Chapter Text
It really is a coincidence, he swears, that he’s working the day shift right now. Jack had worked all night, gave report to Robby, drove home, showered, and took a five-hour nap -- all before he realized he had left his phone at work.
He even contemplates just going back for it at his next shift, but despite what he says about “kids these days” -- he is also unhealthily attached to his phone.
(He has a game on his phone that if he doesn’t log into by five PM, he will lose his daily streak.)
It’s around 2:00 PM when he pulls up to the hospital with the sole intent of retrieving his phone from his locker. He spots Doctor Mohan standing at a computer, weight shifted on her left leg, and eyes laser-focused on the notes she’s writing. His locker is in the opposite direction, but he supposes he can stop by for a quick hello. It’s been a few days since he’s seen her, even longer since they’ve talked in person. She hasn’t messaged him about the article he left for her in the break room last Tuesday -- a bit uncharacteristic for her, since she usually texts him within 14 hours of him leaving something for her.
(No, he does not count down the hours waiting for her text. He’s just good at remembering things, military background and all that. Like how her last text came in at 8:43 PM on the 21st. He will not acknowledge how he jumped out of his seat at her name on his screen, staff and patients alike staring at him.)
He wonders if she even got the article, but it’s no longer on the counter next to the fridge where he left it, and Ellis did say she saw Samira leave in the morning with some papers in her hand. So, maybe she just didn’t have a chance to read it. Or to message him about it. Again, he’s not counting.
Jack pivots in her direction and makes a beeline for her workstation. She must see him in her line of sight, but doesn’t shift her eyes toward him. Uncharacteristic. A bit odd, but maybe she’s just absorbed in her charting.
“Doctor Mohan,” He greets. She startles, concentrated gaze falling from the screen to land on him. Samira looks a bit confused, probably wondering why he’s here in the middle of the day, but smiles at him regardless.
“Doctor Abbot,” She acknowledges softly, and that’s when something in him shifts. Her eyes, generally bright and full of life, are hollow and sunken in. Loose curls fall from her clip, and her hair looks like it hasn’t been washed in days. Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes, and there’s no evidence of a dimple on her cheek -- not in the way she’s usually ecstatic to see him. (Ecstatic is Dana’s word, not his).
There’s something going on with Samira. She’s looking at him, but he can tell in her eyes that she’s not seeing him. Before he can ask, before he can say something stupid that will inevitably make her laugh, five gunshot victims come barreling through the emergency room doors, and his feet are carrying him to the commotion.
***
It’s two hours later that the situation has finally calmed down. Jack changed into scrubs at some point. All the patients have been stabilized and sent up to surgery, and Jack sits in a corner station finishing up some notes when he overhears Robby and Collins whispering to each other.
(Jack Abbot is not a gossip. The fact that he hears and knows things is merely a consequence of impeccable hearing and a thirst for knowledge. Yes, he’s currently craning his head to hear what dumb thing Robby might be saying to his ex. For research purposes.)
“Is everything okay with Samira?” Robby asks, and Jack’s ears perk up like a dog who heard a bag of chips crinkling. “She seems a little…” He trails off. Collins looks at Robby in the way she does when he’s five steps behind on emergency room drama, sighing into her computer.
“I told her I wouldn’t say,” Heather responds.
“Is it personal? Should I be worried?” Robby responds immediately, and Jack can see worry painting his face. Collins sighs at him, glancing around to see if anyone is listening. Jack studiously pretends to read something on his computer.
“She’s just -- having second thoughts. About being here.” Collins responds vaguely. Robby furrows his brows.
“Here as in?”
“At PTMC.”
Fear claws up Jack’s throat. Samira’s thinking about leaving? Before she’s finished residency? Before boards?
Before he had a chance to tell her--
“What?!” Robby exclaims. “Why?”
Heather looks at him once, a frown planted on her face. She looks like she’s about to tell Robby off, but decides against it.
“You’ll have to figure this one out on your own, cowboy.” She says, clicking the enter button on her keyboard before walking away from him. Robby looks bewildered, like he’s playing back every interaction he’s had in the last three years of Samira’s residency. Jack tries to pretend he’s not doing the same.
It’s an hour before shift change that Jack has a chance to be near Samira again. He really, really, really hates day shift. Except she’s standing in front of Robby, hands together behind her back, staring at her shoes. Jack observes from a distance, getting close enough to hear their conversation.
