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It’s a terrible, awful, no good shift.
It’s difficult, isn’t it? When you’re the one in charge of everyone. There’s little time to fall apart, even less time to worry about yourself. She has spent a whole day watching young children die and consoling students, and being chased around by Kiara asking Are you sure you don’t want to talk?.
When she gets in her car after shift change, Samira is so exhausted that she can barely buckle up her seatbelt. As she turns on the engine and pulls out of the parking lot, she glances up at the roof. Maybe she should have collected herself before going home, but well. Not bringing the job home is a feat easier said than done.
The idea of home used to mean something different to her. In fact, it meant little at all. Home was the place where you slept between shifts. It was the place where you washed your clothes and took a shower. It was a dingy apartment with no furniture or trinkets or anything that signified that a person really lived there. Samira used to dread going home. She would spend her mandated time off counting down the hours until her next shift or planted squarely in front of her computer, writing and rewriting the discussion section of her next research article.
As she makes the familiar turns into the quiet residential neighborhoods, she involuntarily feels her lips turning downwards and pinpricks behind her eyes. She’s in desperate need of a shower to wash off the events of the day and sleep to remove herself from this plane of existence.
Samira pulls into the driveway and turns the knob of the garage door. She growls when it doesn’t turn -- her husband refuses to leave this door unlocked. She fumbles with her keys and pushes the door open, her frustration melting away when she smells the delicious aroma of a warm meal. Samira turns the corner to see Jack in their living room, inspecting two different records. There are two wine glasses set on the coffee table, both sitting on matching Doctor and Doctor coasters. Jack turns around at the sound of the door shutting behind her, a wide grin stretching across his face.
He’s always extra cute at home, she thinks. Gray sweatpants slung low on his hips, a faded t-shirt that has been weathered over what is probably decades by now. Silver curls turning this way and that, short hairs lining his jaw and lips.
Home means something real, something tangible now, doesn’t it? Home is where you sleep, with your husband’s arm and leg thrown over you, as if he can’t function with more than an inch of space between the two of you. Home is where you fold your laundry together while discussing case studies, then ask your husband why he still owns the shirt that has a hole in it. I can sew, Samira, he’ll say. It’s a perfectly good shirt. Home is where your husband gawks at you when you step out of the shower in nothing but a towel to cover yourself. Home is Jack and his record player, and the place you count down the hours waiting to return to when you’re on shift.
“Hey, beautiful,” Jack says. “How was work?” Samira sets her keys and bag down and sighs.
“Don’t ask,” She replies. Jack frowns.
“That bad?” Samira doesn’t reply, just shrugs and looks away.
He studies her face for a moment, eyebrows coming together as if he can read her every thought. He probably can, she ponders, as he sets the vinyls down and starts moving towards her, arms open. Samira holds a hand up, stopping him, “I feel gross.”
She makes a beeline for the bathroom and immediately throws her clothes off. As she stands under the warm water, she feels a heaviness settling on her chest. Samira puts her head in her hands and swallows the weight down, trying to focus on scrubbing herself clean. She takes a deep breath, working the wash cloth across her chest. The parents of those children will be fine. Or maybe they won’t, but there’s not much she can do other than think of them occasionally. Her students will recover, but she doubts they’ll ever forget this shift. And Samira? Well, she’s home now -- it’ll be okay.
When she’s moisturized and in clean clothes, she enters the kitchen and watches as Jack stirs the pot on the stove. He turns the heat down and places a lid on the pot. There’s some song she recognizes from a Hits of the Eighties vinyl playing from the living room. She smiles as Jack glances into the rice cooker and gets hit with a wave of steam, frowning and wiping vapor from his face. Samira is worried for half a second before she hears Jack sigh at himself.
“Hi,” She says. He whirls around, eyes wide and cheeks reddening.
“You didn’t see that, did you?” Jack asks, eyes narrowing. Samira shakes her head.
“Of course not. But I should remind you of what you were probably taught in freshman year general chemistry,” Samira holds a hand out and makes a motion towards her nose. “Wafting only, Jack. Never stick your face into anything.”
Jack groans, moving around the kitchen island to embrace Samira. She chuckles when his arms are around her, pulling his face towards her gaze so she can inspect his cheek. Because even if she’s spent the whole day worrying about everyone but herself, she’s happy to worry about the man in front of her.
“I’m fine, love,” Jack says. He takes her hand from his face and places a soft kiss on her knuckles. He examines her face, gaze snagging on the bags underneath her eyes. Samira watches the wheels in his head turn as they lock eyes. Jack presses a gentle kiss to her lips before saying, “Dance with me, Samira.” He pulls her into the living room, planting her in the space between the couch and the record player. Jack brings her in close, completely engulfing her in his arms while he sways awkwardly to the rhythm of How my poor heart aches with every step you take. He’s never been the most graceful dancer (even when he had two feet, according to his sister), but it’s one of his favorite pastimes, nonetheless.
