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The people who deny grief are the ones most consumed by it.
Samira knows this.
Objectively.
She knows it, the way she knows how to take a pulse– instinctive, visceral, unfamiliar . Like the press of her fingers against a stranger’s flesh, searching for the steady thrum of the radial artery between wrist bone and tendon. ( Press hard enough to feel each beat, not too hard to block the blood flow. )
She does her best not to deny it– letting it churn in her chest, simmer in her throat.
She talks to her dad more often than she talks to her mom. Sure, she loves her mom, her mirror image in every sense of the word, but most nights it’s easier to talk to the dead than to pick up the phone and call. The dead don’t need explanations or context or details. They just know. Like God.
And yes, she talks to God, too, sometimes. Not any particular one, just whoever’s listening that day. She’s long forgotten how to pray but she likes God, as a concept. Like an iced matcha latte on a hot Sunday afternoon.
It’s why she knows Jack Abbot isn’t an answered prayer.
He’s God’s wink at her.
*
Samira doesn’t watch a lot of television. Sometimes, while she’s working chairs, she’ll catch a few minutes of whatever’s playing on the waiting room tv and try not to scoff when John P. from Marietta, Georgia guesses ‘C’ for a puzzle that very clearly spells out: UGLY BRIDESMAID DRESS.
“I’ve got six of ‘em stuffed in the back of my closet. Ugly as hell,” Parker confesses, as they collect Mr. Qin for bloodwork. “You?”
“Never been a bridesmaid.”
“Lucky girl,” Parker quips.
“Not Tahiti-lucky, apparently,” she replies, as they watch Sierra from Seattle solve the puzzle and win a trip for two to Tahiti. Samira wonders if she would even know what to do with herself on a beach for a week. It sounds awful. She decides she’ll stick to ER Wheel of Fortune and take her one way ticket to abscess drainage with a smile twice as big.
“Okay, so if not Tahiti, what’s your dream vacation?” Parker asks as they exit the locker room, marking the end of the shift and Samira’s week on nights.
“I haven’t really thought about it,” Samira says, “I guess I’d go see my mom in Jersey. Haven’t seen her for a few months.”
“New Jersey is not a vacation.”
“Who’s vacationing in New Jersey?” Jack Abbot says, as if right on cue. He’s wearing that curious look, the same shade of intrigue he sports when unravelling a patient’s history or making a diagnosis.
“Not Samira, because New Jersey is not a fucking vacation,” Parker quips, quite unhelpfully.
“Cape May is nice in the summer,” Samira tries, “...so I’ve heard.”
Parker rolls her eyes, “Abbot, do better. Dream vacation. Go.”
“Quiet cabin, middle of nowhere, no internet access, don’t care where,” he says, barely looking up from his chart.
“Serial killer fodder,” Parker replies, shaking her head, “What is wrong with you people? It’s like you’ve never ever heard of Hawaii? Or Aruba?”
Abbot cracks a smile before his lips return to neutral. He does it often and there’s something sort of charming about the way he’ll smile, as if he's doing so despite himself. Like it’s something he can’t commit to joy for more than a few moments at a time.
“Shen’s making pancakes,” Parkers announces, “Says you guys can come if you pick up coffee.”
“Iced latte, caramel swirl, and shot of hazelnut for John, and an iced Americano for you,” Abbot rattles off, before his gaze lands on her. “Samira?” he asks expectantly. Truthfully, Samira wasn’t even planning on going, but ‘iced matcha latte, oat milk’ comes out much faster than any credible excuse and so next thing she knows she’s sitting in John Shen’s kitchen attempting to Google if Dunkin’ even sold matcha.
The answer to her question, is in fact, yes , but she’ll have to hold off on her review, because the cup Abbot hands her when he arrives is distinctly not from Dunkin’.
“Um. What is this?” Samira says, a little incredulously as she takes a sip. It’s good, smooth and not too sweet.
“Iced matcha latte. Oak milk,” he replies, as if it’s the obvious answer to her question. “That’s what you wanted, right?”
“No, I mean, where did you get this from?” she tries, swirling the plastic cup around before taking another long sip. “You really did not have to make two stops.”
He shrugs, pulling out the chair beside her and taking a seat, “No big deal. I wasn’t going to get you Dunkin’ matcha . Sounds terrifying.”
“It’s actually not bad,” John calls from the kitchen, where he works diligently to flip the half dozen pancakes forming on his stovetop. “Samira, how do you want your pancakes?”
“Uh, normal?” she calls back in mild confusion, something which seems to be compounding the longer she sits at the dining table.
“Syrup? Honey? Strawberries?” he offers. “Whipped cream?”
She hears Parker snort from the kitchen.
“Just a little syrup is fine,” she says, mostly because she doesn’t have the bandwidth to make any more decisions and also because she has no desire to further engage with whatever is going on in that kitchen.
“Thanks,” she says, softer to Abbot, “For the matcha. And for making two stops.”
He just nods and gives her that half-smile.
John Shen, as it turns out, is surprisingly gifted in the art of pancake making. They are fluffy, indulgent and exactly what she needs after twelve hours on nothing but protein bars and mixed nut packets. By the time she’s finished her second (no, third) stack, she has to force her eyes open to avoid slipping into a coma on John’s terribly soft couch. She could probably sink right in.
“I’ve got a guest bedroom if you want to sleep,” John offers her, rather kindly.
She waves him off, “No, no. You’ve already fed me and I think I’ve crashed the night shift party long enough. Besides, I should go home and shower.”
“I’ll drop you,” Abbot offers, “I’m about to head out, too.”
Normally she’d protest that the bus stop is right there and the ride isn’t long at all, but a sweeping wave of exhaustion washes over her and Samira just nods, yawns, and follows him downstairs to his car. She’s so tired it doesn’t really register when he opens the passenger door for her or that she’s sitting in a silver Corvette.
