A roll of memory

If you dream of me,

Like I dream of you,

In a place that's warm and dark

In a place where I can feel the beating of your heart.

"Clear." The chest jerks upward, moving with the paddles, like a magnet to an opposite charge. "Come on, Alan. Come on," he says under his breath. But the sound drones on, and the monitor screams a flat line.

He charges up the pads, rubbing them together, and goes again. "Clear."

And again. "Clear."

"Doctor…," the associate surgeon interjects.

"One more." And even though he's one of the best surgeons around and he's the one man Jack's inclined to call his best friend, he cuts him off, refusing to hear what he knows he's about to say. "Clear."

"He's not responding…"

"I can see that, Mark." He gets in his face, but his mien remains blank, composed, bordering on unfeeling.

He readies the equipment yet again. "Clear."

But the man's as stubborn as Jack is, or at least, he tries to be. Because he wants to be a friend to him and that means he has to make him stop doing this to himself, has to intervene before he's accumulated enough grief and guilt to drown himself in. "He knew the risks, Jack. We did what we could. You should…"

"I know what I have to do," he's able to say through gritted teeth.

His face is set, unmoving. "One. More." He doesn't even look like he's breathing.

He wants to step forward, physically restrain him and drag him out of the room. That's what best friends do after all; keep each other in line, give the other a good beating if necessary. But he assents, offers only a somewhat excessively heavy sigh to voice his disapproval. It's official, he thinks; there has yet a man to stumble into an OR that has a stubbornness to exceed, let alone to equal, Jack's.

"Clear." A second passes and there's no change. Jack takes a step back, hands still on the paddles, eyes unblinking, intent on the monitor's screen. A hand settles on his shoulder, pats him in earnest sympathy. But he doesn't flinch, just continues to stare at the monitor, waiting. Mark rethinks the whole drag-out-of-the-room idea but just then, as if Jack wills it to happen, with simply his stare and sheer determination, there's a hitch in the monotonous sound, a deviation in the straight line. The room, and everyone in it gets to breathe. Except Jack.

"We've got him back," he says to the assisting nurse, but maybe more to himself. "Heart rate is steady. Keep that blood going. Monitor him, and if there are any changes, anything at all, you come and get me. You hear me?" The nurse only nods, probably shun to silence because of his calm and yet unsettling outburst.

He exits the room, into the hall where the air is clear of the smell of death and looming failure. He sets out for the vending machine down the hall.

His hands dive into his pockets in search of a bill. He finds one and feeds it to the machine. He pushes the button for vanilla; he doesn't know why but he's feeling a bit adventurous tonight. He waits, and waits a little more, but the warm vanilla doesn't come. And maybe something finally snaps in that head of his, like a twig stepped onto accidentally, or maybe he just really likes vanilla, but he starts hammering the thing with his fists. "Stupid machine!" he mutters, a little louder than he wanted. The abuse continues for a little over a minute before a voice anchors him back to his rational self.

"Hey Jack." It's Mark and he reminds him of who he is – Jack Shepard, spinal surgeon, son of the former and deceased head surgeon. The name is heavy with expectations people had set up for him, his deceased dad for him and he for himself, expectations he's having trouble keeping up with lately. He realizes then just how absurd he might've looked, taking out his issues on the poor vending machine. He can feel the control coming back; feel his face harden a bit in awareness and composure. Oddly enough, he's not sure whether he wants to be in control.

"Hey." He moves away from the machine, and takes a seat on a nearby bench. "Something wrong?"

"Yes, there's something wrong." The man doesn't join him on the bench and instead has taken to leaning against the wall. "You saved another life, just two minutes ago," he informs him in a matter-of-fact tone.

"I know, Mark." He's trying to figure out where he's going with this: another lecture about the healing wonders of letting go or maybe just a pat on the back for the successful operation. "If I remember it right, I was there in the OR the whole time it happened."

"Then tell me why you're looking like someone just died." It doesn't come out as a question, but a statement, a fact. Jack wants to ask what he meant by that but he finds that he doesn't have the energy to argue.

"Just tired, Mark," he says, rubbing his temples as if to emphasize his point. "Just tired."

"Right." He looks as though he was about to say something more, but hesitates at the last moment, wary of his limits and Jack's. It's then that his face grows grim and sad but mostly frustrated because they weren't like this before, he wasn't like this before. Back then, he could say what he wanted to say to him without ever having to worry about overstepping his bounds. They used to have a good time, used to consider each other the best of company, having enough things in common to be able to talk, and laugh at the same worthwhile and idiotic things. He was his best man for his wedding; he, after chugging down enough wine that was needed to perform the task, even gave a toast for him and his wife.

