After Afterall

15

I drink my coffee in the morning watching the news, waiting on the President's big announcement. The pundits are bantering back and forth, speculating on what policy or action the President might be rolling out as his first big moment as President. Of course they play video footage of his inauguration, which is better known as his shooting.

The ticker at the bottom of the screen makes mention of the President's shooter and his trial, which is to begin tomorrow. I wonder if the President's cabinet and aids wanted his news to come out the day before, maybe to distract us all. Either way, the events couldn't be better planned.

Derek steps up to the press room's podium with a few papers and a hopeful look. I haven't seen him in almost a week, but we are still planning something for the next few days.

"Good morning," he begins. "I've just come back from my first weekend at Camp David and the Vice President and I have been discussing just how to combat—"

My phone rings, distracting me from his speech. 911, OR 3, the page reads.

"I will be working closely with the UN to stop this terror," I hear Derek say and I step away reluctantly. I have to admit, I've never paid so much attention to politics in my entire life.

I spend the morning in the OR, tending to a teenager who was in a bicycle accident. Alex works with me, which is a rare treat. We're nearly never in each other's surgeries, so I soak up the time with him. I'm glad we both keep ourselves in check; I make no mention of Jo, who I've heard he's dating, and he definitely doesn't mention Derek.

After a few hours, our patient is on the road to recovery and Alex is on his way to notify the family. The OR board is clear for me until later this afternoon, and although I want to watch Derek's speech, I'd like to do that in the privacy of my own home—or at least away from the prying eyes in this hospital. I decide to take the afternoon to work on my research.

I'm not hiding the fact that I'm working on my mother's defunct diabetes trial from my mother, but I also haven't told her about it. She was pretty clear three years ago that she didn't care about the trial; she received her two Harper Averys for "more important" work and claimed "diabetes will never be cured, so why try?"

My mother's never been one to give up, so I've always believed she's felt really burned by her failure. I think that's why I haven't told her. Partially because I think I'll probably fail, too, but mostly because I think she'll be angry.

I have made some pretty radical steps in the three years I've been working on the trial. The first is finding a compound in the blood that can be found in both humans and mice who have diabetes, but not in pigs. The research has shown the opposite of what my mother hypothesized, which leads me to believe she either didn't have the means or the support years ago to go further into the research. Richard has been nothing but supportive, so everything I've needed has been handed to me.

The biggest accomplishment has been keeping the secret from my mother. That is until today.

I'm testing blood from a mouse when the door opens. The film isn't as clear as I'd like, so I'm really focusing. "Just a minute," I say to whoever just walked in. The interns have been particularly dumb lately, so I expect one of them to be hovering behind me to insert a central line or something equally easy. I take a quick note on a discrepancy in the blood and turn in my chair. My mother smiles at me and I know that smile.

"What are you doing?" she asks.

"Well," I pause. I could outright lie, but by now she knows what I'm doing. The set-up looks almost exactly how hers did. I remember seeing the pictures in the newspaper. "I'm working on a trial." She eyes me. "Your diabetes trial."