Page 9 of Dr. Intern

Helen smiles warmly, pulling up an iPad with examples of dress shapes on it. She points to an image. “This is an A-line gown. It has a fitted bodice, but flares out slightly.” Her eyes narrow as she fixes her gaze on Cassidy, assessing her for a moment. “I think your sister is right, though. A mermaid silhouette might be a better option for you.”

I dramatically turn my head to Cass and stick out my tongue.

Told her so.

“But will I be able to walk?” she asks, letting out a nervous chuckle. “I’m imagining an Aquamarine kind of situation, where I’m bound to the bathtub all night.”

Helen laughs, her perfectly bleached teeth showing. “No, honey. There’s lots of variations on the dress.” She pulls up another picture on the tablet. “See how the tightness stops after her hips? You can boogie all night long.”

I cringe—this lady is probably old enough to have danced in the ’70s, but I have to admit, she knows what she’s talking about.

“Now, what about fabrics?” Helen asks, her attention shifting back to Cassidy.

Cass hesitates before answering. I know she’s out of her element. If it were up to her, she’d probably just order something online and call it a day. But over time, I’ve nudged her out of her comfort zone and convinced her to embrace her style.

And you know what?

She looks absolutely amazing when she does.

Today she’s rocking light-wash jeans, a fitted white bodysuit, and sneakers. I like to leave things better than I found them, which in Cassidy’s case wasn’t hard considering her wardrobe when we met included stuff she’d owned since high school. Not that there’s a problem with that, but nobody looks good in low-rise jeans. Nobody.

“I think we should pull multiple options,” I suggest, taking charge. “But definitely one that’s sparkly, one that has feathers, and one that’s got both.”

My mom chimes in, her voice soft. “An all-lace dress, and a satin option too, please.”

Helen nods, jotting notes down on her tablet. “That sounds like a great starting point ladies. Feel free to browse the store while I pull some dresses. Cassidy, could you please come with me?”

Cass shoots us both a hesitant small smile as she follows the sales associate to the dressing room.

Once they disappear, I can feel my mom’s eyes on me. Turning my head dramatically, I offer, “Someone had to take charge!”

She sips her champagne, a bemused expression on her face. “I didn’t say a word, dear.”

“You didn’t have to, Mother.”

Mom sighs, reaching out to intertwine her cold fingers in mine. “You know that I love everything about you. You march to the beat of your own drum, and have always been the liveliest of my children.”

The champagne must have loosened my tongue because I ask, “You don’t ever wish I was more like Parker or Caroline?”

She scoffs, closing her eyes for a moment. “I hope you don’t really think that, Claire.”

I just shrug in response. There’s no point in pretending with her—she can see right through me.

I’ve always felt like the odd one out in my family—the black sheep. Parker and Caroline are reserved, controlled, and impenetrable, while I’m spontaneous, filterless, and sensitive. I’ve tried my hardest to appear like them on the outside, only allowing my true personality free in private. But it’s exhausting always trying to be who you think other people want you to be.

Mom squeezes my hand, her eyes searching mine. “Want to hear a secret?”

For some reason, the pesky ball in my throat has returned, and all I can do is nod.

“When I was pregnant with you, I prayed that you would be just who you are. Someone outgoing. Someone who takes risks. Someone who carries a childlike enthusiasm for life.”

“But why?” I croak, desperately attempting to hold off my tears. Our family never talks about emotions, so this conversation is completely unexpected and slightly uncomfortable. “Parker and Caroline are perfect. They fit the mold of who you wanted us to be so much better than me.”

She gently kisses my hand, her touch filled with regret. “Claire, you are perfect in your own way, and I regret not making that clear to you.” There’s a wistful tone in her voice as she continues. “I’ve recently realized how much you change yourself in public compared to when you’re with us. That was never my intention, and I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like you had to dim your light.”

“Well, you never outright said it . . .” I whisper, almost to myself.

But it’s true—there was always this unspoken expectation to conform. At school and in public, I was often reprimanded for being too loud or too expressive. Home was the only place where I felt free to be myself.

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