Chapter Text
The drive to New Jersey is one she has made a handful of times (and avoided on more occasions than she can count). Returning to her hometown always leaves Samira with a bittersweet taste in her mouth and an unsettling feeling sitting in her stomach. On one hand, it is a place that holds her happiest memories; on the other, the longing and yearning for a better time—a time that never existed—makes her sick with nostalgia, to the point where she can’t stand being around them.
When she made the decision to move back home—or what once was, anyway—it had been one made with her mother’s best interest at heart. Their scheduled phone calls always circled back to the topic of their future: how her mother was growing old, tired, and no longer capable of caring for her house or her garden like she once used to; how Samira needed to put down roots somewhere, settle down with a bright young man and live in a house with a picket fence and a backyard. Samira almost always ended their call immediately after, too tired to remind her mother she was focusing on her career and knowing she would be guilted by an “I just want to make sure you have someone to take care of you” from the other end of the line. Though Samira often rolled her eyes at the comment, she liked to think her mother meant well. She also knew that, sometimes, the words weren’t meant for her.
Her father’s death had been hard on both of them; its suddenness and unexpectedness landed like a punch in the gut, leaving them with no air. It had taken them some time to rebuild their life then, working from the ground up. Even at thirteen, Samira knew her parents’ marriage was born out of convenience and not love. She witnessed the way their bodies automatically pulled away from each other: their separate seats on the table, their individual spots on the living room couch; the way they lacked the gravitational pull she assumed people who were in love had. They orbited each other’s spaces without ever colliding. And yet, her mother couldn’t help but set a place for her father at the dinner table for months after he had been gone; couldn’t help but stay on her side of the bed, an invisible line drawn that she was not meant to cross. They might not have been in love, but they certainly cared for each other. They expected to grow old together. In sickness, in health. They had plans for a future.
Samira knew she filled the hole her father had left in her mother’s heart—in more ways than one. She knew it was expected of her to move back home to be with her mother, her way of giving back for all the years she raised Samira on her own. Samira had made peace with the idea, even accepted it as her own.
To say she was surprised to hear of her mother’s change of plans would be an understatement. Samira almost didn’t believe them when they were revealed to her over the phone that July morning, almost letting out a cynical laugh in the middle of the ED. Every new detail seemed more and more deranged. Had she actually thought things through, even for a second? Had she considered how her actions could affect the lives of others around her? And the question that lingers: did she even think about me?
“You okay over there?”
Her thoughts are interrupted by a gruff voice to her left, immediately bringing her back to reality. She turns, hazel eyes on her for a second before looking back at the road with careful precision;. hands on the steering wheel, projecting the same confidence and determination seen when performing complicated procedures in the ER; hands that have saved thousands of lives smoothly wrapped around the rubber, thumbs tapping against it rhythmically to fill the silence she had left.
Samira hums, plopping her head back against the window. “Just thinking.”
If it had been up to her, she would’ve taken the trip by herself. She would’ve gotten in her car, driven the hours from Pittsburgh to Jersey, packed bags and boxes into her trunk as quickly as possible, and then driven back before sunset. There was only one problem with her perfect plan: Samira Mohan didn’t own a car.
Samira had once been an excellent driver, passing her test with flying colours on her first try. She used to enjoy jumping into the car after an exhausting day, letting herself drive around the suburbs with the radio on and the windows down to let the cool air of the night carry her worries away. But since leaving for Pittsburgh, driving had become somewhat infrequent. The car had stayed behind, her mother needing it more than Samira could justify, so Samira had learned the bus routes and schedules like the back of her hand. It was only when she planned a trip back home that she allowed herself to borrow or rent a car. This? This had not been planned.
Once Samira finally returned her mother’s calls, after what she had appropriately named The Day from Hell™️, she had learned that her plans were coming to fruition sooner rather than later, which meant Samira had to decide what she intended to keep or donate from her old bedroom. In her mother’s words “this house can no longer be your storage room.” She would’ve been fine leaving everything up to her mother, if it had not been for some of her father’s belongings that Samira had hoped to take with her when she permanently settled into an apartment. So, she had to find a way to get them. Quickly.
As it seemed to happen in her moments of crisis, Dr. Jack Abbot came to her rescue.
Samira was out in the ambulance bay, guiding herself through the things she could see, hear, feel. Jack Abbot then joined her, keeping a respectful distance. She had seemed off all shift—frankly, she had been ever since the fourth of July—so when she walked out with a hurry in her step, he didn't think twice before checking up on her.
She didn’t want to admit to letting her personal life interfere with her work again (though there was no Robby to reprimand her for it, she had internalized his words), let alone break down again. Once had been one too many times. She didn’t need the one attending who still seemed to believe in her to lose faith in her. Not now, when she needed it most.