“You’re back on days next week?” he asks, once she’s typed her address into the GPS. His voice sort of rattles her out of her sleep and she blinks twice, as if registering her surroundings for the first time.
“You have a really nice car,” she says, suddenly sitting up straight. The last time she sat in a car that wasn’t a beater was when Victoria drove her home last month in her mom’s Mercedes. This feel distinctly different.
He laughs, though she can see the confusion forming on his brow, “Thank you?”
“No…no, I just mean, I didn’t take you for the type.”
“To what? Have a midlife crisis car?”
“No…well, yes? Wait, no,” she mumbles, not sure how she’s gone from sleep deprivation to accidentally insulting her attending. “I just…honestly, I don’t even know what I mean right now. I’m so sorry. I think my brain is running on fumes and maple syrup.”
He laughs again, hearty and effusive and it fills up the entire car. “Relax, Samira.”
He says like a gentle command and her shoulders reflexively loosen in response. She opens her mouth to say more but he beats her to it. “It was my wife’s. She was a lot cooler than me, if you couldn’t already tell from the car alone.”
“Oh,” she says quietly, almost beneath her breath. She knows his wife died four years ago, Parker had told her as much, and while she didn’t pry for details, she knows a four year wound is still fresh. Hell, her’s is old enough to drive a car and she still feels like she’s been cut right open just yesterday. “So, besides taste in cars,” she says, “how else was she cooler?”
She knows she should probably express her sympathies and her sorrows. It was what everyone did when her dad died. It was all very kind and well-meaning but all Samira really wanted to do was lock herself in her room and scream until her throat was raw. The scratch of her throat was a more tolerable pain than that of bleeding heart. Sorry was always just that, an ceaseless, empty apology from strangers who barely knew him.
For years it was like his name was some sort of taboo, like saying it would set her off, when in actuality, all she really wanted to do was talk about him. How he was kind and funny and despite spending all day working in a kitchen, he would come home and cook dinner every night. How his favorite color was Eagles green and how he could sneeze so violently, he shook the entire house.
Abbot pulls up to the red light and looks over at her, and she sees that ghost of a smile, like she’s just missed something wonderful he’s seen. “She could play the viola shockingly well for someone who hadn’t played since high school. A damn good biker too. She even went skydiving. Twice.”
“Yeah,” she says, when he reaches outside her apartment, “Definitely a lot cooler than you.”
And she leaves him with that.
*
The thing that no one tells you about living alone is how easy it is to go days without talking to anyone. Samira has grown used to it. Mostly. She talks to her dad like he can hear her. She lays back on her beat up couch and tells him about her week, the gnarliest cases, and how she solved them like she’s narrating an Agatha Christie novel. And when she starts feeling a little insane on third day off, she finds it in herself to call her mom out of mild desperation and they gossip for an hour about the neighbors’ messy divorce and her mom’s latest work drama. Samira even tells her about pancake breakfast. She should know by now that they barely argue anymore and the real battle is choosing to hit ‘call’ but she’ll still hesitate every time.
“You know, I’m really glad you have people, even if they’re just more doctors ,” her mom says. Samira doesn’t quite know how to explain it was probably a one-off and that she’s certainly not a real night shifter. Still, she allows her mom the illusion that she’s making friends, because maybe there’s a part of her that likes the idea too.
Samira’s always been close to her mother, but there’s always been that distance, too– the longing to talk about the parts of her life that aren’t so pretty. For all her mother’s brilliance and endless love, she’s never been great with chaos, always internalizing, taking it all upon herself to fix Samira's problems and the rest of the world's too, while she's at it. It’s why Samira thinks it would be unfair to pour it all out, to expect her mother to be everything to her, to bear more weight on top of the constant ones she already carries.
They only really used to argue for that very reason. Because her mother could see the pain, the pressure and beg Samira to unload it somewhere, anywhere, but Samira would keep it all. She still keeps it close to her chest like it’s the only thing that won’t leave her, when everything else does. Her mom knows it because they’re the same. The way their brains work, the way they’re hardwired to chase the things that they want. And sometimes that’s the biggest clash. Seeing what you hate in yourself in the person you love the most, and not being able to do anything about it.
“So, what happened to the architect?” Samira asks as she chops a cucumber– the only vegetable in her fridge that wasn’t rotting. She doesn’t really know what she’s making and just hopes it’ll turn out edible.
“Who?” her mother replies and Samira can’t tell if she’s playing dumb or actually doesn’t recall.
“The architect your boss set you up with…”
“Oh, that one,” her mother says flatly, “I guess I ‘ ghosted ’ him.”
“Mom!” Samira exclaims, “That terrible. But I’m both shocked and impressed that you properly used the term ‘ghosted.’”
“Yes, well, I’m not that old and I don’t bother you about dating, so you don’t get to bother me about it,” she teases. “I could start if you’re really so keen.”
“Please don’t.”
“You know I just want you to be happy, right?” her mother says, almost somberly, “Whatever form that takes. I’m really proud of you and all your accomplishments, my beautiful baby girl.”
“Thank you,” Samira whispers softly. She thinks for a moment, that even for all their collective imperfections, she’s lucky to have this. Maybe even Tahiti-lucky.
“Hey, mom–” Samira says.
“Yeah?”
She doesn’t know why, but she suddenly feels the urge to tell somebody .
“I know I said I took the bus back from John’s house but, uh, actually my forty-nine year old attending drove me home in his dead wife’s sports car.”
*
Samira is back on days under PTMC’s freshly minted attending, Heather Collins. She feels only half bad for feeling relieved it isn’t Robby.
Robby is a good mentor.
Robby is her mentor.
And yet…
She met Robby on the first day of her EM rotation as a med student. He didn’t ask her the stupid questions they asked her over at family medicine, like what she liked to do for fun or her favorite sports team. He asked her about her experience, her passions, and probed her for her thoughts about the future of medicine. If she wasn’t already fully committed to emergency medicine before, he ensured she was absolutely hooked.
