I hadn’t prepared a speech. In fact, I’d been writing one for twenty-six years.
“It seems you’ve stopped using the word ‘resourceful’ as an excuse to exclude me,” I said. “It seems you’ll be attending my conference in December with the same enthusiasm you showed for Jessica’s presentations. It seems you’re creating something outside our family that makes up for the imbalance you’ve created within it.”
« Like what? » my mother asked.
“A scholarship,” I said. “In Grandma Mae’s name. Let’s fund it for first-generation medical students at Ohio State University or Detroit. For those kids who don’t have a Dr. Fleming to take them into a room with a table and say, ‘Sit down, this is for you too.’”
Jessica nodded. « And send out applications blindly. Don’t look for versions of ourselves. Look instead for who we were before anyone noticed us. »
My parents didn’t hesitate. They didn’t hesitate. My father picked up a pen. « We’ll do it, » he said. « We’ll start with the amount Mae had in mind, and even more. »
« Fifty-fifty, » said Aunt Patty, and she sat down to applaud first, as she always had.
After dessert—a chocolate mousse, superfluous yet perfect—my mother found me in the hallway where the club kept framed photos of past Nobel dinners. “I can’t make up for all the years I missed,” she said. “But I can be there for the next ones.”
« Then come, » I said. We embraced with the care of those building a bridge from opposite banks.
Autumn turned into a kind of insidious cold. Our Cohort A reached a significant milestone: the transplants integrated better with the drug therapy than our models had predicted. I reran the statistical analyses twice, then a third time out of superstition. With the p-values confirmed, I went to Dr. Fleming’s office without knocking.
She didn’t smile right away. She read. Then she exhaled. « Audrey, this is rigorous, » she said. « Not just good. Impeccable. You’ve left nothing to chance. » She straightened up, smiling now. « Prepare me a detailed outline of the manuscript for Monday. We’re not in a rush. We’re not hiding anything either. »
At midnight, I texted Jessica: Maths like me.
She replied: The cat in the psychiatric ward likes me. (He only likes liars and interns.)
In November, Jessica lost a patient she’d spent the entire afternoon with. This woman was kind, funny, the kind to save her best jokes for the nurses. She went into cardiac arrest an hour after Jessica left. My sister called me from the parking lot, her forehead pressed against the steering wheel. « My chest feels like it’s freezing, » she said. « I know it happens. I know it’ll happen again. But right now, I feel like I’ve triggered winter. »
« You showed compassion, » I said. « You kept someone company on a day when they needed a witness. That matters, even when the machines disagree. »
« Do you sometimes hate being so good at finding the right words? » she asked, a half-laugh catching in her throat. « Because I love it and I hate it at the same time. »
« I hate it when it doesn’t work, » I said. « We can hate it together and still use it. »
Thanksgiving felt like a civics exam. Our parents suggested Cleveland host, even taking care of the side dishes so no one would be stuck in the kitchen. Jessica worked until noon, I flew in at dawn, and Aunt Patty arrived with a pie that looked like it could unite nations. My mother had set up the place cards again, this time without any hierarchy, just the names in a circle.
After the meal, my father stood up, and for a moment I feared a speech. Instead, he held up a letter from the Ohio State University School of Medicine confirming the creation of the Mae Collins Scholarship for Equitable Medical Education. “We made the first payment yesterday,” he said confidently. “The fund will award two scholarships next fall. The evaluation will be blind. We recuse ourselves from the selection committee, except to sign the checks.”
Aunt Patty applauded. Jessica did the same, quickly and loudly, and I found myself joining my hands in the movement, because it was a gesture, not just a paragraph. It didn’t erase the photocopy on the college club table. It didn’t need to. It simply sparked something better.
That evening, Jessica and I were sharing the attic room where we had drawn up our first-year university program on sheets of paper. « Do you ever realize how close we came to not making it? » she asked, watching the radiator tick like an old clock.
« All the time, » I said. « And then I think back to what saved us. Not the camaraderie or the partying. The little things we sent each other in secret. »
« The coffee cups, » she said.
« The whiteboards, » I said.
« Cats, » she added gravely, and we both laughed until the attic was nice and warm.
