Happy Place(107)

39





REAL LIFE

A Monday


THE DAY I withdraw from my residency, I call my parents to give them the news.

They are, understandably, shocked. They want to fly to San Francisco immediately.

“Let’s talk this out,” Dad says.

“We can help you figure out what’s going on here,” Mom says.

“Don’t make any decisions until we can get there,” Dad says.

They have never once visited me.

The irony of it all strikes me then: working so hard to earn their love and pride, and it’s brought me no closer to them. If anything, I think maybe it’s kept them at a distance.

“I already made the decision,” I tell them. “I withdrew. But I’m going to pay back the rest of the loans myself. I don’t want you to worry about that.”

Mom starts to cry. “I don’t understand where this is coming from.”

“It’s out of nowhere,” Dad agrees.

“It’s not,” I say. “It’s taken me years to make this decision. And I already found another job.”

“A job? What job?” Mom asks.

“At a pottery studio,” I say.

“Pottery?” Dad sounds like I just pitched him a multi-level marketing scheme selling methamphetamine for dogs.

“You don’t even make pottery,” Mom says.

“I do,” I say. “But it’s not good. And I know that won’t look very impressive on the Christmas card, but that’s what I’m spending my time doing right now.”

“Then why are you wasting your time doing it?” Dad says.

“Because it makes me happy,” I say. “And I don’t consider anything that does that a waste of time.”

“Maybe you just need a break,” Mom says.

“I want a life,” I say. “I don’t love surgery enough for that to be mine. I want to sleep in sometimes. I want to stay up too late and take vacations with my friends, and I want to have energy to decorate my apartment and to try new things. I can’t do any of that when I’m this worn-out. I know that’s disappointing, but it’s my choice.”

“Harriet,” Mom says. “This is a mistake. One you’ll regret for the rest of your life.”

“Maybe,” I allow. “But if I do, that’s on me. And I swear, I won’t let it affect you.”

“Slow down,” Dad says. “We’ll come out there and figure this out.”

“You can’t come out here,” I say.

“We’re your parents!” Mom cries.

“I know,” I say. “And if you want to visit me in a couple weeks, I’d love to see you. But I’m not going to change my mind, and there’s no point in you coming to San Francisco right now, because I’m not even there.”

“What do you mean you’re not there? Where are you?”

Over the intercoms, an announcement rings out. My gate has been moved. “The Denver airport,” I say. “I have to go, but I’ll call you when I get in.”

“Get in where?” Mom says, her voice raising in a way it never has, not with me.

“Home,” I say, then clarify, “Montana.”

Another silence.

“I love you both.” It feels unnatural, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true, only that I’ve gone too long without saying it. “I’ll call you tonight.”

I get off the phone, drag my stuff over to the new gate, stopping for a Cinnabon and an iced coffee. When I slump down in one of the tearing faux-leather chairs, my phone vibrates with a text, and I ready myself for an impassioned lecture or a persuasive letter.

Instead, I find a message from Eloise. We’ve never been a text-for-conversation set of siblings.

Mom called me, freaking out, she writes.

I wince. I’m sorry, I write. Hope that wasn’t too stressful.

I watch her typing, but then she stops. I go back to systematically dismantling my cinnamon roll.

Then her reply buzzes: UR not responsible for Mom’s feelings. At least that’s what my therapist says. I just wanted to check in on you bc she’s convinced UR having some kind of breakdown. R U?

Eloise is the only person I know who texts in complete sentences, complete with punctuation, but still refuses to type out are or you. But that’s about the only part of that text message that doesn’t come as a shock.

I had no idea Eloise saw a therapist. Then again, I don’t know much about Eloise, period. We never speak this openly, and I’m weirdly touched.

It might be some kind of breakdown, I write. But the truth is I don’t think I ever really wanted to be a surgeon. I just liked making people proud. And the idea of the money.

Shit! she writes back, and for a minute nothing else comes through. Maybe that’s it, the end of our late-in-life sisterly bonding. Ten minutes pass before her next message appears.

I should probably tell U I resented U, bc I thought U were just like them, and so they always liked U more. Now I’m realizing how much pressure U must’ve felt, and maybe if we’d acted like sisters sooner, things could have been different. So this might not mean all that much, but for what it’s worth, I’m proud of U. And Mom will def get over this, eventually. She got over my bellybutton ring.