“Pick up the pace, Doctor Mohan -- I know that you can operate at a faster rate than you are now -- I’ve seen you do it!” Robby is quietly reprimanding her. Jack wants to roundhouse kick him -- Samira is a brilliant doctor and rarely makes mistakes -- before he reminds himself that he trusts Robby’s judgment and there’s probably a reason he’s saying all this. He’s had this conversation with Robby before, knows how this will play out. Robby says she’s not fast enough, Samira argues back. They squabble, Samira relents, maybe even apologizes, and goes back to work. Robby won’t apologize when he’s wrong, just praises her later when she does something well.
What Jack doesn’t expect is Samira’s response.
“Yes, sir,” She says, still staring at her shoes. She doesn’t justify herself, doesn’t try to argue. So Jack is especially confused when Robby says what he says next.
“And if you can’t operate at the standard that I trust you are capable of, then maybe this isn’t the place for you.”
Jack reels back. Robby looks upset -- too upset. The way a father might look at his daughter when she says she wants to quit her favorite sport while she’s on her way to state championships. Samira looks up from her shoes, but she can’t pull her gaze any higher than Robby’s shoulder.
“Okay.” She says quietly. Jack’s teeth ache at the look on her face.
She’s got that far-away look on her face again, eyes glazed over. Samira looks like she might even cry. Jack knows she won’t, not in front of anyone else, but he knows for sure that she’s not fully present in this conversation. Robby’s jaw clenches and releases, clenches and releases, until he’s able to calmly say, “Go home, Samira.”
“Robby,” Jack says before he can stop himself. Robby jumps, turning to look at him, but Samira doesn’t flinch. She continues to stare at that spot on Robby’s shoulder, unmoving.
Jack’s not sure how he knows. He’d like to attribute his foresight to being a veteran, to experience volunteering at the VA, to the way he gets when he hears fireworks. But none of these make sense, because the look on Samira’s face is nothing like what he’s seen in those circumstances. Somehow, he just knows her.
Jack knows without a shadow of a doubt that Samira is having a PTSD episode.
***
Last Tuesday
It starts the way it always does -- with a patient. It’s surprisingly a good day -- as good as it can be in an ER, she supposes. Even though she worked eighty-one hours last week, even though she hasn’t had a day off in twelve days, it’s a good day. Robby hasn’t gotten on her case in almost a week, and she feels like she’s finally earning some of his trust. Doctor Abbot left an article for her in the break room -- a comprehensive analysis of treatments offered by physicians for symptoms related to chronic stress, compared across racial and socioeconomic lines. She skimmed the abstract between patients and grinned; Doctor Abbot always picked the most interesting articles.
It’s towards the end of her shift when the patient and his daughter come in. They’d been waiting in chairs all day -- Samira knows this because she spotted them as she came in before her shift started. Rida, the preteen daughter, explains to Samira that her father had been having a horrible migraine for almost a week. They went to urgent care twice, where he was given a high dose of Tylenol and sent on his way. Apparently, her father, Mohammed, got frequent migraines as a result of his stressful job, but it had never been this bad. Samira’s physical exam indicated that he wasn’t having a stroke, but the father struggled to speak or follow commands. His chart indicated that this morning he was having pain, but wasn’t having any trouble communicating like he was now. She sent him to get a CT when Robby checked in with her. It could just be a complex migraine, but she wanted to rule out anything else.
“48-year-old male, presented with severe migraine, trouble speaking and following commands. Pupils, equal and reactive, stroke assessment was clear. I sent him to get a CT, daughter is waiting in the family room. Her mom is on the way. Neuro’s been paged, but we’re still waiting on them.” Samira explains. Robby grins at her, holding out his fist.
“Mohan’s on fire,” He says, and she bumps his fist with her own. She can feel a dopey smile forming on her face, but does nothing to conceal it. Samira would never tell him this, but Robby’s approval means everything to her.
Since she has an extra minute, Samira decides to check on her patient’s daughter. Rida is sitting on the couch, knees up to her chest.
“Hey,” Samira starts. “Your dad’s getting a scan of his brain right now, but he should be out soon, okay?” She takes a seat next to her. The girl, no more than twelve, looks up at her. She’s lanky and a bit awkward, curly black hair a rat’s nest, and brown skin dotted with acne. Samira has to fight the urge to smile at how much this kid reminds her of herself.
“Is he gonna be okay?” The kid asks. Samira smiles.
“Your dad has a great team on his side,” Samira says. “We’ll get to the bottom of this.” It’s the best that she can offer right now. The kid nods and stares at Samira, eyes raking over her face. Rida has bags under her eyes, clearly exhausted.
“How are you doing, Rida?” Samira asks. Rida shrugs, evidently trying to be nonchalant. Samira cocks her head at her, prodding for more.
“I’m tired, I guess,” She says. “My mom was in Pakistan for the last month because her aunt died. And my dad works three jobs, so it’s just me at home. Then Baba was in pain, and he was talking funny, and I had to force him to go to the doctor, but he hasn’t been getting better.”