Jack’s arms around her are warm, and his lips are permanently attached to her temple. She can’t see his face, but she knows without a shadow of a doubt that his eyes are closed.
“You can tell me anything. You know that, right?” He says quietly. Samira nods, swallowing down a lump in her throat. She takes a short breath in and hiccups on a sob. Before she can stop herself, tears are streaming down her cheeks.
“I lost three children on shift today.” It’s all she says, because she knows with absolute certainty that Jack understands what she’s trying to convey. It was a horrible shift. Three children died on my watch. I had to console grieving parents and shaken students. I had to be stronger than I thought I had the capability of being. Can you pick up the pieces of me while I fall apart?”
Jack’s arms around her tighten, his lips against her temple press firmer. “I’m so sorry, love. I’m so sorry.” Jack strokes the back of her head, voice soft and soothing. “You were so strong. You can lean on me now.”
He probably meant it metaphorically, but Samira is burying her face into his neck, shutting her eyes and the world around them. Her entire weight is leaned onto him, but he holds her up easily. He’s always there for her to lean on, after all. She sniffles silently while Jack holds her and whispers sweet reassurances into her ear.
Jack doesn’t usually comfort her with stories of his own, even though she knows he’s had days when he’s been in this exact position before. Jack likes to listen, likes to hold, likes to uphold her more than anything. He knows she’s capable of handling it all on her own -- she doesn’t need advice. He knows that although Samira can carry the burden by herself, he wants to carry some of it for her. Somehow, he knows that what Samira needs more than anything is someone to hold her weight for a while, just a little while, and put the pieces of her back together when she feels like they’ve been scattered too far.
It’s this thought that has Samira’s sniffles quieting and the ache in her chest easing.
She pulls back from her solace in his neck to look at him. Jack gives her a dopey smile that accentuates the lines around his mouth; her lips turn up to mirror his.
“I’m sorry,” Samira starts, but he shakes his head.
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” He says. “I take my duties as your husband very seriously, Doctor Mohan.”
Samira laughs, wiping her cheek, “You’re so cheesy.”
Jack presses another kiss to her forehead and sways her to the Dolly Parton ballad playing gently from behind them. Samira takes his attempts at dancing a little more seriously this time, but for all she makes fun of her husband, she couldn’t locate a rhythm if it slapped her in the face.
She steps on Jack’s (bone and flesh) foot, and he grunts.
“Sorry,” Samira mumbles, but she can feel the lips against her temple turning into a smile.
“That apology, I’ll accept.” He says. Jack reaches a hand back to her hair and unclips the claw clip holding her curls together. He tosses the clip onto the couch and buries callused fingers into her hair, massaging her sore scalp from the day’s events. She closes her eyes at his gentle ministrations. Jack is warm and soft and the music is soothing. She feels the sharp edges of the day soften into something lighter, more compact, bookended with Jack's arms around her.
“Don’t fall asleep yet, love. We still have to eat.” Jack chuckles.
“Mhm.”
The music plays softly from the record player she bought him when they were dating. Samira remembers how Jack offhandedly told her over dinner one night that as a teenager, he had been deep into record collecting. His father had been somewhat of a collector, and Jack had picked up the hobby from him. He knew every song, every album, starting from the most famous artists of all time to the smallest, most niche indie bands.
Why did you stop collecting? Samira had asked. Jack released a broad sigh and shrugged.
Life got in the way, I guess.
Naturally, Samira spent the next two months researching the best record players, choosing one that was practical yet had excellent sound quality. Her research had told her to find one that wouldn’t damage records (she didn’t realize that could happen -- she grew up on tapes and CDs). The guy at the record store definitely made fun of her for that, but threw in some high-quality speakers at a discounted price to go along with the setup (after she told him to go get the rash on his arm checked out).
All the ribbing she’d faced from that guy had been worth it when she saw the look on Jack’s face when she gifted it to him for his birthday that year.
You remembered. Jack had said.
Samira, confused, said Of course I did. Because Jack had always remembered every single thing she’d ever said, yelled, or offhandedly mentioned.
But Jack, with tears in his eyes, shook his head, This is the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me, Samira. They were married within the year.
Jack hums quietly to the song. Samira glances up at him, his eyes closed, a small, contented smile taking full form on his face. She presses her lips to the smile lines at the corner of his mouth. His grip around her tightens, and his smile widens.
“Thank you,” Samira whispers, and just as she thinks his smile cannot grow any larger, she says, “I love you.” It’s a bit comical how, even after years of marriage, Jack’s ears turn pink every time she says the three words.
“I love you, too,” Jack responds shyly. “Let’s eat dinner, baby.”
Samira buries her head back in his neck, “One more minute.”
Jack chuckles, tucking a curl behind her ear, “Alright. One more minute.”