“Their loss. Now get up. We have cadavers to memorize.”
Sarah was diagnosed with stage four 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 three 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.”
Three 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 five years later, when it unraveled in the one place none of us expected. But the damage, the damage was instant. The call came at eleven 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.”
