And now here I am, listening to my sister—the sister who has, for my entire life, sat on her high horse and gone on about howhercareer was the only worthwhile pursuit—whine about how she had never wanted to pursue that career in the first place.
I can’t help myself; I start laughing even though nothing is funny. Before I know it, my entire family is staring at me like I’m a loose cannon. Maybe I am.
By the time I’m done, my sister is silent, her tirade paused, if not over.
“Drop out,” I tell her.
“Excuse me?” Sierra says.
“Drop out of medical school if you’re so unhappy,” I say as evenly as I can manage. “If you’re only there to please Mom and Dad, well, that’s just pathetic, isn’t it? You think my life waseasierbecause I had you as an example?Everythingin my life was harder because all you think about is yourself. All you talk about is yourself. And all you care about is yourself. And now you’re pissed because I have the audacity to take control of my own life? Get over yourself.”
Everyone is wide-eyed at my tirade. In the wake of it, I feel a little guilty. I know it’s not actually pathetic to try to please your parents—I did it too, didn’t I?—and then I feel more guilty because Sierra is so young. I’m not ranting at my older sister, I realize; I’m ranting at a young woman a decade my junior.
But no amount of logic can erase the resentment I feel at being called selfish yet again. Selfish if I don’t become a lawyer; selfish if I become the wrong type of lawyer. I feel like I might burst from the emotions rushing through me, and I think of what Kimiko said about an older mind still being subject to the hormones and mood swings of a younger body.
Sierra storms out, and my mother follows.
With just the two of us left at the table, my father asks, “Was that necessary?”
I think about the years of silence. Of resentment. Words left unspoken or words that, when finally spoken, were thrown like barbs. And, sure, my rant was harsh, but there was truth in it—a truth I never dared to speak out loud until now, just like Sierra never spoke her truth the first time. Maybe that will make a difference.
Ihopeit will make a difference. I hope that, in being honest with each other, we might be able to find common ground. Straighten the bend before it becomes a break.
Or maybe it’s more akin to when doctors intentionally rebreak bones and realign them so they can properly heal.
I resolve to find a more mature way to talk with her, to try to make sure the distance that once existed between us doesn’t form again. Tomorrow.
“Yeah, Dad. I think it was.”
22
I try to apologize to Sierra, but she finds a way to change the subject every time. Eventually, I give up. I can’t force her to talk when she doesn’t want to.
Unfortunately, I also can’t force hernotto talk when shedoeswant to.
“So you’re just gonna, what, mooch off Mom and Dad for the rest of your life?”
“I didn’t say that.” I snort. We’re in the living room watching TV, and she keeps making comments like this. Like in deciding not to become a lawyer, I’ve decided to forgo all ambition, period. “There’s a whole world of possibilities between a doctor or lawyer and a deadbeat.”
“But you don’t have a plan.”
“I have time to make a plan.”
“Mom and Dad are going to get old, you know. They’re going to need someone to take care of them. I’m not going to handle that all on my own just becauseyou’drather be useless.”
What is this specific shade of sadness? Not quite guilt; not quite regret. Like nostalgia for a future I’ll never get to live. How old did my parents make it to? Did Sierra have to take care of them on her own?
Did she resent me for dying?
Instead of responding, I open my phone. I have a text from Alex. I seem to always have one—the two of us text back and forth nonstop—which grounds me in reality and reminds me that a whole world lies beyond these four walls and my toxic family.
He’s in New York, dragged there by his mom and sister for Black Friday shopping.
Yesterday, he got roped into making tamales. He complained the entire time, but I reminded him that he got to eathomemade tamales.
My family is strictly an order-tamales-from-restaurants family. My mom doesn’t really cook anything from scratch, least of all something as time-consuming as tamales. I’m not mad about it, considering the last thing I want right now is to spend hours in the kitchen on an assembly line with Sierra, spreading masa and adding filling and folding.
Our Thanksgiving meal was takeout from my parents’ favorite restaurant because my mom tried to make a turkey once when we were kids, but the whole thing was still frozen by dinnertime, and she refused to ever try again.
