Aspen watches me go with a curious look on her face, and I try my best not to read too much into it. Whatever she thinks she suspects about me is something I just have to hope she keeps to herself.
Outside, the mountain air feels suddenly thin, insufficient for my lungs. I feel like a old blanket with loose threads, unraveling further with even the smallest amount of tension.
I could call my mother. She might be able to overnight me a new bottle of suppressants and is probably the only other people in the world who understand the urgency.
But then I’d be inviting a lecture about being so stupid as to waste a nearly full bottle of suppressants in the first place. I just refilled a 90-day supply for this rotation. Plenty to make it through if I hadn’t let most of them tumble down a sink drain.
Though a lecture is probably better than putting my entire medical career at risk.
I get back in my car, glancing at the dashboard clock. Thirty-seven minutes left on my lunch break. Just enough time to make the call I’m dreading but can’t avoid.
I pull my phone from my pocket and find my mother’s contact. My finger hovers over it for a long moment before I press call, holding my breath as it rings.
“You have reached Mei Chang. Please leave a message.”
Straight to voicemail. A mix of relief and frustration washes over me. I open my mouth to leave a message when my phone buzzes with an incoming video call—from my mother.
Of course, my mother wants to video chat.
With a sigh, I quickly smooth my hair with one hand before accepting. My mother’s face appears on screen, her expression already set in that familiar look of assessment and mild disapproval.
“Holly,” she says, studying me closely. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” I answer automatically, my brain unable to keep up with the learned response to reassure her. “I just wanted to?—“
“Your eyes have dark circles, like you’re not sleeping. And you’re calling in the middle of a workday. Something is wrong.”
I force a smile, any intention of asking her about suppressants withering. “Everything’s fine, Mom. I’m just settling into my rotation. Thought I’d check in.”
Her eyes narrow. “This rotation is critical for your career, I hope you’re keeping that in mind. You can’t afford mistakes. Please remember that.”
How could I possibly forget when she reminds me during every conversation?
“I remember. I’m working hard.”
“Working hard is not enough. You must be exceptional.” She adjusts her perfectly styled hair. “Do you know what I would have given for an opportunity like this at your age?”
I brace myself for what’s coming next.
“When I was young, I wanted to be a doctor too.” Her voice softens for a beat, before she takes a deep breath and she is back in tiger mom mode. “I don’t have the options that you do now.”
The weight of her sacrificed dreams settles on my shoulders once again. It’s why she pushed so hard for me to hide my designation, to suppress my biology. To have the opportunities she never had.
She wants me to be grateful, even though she knows my options aren’t exactly perfect. I don’t hide my designation for fun, but because of how much it would hold me back if anyone knew. It isn’t technically legal to discriminate, but that doesn’t stop medical schools from shuttling the few omegas who make it through almost exclusively into gynecology or pediatrics or denying them residency slots for the flimsiest reasons that won’t trigger a lawsuit. Getting matched to a residency program is so competitive that it’s impossible to prove why any individual person wasn’t selected. And if they catch you lying about your designation, the true accusation of fraud is enough to justify kicking out any omega who gets caught.
Emergency medicine has an even lower amount of designation diversity than even surgery does. The traditional, old guard alphas who still dominate as medical chiefs and department heads will find any excuse they can to claim that an omega doesn’t have what it takes for the more demanding specialties. Not giving us time off class or clinical rotations for their heats because it would be unfair to our peers. Or claiming that having an omega doctor might be triggering for an alpha patient in a crisis are just a few examples that I’ve seen with my own eyes.
The day that my residency program discovers I’m omega will be the same one that they toss me out on my ass.
My voice sounds small even to my own ears. “I know, Mom.”
“You have everything I didn’t have. The right paperwork. The right medications.” Her eyes bore into mine through the screen. “You are taking your herbs like you’re supposed to, right? Two times a day, with an extra dose for the last week of every month?”
If only I’d accidentally trashed the foul-tasting herbal supplement she buys by the barrel-full from a TCM shop in Chinatown. She basically gave me a lifetime supply of it before I left for college and I have at least three extra bottles of it in my luggage. The stuff is completely unregulated, but it works better than anything else to hide my scent and ensure I present as a beta.
“I’m using the herbs every day, Mom. I promise.”
“Good. This a great opportunity for you. Don’t do anything to let it go to waste.”
