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.