Samira nods. She remembers the recession of her childhood, her mother and father trying to make ends meet. How much harder everything got when her father passed away. Wait, he was talking funny? Samira’s mind doesn’t dwell on this statement, preoccupied with the girl in front of her.
“That sounds exhausting,” Samira says. Rida nods. “You can nap in here for a while, if you’d like.”
“No, thank you,” Rida says immediately. “I’ll sleep when my dad’s okay.” Samira smiles. Stubborn, just as she was. As if on cue, Princess knocks and comes into the room.
“CT’s back,” Princess says, and her eyes stare into Samira -- there’s something wrong. Samira nods, standing up.
“Can I see my dad?” Rida asks. Princess and Samira exchange a look, and Princess nods once.
“Sure, sweetie,” She says, and Samira follows closely behind them. Samira stops at central, taking the iPad from Dana’s hands and pulling up the scans.
“Shit,” Samira whispers. She looks around for Robby, spots him coming down the hallway. Waves him over, and he comes running. She hands him the tablet.
“Sagittal sinus thrombosis, and it's big. Really big, coming into the sigmoid sinus. But not surgical,” Samira says. Robby nods.
“Treatment plan, Dr. Mohan?” He asks.
“Start him on heparin and send him up to neuro ICU. He’ll have to be on a 24-hour EEG,” She responds.
“Good. Let’s hope for the best,” He says, handing the tablet back to her. He turns to leave.
“Robby,” She calls. He looks back at her, eyes questioning. “Do you think… I mean, we caught it so late…” Robby’s eyes soften, and Samira has the urge to call him Paddington Bear.
“You did the right thing, Doctor Mohan. Let’s just start the blood thinner and go from there.”
She nods once, but can’t help the fear beating in her chest.
Once the blood thinner is started, Samira calls the neuro ICU to make sure they have a bed for Mohammed. She’s standing in the corner of the room, watching Rida chat with her father, who seems more lucid than before, which brings a smile to her face. The staff upstairs has placed Samira on an indefinite hold, apparently, everyone has been called away on an emergency.
All two people who work up there, her mind supplies helpfully. The hospital desperately needs to hire more staff.
“I’m scared, Baba,” She hears Rida say. Her father smiles, pats his daughter’s cheek.
“Be brave, Rida,” He says. “You’re my daughter. I love you very much,”
The smile drops from Samira’s face, and she is catapulted out of her body. Somehow, she knows what’s coming next.
***
Later, when Rida’s mom arrives at the hospital, when Robby and Samira offer their condolences, when the body is removed, the team stands around the empty bed and reviews the case.
“What could we have done better?” Robby asks, but his voice is a distant sound in her mind.
“He was waiting in chairs all day,” McKay says. “If he had gotten the CT earlier, we could have started the blood thinner before it was too late.”
“Okay, sure. But he was lucid and showed no indication of stroke-like symptoms until later in the day,” Robby replies. He has one eye on Samira, who, for some reason, cannot pull her eyes away from the bed where Mohammed was just a little while ago.
“Rida mentioned,” Samira starts, stops when her voice comes out as a squeak. She clears her throat. “The patient’s daughter mentioned that before they came here, they had gone to urgent care twice and that he was talking funny,” She says, then furrows her brows. “Why hadn’t they done a CT at urgent care? Or send them to a hospital, if they didn’t have a machine there?”
“That’s a good question, Samira. So, what have we learned from this?” Robby continues talking, but she can’t even hear him anymore.
All she can see is her father in an ER bed -- almost seventeen years ago to the date -- sitting up and talking, right before three rounds of CPR.
***
Collins, in all her kindness, takes over her patients for shift change and lets Samira sit in the locker room until they have to leave. Samira grabs her stuff from her locker, not bothering to put her jacket on. She desperately needs some water, something cold to get her out of this weird state of mind she’s in, where she can’t feel her feet touching the floor, and stops by the break room to chug down a whole water bottle in one gulp. She spots the article Dr. Abbot printed out for her next to the fridge, a pink sticky note with Dr. Mohan scrawled on it in his unique handwriting. She grabs it in a hurry, almost sprinting to leave the hospital. Samira crashes into Ellis on the way out, mumbles an apology, and treks through the bitter cold to her apartment.
Unfortunately, Samira somehow forgot that she moved apartments recently and has to walk an additional mile to her new place. Despite being able to see her breath, she doesn’t put her jacket on. Her mind knows that it’s cold, that she’s going to get sick if she doesn’t put her coat on, but she can’t feel the wind chill, even when the hair on her arms stands upright. When she gets to her building, she jogs up four flights of stairs as if someone is chasing her, desperate to get away from something. Her hands are shaking as she pulls out her keys and shoves it into the keyhole, turning the knob and throwing her shoes off.
