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Expectedly, Samira had not held her birthday off.
It was not something that deeply distressed her by any means, but it would have been nice, admittedly, to lay at home and be selfish for a day. The only day a year where someone even as selfless as Samira got to scroll through post after post of aunt, cousin-thrice-removed, girl she went on one date with, praising her simply for being born. This was the only time she was paid any attention to for anything besides another graduation, another too-proud (and slightly braggy) status update with an awful photo of Samira that she had never even seen, plastered on her mom’s profile for all to fawn over. She enjoyed the taste her birthday revealed of a world where she was simply enjoyed for being around.
On the way into work she had phoned her mother. As usual, mom regaled her with the harrowing tale of her birth. It had not been an easy pregnancy, and they had been struggling for years. They refused to learn the gender, but dad had known from the day he’d seen the test that they were having a little girl- the most beautiful, brightest girl, he proclaimed to every relative, stranger, cashier, and patient who came across him for the next eight months.
Dad had just returned home from a Thursday like any other. He snagged some mangos from the vendor by the parking garage, questioned and ensured that her new glasses were fitting well and to come in the next day, first thing, and he’d make any adjustments. Mom had been going through mangos like nobody’s business- thank goodness optometry was a skill that served to give one an upper hand when bartering with a fruit monger.
Whistling a childhood tune to himself, he had kicked open the door, a calm and oblivious smile on his handsome features as he hung his jacket up and dropped his briefcase to the floor with a dull thud. The apartment had been teeming with excitement- every centimeter seemed to buzz with steadily climbing anticipation. Everything was waiting for a great, mysterious something, every cushion and cupboard and board bursting at the seams for a purpose, for the gratification that would come with learning what had been awaiting them for so long.
All in one moment, as his wife stumbled into his arms damp and sobbing, the seams rip and burst. The mangoes bruised as they fell to the floor and rolled out of the foyer, long forgotten by the time Samira Mohan came out sunny-side up, the conclusion to a long and arduous birth that involved words from his wife’s mouth that, truly, he had never heard before. Already, Samira was teaching him plenty, in her own way.
A beautiful baby girl. A beautiful mother. A fine, beautiful family, he thought.
Samira received her first eye exam at a precautious four days old. The entire office had finally managed to cram into exam room one when the swaddled, lumpy pudge, held up by the father who had been parading her throughout his practice, had reached out and caught onto a lens.
“She’s brillaint!” He announced among their laughter, bellowing the praise with such grandeur that every office in the building could hear just how wonderful the newborn was.
“The next Dr. Mohan, already giving exams- she’s the smartest girl; I knew she would be. That’s the Mohan in her!”
On her birthdays, she would always return to the office with her mother. Dad would always make a big deal of calling out the next patient’s name- ‘Birthday girl’- and ushering her in and up onto the chair, stealing a kiss from his wife in the process. He’d ask Samira to tell him if it was blurry, or clear, to open her mouth and say ‘ahh’. And when she giggled and insisted that didn’t have anything to do with her eyes, every single time, he’d snap in an aw-shucks way.
“Well, you got me. Don’t tell the medical board, I could lose my license if they find out I don’t know what I’m doing. Do I have to bribe you?” Knowingly, she’d always nod. He would always bring her back out of the exam room, mother holding her other hand, where the entire office would be standing around a balloon and a plastic container full of grocery store cupcakes. Vanilla, not too much frosting. Every one was the exact same, and he’d always let her have the first pick all the same.
Her first time spending her birthday away from her mother, Samira had curled up in a dorm room bed, a singular cupcake in hand, trying not to think about how much better they used to taste when dad fed it to her. Trying not to think about him kissing the frosting off of her mother’s lips, always trying to do so in a way that nobody saw him showing any sort of physical affection to his wife, and failing. Did her never-subtle father know, Samira wondered, that everyone had always seen? Would he have cared?