And then Dr. Adamson died.
After that, Robby has more bad days than good ones. He starts to push her. And doubt her. And make her doubt herself.
Pittfest is a big revelation. It’s a personal breakthrough but it’s also the worst day of her life. In the aftermath, the high of Robby trusting her in the red zone fades when she realizes it's a default victory, one only carved out of the absence of his golden boy, Langdon, and his right hand, Heather. When Samira really lets herself dwell on the other horrors of the day, she starts to feel sick for even thinking it a victory at all.
Instead, she when she thinks about Pittfest, she redirects her thoughts to Abbot. Abbot who gave her a win that day. Abbot who’s given her a win every time she’s been on the night shift with him, since. He validates her and if there’s something more personal than professional there, she certainly doesn’t know how to untangle two. She doesn’t know what it says about her that her professional life and romantic inclinations are so intrinsically intertwined, that they’re impossible to identify independently, but s he’ll just leave that to the therapist she knows she’ll never go to.
What Samira does know is that despite everything, she still wants Robby’s approval. Robby, who’s factory default is Heather and Langdon. Robby, who doesn’t care when she takes more night shifts. Robby, who says ‘keep up the good work, Mohan’ when she’s promoted to Chief Resident and not a word more.
“Hey, Chief,” Heather grins, “Dana says you’re mine for the rest of the week. Can’t let you get seduced to the night shift with pancakes.”
“The only thing seducing me is regular sleeping hours,” Samira retorts.
“Shen’s pancakes are delicious, though.”
“So delicious,” Samira agrees.
“We’ll do coffee one of these days,” Heather calls back after her.
Langdon hands off to her. He’s been back about a month and largely has kept to nights. He claims it’s to have more time with the kids, but everyone knows he’s avoiding Robby. The rumor mill churns quick enough that Samira thinks she’s surmised the gist of his situation– the drugs, the rehab, the separation. As a result of his time away, they’re both R4s, and with her promotion to Chief Resident, she’s technically his superior. If he resents her in any way, he hasn’t said it.
Langdon is mellower these days. Humbler , she thinks a little cruelly and then chastises herself for even allowing the train of thought. She feels so guilty she stops him on his way out the door, “Langdon, you’re off tomorrow, right?”
He frowns, “Sorry. Can’t pick up an extra shift. I have to drop the kids off at Abby’s in the morning.”
“Do you want to get lunch tomorrow? I know a good Thai place if–”
He doesn’t have a great poker face, surprise scribbled all over his tired features, but he nods, “Yeah. That’d be good. Text me the addy.”
And then he’s gone and her shift starts.
*
It’s a bit awkward at first. Samira orders the pad see ew and mango sticky rice between fragments of small talk. She asks about the night shift, he asks about Collins as an attending and there's several long pauses of silence. She considers faking an emergency and forgetting about the whole thing but when they finally sit down, Langdon is the one who breaks.
“Did Abbot put you up to this?”
“What?” she says, fumbling with her chopsticks.
“Tell him I’m not some sad, sorry charity case he needs to fix, okay?” he grumbles.
“I literally do not know what you’re talking about.”
He frowns and then his features soften, “Seriously? I just assumed–”
“That Abbot told me to eat lunch with you because everyone can see you moping around the ER like Eeyore?”
“Well, when you put it like that…”
“It sounds ridiculous?”
“Yeah,” he nods, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I won’t pretend to know what’s going on in your life, but I thought maybe you could use a friend.”
“Calling me friendless sounds even more pathetic than calling me Eeyore,” Frank laughs.
“I literally have no friends, if that makes you feel better.”
“That cannot possibly be true.”
“Well, it is,” she replies.
“Well, you got Abbot fucking obsessed with you,” he says, plainly, “If I have to hear ‘Samira did this insane procedure’ or ‘Samira would know that’ one more time…Ellis won’t shut up about you either. She told me to my face she likes you more.”
“Yeah, well even after everything, Robby still likes you more, so…”
“That is not true.”
“Isn’t it?” she says.
He doesn’t say anything. Samira doesn’t know if it’s entirely true. It probably is. And if it’s not, well, she wonders if it really matters all that much. There’s always Whitaker or some other fresh face for Robby to get his do-over with. It’s a little unfair, Samira thinks, that Robby gets a clean slate. Why can’t he see that he’s tied himself to them? That it’s wrong to start building something and then cast it aside before completion on the assumption it won’t be perfect.
“He picked you for Chief, Samira. That means something, right?”
“Robby only picks me when there are no other options,” she says. She wonders if he can hear the bitterness, hoping the mango sticky rice is sweet enough to hide it.
“Ouch.”
“Sorry.”
“It is what it is,” Frank says, digging into his pad thai, “I’ve made peace with a lot of things.”
“I kind of suck at that. I just have one of those brains where everything sticks. It’s not like I’ve got a perfect memory or anything…but it’s like I hold onto every little thing. I analyze and then over-analyze.”
“Yeah, obviously,” Frank says before shoveling some noodles into his mouth and swallowing. “That's why you’re a good doctor. It’s why you’re slow as hell, too.”
“Thanks,” she says, “I think.”
“Just being honest.”
“I appreciate it.”
“Since we’re being honest and I guess we’re friends now, what’s the deal with you and Abbot?”
“Honestly,” Samira sighs. She has no idea how she’s circled to this topic with Frank Langdon of all people, but she supposes it’s probably good to talk to someone who isn’t her mother, who doesn’t know if she should be supportive or concerned and so, lands on detached. “I have no idea. I don’t think it’s actually anything.”
“Do you want my opinion?”
“Shoot.”
“He's pretty much in love with you but he’ll never make a move.”
“He is not in love with me, Frank. It’s a work crush, at best.”