In December, I gave the lecture that Dr. Fleming had marked on his calendar as a holiday. The Hopkins auditorium was packed with people who knew full well how risky it is to make any promising claims about childhood head injuries. So I was careful with my words, and my slides remained pristine. Halfway through, as I was explaining an anomaly in our preliminary data from the podium, I saw them: my parents, sitting side by side in the fourth row, their programs on their laps, like parishioners attending a late-night mass.
After that, my mother hugged me without a word. My father shook Dr. Fleming’s hand with the awkwardness of a man thanking a woman who had moved his daughters’ photograph. « She knew from the beginning, » said Dr. Fleming. « I just made sure the door was open. »
We took a picture near the Johns Hopkins University seal. In the first one, our smiles looked forced. In the second, Jessica arrived, breathless from a delayed flight and a memorable altercation with a boarding agent. She squeezed into the frame and made such a ridiculous face that we all burst out laughing. That’s the picture we kept.
The manuscript was taking shape like a bridge. Dr. Reyes polished my « Methods » section until it was flawless. Dr. O’Neal handed me a stack of critiques with this note: « I’m only this demanding when necessary. » We submitted the paper to a journal that had rejected me in my second year of medical school without even pretending to read it. Two months later, they accepted it, with revisions that felt more like physical exertion than punishment. When the paper was published, the lab brought cupcakes, and someone stuck a paper crown in my hair. I sent the link to Jessica.
She sent back a photo of a treatment plan she had developed for a teenage girl who hadn’t smiled in months. In the photo, the patient was smiling.
Spring had crept insidiously into town. One afternoon, Elaine knocked on my door, this time inviting me to a block party. On the agenda: folding chairs, a barbecue, and five heated arguments about the Orioles’ relief pitchers. She asked me what my sister did for a living, and when I told her, she exclaimed, « Two doctors in the same family? Poor parents! Did they even make it through the recruitment process? »
« Barely, » I said. « They’re learning. »
Jessica came to visit me in May. We strolled along the waterfront and debated the best crab cake as if we were locals. In my kitchen, we ate takeout from a restaurant that, on paper, shouldn’t have been good, but was. We didn’t talk about our parents until after our second glass of wine.
« They’re different, » Jessica said. « Not completely, not magically. But they’re learning to celebrate without declaring a winner. »
« They didn’t do it for us when we were children. »
“No,” she said. “But they’re doing it now for the children who will receive Mae’s scholarship. Maybe that’s what true redemption is. Not an artifice. A natural process.”
We toasted to functionality. The next morning, she left me a Post-it note on the fridge: « You don’t have the right to forget that you’re also funny. » Then she drew a stick figure holding a pipette like a sword.
A year after the rooftop party, Detroit Medical Center held a research day for interns. Jessica presented a paper on integrating brief psychotherapeutic interventions into emergency room processes. My parents were sitting in the front row. When a senior physician tried to attribute Jessica’s results to « family advantages, » my mother—my mother—raised her hand and declared, in a clear, calm voice, « Or perhaps to Dr. Collins’s talent and tenacity. »
Jessica told me the story later, as if she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. « Our mother, » she said, « talking about me being brave. »
« Perhaps she has finally understood the meaning of that word, » I said. « That’s no reason to abandon a child who is resourceful. It’s an admirable quality in a child who succeeds. »
That evening, back in Baltimore, I went to the waterfront and called Dr. Fleming. « I think my family and my job are both undergoing a major overhaul, » I told him. « And for once, I’m not annoyed by these changes. »
She hummed, a sound that resembled a smile. « Good. Keep your versions under strict control and your heart curious. »
The day the first two Mae Collins Scholarship recipients were announced, Aunt Patty texted everyone a picture of herself holding the letter like a birth certificate. One of the scholarships went to a student from Toledo, the first in his family to earn a college degree, who had worked nights in a warehouse during his studies and yet still made the dean’s honor list. The other scholarship went to a former paramedic from Flint who, in his statement of purpose, had spoken about the importance of confidence and genuinely believed in it.
My parents did not include their names on the fund’s press release. They did not attend the photo shoot. They mailed their checks and sat in the audience at the small ceremony, applauding like everyone else.