Her apartment is quiet, so quiet she can hear her alarm clock ticking all the way from her bedroom. She slowly moves into the apartment, observes the boxes she hasn’t unpacked yet despite moving here a month ago. Observes how little stuff she has. One pot, one pan. Two plates. A handful of utensils. No dining table, no coffee table. A ratty couch she’s fallen asleep on more times than she can count. An old TV she watches shows on once a month. There’s no art lining the walls, no trinkets she’s collected over the years.
She’s been trying, okay? After Pittfest, after McKay read her to filth, she’s been going to more coworker outings. Trying to become better friends with her colleagues. She’s pretty close with Heather and Trinity, and even Doctor Abbot on occasion. Took up running, even though she hates it.
But now, in her empty apartment that gets quieter as the seconds go by, it doesn’t feel like enough. She escapes to her bedroom, where boxes of clothes and medical books surround her bed. Samira glances into her bathroom. She should probably shower, 12 hours of ER grime stuck on her, except something about being alone with her thoughts in the perfect location to cry has her sitting on the ground, leaning back on a stack of boxes. She wants to lie in bed, but being in bed is a privilege only afforded to those who shower.
Samira can hear the clicking of the alarm clock again. It’s similar to the beeping heard in a hospital. Steady, unyielding. Every tick of the clock is another second that goes by, every beep on a monitor is another beat of a heart, of life that continues. She looks around, tries to find something tangible to focus on instead of -- what is it that she’s focused on? Papers are sticking out of her bag. She snatches them out, tries to focus on their contents. It’s a good distraction. As she reads through the methods, she starts to feel that her skin exists around her bones again. The results are unsurprising, and then comes the discussion. Patients of lower socioeconomic status are more likely to be offered less effective treatment when they present with similar symptoms related to chronic stress, as opposed to higher socioeconomic status. The same is true across racial lines, especially when compounded with lower socioeconomic status.
She finishes reading the article, reaching for her phone to text Abbot about it. As she opens up his messages, she finds she has nothing, absolutely nothing, to say.
Rida mentioned that her father worked three jobs. He had migraines related to chronic stress. Samira puts her head in her hands. Why didn’t they do a CT earlier? He could have been saved. She takes a deep breath. A brown man, under severe stress during difficult times. Isn’t it normal for immigrants to experience stress? A ten-minute scan could have saved his life.
Samira opens her phone again, this time dialing a different number. The call is picked up after four rings.
“Samira?” Her mother asks.
***
Samira has always been an overachiever, this is for certain. At the ripe age of twelve, there are many things she knows, thank you very much.
One of those things is that she’s going to do great things with her life. Another is that if she doesn’t do great things, she might as well pack her bags because she’ll be the greatest disappointment her parents have ever faced.
Samira’s parents aren’t tiger parents in the traditional sense. They expect good grades, even better discipline. They aren’t the type to yell and scream if she got a bad grade, not that she’d know because she’s never gotten a bad grade. Although, a 93 on an exam would result in You should study harder next time, Samira, so maybe a really bad grade would result in worse. She wouldn’t call them overbearing or helicopter parents. They’re strict, yes, but they give her space when she needs it. Trust her judgment about her peers and extracurriculars. Let her make mistakes.
They’ve been waiting in the ER for a few hours now, and her dad’s stomach pain hasn’t gotten better. The waiting room TV is playing a basketball game, and it seems to be keeping her dad distracted. She glances back at the math book in her lap, leg bouncing from stress. Her exam is tomorrow and she has to do well on it. Her dad places a gentle hand on her bouncing knee, probably telling her to stop rocking all the chairs in their row.
It’s mid-evening by the time they’re called back. Samira has read through her book and done each problem for the next three chapters twice. She takes her father by the hand, leading him slowly into the room to be examined.
“What seems to be the problem today, sir?” The doctor asks. Samira’s dad takes a shaky breath.
“Doctor, I’ve had this pain in my stomach for days,” He says. Samira notices that his accent gets thicker when he’s sick. The doctor looks at him and almost -- rolls his eyes?
“You came to the emergency department for stomach pain?” The doctor asks. His tone seems to go over her father’s head, or maybe he doesn’t want to make a big deal about it for Samira’s sake -- she’ll never know.
“Yes, sir, it’s gotten worse over the last few days. I’ve tried taking medication and eating soft food, but nothing seems to help,” Her father explains. The doctor sighs and nods his head.
“Fine. We’ll run some tests. Hang tight,” He says. As he turns to leave, Samira stands up.