“I just call it like I see it,” Frank says, leaning back into his chair, “But maybe I’m not the one to be giving relationship advice. Abby filed last week.”
“Shit, I’m sorry,” Samira says.
“It’s for the best. We’ve been separated for a while now and it’s not going to be contentious. We’re just doing our best to prioritize the kids. They’re so young they don’t really understand what’s happening. It’s like I’m trying to stay clean, trying to do this job, trying to be a good dad, and I don’t want that to be the thing that’s gotta give.”
“They know they’re loved by you, even if they can’t understand the rest,” Samira says, “That’s the most important part. Everything else will fall into place.”
“Yeah, I hope so…”
“We’re finishing this together, Langdon. As your Chief, I’m not giving you a choice,” Samira says decidedly.
“Why? You trying to be the Robby to my Abbot?”
“Sure. We’ll be the hotter, younger, less tortured versions.”
“Let’s stick with the more manageable hotter and younger.”
They laugh real hard at that one.
*
FL (6:01am): Shen wants to know if he should make OJ for you.
SM (6:02am): Can’t. I have work today. 8am to 8pm.
SM (6:02am): Since when are you invited to pancakes?
FL (6:03am): Great. We’re off at 6:30. Come for thirty minutes.
FL (6:03am): I got invited bc I’m cool.
FL (6:03am): And everyone feels sorry for me since I’m an addict and I'm getting a divorce.
FL (6:03am): Which is still better than being a friendless loser.
FL (6:04am): Which is what you’ll be if you don’t come.
FL (6:08am): I already told Abbot ur coming
FL (6:08am): Don’t make me and liar and the old man sad
SM (6:11am): I hate you
SM (6:12am): Yes, I want OJ
*
Abbot drives her home or to work from John’s and it’s starting to feel like a habit because he doesn’t even ask anymore, just silently waits for her to follow when the conversation reaches a natural lull.
She follows, always.
They talk most of the time. Other days it’s total silence. Not the uncomfortable kind, just the tired kind. Some days it’s sort of nice to be left with her thoughts and a bit of company.
Today’s a talking day for Abbot and a listening one for her. He’s telling her all about a hike he wants to do the next weekend and truthfully, it should be damn boring but she’s fully engaged. There’s a cadence to how he speaks that’s comforting, like he’s not just talking to fill up the air but it all really means something to him. He talks faster when he gets excited, quieter when he really means it, and there’s something kind of nice about knowing those things about a person.
“So, you think you’d come?” he invites, “It could be nice to get out of the city for a morning.”
“Thanks, but no,” she replies, because she’s an honest person (or at least, she’s trying to be). She does her best to ignore how he deflates a little at that. “I’m a lot of things, Abbot, but I don’t do the woods. You know, Parker was right, you’re a serial killer’s dream.”
“I’d like to see a serial killer try,” he laughs, all deep and graveled.
“Yeah, well I wouldn’t,” she chuckles, “I really don’t want to have to start taking the bus back from John’s…”
“Glad to know I’m as valuable to you as an Uber driver.”
“Oh, five star service, for sure,” she says, before pausing. “Plus, I think I’d miss you. I kind of like our chats.”
She doesn’t know exactly why she says it, just that it’s true. Abbot straightens up a bit at that, like he doesn’t quite believe what he’s hearing.
“I like them, too,” he says. If he has more to say, he doesn’t reveal it as he pulls up in front of her apartment.
“Send me pictures from the hike, okay?” she says.
She gets one blurry picture of a couple of tall, looming trees and chuckles at the half of Abbot’s thumb that’s made it in frame. For a second, she thinks about printing it out, putting it up on her fridge with her schedule for the week and the poison control hotline magnet, but then she remembers she doesn’t have a printer and suddenly the whole thing feels pretty silly.
SM (9:42pm): Glad you didn’t die
JA (9:43pm): I beat out four serial killers and a bear
SM (9:43pm): Of course you did
SM (9:43pm): Are you glad you went?
JA (9:44pm): Yes
JA (9:44pm): My brain feels reset
JA (9:46pm): You should go to Jersey
SM (9:55pm): ???
JA (9:55pm): I just mean you should take some time off
JA (9:55pm): Go see your mom
JA (9:55pm): Take a short vacation. Reset.
SM (10:43pm): Can’t. Too busy.
SM (10:50pm): Too much research to do. Too many lives to save.
SM (11:14pm): I’m thinking about taking the 12th off.
JA (6:32am): That’s not reset day Samira.
SM (6:37am): Isn’t it though?
JA (6:37am): Take two, go be with your Mom. I’ll find someone to cover.
SM (6:37am): I just need one. It’s really not up for debate Abbot.
SM (6:37am): My mom and I stopped spending it together six years ago
SM (6:38am): It’s too much for both of us
JA (6:38am): Okay. Whatever you need.
*
Samira, as promised, only takes the 12th off.
She gives three weeks notice and Parker takes a double to fill in for her. It’s all very easy and seamless. Nobody begrudges her for it. Nobody asks why. The only people who’d care already know exactly why and are too smart to ask follow up questions.
She spends the day doing nothing.
She lets her phone die, locks herself in her room, and asks her dad what he thinks about the woods.
*
She’s back on the 13th, as if the anniversary of her dad’s passing is just some small blip. Like days are just what you make them. And in some ways, they are.
“Samira,” Robby calls out, jogging up to her as she’s about to head out for the day. It’s another forgettable shift, mostly bang ups and bruises and an inexplicable bloody nose that she eventually diagnoses as being caused by a tiny fly that got trapped in the patient’s nostril. She texts Abbot a full paragraph about it and he responds with a resounding, single thumbs up emoji. Robby checks in on her once or twice, but largely leaves her to her own devices. He doesn’t even have a word to say about her speed or the number of patients she’s gone through.
“Yes?” she asks.
“Dana wants to know if you want days or nights for the first half of next month?”
