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It started the way it always did.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true, Samira corrected her own thoughts. The medium of her mother’s distracted disinterest had changed through the years.
First, conversation petered out at the dinner table, followed by a frantic jostling up to the ringing kitchen phone and a hushed voice as the call was transferred to her parents’ bedroom. Well, only Amma’s bedroom now, she corrected, dutifully putting away dishes and wiping down the counter as Amma’s low tone hummed indiscernibly through walls.
Then, in undergrad, conversations turned from focused to the point of pestering, from pleas to spend summers working or taking classes at home for transfer credits to quiet acceptance of ambiguous plans, details left unshared even as both sides knew leases were left uncosigned.
Calls turned to texting, and missive-like family updates paired with peppering questions on grades, friends, jobs and culturally-appropriate social events petered into scant proof of life.
Now it was FaceTime, video calls normalized by the pandemic and recently a reassurance, a way to have her Amma’s face in eyesight as she cooked or cleaned or ran errands and they chatted effortlessly. Or had, before Amma’s voice and eyes wandered, sentences clipped and reactions delayed to the point of missing entirely.
In other words, her Amma was dating.
In other words, Samira Mohan’s life was fucked.
Despite what nosy aunties and coworkers would say; despite the fears of earnest mentors and school counselors and a politely dismissed therapist; Samira Mohan did believe in love. She saw it all the time, in the ER as couples reassured each other, cared for each other, mourned each other. In the occasional rom com that she managed not to fall asleep four minutes and fifteen seconds into. On the bus, watching the rest of Pittsburgh rotate in and out of their own shifts and education and lives.
It was simply that Sridevi Mohan was unlikely to date - if not incapable of dating - anyone with a meaningful capacity for love.
It had started before Samira’s Appa, with a desperate bid to escape a miserable home life via marriage to an equally rebellious boy from a deeply conservative family. Rational enough, Samira supposed, though the efforts were hampered by immaturity and the misogyny that he seemed unable to shake despite his other progressive beliefs. The relationship left Amma in America, young and alone.
And so she had met Samira’s Appa, a larger-than-life, joyful presence who seemed abundant in all things - confidence, love for Sridevi, luck, even money, and enough charm that her Amma never questioned why a young divorcee estranged from her family in a time and a place where neither condition was a norm was not, in fact, cause for concern from Mohan. Samira loved her Appa, who was easy to love and easy to fall in love; always with an optimistic lens to the world and quick to solve seemingly intractable problems. If things were amiss between her parents, she scarcely noticed - they laughed and smiled more than her cousins’ families, and she became attuned early on to the differences between the world of her family and the world of her Western friends’. If Appa slept on the couch more often than not, well, didn’t he often have late shifts and love to catch up on cricket, and wasn’t it kind to avoid waking up Amma?
It wasn’t until Samira was eighteen, five years deep into mourning Appa’s death and entering into her first discussions of student loans and dormitory rents that the truth came out. In the midst of an argument about Amma’s new object of (sole, devoted) interest, who had turned out to be an obsessive stalker now warranting police involvement; in the midst of Samira accusing Amma (cruelly, she could admit in hindsight; probably unfairly) of besmirching Appa’s memory, it came out that Mohan Chettiyar was a gambler, an addict, and had left behind not only the gaping hole in Samira’s chest but also a gaping hole of debt stretching from a lien on the house to the reclamation of Amma’s beloved BMW, which he had once won as a jackpot.
For the second time, Samira’s life changed overnight. Her love for her Appa did not dissipate - she turned the question of if it could, if it should, over like a smoothed worry stone, never finding answers but also never hardening her heart to the memory of his laugh, their games, the fast food he would sneak her and the feeling of falling asleep in his backseat, safe and exhausted, only to be gently jostled into his arms upon arriving home. She recalled the endless calls to their home, her Amma explaining the concept of scams and telemarketing and how only adults should answer the phone. She looked at the late nights differently; the years that school shopping had been more truncated and meals more repetitive, less rich. How Appa always crowed that Amma’s name meant goddess of good fortune.
How could she square the man she loved with this new and ugly truth?
For five years, the library had been her solace, and this challenge was no different. The impact of the information, however, was. Somewhere between .5 and 1.5 American adults were gambling addicts. Like many forms of addiction, there was a hereditary factor: relatives were 8 times more likely to be gambling addicts; with genetics accounting for somewhere between 50-70% of individual vulnerability.
At eighteen, Samira Mohan, class salutatorian and committed pre-med at Rutgers student and five years the girl-with-the-dead-dad, wondered if she too would have a gambling disorder.