“Wait,” She says. “Aren’t you going to examine him? Palpate his abdomen?”
She’s always been an overachiever. She’ll write in her medical school applications that this is the experience that led her to want to be a doctor, but she’ll wonder if maybe that’s not true. Maybe she would have always been a doctor, but this experience led her to expand on her affinity for math and science. Maybe she was destined to be in that emergency room that day, maybe her father was destined to be the case these doctors learned from.
After they’re admitted, another person comes to ask her father questions.
“Do you experience a lot of stress?” She asks. Her dad nods.
“The recession, you know. I have a child. It’s been hard on our family,” He gestures to Samira.
“Do you eat a lot of spicy food?” This question doesn’t sit right with Samira, but she’s not sure why. Her father seems taken aback as well.
“I guess. We eat Indian food at home, but homemade food is generally mild,” He explains. She just nods, takes a blood sample, and leaves Samira and her father to sit alone. Samira gazes at her father, forehead sweating, face contorted in pain. He opens his eyes and notices her worried expression.
“Distract me, Samira,” He says. “Tell me something.” She can’t think of anything and looks around the room to find anything to comment on. Her math book is placed atop her father’s clothes.
“I’m worried about my test tomorrow,” She says. “What if I fail? What if I don’t do well?” She bites her bottom lip, then says quietly, “I don’t want to disappoint you.”
Her dad looks at her fully then. His eyebrows furrow, lips pull downwards.
Her father has never been the affectionate type. It’s unsurprising, as immigrant fathers go. He’s not stone-cold, just more of a “don’t stay up too late” or cut-up-fruit-on-your-table-while-you’re-studying kind of guy. He doesn’t compliment or praise her too much, always worried about what nazar might do to her. Which in a way is its own form of affection, she’ll later think.
At twelve years old, Samira knows that her greatest fear is disappointing him. She always feels at risk for it, constantly studying and trying to outperform her last test. Gaining his approval is hard, and she feels like she’s in constant limbo trying to get some praise out of him. She’s never heard her father say I love you or I’m proud of you. She’s never heard him say the opposite, but that doesn’t really count, does it?
It’s startling, then, when her father says, “Samira, you’re my daughter. You could never disappoint me. I have been proud of you since the first moment I laid eyes on you. Never think anything different.”
Her father is dead within the hour.
***
She’ll wonder later if she knew then. Samira has an odd way of being able to anticipate what comes next, often feeling the answer in her bones before it comes into consciousness. Did she know her father was going to die?
The same way she knew her patient was going to die? Did Mohammed know he was going to die? Did her own father?
“Samira?” Her mother calls again through the phone. Samira startles.
“Hi, Amma,” She replies. Her mom is silent for a few seconds.
“Is everything okay, Samira?” Her mom asks in their native tongue.
It’s not a surprise that her mother is worried. Samira doesn’t call her mom often, especially not at this time of night. Every few weeks, they have a How are you? How are you? Are you eating well? Are you taking your medicines? kind of chat that ends in twenty minutes. It’s not that she doesn’t want to call her mother… it’s that she doesn’t want to call her mother.
Okay, that sounds bad. After her father died, Samira’s mom worked like crazy to make ends meet. They had to move into a cramped one-bedroom apartment at the height of the recession, and Samira’s teenage years were filled with anguish and arguments with her mother. They were both learning to live without her father, but neither of them talked about it. As the arguments died down and Samira got older, the unspoken distance between them got wider and wider. It’s been a long time since Samira wished things were different.
“Um, yeah,” Samira replies in English, but switches into their language. She doesn’t get many opportunities to practice anymore and wants to feel, just for a second, close to her mother. “I just… wanted to talk to you.”
“Okay,” Her mother responds. The phone is silent for a few more moments.
Tell her about Mohammed, Samira. Tell her you were reminded of your dad. Tell her she should come visit, or that you miss the mango pickle she would make every summer. Tell her anything.
“I-” Samira starts. She shuts her eyes. “How are you doing?” Samira kicks herself.
“Fine,” Her mother responds tentatively.
“Are you taking your medicines?”
“I am. Are you eating well?”
“I am.”
The phone goes silent for so long that she thinks her mother might have hung up. Say something, Samira.
“I love you, Amma. You know that, right?” She thinks she hears her mother sniffle on the other side.
“I love you, too, Samira.”
***
Samira wakes up the next morning on the ground next to her bed, still in her scrubs from last night. She jumps in the shower before she has the chance to be disgusted with herself, brushing her teeth and calming her curls with some water. She makes it to her shift with a few minutes to spare, so unlike the girl who always shows up at least half an hour before she’s supposed to be there.
