accrued, so it doesn’t matter how long you need me.”

Shannon shook her head. “No, don’t worry about that. I have Mohan here with me.” She shut her eyes briefly and then opened them. “Have you been reading my stories about Meena, the woman who is suing her brothers? For burning her husband alive?”

“What? Yeah, sure,” Smita said, remembering a few details. She had not paid much attention, her distaste for India triggered by the story.

“Great,” Shannon said. “Well, the verdict will be coming soon, and we need someone to cover it. You need to go to Birwad—that’s the name of Meena’s village.”

Smita stared at Shannon. “I don’t understand?” she said at last.

“The verdict will be coming,” Shannon repeated. “We need the story.”

There was a sudden, heavy tension in the room, fueled by the anger sluicing through Smita. She was aware that Mohan and Nandini were both staring at her. Biting down on her lower lip, she tried to recall the details of the phone conversation from the day before. Had Shannon mentioned the reason for summoning her to Mumbai? Come to think of it, she hadn’t. Why didn’t Shannon make things clearer? Smita thought, unable to shake the feeling of being manipulated into coming back to the one city she’d vowed never to see again.

“Why can’t a stringer cover the story?” Smita said. “I thought you asked me here to help you.” She saw Mohan’s head jerk up and noticed the look of understanding that spread across his face.

“I did,” Shannon said, puzzled. And then, Smita realized that pain was blocking her friend’s perceptions.

“So, here’s the deal,” Shannon was saying, oblivious to Smita’s anger. “I don’t know how much you remember of the story. This woman, Meena, was set on fire by her brothers for marrying a Muslim guy. They killed her husband. She almost died, too. Because of the lawyer who took her case pro bono, the police were forced to reopen their investigation.” Shannon’s eyes kept opening and shutting, as if she was battling both sleep and pain. “In any case, the court is expected to rule soon. And if you know how slowly the courts work in India”—she cast a quick glance at Mohan—“you’ll know what a miracle that is. We need to be there when the ruling comes, Smits.”

“Of course,” Smita said. “But why didn’t you get someone from the Delhi bureau to follow up?”

Shannon reached over and pressed the call button. “Sorry. My hip hurts like a son of a bitch. I think I’m due for more meds.”

“I’ll go get a nurse,” Mohan said immediately, but Shannon shook her head. “Nah. We’ve bugged them enough. Someone will be here right away. They’re pretty good.”

Shannon turned back to Smita. “James would’ve normally covered the verdict, but he is in Norway. His wife’s about to have a baby. And Rakesh . . . he’s taking over the story I’m working on right now. In any case, I’m not sure Meena will even talk to a male reporter, Smits. She’s living in an all-Muslim village. It’s a pretty conservative area.”

“She’s right,” Mohan said. “I—my parents are from Surat, which is not too far away from Birwad. Just across the Maharashtra-Gujarat border. I know those people. No way would a woman be allowed to talk to a male.”

A nurse came into the room, and Shannon asked for her pills. “Shukriya,” Shannon said, and Smita watched the nurse’s startled smile that her American patient had thanked her in Hindi. “No mention, madam,” the nurse said.

Shannon moaned softly and squeezed Smita’s hand as she waited for a spasm to pass.

“Why don’t they have you on a morphine drip?” Smita demanded.

Shannon looked at her wryly. “They don’t use it as freely in India the way we do back home. I’m going to write about this issue as soon as I’m better.”

“That’s crazy.”

There was a sudden silence in the room, as if they’d all run out of things to say. Smita turned to Nandini. “Have you been there? To Birwad? How far is it from here?”