But then the island happened and nothing was ever the same. In his first days back in civilization, Jack had acted as if the two previous years hadn't happen, as if the most mind-blowing tragedy of the century that had captivated the imagination of thousands was nothing but great pop fiction. Weeks into his old life, he had seemed normal – too normal – he talked about football, performed surgeries here and there, laughed at appropriate times, and even cracked a few jokes himself. But Mark was and is his best friend and a look at him by the port along with his band of island survivors that Monday afternoon, for the very first time in two years, told him that he wasn't the same man. For one thing, his face had anxiety written all over it, eyes shifting for one person to another, looking at everywhere and nowhere, like he was searching for something, or someone. That's natural, he'd figured then, because he was probably just taking in the new environment, the one with concrete pavement replacing the shifting sand he imagines he had gotten used to, the towering buildings in place of the coconut trees and the overwhelming mass of people - families swarming, wailing - for the practically deserted ambience of the island. But he'd also seen the looks exchanged between and among him and his newfound friends; the pensive stares, the curt nods and the pursing of lips, small gestures that made him feel that something wasn't right. Did he imagine it? Was it all just in his head? Maybe it just hadn't sunk in yet – the fact that Jack was after all alive, and was just living on some undiscovered island for the past two years. Or the fact that he's back, seemingly without so much as a scratch on him. The idea just seemed too crazy and maybe thinking about it got him pretty crazed as well.

The psychological test the survivors, Jack included, were obligated to take along with other tests right after the rescue chalked it up to one of the symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder – disassociation, detachment; he's been cut off from the real world, the doctor explains, thrown into a completely unfamiliar and unaccommodating environment and now suddenly he's back, sucked back into this world, caught unaware and unprepared. She had called them in, a handful of Jack's family and friends, to deliver the prognosis. Apparently, Jack and the symptom profile were a perfect fit. Isolates feelings about the traumatic experience – check. Avoids thoughts related to incident – check. Exhibits reclusive behavior – check. Mention of incident-related topics triggers high anxiety levels – check. The collective prognosis for the whole group was so strong that it was decided, under the counsel of the medical team, that their names were to be kept from the public, only to be released after a year and only on voluntary basis. She had further advised them that they should immerse Jack in his old life, surround him and remind him of what was life before the 'incident'. It was better for them not to press him for information, as he should be able to tell them things in his own time, she said emphatically. So he waits, and wonders when he'll break, and if he'll ever break. Maybe then, finally, he'll be able to share with him the island stories that changed him so greatly and irreversibly. Maybe then he'll let him in on what it is exactly about that island that has made him this way. Six years have passed since then, and there have been good times and worst times. But he is still waiting.

Now and then, in moments when he forgets civility, he has asked him flat out. Usually, all he gets for an answer is a shrug, a grunt, an equally vague remark like "It doesn't matter" or an effective but not-so-subtle diversion like "I'm needed at the OR." At rare times, when he finds him unguarded, he gets stories about failed raft attempts, bickering fellow castaways, bizarre medical emergencies and of course, often in great detail, his failed island surgeries. But because he knows Jack, in fact, has known him since 4th grade, he knows there's more, a lot more than what he's letting on. Now, he gets the urge to ask again. But he finds that, for the moment, he doesn't have the energy to. He makes a move to walk away. "I'll leave you to rest then."

But before he completely disappears out of sight, around the corner and into another long stretch of rooms, he realizes he can't just give up on him like that. "You have to remember, Jack," he says with all the sincerity he can muster. "You have to remember how doing good felt like." He gives him a curt nod and proceeds to walk away.

It's not that he can't remember, Jack wants to call after him and explain, but he holds back because, as usual, he worries that he might not be able to make him understand. Instead, he leans back, rests his head on the wall, and closes his eyes. In his mind, the memory has never been clearer.

He recalls the first day his father brought him to work. He was just seven then. Margo had to take care of some business so she got him to tag along with his father for the afternoon. It was a fairly boring affair: his father got to catch up on some paperwork and he got to sit quietly in one corner, doing the crossword puzzle. But later in the afternoon, his father got called into an operation to assist and somewhere along the chaos of a medical crisis, in a world of very focused and to him then, very tall doctors, his little body got swept into the operating room. For some gut instinct, he knew he wasn't supposed to be there, knew he'd be in big trouble when his father found out that he was there. But he also knew that he had this peculiar ability to disappear into a corner, sit in complete stillness so as to affect inanimateness.

