Work Text:
In the future, I am looking back at myself
and urging my heart to go on. I know–I cannot—say this with any certainty–but. This is what I need to believe. In the future, there is a me who is happy. In the future, she is laughing. She is calling out to me.
-onwards, dear heart // amrita c
Eric Jackson has spent a lifetime cataloging things that other people don’t seem to notice.
He was a quiet child, content to observe the world around him and provide whatever people might need. He liked being able to read the details people didn’t say out loud - which kids came to school hungry, so that he could leave a little bit more on his plate for them; which kids couldn’t really read, so that he could always make sure to volunteer to read out loud in their place. He learned which teachers liked it when you asked questions and which ones just liked getting through their lessons as quickly as possible without interruptions.
His mother had laughed when she went to parent-teacher conferences. One teacher would tell her how much he enjoyed the steady stream of questions that he’d ask in class, while another would comment on just how quiet and focused he was.
“You’re your father in one class, and me in another,” she had said, smiling down at him as she gently pushed the hair back from his face. The smile was a real one but still sad around the edges, the grief from his father’s passing never fully gone from his mother’s face.
He didn’t mind the comparison. His mother was the kindest person he knew. And while his own memory of his father by then was washed out and worn, he still remembered him as a quiet man who had said little but loved loudly.
When his mother got sick, he quickly realized the value of being a man like his father. He was eleven then and determined to be everything his mother might need to survive.
He wore down his words so that he could listen more, tamped down on himself so he could be more of what she needed. Found that he could immediately notice if her breath caught when she stood up and would rush over so that she could lean on him. He could see the split second panic that would flash in her eyes when she would forget where she was and know to softly call out mom so she could find her way back to him.
But at fourteen his mother died anyway, despite all the ways he’d learned to read her, all the moments he’d known to offer help before she knew she needed it. So he stepped back from himself and let his quiet recede into total silence, was content to fade into the background of the world forever.
But Abby Griffin had a different plan for him.
Three months after his mother died, she approached him one day in the bustling mess hall.
He was hunched over his notebook, scribbling notes into the margin, when he felt a soft tap on his shoulder.
He looked up and there was Abby Griffin, smiling down on him. In his memory, she’s lit with a soft glow of sunlight behind her, as if some act of God intervened to put her in his path. He knows it’s impossible - fluorescent lighting doesn’t highlight people in that way - and absurdly sentimental besides. Still, he doesn’t think it’s hyperbole to say that Abby Griffin saved his life, so he keeps that part of the memory intact anyway.
“Can I sit down?”
He gave her a long, pensive look, then nodded. Other than his mother, Abby had probably been the person he’d interacted with the most during the three years of his mother’s protracted illness. He had always liked the way she had taken him seriously, taking care to explain exactly what was going on with his mother, laying out exactly what to expect. Even when it became clear that there was no way to save his mom, he understood that it had not been for lack of trying on her part.
“Your instructors tell me you haven’t applied for an apprenticeship yet.”
He nodded again. The deadline was approaching, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care enough to make a decision. He figured he’d just let the school place him wherever he might be needed.
“I was hoping that you’d want to become my medical apprentice.”
He blinked up at her in surprise. Truthfully, the thought had never occurred to him. He was a good student, but had never shown particular aptitude in any of the sciences or basic medical training to warrant a serious look down that path.
“I’m told you’ve never been particularly interested in the health sciences,” Abby continued on as if reading his mind, “but there’s more to being a doctor than knowing the medical side of it.” She leaned down to look him in the eye. “A lot of it is reading people and understanding what they need, not just what they want. You need to be able to see what a patient isn’t telling you, and you have to be able to figure out what might be wrong even if they can’t articulate it.” She smiled warmly at him. “Sound like someone you know?”
He stared at her for a long moment, then shrugged.
Abby reached out and laid her hand on his shoulder.
“I want you to know that I don’t think anyone - including me - could’ve taken as good of care of your mother as you did. I know that it couldn’t have been easy. Seeing you with her is what convinced me that you’d be a good doctor.”
He looked down then, unable to take the warmth and the empathy in her eyes. He turned Abby’s words over in his mind, thinking back to the last six months before his mother’s death.
She had barely been able to get out of bed on her own any more, could spend days in silence and then speak non-stop until her voice became hoarse. Her moods would sway wildly - one moment she would be screaming at him, at the world, at the pain in her head, and then next she would be laugh until she could - literally -barely breathe.
Through it all, he’d remained patient, had remained steady by her side. He had always been ready with medication and then, when they ran through their ration, ready with a cold compress or soft blanket or just a place for her to rest her head and weep. In her rare moments of clarity, she would reach out to him, hold him close and the breathe whatever word of thanks she could muster at the time.
“Eric?”
He flinched at the sound of his name. It was the first time he’d heard it spoken aloud since his mother died, the syllables of it landing in his chest and spreading out painfully in jagged spikes.
“Jackson,” he murmured, his voice hoarse from disuse. He tried to think of the last time he’d spoken out loud and couldn’t place it. He cleared his throat. “It’s Jackson,” he said, louder this time but still barely able to be heard above the general din of the mess hall. “There are four of us with my same first name in my grade,” he explained, his voice shedding it’s rough scrape as he went on, “so everyone calls me Jackson.” He looked away from Abby, embarrassed as his eyes blurred unexpectedly. “My mom was the only one that called me Eric.”
He felt her take his hand and wrap it gently in her own.
“I know that the last few years have been really hard. And maybe you’re tired of being in and around hospitals, but I really believe that you have a gift.” He looked up at her, caught by the sincerity in her tone of voice. “I want to help you use that gift to help other people the way you helped your mom.”
He breathed out heavily, trying to push out the emotion from his voice and failing.
“I didn’t - .” He stopped and swallowed thickly before continuing. “I couldn’t save her.”
Abby waited for him to look back up, her voice tender and soft.
“But you made sure that the last few years of her life were good ones.” She tilted her head at him, her expression sad and knowing. “We won’t ever be able save everyone, Jackson. But we can always make sure to take good care of people for as long as we can.”
He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.
“Ok,” he said quietly, “I’ll do it.”
She beamed down at him, her expression tender and warm in a way that made him want to look away again.
He didn’t, though; instead, he found himself smiling over at her. It was a small thing, rusty with disuse; but still - genuine, lacking the brittleness of the past few months.
“I’ll see you on Monday, Jackson” she said, giving his hand one last squeeze before she stood up.
He nodded and looked back down at his notes, watching out of the corner of her eye as she turned and began to walk away.
“Abby?” He called out just before she walked out of earshot. She turned around, walking a few steps back towards him. He bit his lip before giving her another close lipped smile. “I just wanted to say thank you. For this. Thinking of me. Believing in me.” He tapped his fingers along the spine of his notebook. “Do you - I mean - I think my mom would want this for me, right? I think she’d be proud.”
Abby smiles down at him, easy and kind like his mother used to.
“I know she would.”