Dad believed in working on your birthday. Builds good character, he’d say, accepting a coffee from mother as he headed out the door every May 21st. He’d be proud to see her now, taking a spinal tap on the anniversary of the day she’d ruined the mangoes.
While a certain level of selfishness was not only permitted, but often encouraged on one’s birthday, that amount was perhaps exceeded within Samira. She had been at work for three hours now and not one coworker had even given her a second glance, much less a ‘happy birthday’. Samira hadn’t missed any of theirs, surely. Hell, she could pull up all of her birthday posts for them right now, if she wanted. She’d even tried not-so-subtly hinting at it. When Santos asked the usual ‘what’s up’, she mentioned she had been trying to get today off but was glad to be in, because all her favorite staff members were on today. Santos didn’t push, just thanked Samira for the compliment. When she and Mel took a patient's history, she commented having the same astrological sign as the patient that had just stated that their birthday was in four days. Mel did not even look up from her suturing.
A bitter, childish pit took root in the depths of Samira’s stomach, against all sensibility.
Jack hadn’t even texted.
Which, okay, that was the dumbest of all. But even Emory had messaged her, and that had been, what, a two time thing? Hell, Jack had been a lot more than just two nights. Briefly, she considered how petty it would be to break up with him over not sending a message when her previous fling had.
It was not petty to the point of being ridiculous, Samira decided, digging her heels into the ground as she was wont to do.
[From: Jack Abbot
What do you want for dinner tonight? Thinking about ordering in, or Rob and I were going to go to the pub to watch the game. Let me know.]
And that, that had really done it. Samira could have thrown her phone clear across the emergency department upon getting that text.
“Hey, Mohan, you good?” Dana did not wait for a reply before placing a steady hand on her shoulder and adding, “Go get some air.”
After being steered towards the entrance, Samira did just that, cursing only once under her breath as she leant against one of the ambulance bay pillars.
You’re being childish. You’re not a kid. You’re in your thirties. Stop being upset that everyone that you see every day has forgotten your birthday.
She let these thoughts roll over and repeat themselves, mantras for restraint. One curse was okay. One moment to recollect yourself was okay. But no more- Samira had to have it all together, all of the time. If she allowed herself to unravel in the most minor of ways, disaster would follow- pick at one thread, and the tapestry disappears.
Get a hold of yourself. Get it together.
Only after making herself whole again, molecule by molecule, until she could once more carry herself with the air of a woman who was consistently composed, did Samira allow herself to head back inside. The emergency department was suddenly, worryingly sparse, though she would not be left wondering why for too long.
“Mohan! All hands on deck!” Robby was rushing into the psych room that had been empty for the last day, a new record for the Pitt.
“When did we get a patient?!” Samira was instantly pivoting and following him. Had she lost so much restraint that she had missed an ambulance coming in? Had a patient declined that harshly? Had it been one of her patients, an adverse reaction to a drug she incorrectly administered because she was too busy being bitter about the lack of happy birthdays-
“Surprise!” The horde of scrubs parted. Most of today’s staff was there, stuffed in the room- as was Jack. They cleared the way, each person grinning ear to ear except for her partner tucked away in the corner. A barely-there smirk lifted the apples of his stubbled cheeks. He had known. It had all been planned- of course.
Before she could muster up some sort of normal reaction, the dreaded ritual of awkward singing was underway. The plastic containers were popped open cupcakes distributed, Donnie on the lookout near the door for Gloria lest they be seen eating birthday treats in the psych room.
“You really thought we forgot?” Perlah clapped her on the back, a laugh spilling from Samira’s lips. Her cheeks burned with all the attention and commotion on her, even now, as everybody began talking amongst themselves and heading to check on patients again.
“Everybody is so busy here! I mean, Dr. King, I will say, I was shocked she’d missed it.” Samira defended, licking a sprinkle from her top lip, still curled with the thrill of the last five minutes.