“I’m flexible,” she shrugs, “Tell her I’ll do whichever.”
“Great. I’ll put you on nights with Shen,” he nods sharply.
“Seriously?” she says, because she can’t help the words that fallout.
“What?” Robby says, “You don’t want nights? Or Shen?”
“No– I– nights are fine. Shen is great. I just didn’t think you’d hand me over so fast.”
“I’m a little lost, Samira. Do you not want nights? Or?” He nods his head and they duck into the empty South 18. He’s looking at her concerned, like there’s something deeply wrong with her face or her mind.
“It’s not about the night shift, Dr. Robby,” she says quietly. “Do you hate me or something?”
“Hate you? What are you talking about, Samira? I just picked you for Chief Resident…”
“Oh my god, it’s like you don’t even see it.” Samira doesn’t know where this exasperation is coming from, just that she’s suddenly seething and everything is white, hot with rage. “You don’t see me, Robby. Every shift I’m on with you, you don’t say more than two words to me. I know you wish I was Langdon or Heather or whichever other prodigal, ER superstar you have coming up, take your pick. And I know you're pissed that you can’t fix Langdon, that you can’t have Heather, and that you’re stuck with me but you’re supposed to be my mentor and it’s like you’ve just given up and I don’t understand why.”
She exhales hard.
“I don’t wish you were anyone else, Samira,” he says very softly.
“Yeah, well, you could have fooled me.”
“You’re a good doctor Samira. One of the best we have here.”
“So what? Am I just crazy, then? It’s all in my head?”
“Samira, you’re an R4, you’re a goddamn Chief Resident. If I’m stepping back it’s because to be an attending you need to learn how to fly on your own. And if I’m giving you less criticism, that’s a good thing. You are moving faster, the numbers show it. I shouldn’t need to tell you that.”
“It’s more than that. I know it is.”
“I don’t know if I’m the right mentor for you, Samira,” he finally says, “I’ve seen you thrive under Abbot, under Shen, even under Heather in the short time she’s been an attending. Maybe the truth is that I am not the right person to help you grow. Even when I’ve stepped back, I see it: you constantly question yourself around me and honestly don't know why. Maybe it's me? Maybe I've put too much on you?”
He’s shaking his head now and she sees a new weariness come into focus. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes and I don’t want to hold you back from being the great doctor you will be. If I’ve given you more space it’s because I am trying not to stifle you. I want you to explore your other options. Samira, I saw it during Pittfest, you rose to that occasion and you will rise to whatever comes next. I just might not be the right person to get you there.”
“Oh, fuck you, Robby,” she says, marching out of South 18 before she can dignify him with a response. For the first time in many, many years, she feels the urge to lock herself in her room and scream her lungs out.
*
Samira wants to go to bed, but she’s still searingly angry and forcing her eyes close simply isn’t working. It’s not like she has a choice when for all intents and purposes, Robby’s cast her aside. Of course he has some self-aggrandizing reason for it. To absolve himself of the responsibility. Of the guilt. It’s all just excuses to her.
SM (11:33pm): You want to get drunk?
FL (11:45pm): So you know how I’m an addict…
FL (11:48pm): I’ll drink a soda at the bar with you tho
SM (11:55pm): Luna’s in 15?
FL (11:55pm): You’re buying
SM (11:57pm): I don’t even like bars
SM (11:58pm): Or alcohol
“Fuck Robby,” she says, angrily swirling the the olive around her third martini glass.
“You’ve said that like six times tonight. I think I got it,” Frank chuckles. “You probably shouldn’t have told him that though.”
“What’s he gonna do? Demote me, make you Chief Resident, like he wanted to from the beginning?”
“Samira,” he says looking down at his can of Sprite, “I mean this in the nicest way and I have my own Robby issues, believe me, but have you ever considered the fact that you’re projecting your own insecurities on Robby’s decisions?”
She bites the olive. “Elaborate.”
“Have you ever considered that maybe Robby picked you because you’re good at what you do? Because your patient satisfaction scores are through the roof? That he would have picked you regardless of me, regardless of everything else. Is it possible he wasn’t rejecting you today? That he was just trying to be honest?”
She knows he has a point. Probably a few.
“You’re irritating when you’re being logical.”
“Thanks,” he smirks. “It’s fun not being the mess for once.”
Frank’s a lot more perceptive than Samira thinks she’s given him credit for. More empathic too. Despite taking pride in her good judgement, she can admit she’s spent a long time having him all wrong. Even now, she can sense him putting her story together. He’s learned all these little bits and pieces about her and her dad since their first lunch together. That he died when she was thirteen in the ER. That while she’s got her mom’s tenacity, she’s got her father's heart. That wanting Robby to approve of her isn’t just about the job. Never was.
To his credit, Frank doesn’t spell it out for her so explicitly. He knows he doesn’t need to.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she scoffs, “Since you’re not a mess anymore, when are you going to stop avoiding Robby and come back on days?”
“I’ll need another Sprite before I answer that one.”
Samira slaps her bright red credit card on the bar top and obliges.
“Honestly, the nights have grown on me. I don’t have to work until 8:30-9pm, so I get more time with kids when I have them. I help them with their homework and make them dinner,” he says, fresh Sprite can in hand. The bartender’s run out of regular straws, so he’s working with brightly colored, comically loopy straw that belongs on a beach with a tiny umbrella and not quite with the mostly serious conversation at hand. “Abbot is different from Robby. He’s better at compartmentalizing. If he’s judging me, I can’t tell.”
“True,” Samira hums.
“So, you’re really not going to do anything with that?”
“With what?”
“With the Abbot situation,” Frank says.
“There’s nothing to do. I don’t know if you’ve noticed but I don’t date people, much less people I work with.”
Frank snorts, tilting his head, “Yeah, I know. Do you even like him?”
