Page 25 of Brainwashed
I take a longer sip, then shrug. “Who knows. Maybe never.”
I’m not sure what about visiting my parents turns me into a petulant teenager again, but if I were puttingmyselfon the chair, I’m sure I could come up with a few theories.
My mother scoffs. “That’s preposterous, Lemuel. Everyone needs to settle down eventually. Don’t you want a family?”
I finish my glass.
Fortunately, going mute stops them from harassing me about Gabrielle, at which point the conversation turns a bit more… stale. We talk about their work, all the benefits and fundraisers they’ve been attending and hosting. My grandfather talks about how well Harold is doing in Baltimore, getting ready to retire and send his children off to med school.
And I steer clear of talking about my work, since it will just earn me those infamous looks of bored disappointment. Unless I’m mentioning pharmaceuticals, which they can always get on board with.
It’s all so… Predictable.
The only plus side is that my mother cooked, which doesn’t happen often. She’s a great cook, but she’s very busy, so she saves her skills for special occasions, which I guess tonight is. We all sit around the table, and she serves us roasted chicken, baked macaroni casserole, collard greens and pigeon peas… It reminds me a lot of my grandmother. These were her recipes.
One silver lining to coming home.
“So what’s the retirement status?” I ask in between bites, knowing this is a hot topic for my parents, and it should keep them off of me.
“You know, I could retire now,” my father says with pride.
“So could I,” my mother mumbles under her breath.
He ignores her. “But I don’t want to leave the hospital. The work is so rewarding.”
Internally, I’m rolling my eyes. Just like I used to when I was an undergrad and my father would drone on about howrewardingit was to be an OR surgeon.
My work is rewarding. Forme.
Isn’t that the point?
“When do you think you’ll pull the trigger?” I prod some more, forking at macaroni. “I mean, I know people in their sixties who would kill to retire, pension or not.”
“Yes, well, those people don’t love what they do, Lemuel,” my mother butts in, and my eyes dart to her while I struggle not to glare. “This is why we’ve put so much stock in finding the best possible career. This country is made up of so many people who are miserable. It’s depressing.” She pauses for a moment to sip her wine. “I’m sure you can relate. You treat many of them.”
Oh, right. Because I forgot, Mother… All I’m good for is prescribing Xanax to bored housewives.
I reach for my glass and drain it once more.
“Lem, what happened with Gabrielle?” my grandfather asks. “She was a good girl.”
“We weren’t compatible,” I mumble.
“Be straight with us,” my father demands.
Sucking in a long pull of air, I sit back in my seat. “She ended it. She said we wanted different things, and I have to agree.”
Everyone is quiet for many ticking seconds, heavy with tension.
“I guess families aren’t for everyone…” My grandfather sighs.
He’s always been the more understanding of the lot of them, definitely more so after his wife passed. Maybe growing old makes you soft. But my father is in his sixties and he’s got no chill.
“That’s ridiculous,” dear old Dad adds, shocking no one with his opposition to that statement. “What are you going to do? Just whore around with various women? You’re our only son, Lemuel. You have a responsibility to give us grandchildren.”
“God, this is so stupid,” I breathe, reaching forward to grab the wine bottle and pouring myself more. I take a large gulp, then aim my glare at the both of them. “You should’ve had more kids, then.”
My mother is gripping her napkin visibly hard. “Yes. I suppose we should have.”