After a week of sleepless nights and eventual intervention from a concerned AP Bio teacher and harried school counselor, Samira made a plan for herself: her life would be a data-driven practice. Praxis, even, she modified after her first, enthralling public health seminar with a Marxist professor. No “wants.” No heartstrings or supposedly harmless indulgences. Nothing that could quantify taking a chance, a bet-worthy risk, unless it was calculated and necessary and, at that predetermined point, then absent from emotion. In the ER, flawless documentation and an attention to data, not hunches. What did the patient say? What did the records say? What did the tests say? Not, as Robby would so often ask, “What’s your gut telling you?” Or “where’s your intuition pointing?”
Samira Mohan’s intuition was genetic, hereditary, and not to be trusted.
Sridevi made no such self-promises; though Samira sometimes wandered about the proclivity of gambling addicts to marry other gambling addicts as Amma placed her heart on the line again and again, always all-in. And so Samira gritted her teeth through dinner with the anti-vaxxer who claimed he would deny his child chemo while she mentally drilled orgo formulae. The occasional date mention on the phone and then text, between periods of silence.
The startling drop into a conversation that a man Amma met online during Samira’s first semester of med school at Princeton, while Samira chugged Red Bulls and consumed half the rainforest in flash cards, had moved in after only three weeks.
The text announcing that they’d gotten married at the courthouse the last Sunday and she hadn’t wanted Samira to come amidst midterms, despite the seven deeply concerning lawsuits Samira had forwarded after googling his name, which Amma had brushed away with anger over lack of privacy in the modern world, insolence of youth, and a plea to hear out the man, who could explain that it was “all a misunderstanding.”
The same text which makes Samire break up with her own perfectly average, perfectly calculated boyfriend (decent looking but not too handsome, clever but not so smart people would accuse her of cheating off him, clearly more into her than she is to him but not in a potentially creepy way, capable of providing a statically on-par orgasm rate every 2 out of 3 experiences) when he asks why she’s so upset, explaining that it actually seems pretty chill of her mom.
“Chill” describes their phone log of the next almost two years. Until a disastrous Thanksgiving with the husband’s family, after which Amma begged Samira to come home early and Samira had; in turn begging professors not to permanently tarnish her GPA while citing a family emergency. It half worked on the academic end, if not the personal: Amma and her supposed step-father reconciled within the month, again with an icy turn away from Samira.
An icy turn that gave her freedom to leave New Jersey, at least; even if the imperfect GPA limited residency choices.
And so she moved to Pittsburgh, a fresh start. The department formerly home to Dr. Adamson, whose article on pain management in underrepresented populations and edited journal on racial disparities in emergency medicine she’d read and re-read until the statistics and turns of phrase felt tattooed on the back of her eyelids. She held the same rules, but closer now to being an attending and the goal of helping families like her fathers’ - both the ones whose chronic and emergent health issues were dismissed and neglected by an overwhelmingly white, overwhelmingly siloed and privatized system; and the addicts of all stripes who found themselves in Chairs at a proportionally greater rate than the general population. She met a few acquaintances who were fine enough to go on a run or share a coffee with; she occasionally dabbled in mediocre hookups off the apps; and mostly she worked. She built a life, content enough with its parts - the strong spine and nervous system of a career she loved; a growing musculature of academic and applied research; burgeoning organs.
Until her Amma’s husband tried to rob her blind, and suddenly one year into residency her Amma was back at her metaphorical side; physically stuck five hours away. If Samira had time for television, and if Amma had been less broken, she would have laughed hollowly that the man shared a name with prime time’s favorite ambulance chaser.
Where before they had come back together with the ease of a self-healing polymer, this time the relationship was rebuilt tentatively. Still, the rush of Amma’s short-term need and the semi-regular visits to Jersey that followed via borrowed cars and Greyhound buses took enough of her scant non-work time to whither the tendril-like roots Samira had begun to grow in Pittsburgh. By the tail end of her third year of residency, they were solid again; the usual guilt-tripping and complaining common to a Desam mother softened by shared laughter and days at a time of easy conversation. And if burgeoning dreams of a fellowship were traded for a partner-track position in private practice because that was what was available in central Jersey, well. It was practical, and at least she would have a say in how the practice ran sooner rather than later.
Samira had really thought they were solid.
But here she was, fresh off a double, frying an egg in her kitchen - as much energy as she could muster even under the normally watchful and judgemental eyes of Amma via FaceTime video - but instead of comments about her diet, her cooking, her hours, her hair, her apartment decor, there was only a halfhearted follow-up question about a tricky patient and zoned-out eyes.
Samira’s stomach dropped. Somewhere in the past three years, she’d forgotten this feeling. She’d let her heart grow soft. “Anyway. I’ll let you go, Amma,” she said, sliding the egg onto a plate only because eating out of the pan would scratch the coating.