“I was starting to think you weren’t coming, Mohan,” Santos jokes. Samira gives her a small smile and makes a beeline for her locker.
The next few days are what Samira can only describe as a haze. She can’t think straight, says no to all outings with her coworkers, studiously hides in the supply closet when she sees Abbot at shift change, knowing he’ll ask her about the article.
It’s frustrating when she slips back into old habits. She hears someone refer to her as “slo-Mo” and can’t even find it in her to be upset about it. She takes too much time with her patients, so worried she’ll make a mistake. When Robby gets on her case about it, she tries to argue back, but every excuse she comes up with is weak and devoid of the truth. When she avoids an interesting case to learn from, instead volunteering to spend her morning on Chairs, Robby seems to have just about had it with her. Samira spends more time with her patients than she would have even in the past, palpating where it’s not necessary and running extraneous tests. She needs the skin-to-skin, needs the feel of lab work in her hands. Feels like she might float away if she doesn’t have something to tether her to the ground.
Samira knows she’s not being a good doctor. Robby has a point, she’s not helping as many people as she can. But just the thought of Mohammed’s body on the bed, the thought of her father’s voice fading from her memory as the years go by, has her taking everything she can remember and burying it in the space under her heart. She’s not going to forget the look on Rida’s face when she realized her father wasn’t coming back. Samira doesn’t know what’s wrong with her. Every voice feels far away, every memory feels just out of reach. She feels, literally, like she’s moving in slo-mo, like the world is made of molasses, and she’s just trying to trek through.
At Friday night shift change, Heather invites her out to get a drink, just the two of them. Samira declines.
“I wasn’t asking, Mohan,” Collins says with a smile on her face that tells her if she really didn’t want to come, she wouldn’t push her on it. Samira desperately needs not to feel this way, and it’s just Heather and no one else, so she reluctantly agrees. They’re sitting at the bar, drinks in hand, in mostly silence.
“It was that man and his daughter, right? On Tuesday?” Heather asks. She’s nothing if not observant. Samira nods.
“Mohammed. Rida, his daughter.”
“Right,” Heather says. She takes a deep breath, debating if she should ask her next question. Samira knows what she’s going to ask, anyway.
“You mentioned once that your dad died in 2008. You would’ve been around twelve or thirteen then, right?” She dips her head once.
“Yeah.”
“Is that what’s bothering you?” Heather asks. Samira can’t look at her, just worries her bottom lip. They sit in silence for a little while, and she thinks they’ve dropped the topic.
“I don’t-- fuck, Heather, I don’t know if I’m cut out for this. If I belong at PTMC,” Samira spills. It’s not exactly what’s bothering her, but it is a question that’s come up often in the last few days. Collins is silent, and Samira tears her eyes away from her glass to look at her to see her… smiling? Smiling into her cup as Samira pours her heart out?
“This is where you say ‘No, no, no, Samira, you’re great. We can’t lose you,” Samira is taken aback, and Heather starts chortling into her drink. Her jaw drops, but she finds herself involuntarily smiling at the sound. It’s the first time in days that she can feel oxygen in her lungs.
“You are a wonderful physician, Samira,” Heather says, placing a hand on (a very bewildered) Samira’s shoulder. “Of course, I think you belong with us. But that’s for you and you only to decide,” Drops her hand to cover Samira’s hand. “The way I see it, if you want to be in the ED, you belong there. Because no one wants to do our jobs.” She takes a sip of her drink. “Whatever this is will pass. And I believe in you, always.”
Gratitude claws up Samira’s throat.
“I just don’t know if I can do this the way Robby wants or the way the people need me to. I’m so scared of making a mistake because-” Samira cuts herself off. That’s too big a skeleton to pull out of the closet right now. “I don’t know if it’s emergency medicine or PTMC I’m not compatible with. Maybe I’d be better somewhere else, with two patients a day and time to twiddle my thumbs,” She makes a gesture that’s supposed to mean something. “I just don’t know anything anymore.”
“Robby just believes in you,” Heather says. “And every single one of us has questioned whether we belong here or not, whether we’re doing more harm than good. You are an ER physician, Samira. Join the club,” Samira nods solemnly. “No more avoiding your coworkers, yeah? We’re here for you.”
“Thank you,” Samira responds quietly.
“Even Doctor Abbot was looking for you,” Heather comments, but Samira is back in her head again, filled with What if, what if, what if?
“Yeah, I know,” She says.
“You don’t like him?” Heather asks. Samira furrows her brows.
“What? I like him just fine,” She says.
“Oh, I meant -- never mind,” Heather responds. Samira doesn’t dwell on it, puts it to the back of her mind.