“He’s attractive, like objectively,” she says, probably because she’s a little buzzed and not because she’s been avoiding admitting it for months. “If that’s what you’re asking.”
“Everybody knows Jack Abbot is hot, Samira,” Frank says, rolling his eyes, “I’m asking if you like him .”
“I don’t know,” she says with a slight huff, setting down her empty glass on the counter. Three is a good number, she decides. Not to mention, she literally cannot afford another $16 drink or the headache tomorrow. “I admire him a lot. He makes me feel really good about myself. But I can’t tell if I like him because he makes me feel like a good doctor or because I actually like him .”
“At the risk of stating the obvious, that is literally what dating is for, Samira.”
“I know. But it’s all so complicated. He’s my superior, for starters, and if it doesn’t work out it’ll be messy.”
“Isn’t it already messy?”
“Yeah, but then it’ll be messy with work gossip and HR.”
“Well, I hate to break it to you, but we’re kind of past work gossip. If, for no reason at all, you feel compelled to kiss him before the end of the month, I’ve actually got $150 at play here.”
“You’re an awful friend,” Samira says, rolling her eyes, before biting her lip, eyes narrowing, “What’s your full bet?”
He raises a brow, “First kiss, at the hospital, by the end of the month.”
Samira glances at her watch. It’s nearing 2am. Abbot’s still on the night shift. “You want your $150?”
“You’re joking.”
“You’re driving.”
*
Samira tries not to think too hard about it when Langdon pulls up to the curb and flicks on his hazards. It’s good she thinks, a hard time limit so she can’t second guess herself and a largely vacant parking lot means a good chance Abbot could spare her a minute.
“Jesus, Mohan,” Parker says, when she sees her stride into the hospital, in what Samira suddenly realizes is a particularly slutty dress. It’s not wholly obscene, but it’s tight and well, it certainly leaves less to the imagination than scrubs .
“Where’s Abbot?” she asks.
“Why do you need– no. No ,” Parker groans and Samira knows she’s putting it together. She’s too buzzed (more from the anticipation than the alcohol) to really care. “Can’t you wait two weeks? Please.”
“Langdon drove me here,” she supplies, rather unhelpfully.
“This is day shift collusion,” Parker mutters, “Abbot’s in the break room. At least this way if he has a heart attack, he’s already in the ER.”
“Love you,” Samira says. (It’s something she would decidedly never say sober, but she’ll let the sentiment stand.)
She finds her way to the break room and it’s empty, like it normally is this late at night.
“Hi,” she says, when he turns to look at her.
“Hi?” he says a little bewildered and she can visibly see the strain as he works to keep his eyes locked on her face. So far, so good. “Did you get called in?”
“Do you want to kiss me, Abbot?”
“Is everything okay, Samira?”
“Yes or no question. Promise not to be offended if the answer is no.”
“Of course the answer is yes, but–”
She cuts him off with her lips. She intends for it to be a chaste, quick thing but Jack has entirely different intentions. His hands settle on her waist and he’s savoring her, inhaling her like she’s fresh oxygen and he’s a drowning man. He pulls her flush against him as he sinfully works her lips apart with his tongue, tilting her head back with a firm hand on her jaw. When she finally blinks her eyes back open, his eyes are already waiting, looking at her like she’s the most beautiful creature alive. It’s all very movie-like, which is to say, surreal.
“Okay, bye,” she says, turning on her heel and bursting out of the breakroom and through the exit doors. She sinks into the safety of the passenger seat of Langdon’s car and clicks on her seatbelt.
“You’re really not gonna ask if I did it?” she asks as he pulls out of the parking lot.
“You have lipstick smudged all over your face and a wild look in your eyes, so I think I’ll pass.”
She catches sight of herself in the side mirror and sure enough, her hair’s a bit crumpled and she’s got smudges of pink all over the lower half of her face. She does her best to wipe it off with the back of her hand.
“This is so high school, I hope you know,” he says. “We’re literally in our thirties. Abbot’s probably in his fifties . I know we both missed out on doing stupid shit as teenagers but this is especially juvenile.”
“Shut up. I just got you $150. And he’s forty-nine,” she laughs.
“So, what did he say?” Franks asks. “Did he fall to his knees? Ask you to make him the happiest man in the world and marry him right now?”
“Again, shut up,” she groans, “He didn’t really say anything. Or at least, I didn’t let him say anything. He talks a lot, you know. Couldn’t give him the opportunity to talk his way out.”
“Or talk you into marriage.”
“You know, since I faced my Abbot, I think you have to face your Robby. It’s only fair.”
“I think you’re mixing metaphors.”
“I think I’m still right.”
“Half drunk and still the smartest person in the car.”
“You’re a good doctor, Frank,” she says, “A good friend, too.”
*
Two and half hours of sleep, mounting dehydration, and a throbbing headache is the least of Samira’s concerns when she sees Robby rounding the corner with Abbot for handoff. It's like the consequences of all her actions in the past twelve hours have come to roost.
She feels like she’s in a bad Grey’s Anatomy episode where everything’s gone off the rails. But because PMTC is a real hospital and they all have real work to do, life goes on.
“Morning, Dr. Mohan,” Abbot says politely, like didn’t just have his tongue down her throat five hours ago.
“Morning, Dr. Mohan,” Robby repeats, like the last thing she said to him wasn’t “fuck you.”
“Dr. Abbot, Dr. Robby,” she greets, equally politely.
Because it is not Grey’s Anatomy, she needs to find a trash can. Fast.
*
JS (4:42pm): I’m uninviting you from pancakes
JS (4:42pm): Langdon says I owe him $75
JS (4:42pm): I thought we were friends Samira
SM (4:42pm): What was your bet, Shen?