Afterwards, my dad sent me a selfie via text message, his thumb accidentally obscuring half the lens. His message simply read: « For Mae. For you girls. For the children. » I saved it anyway.
On the last day of my internship year, Dr. Fleming closed his office door and said, « I’m going to say something scary, then remain perfectly still while you react. Ready? »
« No, » I said. « Do it anyway. »
« You should stay, » she said. « Not as an associate researcher, but as a junior professor. The department will defend your position if you defend the work. You have built something here that wants your name on it. »
My heart has undergone a small but precise revolution. « And what about the usual rule of letting things grow? »
She nodded. « It’s a good rule. It’s not a law. Sometimes you grow up and now it’s time to build. »
I walked around the campus for an hour, taking the paths where I knew the terrain and where I could feel the work beneath my feet. Then I called Jessica.
« Stay, » she said immediately, as if we were hesitating between two dresses. « Do what will allow you to fully blossom. »
« Even if it means Baltimore rather than being near home? »
« Especially back then, » she said. « People prioritized proximity. Now, they prioritize the destination. And besides, I like Southwest. »
I burst out laughing. « I’ll say yes to Dr. Fleming. »
« And I will tell my superiors that if they do not approve my request for leave for your first conference, I will diagnose them with an adjustment disorder. »
« Psychiatry seems so benevolent until it is used as a weapon, » I said.
« Everything seems benevolent until the sisters use it correctly, » she said, before hanging up.
The day before I signed my teaching contract, I opened the drawer where I had kept my mother’s note from that first week in Baltimore. I placed a new note inside: a copy of the magazine’s acceptance letter, a printout of the scholarship announcement, and a candid photo of Jessica and me, our heads tilted back, laughing like two people who finally know how to share a picture.
I thought back to the banner that once mentioned only one doctor, to the photocopy that had plunged a room into silence, to the harpist who continued to play, because music has this power: it endures. I thought back to those surprises that appear like knives, and others like keys.
The next morning, at the signing, Dr. Fleming handed me a heavy pen. « Don’t let your family history become your thesis, » she murmured while the department head spoke with someone else. « Let it remain what it is: a chapter that taught you where to place your hands. »
I signed. The pen felt heavy, not exhilarating.
Later, outside, under a sky so bright it looked freshly washed, my phone buzzed: a family group message. It was a photo: our parents, standing by a display case in the Ohio State University library, gazing at a new exhibit. Inside was Mae’s brown paper envelope, a photocopy of her letter, and beside it, a plaque: « In honor of equality sought and equality restored. Established by the Collins family. » Aunt Patty’s caption read: « For posterity and for posterity. »
I felt a pressure that had held me back since I was seven, when Jessica was almost seven, and our mother had said, in a kitchen whose smell I can still recall, « She just needs you more. » Perhaps she was right. Perhaps she still needed you sometimes. But now, I, too, could need something, and be fulfilled.
That evening, I walked along the inner harbor and called Jessica. « Ready for the next scandal? » I asked her.
« Always, » she said. « But let’s start with dinner. Forget salmon and repentance. I’m thinking more along the lines of crab cakes and forgiveness, with fries on the side. »
« In equal shares, » I said.
« Equals, » she said, as if in prayer, and her voice softened like summer.
Epilogue, a bit rambling but sincere: the lab welcomed a second cohort. Our article generated enough insightful feedback to allow us to improve. The Mae Collins scholarship funded four students the following year. Jessica learned to sleep an hour and a half as if it were eight hours and to distinguish a crisis from an emergency in her own body. Our parents learned to be present and to leave the microphone on the table. Aunt Patty always carried lipstick in her bag, prepared for any eventuality.
During a small ceremony in an amphitheater where the smell of coffee lingers no matter the hour, I thanked the people who had entrusted me with the reins: Dr. Fleming, who taught me that excellence without humanity is just a paperweight; Jessica, who taught me that parallel lines eventually meet when you draw them long enough; Mae, who believed in equality as much as the air you breathe; and even my parents, who taught me – too late, but in time – that reparation is not a speech, but a series of actions.
When the applause died down and the room returned to its usual hubbub, I went back to the lab. There was work to be done and someone to serve. I put my hands back in place and resumed my activities.
See more on the next page
Advertisement
