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When Samira was small, she wanted to be a bird.
After a particularly close call involving a plastic grocery bag tied to her arms as she jumped from the tree, her Appa set up a tire swing in their postage stamp yard.
Even little birds stay in the nest until it’s time to fly, beta.
He would set her on the tire and wind it as far as he could, laughing as her Amma would shout from the window to be careful. The soundtrack of a rose-colored childhood.
She remembers the feeling of spinning, the weightlessness of it. The air making her curls fly and the sun brushing her dimpled cheeks. It felt like living, like freedom. Never feeling afraid when she went too fast. Appa was there to stop it.
When he died, she twisted the tire as far as her 13-year-old arms could. Desperate for the feeling of freedom, of flying, of joy. She spun so fast she fell off and nearly broke her arm. Tears, streaming down her face as Amma solemnly looked on—unsure how to explain that there wasn’t safety in the spinning anymore.
She swore, SWORE, it would never happen to another when she could help it. Never again would a father be lost because medicine couldn’t see past the color of his skin into his heart.
Samira stopped trying to fly. There was no time. Everything done was controlled. Every afternoon, working to help pay the mounting bills. Amma was doing her best but she was as lost as Samira herself.
Mr. Diaz’s brown eyes. A tired mother and a too-grown daughter buried in medical debt. I’ll take on extra shifts at the coffee shop.
Samira overheard Amma crying on the phone. Losing her husband was like losing a limb. She was alive, but unbalanced. Unused to doing things with just one arm.
Samira needed to be one less thing for her Amma to worry about. Samira needed to be under control.
Evenings were for homework, not friends. She’d need a scholarship. Enough to get through undergrad at least. No time to feel weightless. She had to be grounded in the certainty of her path. High school valedictorian. Summa Cum Laude from undergrad. Top of her class in med school. Matching into a top program. Checking off the list as she went. Confident in her control. Certain of her plan.
Alone, but controlled. Marching steadily—not flying, not anymore— towards the future she’d decided she was supposed to want.
But, the thing about flying is that when you stop, when you stay on the ground for too long, it’s an unmooring to be forced back into the air. The uncertainty isn’t freeing. The spinning isn’t laughter and warmth on a Sunday afternoon. It’s terrifying. Untethering.
Heart racing. Sweat pouring.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t.
I can’t.
I can’t die.
I haven’t finished yet.
The terror of facing the possibility of a heart that might be her father’s.
Wait a minute. Is this a panic attack because of your mommy issues?
The shame of being berated for a mind that is her own.
What do you do when everything you’ve worked towards is slipping away?
Daughters care for their parents. It is just what is done. Finish her residency, move home to care for Amma. It is what her father would have wanted. Would have expected. Fly, beta, but never forget to return to the nest.
But now her Amma is leaving. Selling the nest her father made for them. No tire swing in a sun-drenched yard. No home to return to. No purpose there. She has no purpose.
Who is she, if she is not her father’s daughter?
Focus on the patients. Block out everything outside of these walls. A force field.
The walls are closing in. The fractures widening.
Mr. Diaz. I have a surprise for you!
I got him everything he needed for home care…
She swore she’d never let it happen to another daughter. But it’s still out of her control.
I’m so sorry Mrs. Diaz, we did everything we could…
If she can’t stop it from happening again, what is her purpose?
The difference between the best doctors and the ones that don’t make it.
Dr. Robby is not her father. Her Appa would not have laughed at her pain.
But, the thing about dead fathers at 13 is that they are forever perfect. Forever infallible. Their worst sin is in the leaving. Daughters are left with a void they seek to fill. A need for support. A need for validation. Perfect fathers. Listen to your father. Respect your father. He is perfect. He was perfect.
He wasn’t perfect. In the silence of the night, when it feels less distasteful, the memories float to the surface. He loved her, yes. But he also demanded of her.
Help your Amma.
Do as you’re told.
Make us proud.
Be thorough.
Be kind.
Be better.
Be more.
Be.
Be.
Be.
The false echoes of her dead father’s be’s are everywhere in Robby’s words.
Be faster.
Be less emotional.
Be less afraid.
Be less, Samira.
Listen to your father. Respect your father.
Robby isn’t her father. Even the memory of who Robby was before his unmaking isn’t enough. More a pain in her heart than a comfort. His care had been so temporary, barely worth remembering. He lost his father, so he could not pretend to be any part of hers. The ghost of Dr. Adamson haunts them all.
She was always an afterthought. Always something to fix. Something to change. He drew a finish line he constantly moved. Never able to be met. Her spirit, withering under the shame of never being enough. Why isn’t she ever enough?
There’s only so many times you can be shoved away before you stop reaching out. Stop looking for someone to care. Stop looking for praise.
The shock of take the win Dr. Mohan, of I’ll pay for it. A sudden feeling of support. Temporary. She doesn’t have time to fly right now. Doesn’t have time for dreams of laughter and sunshine. She is losing control
Do you need to go home? Looking to Langdon to laugh at his derision. Even his prodigal son refusing to degrade the neglected daughter to regain favor. Whitaker, his most trusted physician. Always a slap on the back, a word of support.
Dr. Robby is not her father. But he could have been something like it. Could have. In another life. Could have been the one she turned to when the future she planned for is disintegrating, instead she runs from him. Maybe I just don’t belong here.
Back on that swing, spinning out of control. Dizzy. Heart racing.
Who am I?
What is my purpose?
Do I even remember how to fly?