When Samira goes home that night, she feels slightly better. She walks past a graveyard and finds herself wishing she had a physical place to mourn her father. He was cremated, ashes scattered in Lake Erie because they couldn’t afford a trip back to India then. The thought doesn’t make her bones hurt. The ache in her chest still exists, but it’s nice to know she has someone, a friend rooting for her.
The feeling doesn’t last long. Because just as she’s unpacking some boxes, complete with a renewed desire to make her living space a home, she finds a beat-up old Winnie-the-Pooh plushie her father gave her when she was six.
She spends another night sleeping on the floor next to her bed, unable to cry, unable to move, unable to let herself feel.
***
Saturday
“Robby,” Jack says before he can stop himself. Robby jumps, turning to look at him, but Samira doesn’t flinch. She continues to stare at that spot on Robby’s shoulder, unmoving. “I think… that’s enough, yeah?”
Robby opens his mouth and closes it, evidently not expecting Jack to be there.
“Samira, why don’t you follow me?” Jack says, walking towards her. She nods once and silently follows him. Jack glances back at Robby, who is definitely getting an earful once he gets the chance. He leads Samira up the elevator, pausing every now and then to make sure she’s still following him all the way up to the roof.
It’s chilly outside, but Jack leads her to a vent blowing hot air up, and he thinks it’ll have to do for now. Samira is silent, staring at her shoes again.
“I come here sometimes, when I feel like I’m about to have an episode.” Jack starts. Samira furrows her brows.
“An episode of what?” She asks. Jack is quiet. She’s brilliant; he knows she’ll figure it out. When she doesn’t get an answer, she looks up at him, studies his face. He thinks she must have found the answer when her face softens. “Oh.”
She looks around the roof, crosses her arms to stave off the cool air. It’s almost winter, and the sun is setting earlier in the day, a fact that would usually annoy him but is now grateful for, as the golden light makes Samira’s skin glow.
“I don’t have PTSD,” She says, setting her jaw.
“Okay,” He says. She can tell from his tone that he doesn’t believe her.
“I’m not a veteran. Nor have I had a significant trauma in my life. It’s not the same,” She says, setting her jaw.
“I haven’t said anything, Doctor Mohan,” He responds.
“Yeah, but you were thinking it,” She says.
“You can read my mind now, Doctor Mohan? You really are the smartest one here,” Jack quips. She squints at him, but he can see her trying to suppress a pleased smile, a dimple popping on her cheek. It makes him feel like he’s won a trophy.
“It gets hard sometimes,” Jack starts again. “A little too much to bear, even after all this time. That’s when I come up here. It’s nice. Quiet, but not too quiet.” He can feel himself rambling, but can’t get himself to shut up. “It’s… sensory, I guess. You can hear the city noise. Count the cars on the street. Name the colors of the buildings.” She nods.
“There are fourteen,” Samira says. He looks at her quizzically. “Cars. On this side of the street,” She points to the side closest to them. “Sixteen on the other side.”
“Good.” That's all he can say, because he’s mostly wondering how she counted all those cars so fast.
“You order food up here sometimes,” Samira says. It’s not a question. He nods. “The DoorDasher… I run into him sometimes on my way in. Nice guy,” She says. Jack scoffs.
“He better be. I tip generously,” He responds. Samira nods, taking a deep breath of air.
“You don’t ever… think about jumping off, do you?” She asks, a look of worry painted over her face. Cute. He has the urge to kiss it away. He pinches his thigh through his pocket to keep himself grounded.
“Not… in the traditional sense, I suppose.”
“The traditional sense.”
“Like… I’m never going to do it. I don’t want to jump. It’s more of a… fleeting thought. When things get hard.” He tries to explain in a way that won’t get him committed to a 48-hour involuntary psych hold. To his surprise, she nods like she understands.
“I see.” Is all she says before they return to silence. Minutes go by, and the sun sinks lower and lower. Jack has to resist the urge to keep glancing over at Samira. When he finally opens his mouth to say something, he’s surprised to see she’s beaten him to it.
“Do you mind if we sit down, Doctor Abbot?” She asks.
“Sure. Oh yes, of course, you’ve been working for sixteen days straight,” He’s kicking himself for forgetting how exhausted she must be. They take a seat close to the edge of the roof. Jack adjusts himself to have his prosthetic stretched out, and Samira sits next to him, cross-legged. Their legs are almost touching; he has the urge to scoot over and close the gap between them.
“There was a patient. A few days ago,” Samira jolts him out of his thoughts. “He and his daughter came in. He had a blood clot in his brain, and we started him on heparin. But it was too late by then, the clot had been forming for days. He died. Whether it was due to provider neglect or just unfortunate circumstances, I wouldn’t know,” Jack nods, trying to put the pieces together. “I was that girl’s age when my father died.”
