His eyebrows went up. Oregon Health and Science, he said slow, like he was tasting the words. That’s a real medical school. Then he looked at me. Maybe you’ll make something of yourself after all, Reneie. It wasn’t a compliment. Not really, but it was the closest thing to one I’d ever gotten from him.
And I held on to it like oxygen. Mom called Aunt Ruth that night. She called her sister. She called two neighbors. Irene got into medical school. Can you believe it? Her voice had a pitch I’d never heard before. Pride. Genuine, undiluted pride directed at me. At dinner, I glanced across the table at Monica. She was smiling, but it was the kind of smile that stops at the mouth.
Her eyes were doing something else entirely, calculating, measuring, recalibrating. I know that now. At the time, I just thought she was tired from the drive. That week, Monica started calling me more, two, three times a week. How’s packing going? Who’s your roommate? What’s Portland like? She asked about my schedule, my classmates, my professors.
She remembered every name I mentioned. I thought my sister was finally seeing me. I thought maybe my getting into med school had unlocked something between us. Respect, connection, whatever it is that normal sisters have. I was feeding her ammunition. Every detail, every name, every vulnerability, and I handed it all over with a grateful smile.
Third year of medical school. That’s when everything cracked open. My roommate, my best friend, was a woman named Sarah Mitchell. She’d grown up in foster care, no family to speak of, and she was the single reason I survived first year. When I called home once during a brutal anatomy exam week, and mom said, “Can’t talk, Reineie.
Monica’s having a rough day at work.” It was Sarah who sat on our apartment floor with me and said, “Their loss. Now get up. We have cadaavvers to memorize. Sarah was diagnosed with stage 4 pancreatic cancer in August of my third year. No family, no support system, just me. I went to the dean’s office the next morning, explained the situation.
He approved a formal leave of absence, one semester, caregiver status, paperwork filed, spot held. I would come back in January. It was all documented, all legitimate. I moved into the spare bedroom at Sarah’s apartment, drove her to chemo, held her hand in the oncology ward at 3:00 in the morning when the pain got so bad she couldn’t breathe.
I called Monica to tell her. I don’t know why. Maybe I still believed she was the sister she’d been pretending to be. I told her about Sarah, about the leave, about the plan to return in the spring. Monica’s voice was syrup. Oh my god, Reie, I’m so sorry. Take all the time you need.
I won’t say a word to mom and dad. I know they’d just worry. 3 days later, she called our parents. I don’t know the exact words she used that night. I wouldn’t learn the full scope of her lie until 5 years later when it unraveled in the one place none of us expected. But the damage, the damage was instant. The call came at 11 at night.
I was sitting in a plastic chair next to Sarah’s hospital bed. She’d had a bad reaction to the latest round of chemo, and they’d admitted her overnight. My phone lit up. Dad, your sister told us everything. His voice was flat, arctic, the dropping out, the boyfriend, all of it.