“I felt so awful, I’m sorry if it upset you- Dr. Abbot made us all promise to play dumb-” Before Mel could spiral too much further, Samira forced a cupcake into her hands. Dana is a few feet away, bragging about how she’d managed to get Samira to go outside and get some air as Jack arrived, and how Samira had almost ran right into him yet remained totally oblivious.
“I understand, Dr. King. He likes to find new and inventive ways to bully me.”
Jack had been approaching when she said this, raising his hands and lifting his brows.
“That’s not the thank you I was expecting, Dr. Mohan.” Samira’s eyes could have rolled to the back of her head if she’d just let them. Her and Jack fall into step as they instinctively head towards the ambulance bay.
“I’ve spent several hours believing that everyone I see on a daily basis forgot it was my birthday even when I hinted at it, including my partner, who asked if he could get a beer with his friend.” She cast a pointed, deadly look his way, “So forgive me for the lack of excitement.”
Jack sauntered towards her once they rounded the corner and got some isolation. His hands tugged on her hips, chests bumping against one another. Clicking his tongue and cocking his head to the side, he spoke with a knowing tone, voice quieted.
“You had to work. I thought you might appreciate a little bit of a surprise.” Samira blinked, unrelenting, the staff-signed birthday card burning a hole in her jacket pocket.
While part of her still wanted to string him along in regards to tricking her, as well as sending her to work without so much as a birthday kiss, the thought of Jack calling ahead to order those cupcakes, or picking out the corny birthday card in the grocery store aisle melted the last of her defenses. Someone had actually planned something for her birthday. That, she would not take for granted. Nobody had done that since Samira had left for undergrad.
“I do appreciate it. Thank you.” Her voice grew gentler. Samira raised her arms to wrap around her partner, smoothing Jack’s hair back from his forehead.
“Woah, hey- no thank yous from the birthday girl. You deserve it. I got you something- well, two some things, but I thought you might want this one now.” He removed one hand from her hip and pulled his much out of date phone, scrolling and mumbling as he did so.
“Robby and Dana did this for me on Mari’s birthday.” Jack is almost bashful. It’s not too often he brings up his late wife, and now it’s Samira’s turn to tilt her head in confusion.
“You said you didn’t want anything for your birthday. So, I found a professional gravesite cleaning service, and they serviced your dad’s tombstone.”
Jack turns the phone to her and it feels like ten thousand tons of stone have dropped all at once onto her torso. There, sure enough, is her father’s grave. It’s practically sparkling; none of that pesky moss or soil in the nooks and crannies. Fresh flowers. His name, clear as day, right above the worst date of Samira’s memory.
It’s a funny thing to be loved by Jack Abbot, Samira thinks to herself. They haven’t said love- they will. Had she doubted that, this gesture makes it clear. Because, truly, Samira did not need, nor want, stuff. Things. It was just clutter, and she hated clutter. Jack hadn’t bothered with a gaudy necklace or rushed proposal- he fulfilled a need Samira did not even know she had, as he so often did. Jack preferred quiet, grand, sweeping gestures. Fresh flowers appearing every few weeks on the dining table, her favorite breakfast burrito in the fridge when she’s searching for something to eat before shift, a new welcome mat when she complains that this one has spots where the floor is visible. Jack is a diligent, silent worker- devoted, too. Jack loved practically and entirely, and Jack loved her.
Of course, her eyes begin to glisten. They’ve never been the type for idle conversation- they’re direct, occasionally to a fault- so Samira just states it plainly.
“That’s… the last gift I would have ever expected, and the best.” Samira’s voice wavered. For a moment, she felt as small as she had back in dad’s optometry chair, playing with the many lenses as his employees set up the treats and balloons just outside the door and down the hall. For a moment, she recalled that feeling, of being entirely seen and appreciated, and likened it to here, with Jack and a balloon and a carton of sweets waiting to be eaten just past the ambulance bay entrance.
“Thank you, Jack. Best birthday. Thank you.”
Sniffling, Samira pulled him down for a vanilla-cupcake flavored kiss.