Amma nodded and hung up with a distracted goodnight. Samira ran the differential for distraction as she ate, half heartedly rinsed the plate, and moved through her bedtime routine. Family health. A coworker issue. Read a distressing news article. A cold. Something cute died in the garden. Something creepy died in the garage. A store is closing.
Nothing sat right, and when four days later Amma brought up that she’d been seeing someone, Samira’s diagnosis became critical.
---
“You ever feel stupid for falling for the same lie over and over again?” she asked.
They were on the roof, staring out at the sun rising over a city with two less children and several fewer pints of O neg in it. Shift was over and she had a rare golden weekend. She had made plans to drive to Amma’s in a borrowed car. Amma was suddenly out of town with the guy.
Jack took a deep drag of his cigarette, flicked ash off the end as he let smoke curl out of his mouth slowly. “Mm. Pick your poison. One last tour? That my wife was really in remission? That if I change my meds one more time I’ll want to stop throwing myself off this roof? That we’re actually making a difference here?” He glanced over at her. “You’re too early in it to be asking that question though.”
“We are making a difference.” He smiled, something genuine and fond in it under the exhaustion and frustration and pain, and kept looking at her, waiting for her to explain. “It sounds stupid next to your stuff,” she said.
He shrugged. “Always thought shit’s relative. Lots of people are stressed. Lots of people are tired. Lots of people have bad things happen to them. Doesn’t mean only the one who has it the worst is suffering. Boiling frog, yeah?”
“That’s a surprisingly generous way of looking at it.”
“I’m a surprisingly generous guy, Mohan.” He took another drag of his cigarette as she rolled her eyes. “You’ve been through some stuff too. Adamson forwarded your application, back in the day. Your dad,” he acknowledged, searching for her eyes. She avoided his ever piercing stare. He continued, undeterred. “Your residency director who you came to learn from dying when you finally move out of state and the new director practicing abusive supervision on you.”
She glanced up sharply. “I didn't say that.”
“It’s pretty fucking clear, Samira,” he practically interrupted. As she stared at him in shock, he was uncharacteristically the one to drop his gaze first. “I’m not going to HR. Sorry. I don’t need more paperwork. But I will back you up if you put in a complaint. Unequivocally.”
“Yeah, because there’s a great track record of women in medicine righting wrongs with their white male supervisors through paperwork. Never backfires,” she scoffed, and then sighed. “Thirteen more months.”
“And Robby’ll be gone for three of ‘em.”
“You really think he’s going on sabbatical? I’ll eat my shoe if he even puts in a request.”
His eyes tracked down to her worn sneakers, which had waded through the medical waste of countless lacerations and missed emesis bags and drainages and traumas.
“Pretty sure that’s a known biohazard. How about you buy me a drink instead?”
“Probably can’t afford it. Unless you’re into dollar beer now. I mean it costs $5 but McKay says it’s the same shit, just subject to inflation.” Jack pursed his lips and tilted his head, his familiar teasing expression.
“I can live with that. I’ll make up the four dollar difference for you, Mohan.” He picked at the paint on the railing they leaned against. “So what’s the lie?”
She groaned. “It’s stupid. It’s my mom. She’s tried to marry every guy she’s ever dated. They’re all insane. And every time, somewhere between the ring and the courthouse, we stop talking. And then everything blows up and I’m the priority again, but also the savior, the caretaker, and the disappointing daughter who doesn’t have a husband or a family all in one, then…” she gestured emptily, “cycle repeat. And for some reason I thought she was really broken enough the last time that it was all over. But now she’s back at it, and she doesn’t need me, but I’m still expected to move back to Jersey. I committed to Jersey.” She winced. “Sorry. That was a rant.”
He shook his head. “Don’t apologize. But I do empathize with your mom.” She raised an eyebrow. “I married the only woman I ever dated.”
She can’t help gawking, slightly. She knew he loved his wife. You don’t keep wearing a ring years after death without that love. But it also seems so counter to his ethos, to the shameless flirting.
He seemed to read her thoughts. “I’ve fucked plenty,” he clarified, turning around to rest his elbows on the railing behind him, still facing her.
“Thank you for that, Jack, Jesus,” she rolled her eyes. More expected.
“That is what they say, yes,” he smirked, canting an eyebrow.
“Okay, I’m going home…” she said, pushing back from the rail. He stopped her with a gesture, smoke trailing his hand and the smirk slipping away.
“How many times has this happened?”
She puffed up her cheeks before letting the air out. “God, four husbands? An abuser, an addict, a con artist, twice. And a couple fiancés. One stayed a boyfriend.” It felt awful to flatten her Appa into the list, however true.
He let out a low whistle. “Sounds like a lot to deal with. For both of you.”
She nodded slowly. “Yeah.” She could feel his eyes on her.
“It must be hard to choose someone again and again and not have them choose you.”