But as he stood there, offering nothing but open quietness and calm stillness, Samira felt like she could tell him—like he wanted her to tell him. The words poured out of her before she had the chance to think them through: how her mother was still hounding her, determined to make her life more complicated than it needed to be; how she needed to act quickly; how she couldn’t bear the thought of losing those memories all because her mother was in such a rush to leave it all behind.
Abbot didn’t seem fazed by any of this. He stood there, listening, nodding along to her words like he understood what she was saying. And then, just like that, he offered his limited time (Samira knew he liked to keep busy) to drive her to New Jersey the next time they both had a day off.
He didn’t let her argue.
And that’s how she ended up in his car, leaning against the door of the passenger’s side, at six-thirty in the morning.
“Thanks for driving me again,” she says, breaking the silence.
“You don’t have to keep thanking me.”
She chews on her bottom lip. “I know. But, still … Thank you.”
The corner of his lip tugs upwards, a hint of a smile. “Seriously. It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing,” she counters. “You’re taking me to bumfuck, New Jersey—literally the most boring place in the world—on your day off from work. And you’re not even letting me drive there!”
His smile grows wider. “You’re really selling me on this place, Mohan.”
She scoffs. “Trust me, once we get there, you’ll realize that I’m right.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt that. I don’t think you’ve been wrong a day in your life.”
He delivers the statement with cool casualty; like it’s a fact, rather than a belief.
“Can I just ask … if you hate it so much, why were you planning on moving back to begin with?” Jack prompts, eyes diverting from the road again.
Samira sighs, fingers dancing between her set of curls. “Honestly? I thought it was the right thing to do.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning … Ever since my dad died it’s just been me and my mom. We have no other family on this side of the world. So we had to adjust, the two of us. And our relationship has always been strained, you know? We don’t really get each other. But my mom has never really had anyone else to rely on. I’ve tried to be that person for her, knowing how much she has done and has given to get me to where I am right now.”
Jack clears his throat. “And what about you?”
“What about me?”
“You said your mother relies on you. Do you have anyone you can rely on? Somebody to lean on?” He asks, his head now turning so he can look at her, so he can examine her expression. Samira has to actively fight the urge to hide her face, feeling exposed and vulnerable under his tender stare.
“I’m fine,” she provides, though the lack of any other possible answer confirms she is anything but.
Jack asks no further questions, even while knowing her statement does not contain an ounce of truth. Instead, his right hand begins playing around with his console, searching for a song to keep them entertained as they drop the subject. Samira is grateful, welcoming the distraction. He skips a few songs before settling on one, turns up the volume to a loud hum—just enough to invite conversation without having to scream at the top of their lungs—and resumes the tapping of his thumbs against the steering wheel, following (see: attempting to follow) the beat.
A smile reaches her eyes, her dimple popping on her left cheek. She doesn’t recognize the song, but she allows the melody to engulf her, her shoulders releasing the last bit of tension they were holding onto as the tune carries on.
They sit in the comfortable company of Jack’s playlist, letting one song transition into another without exchanging words, until:
“I think I might be getting to know you through your music taste.”
Jack lets out a soft chuckle.
“I’m serious. It’s all you’ve shared with me. I have done an embarrassing amount of talking. I feel like I’ve monopolized the conversation.”
“Well, what do you want to know?”
He knows it’s not the response she expected based on her reaction.
Samira pauses.
“Okay, well … Why are you driving me to New Jersey?”
That gets her another laugh from him. “Out of all the questions in that brain of yours, that’s the one you decided to go with?”
“I don’t know! I didn’t exactly expect to have free rein here!”
He shakes his head, amused. “Fine, Mohan. If you really must know … I wanted to make sure you didn’t go through this alone.”
She looks at him quizzically. “What?”
“Going through a loved one’s belongings, saying a definite goodbye to the last place you saw them in … I know what that feels like. And it isn’t something someone should do alone.”
Oh.
It dawns on her, in that moment, that Jack Abbot must have once lived in a place two people called a home. Jack Abbot must have had to live with a ghost once the other person was gone. Jack Abbot must have had to go through his wife’s clothes, photographs, memories of a life together, a life he no longer had. Jack Abbot must have decided to sell his house because allowing himself to keep living there was only a painful reminder of what once was. Jack Abbot has grieved; Jack Abbot has lost.
Through all the pain and suffering, he has come out the other side. Samira sees it in his face, the gentleness that remains even in the cruelest of times.
“Thank you,” she says, not much louder than a whisper.
Jack smiles. “What are you thanking me for this time?”
“Everything.”