JS (4:43pm): Next year, after your attending party, in Abbot’s sexy car
SM (4:43pm): Safe bets don’t win big
JS (4:44pm): You didn’t hear it from me
JS (4:47pm): But Ellis said Abbot was glowing the rest of the night
SM (4:47pm): I threw up twice when I got home
SM (4:47pm): And then again this morning at the hospital
SM (4:47pm): Three martinis should not do that to you
JS (4:49pm): Legendary
SM (4:49pm): Shit Robby’s coming. Gotta go
SM (5:26pm): Also I want strawberries and blackberries tomorrow
JS (5:37pm): I’ll get the blueberries too
*
Samira manages to avoid Robby for most of the shift, which unsurprisingly isn’t that different from a normal shift with him. Except today’s not a normal shift.
Nothing is normal at all.
One, there’s the Abbot of it all. She considers texting him but she’s not even sure how that would go, so she nixes it. Two, there’s the Robby of it all and she thinks she knows what she needs to say but she doesn’t really want to say it anyway.
“Dr. Robby,” she says once she’s handed over to Parker, who quips ‘by the time HR lets you on night shift again, I’ll be an attending.’
“Samira,” he says. There’s only kindness there which does make her feel a little worse for wear.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“ ‘Fuck you, Robby?’ ” he quotes back at her, rubbing the base of his neck, “Yeah, that was rough. I’ll be honest, half of it was that I didn’t expect it out of you.”
“I’ve got a lot of issues.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, me too.”
She laughs. He laughs. It melds.
It’s in this moment that Samira realizes she has it all wrong. She’s not really chasing her dad’s approval through Robby, because her dad is dead and she bears the curse (the weight) of making him into whatever she wants. And here, in the real world, she’s got a mom who tells her she’s proud, and a Robby who tries to show her he’s proud, even though he’s pretty bad at it.
Robby isn’t like her dad. There’s the base similarities, sure, but he’s really like her mother, isn’t he? A weathered optimist, but an optimist, nonetheless. Samira’s mirror image. Same in all the wrong ways. The right ones too. He’s here, he’s real and she can’t make him be everything she needs no matter how much she wants him to be. No single person can be that.
So maybe her problem isn’t validation, just that she doesn’t believe it’s really hers. Because nothing can really be hers until she learns to trust that not everything is temporary. That some things do last. And it’ll take time but she’s going to work on it. Like she’s working on having friends and working on whatever Abbot is. And trying to still be the best doctor she can be on top of it all. And yeah, maybe Langdon was right about something having to give but she’s kind of tired of letting life happen to her and she’s sort of on a roll these days.
“We’ll be okay, Dr. Mohan,” he nods assuredly, She can’t tell if he’s talking about them as individuals or collectively, but it’s a nice thought, either way and she thinks that’s the point. “And I’d like to stick around in your corner if that’s something you want.”
“I always want you in my corner, Dr. Robby,” she says, “But I think I’m going to talk to Heather. About additional formal mentorship.”
“I think that’s good,” Robby smiles and the corners of his eyes crinkle, “Not Abbot?”
“Did he say something to you?”
“No. Why?”
“We can table that discussion for another day.”
Robby drags his hand over his face massaging his temples with his thumb and middle finger, “ Samira .”
“Can we just deal with one issue at a time?”
“Yeah, you’re not going on nights next month.”
“Shen is going to be so disappointed.”
“I’ll give him Thanksgiving for his sacrifice.”
She sort of likes the idea that she’s worth Thanksgiving.
*
Abbot is waiting for her outside Shen’s house, leaning against the silver Corvette that matches his curls. She can tell he’s just gotten off a shift but he’s quite handsome like this, in the early daylight.
“Hey, party animal,” he greets. “Good shift yesterday?”
“There’s been worse,” she smiles. It’s not weird like she spent a healthy portion of the morning worrying about, “There’s also been better.”
She omits any references to throwing up for both their sakes.
“You off today?” he asks, nodding to her jeans and t-shirt.
“Yeah. I have a full forty-eight off. You?”
“I’m back on tonight, then off for twenty-four, then back on again.”
“Brutal,” she notes.
“Yeah, well, sometimes pretty women show up and kiss you halfway through your shift, so that makes it more manageable, I guess.”
“Women? As in, I have competition?”
He laughs, “If I haven’t made it abundantly clear, you’re it for me, Samira.”
“You haven’t, you know,” she says, “Made it abundantly clear. Just saying.”
“Seriously?”
“You can thank Langdon. He’s done a lot of heavy lifting for you. As have Shen and Ellis.”
“Great. I’ll buy them all $5 Dunkin’ gift cards,” he says, deadpan.
“Wow, I’m worth an entire $15. At least Robby thinks I’m worth Thanksgiving.”
“Samira,” he sighs, taking her hand as they head towards the door, and she lets him. “You know you’re fucking priceless, right?”
*
They stay at Shen’s house longer than intended. Shen’s into smoothies these days, but everything ends up tasting like banana, which isn’t bad but she tells him to stick to orange juice as she helps wash dishes. Frank has the full day off, so he offers to take her home, so Abbot and Ellis can get some rest before heading back to work.
She’s a little disappointed because she knows she owes Abbot a real conversation and well, whatever else comes with the territory of having kissed at two am in the break room, but she’s waited this long, so she supposes another day can’t hurt.
She and Frank are chatting about some recent clinical trials coming out of Germany, when feels a buzz in her pocket. She sees her mom’s photo pop up on the screen. “Your mom is hot,” Frank jokes when he looks over. “Should I be like you and start dating widows in their fifties? You could become my daughter.”
“I would literally throw myself off the PTMC roof, no hesitation.”
Frank laughs, Samira picks up the phone.
“Hey mom, all good?” she asks. It wasn’t often her mom called her. She usually waited for Samira to initiate.
“All good here, it’s just been a while so I wanted to check in.”
“I’m in the car with Frank. He’s driving me back from John’s. Can I call you in ten?”
“Hi, Samira’s mom!” Frank says over his shoulder, and Samira yanks her phone away.