“Is it a choice? I mean hers is. But I’m her only kid. She figured out how to keep us going after Appa- after my dad died. I’m supposed to take care of her.”
“When she needs it, sure. Family’s a powerful thing. But until then, she’s supposed to take care of you, too.” He shifted. “Pretty sure the point of parenting is helping your kid become whoever they’re supposed to be. Not locking them into what’s convenient.”
“So you’re the one who’s been leaving evaluations of private practice partnership track structure impacts on physician wellbeing in my locker,” she said, dryly. Of course it was him. She’d have known even without seeing the demented way he always stapled papers sideways. “But you’ve clearly never met a Desi parent. My best possible self is long gone. She married some rich Tamil man who has no objection to also living in Jersey, and we’ve already had two and a half children.”
He nodded “Yeah. Some of that comes from a good place, though. Most people still tend to think money and family mean happiness. But I see the irony on the family side when a key member is unreliable.”
“When the only family member is unreliable,” she corrected softly. “You’re being really nice about this. Most people just say good for my mom.”
"Shouldn't be surprising. I take it you favor your mom?” he asked, eyes travelling back to her shoes, a more leisurely path this time.
“Yeah,” she answered, honestly. “But she’s much prettier. And actually puts in the effort.”
“You put effort into everything you do,” he said, and the words seemed to nestle into her chest. “Maybe too much effort, sometimes. You deserve someone who sees that. Somebody who tells you when to stop before you run yourself into the ground. I’m sorry she isn’t always that for you.”
Samira’s throat went thick.
“Can I ask something?” he continued.
“If you give me a drag of that cigarette,” she said, watching him glance down. It had mostly gone to ash in his hand. He stubbed it out.
“Dr. Walsh would say I don’t need to be responsible for any more of your bad habits, Mohan. But I’m asking anyway. Is this why you second guess your - fucking exemplary, by the way - self?”
“Are you asking if I have mommy issues? That therapist of yours know you’re dabbling in his job?”
“He’d be relieved to know I’m internalizing.”
“Mm. It’s a good theory. But no. My dad was the addict. A gambler. I didn’t know. But… I just… I don’t like to leave things up to chance.”
Jack let his head fall forward, nodded. “I get it. My dad was an alcoholic.”
“I’ve seen you drink.”
“You have. I watch it. I don’t drink when things are bad. But the proclivity doesn’t seem to be there, even if the disposition is.” He raised an eyebrow at her.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said weakly. This still wasn’t a conversation she was ready for. Certainly not with the instinctual, intuitive doctor whose practice could be borderline reckless and yet who she found herself gravitating towards in every shared shift, in every trauma.
He seemed to sense that, and shifted. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“You offering to seduce my mom?”
His bark of laughter warmed her against the morning mist, the lines around his mouth and eyes deepening with humor as the heaviness of the night began to drop away. “You saying that because I have enough issues to be her type? Or are you after my pension?”
“Both of your pensions. I notice you’ve been out with TEMS more. Guessing you qualify with them, too, at this point.”
“Always one step ahead, Mohan.” he shook his head. “Maybe you just want to call me Daddy.”
“Didn’t think you’d get off on being called Daddy.”
She had catalogued an awful lot of Dr. Jack Abbot expressions in the last three years; his twisted mouth at turns wry and disappointed; his lifted chin cocky or condescending; his intense eye contact interrogating or encouraging. It was a byproduct of wanting to work well with him, of learning to anticipate his next move, and of Ellis’ extensive impersonation bit work during down time.
The way his eyes darkened and his lips parted slightly as he looked up at her, breath catching, was unfamiliar. After a second he cleared his throat. His voice still came out hoarse. “Who’s my competition?”
“Oh, a married coach and wannabe influencer. Evidently he and his wife are open. She keeps saying the word ‘polycule.’ I don’t think she really knows what it means.”
“She really does know how to pick them.”
“Mhmm. I’m not really worried about this guy. He’s just the gateway drug.”
“The gateway polycule?”
She snorted, which made him chuckle, and then they were both dissolving into stupid laughter. Her aching stomach rumbled as their hysteria petered off.
“Wanna grab breakfast?” he asked.
“I just trauma dumped all over your suicidal ideation break and you’re not running for the hills?”
“It would be easier and faster to jump off the building,” he pointed out.
“Jack--”
He laughed. “Not running and I’ll even pay. Surprisingly generous guy, Mohan.”
“Okay. But somewhere with real chairs this time. I think I would fall off a counter stool right now.”
He nodded. “It’s a date.”
---
It’s over three years later, curled up on the couch with her feet dangling over his thighs and a ring on her finger, looking out the window and across to the backyard house Amma has a key to, that she registers the true meaning of his words.
Jack fuckin’ Abbot and the long con.