And then it clicks for him.
“Your father, he died in an ER?” Jack asks. She nods.
“What goes around, comes around, right? My dad… he didn’t have to die. I’ve thought about his case over and over and over. He was dismissed by that ER so flippantly. One moment, he was talking, the next… he was gone. And it was just another case for them, as it is for us. But he was my dad. My dad. That one encounter in the ER… God, seventeen years ago… it dictates my whole life. I chose EM for patients like him. I see him in every patient, every interaction I have here. And I still couldn’t save that little girl’s father.”
Before Jack can respond, he hears Samira choke out a sob, sees her bury her head in her hands. He uses his arms to lift himself and gets closer to her, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her into his chest. She folds into him, quiet sobs wracking her body. He uses his other hand to stroke her hair.
“Hey, it’s okay, it’s okay,” He soothes. Jack keeps himself quiet, afraid he might say the wrong thing and ruin the trust she’s placing in him right now. He just continues to hold her, wishing there was some way to take this pain away. He knows all too well what it feels like to be haunted by something.
He’s not sure how long she cries, but by the time she calms down, the sun has set, and he’s pretty sure her shift is over. They sit like that for a little while before Samira pulls back, wiping her face. Jack slides his hand down to cup her cheek.
”I think I snotted on your shirt.” Samira says, voice scratchy. Jack grins at her.
”I’ve had worse on my shirt,” He says. She looks at him, bewildered. “I mean, from working in the ED. Fluids, you know. You work there too,” He’s yapping again, and he hopes she’ll cut him off.
“I do work there.” She replies. He can feel her studying each line of his face. He can also feel, no matter how hard he tries not to, his ears flaming. It doesn’t escape her notice, the corners of her lips tugging up. His ears only burn hotter.
“Thank you,” Samira says.
“Any time, Doctor Mohan.” He hears himself say. She tucks a loose curl behind her ear.
“Do you think your DoorDasher works on Saturdays?” She asks. Jack hears his heart beating in his chest.
“I know for a fact he does.” Jack pulls out his phone and dials a number, putting the phone to his ear. “Yeah, just the usual. Wait," pulls the phone away, “Do you eat beef?” He asks Samira. She shakes her head.
”No, but anything else is fine. I’m not picky.” She replies. Jack nods.
“And two beers.” He says. Samira makes a face.
”Gross.”
”I thought you said you weren’t picky? Make that one beer and one Coke,” He says.
”Sprite.”
”Sorry, one beer and one Sprite.”
After their food arrives, Jack decides to broach the subject he’s been curious about for days.
“Have you had a chance to read the article?” He asks. Samira freezes as she’s munching on her pizza, red-rimmed eyes unable to meet his gaze.
“I read it,” She says. He raises a brow.
“And?” Samira swallows.
“Can we talk about something else?” She asks. Alarm bells start going off in his head, but he thinks if she’s trusted him this much, he’d be better off leaving this topic alone for a while.
“We can talk about whatever you want.” He says. Samira smiles at him earnestly, evidently grateful he didn’t push her on this.
“You know, you don’t only have to text me about work stuff,” She starts.
“Work stuff?” Jack asks, tongue sitting dumbly in his mouth.
“I mean like… medicine stuff. Don’t get me wrong, you’re great at teaching and finding cool materials to read up on. But we can, I don’t know, chat about other things,” She makes a gesture with her free hand.
“Other things.” He parrots.
“Like… what shows you’re watching. What you do in your free time. That kind of thing,” Jack’s bewildered expression must give him away, because her face drops. “Only if you’re comfortable with that, of course,” She adds.
“Of course I’m comfortable with that,” He says suspiciously quickly. And then, because his ears are burning again and he has to get a grip on the situation, “Trying to make some friends, Samira?”
Her gaze lingers on him at the sound of her name. Glances at his red ears and meets his eyes once again.
“Something like that, Jack,” She replies, emphasizing his name. He doesn’t ask what she means by that, even though he’s desperate to know. For now, this will have to do. For now, he’s content with this.
Later, he'll tell her he belongs at this hospital. That she's the most brilliant doctor he's ever seen. That she can't leave, because it would be the greatest loss their department would ever face. That she was born to be an ER physician, and he's not just saying that because they're friends. He'll also tell her, in the gentlest way possible, that she should probably see a therapist. She'll glare at him for that, but will eventually take up his advice. They'll go out to restaurants more often than they eat on the roof, and Jack will tell her he looks forward to seeing her every week.
He might even tell her that he counts down the hours waiting for her texts.