So he stayed glued to the spot, motionless, as his father stood in the middle of the chaos, with what he thought to be the most unhurried and peaceful expression he's ever seen on his face, wielding a scalpel in his hand. His distance to the operating table allowed little to be seen even more so with the people working on the patient blocking his view. But every now and then, when chance permitted it, he saw him making careful, gentle slicing motions, and in his head, he sees the skin marked with blood, and the little knife delving deeper into the flesh. Suddenly he'd been reminded of this magic show his father had brought him to once for his 6th birthday. He'd never been to one before that, so naturally he went wild with the performances, clapping and cheering insanely. He remembers distinctly this act, where the magician appears to cut up a man with a sword and later, puts him back together. When the performance was over, and the man was standing, walking to show that he was, indeed, whole and alive, little Jack had sat slack-jawed in amazement, completely out of cheers and hoorays; he had made up his 6-year old mind that no one was ever going to top that. Later in the car, however, Christian had sat him down and explained to him thoroughly the rules of magic, how its very idea was rooted in illusion and false premises much like shooting stars, Santa Clause and tooth fairies. He remembered feeling really sad that day, curled up on the passenger seat, counting the light posts they passed by. At dinner, Margo had asked him about their day. He told her, of course, because he was taught never to lie. "We went to a magic show," he had proclaimed. And then proceeded to eat quietly because he was taught, too, that displaying one's sadness wasn't polite. She just smiled, promised a repeat visit and took the silence in a stride; Jack never was the talkative kid.

But that lone day in the operating room proved to him that his father was right all along – magic couldn't be real because this was. The knife, the blood, the thread and the needle. Those were real. And the fact that his father was the head magician was the coolest thing ever. He wondered idly if he could get his father to teach him his tricks. By the time a nurse spotted and promptly sent him out of the room with an urgent but reserved shove, he'd resolved he would do anything to make him. He never did get that private tutoring from his father. And later on, he'd discovered magic wasn't, in any sense, interchangeable with medicine.

But the basics are still there; he still thinks it's cool because he gets to deal with the tactile – the scalpel, the inches of tissue, the skin, the human body in theory which translates easily in practice – because those are the things he was equipped to deal with, nothing abstract and complicated like words, meanings, and intentions, things that he's inclined to mistake and misuse. He thinks it's even cooler because gets paid a hefty amount to do it. He thinks it's the coolest because he gets to help people in the process of doing it – lengthen their lives for years, sometimes, only weeks, sit by their bedside, talk to them about their future plans, in rare times, tell them about his, and maybe recover bits of his humanity while at it.

But another memory nudges him awake, makes every pore of his being breathe and every nerve stand in attention with feelings that has grown unfamiliar from lack of use.

He remembers her and how easily she made him feel good without ever having to do anything. Saving a life could feel as good as looking at her freckles that dotted along the slope of her cheeks; getting his hands tangled among the wild, brown curls of her hair; and sometimes, when she permits it, and only when she permits it, tracing his fingers down the contour of her lips. Happiness meant standing side by side in the sun, by the shore, feet planted into the warm sand, legs surrounded by dancing waves. Sinking, she calls it. He'd never tell her, but he calls it happiness. In the same way, he'd never tell her about passion. Never had he thought he'd describe anything involving him as passionate. He's admitted to being stubborn. But passionate? He thinks the word requires a certain fierceness and appetite, one that he believes he's only come close to when he's around her, thinking and talking about her. He relishes their conversations, thinks of them in boundless interest whether they be about the weather, boars, golf, anything. Maybe there lies the attraction – her infinite mystery, his equally endless curiosity. Either way, he's convinced he needs more than one lifetime to, at least, try to understand her. And even then, he can't promise he won't like, love what he discovers.

He remembers her, standing by the edge of the shore, looking to the horizon. The memory is crisp and strangely tactile; the sun beating on his skin, the salt of the sea air on his lips, the sound of waves flooding his ears, and the warmth of her, as he takes the place at her side. And for once in his life, he realizes, that he had something that he didn't need to work for. He didn't need to save someone to feel good. He didn't need to prove anything to anyone. He just had to let it happen. With her by his side, he could let go.

He remembers all of it, he wants to call after Mark and explain everything; but he can't put them into words because he's never been good at that. He wants to show it to him instead – a roll of memories tucked neatly into the seams of his consciousness, ready to be taken out whenever he needed to celebrate what he has and mourn for what he believes he has lost.