“Hi, Samira’s friend,” her mom greets, through warm laughter. “Didn’t think I’d ever see the day.”
“Thanks, Mom, for that,” Samira groans, “I’ll call you back.”
“I think we hit it off,” Frank teases.
“Leave my mother alone and I’ll talk you up to Mel,” she says, sliding her phone back into her pocket.
“You don’t have that pull.”
Samira shrugs, “I have three friends, now. Four if you count Abbot. You think I can’t make a fifth with the nicest girl in the ER?”
“I wouldn’t bet against you. I also think we should start a carpool to HR meetings. It would be better for the environment.”
“I’ll send around a Google form,” Samira chuckles, shaking her head.
“So did you and Abbot talk yet?”
“Briefly. I think we’re due for a real, proper one though.”
“Right, a conversation ,” Frank says.
“Yes, a conversation, Frank. Not everything is about sex.”
“Only said by people not having it. You should have jumped his bones in the break room. I would have waited. I’m a good friend like that. You can tell Mel that when you’re friends.”
“How kind,” Samira retorts, “Also, we are not close enough for this conversation.”
“Well, you don’t have any of other friends around right now, so I’m kind of all you got.”
“In that case, what I’m hearing is we should paint each other’s nails and get matching tattoos,” Samira supplies.
“Okay, pitch me.”
“You’re hilarious.”
“I’m serious. Pitch me your best idea.”
“Langdon, we are not getting matching tattoos.”
*
When she’s laying back on Abbot’s bed and he’s sliding her pants off, he laughs when he looks down, her ankle wrapped tightly in plastic. “Okay, am I losing my mind? How new is that?”
“Less than twenty four hours.”
“You’re joking.”
“Langdon and I had a whim. Just be a little careful.”
“Oh my god, less than two days of having a girlfriend and she already has matching tattoos with another man,” Abbot laughs.
“You know, we never got to be young and stupid,” Samira says, “So now, we’re doing it in our thirties.”
“As far as stupid goes, tattoos are pretty low tier,” Abbot says, “Like borderline boring, honestly. I’ll have to have Shen text you some real ideas.”
“Can we circle back to girlfriend? Is that where we’re at?”
“Are you intending to date anyone else?” Abbot asks, “I’ll be honest, it’s not what I’d want but I can make peace with that, if that’s where you’re at.”
“Obviously not, Abbot.”
“So, what is it?” Abbot asks.
“For one, I literally still call you, Abbot and two, you have to admit it feels a little insane to call a fifty year old my boyfriend .”
“I’m forty-nine,” he corrects. “And I still don’t know why you don’t call me Jack. I didn’t think you needed explicit permission to do that.”
“Sorry, Langdon is rubbing off on me, Jack .”
He presses a kiss to her forehead, “Samira, I love you, but please no more Langdon talk. You can call me whatever you want, boyfriend, not boyfriend, Jack, Abbot , I really don’t care.”
“Oh, so we’re at ‘I love you,’ now, too,” she says. "You move fast."
“I thought you knew,” he blinks. “Samira, please tell me you knew.”
“Oh my god, Langdon was right,” she breathes out. She’s given it thought before, not too much, but enough for it to not really be a surprise. The surprise, however, is watching the words form on his lips and enter the air. How real it makes it at all.
It’s sort of crazy how words create life, create entire worlds with just air. Because words are only really as real as ghosts and god. Real but not real. The kinds of things you can have but never hold on to. And she thinks that’s why she talks to her dad, talks to god out loud because it makes them real.
“Sorry, sorry. I promise I’m done,” she says, nipping at his neck. She’ll revisit it all later. Replay it back in her mind. This will all stick with her in the good way, the way that makes her feel Tahiti-lucky that her brain is capable of clinging on to so much. That she has the privilege of having him right now and also reliving this moment again and again later.
Abbot groans, “Okay, before we do this. One more Langdon thing. Or well, a Langdon-Robby thing before I forget.”
Samira pushes up on to her elbows to look up at him.
“I think I’m gonna put Langdon back on days. With Robby. I think it’s time. What do you think?”
“You want my opinion? Like right now?”
Abbot laughs, “No, you can dwell on it. But I do want your input eventually. I think you have unique insight and good judgement.”
“I’m really doing a poor job of shredding my good reputation.”
“Reputation’s stick,” Abbot chuckles.
“Yeah, but people can change,” she replies. “Reputation will always follow, eventually .”
“Eventually,” he echoes. The smile he’s committed to since she’s walked in through his front door is still yet to fade.
*
Five days pass and it’s finally time to unwrap her tattoo, revealing the fresh ink that now encircles her ankle. She does it in Abbot’s fancy shower and he helps her gently remove the plastic.
“So what is it?” he asks, the warm water rushing against her skin.
“An ouroboros,” she says, “A snake biting its own tail. It’s about cycles, eternity, renewal . Jung says they’re the symbol of paradox. Langdon didn’t really care about the philosophy of it all, he was sold on ‘cool snake’ alone.”
“Deep,” Abbot says. “I like it.”
“Really?” she asks.
“Really,” he promises.
“I've been thinking..."
"Always good to do..."
"I want to take a week off. With you.”
“Who are you and what have you done with Samira Mohan?” Jack chuckles.
“I’m serious. A full seven days, no blood, no emergencies, no internet, just you, me, and the beach. I want to know who we are away from all that.”
“Yeah?” He says, “Where are you thinking?”
She shrugs, “Tahiti?”
“Okay,” he says, not missing a beat, “We can do Tahiti.”
At some point Samira makes it back to her apartment. She’s got an early shift and her apartment’s closer to the hospital. She hasn’t been alone in what feels like days. It's nice, less heavy, knowing her solitude is temporary. She kicks up her leg, propping it on the edge of the sofa and looks up at the ceiling.
It’s real. It’s so, so real.
She winks back at God.