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She looks surprised. “To Elise? This is a very coveted position, and you’re the eldest child. It’s your position to lose, dear.”
“Like I said, I don’t want it. Elise will flourish though, I’m sure of it.”
Mom isn’t convinced. “This is a family business, and it’s going to be passed down to our eldest, which is you. I can’t force you to take the internship, but it’d be a stupid decision to let the opportunity pass you by.”
“I’m just not interested,” I say more forcefully.
The stubborn look on my mother’s face lets me know that this fight isn’t over, but she moves on and changes tactics, and for the second time in an hour I'm subjected to a lecture about how I need to go to therapy. Which, maybe I should, but it still isn’t going to happen. My life is private. My heartbreak too. I’m not sharing it with any stranger.
“If you’re not willing to be proactive about your future career, then you at least need to see a therapist for your mental state. Sitting around and ignoring it isn’t going to help you heal.”
“Mom, I don’t have time for this nonsense. I have to study, I can’t be doing a ton of extra stuff that is going to negatively affect my grades.”
“It’s just one appointment a week–” she insists, but I cut her off, which immediately makes her angry.
“I said no. I’m not going to reconsider. Please leave me alone about this so we can enjoy lunch together, Mom.” I try to make my voice authoritative, but the bad thing about trying to tell my mom to stop doing something is that she’s still seeing me as a little boy, not a full-grown man.
The server comes by, dropping the meals off in front of us. She’s ordered me a salmon quinoa rice and veggie bowl, and I find myself really missing my cold pizza at the sight of it.
“Andries, your father and I are paying for your school and your very comfortable living space, so I’m going to have to insist on an ultimatum. Either you go to therapy, or you take the internship. It has to be one or the other.”
Pushing around the food in the bowl, I try to formulate a response that will get her off my back as soon as possible. It’s pointless, though, because I can feel her eyes locked onto me like lasers. Finally, I sigh, and drop my fork, knowing that there is no way out of this ultimatum for me.
“Fine. Fine! Can I at least have time to think about it?”
She hums in thought. “Okay, a few days, but nothing more.”
“And I get to pick my own therapist,” I add.
She shakes her head at this. “No. I have a very good one in mind that can even make house calls. If you decide on therapy, that’s who you’ll be using.”
I get a sinister feeling from this statement. A therapist is definitely more palatable than taking on a business internship as an English major, but confidentiality would be a must, otherwise I’d just have to lie even more than I already am. If my mom is insisting I usehertherapist, then that means the therapistwould be compromised, and reporting everything back to her the moment I leave the office. I look up at my mom, feeling a sadness settle over me. It might be somewhat about my mental health, but this is also just another way for my mom to keep tabs on my life when she isn't around. And a way for her to discover my most private secrets.
I’m royally screwed. I can’t believe she’s doing this, but I shouldn’t be surprised. The way everyone turned on me as fast as lightning once it came out that Roxanne was an escort has taught me that reputation matters more to some people than anything else in the world. My mom must want those secrets of mine so she can stop me from making another mistake that could potentially embarrass the family. She isn’t worried about my heartbreak, and my depression. Only about the way it affects her reputation.
I stab my fork into my salmon with more force than I intend to when I answer her. “I’ll let you know. It will probably be therapy, but give me some time to make up my mind for sure.”
Having gotten her way, the sharp look leaves my mother’s expression, and she goes back to eating her veggie bowl. “Wonderful. I’m positive this will help you. I know it sounds distasteful, but we all need someone to talk to sometimes, right?”
Out of words and energy for the moment, I simply nod. Mom accepts the short answer, and we eat in peace, changing the subject to more innocent topics like my young sisters and some of the plans for my father’s birthday party. If the whole lunch was like this, then I wouldn’t have dreaded it so much, but I knew from the moment she sat down that Mom was going to try to get something out of me.
And like the lioness she is, she succeeded, and I’m left here eating salmon as if I haven’t been bested, talking to her like shehasn’t just forced my hand yet again. How long will she refuse to let me live my own life, I wonder?
It’s a little past 8 p.m. when the third woman of the day decides to come and harangue me, this time in my own home.
Elise hits the buzzer three times, even though she knows the code to enter, so at least I have the illusion of choosing whether to let her in or not. I know that she will just let herself in if I don’t do it for her, so I pull myself up off my couch, scrape my forearm over my mouth, and let her in.
I’m not thinking clearly, because if I was, I would have at least hidden the whiskey bottle before doing so. Now, though, she pushes past me as soon as she comes in, plucking the nearly empty glass vessel, shaking it in front of me like you would a shoe to a dog that had torn it apart.
“Here on the orders of Mom, I’m assuming,” I drawl.
“You’re damn right I am, and now I can see why! You’re drunker than a skunk, and you’ve drunk nearly an entire bottle of whiskey, Andries! How are you even upright?” Elise screeches.
I look at the bottle she’s shaking in my face, somewhat relieved that I had at least picked up a midrange bottle of the stuff from the liquor store instead of more rotgut from the convenience store. It’d only add insult to injury to be busted drinking cheap booze.
“I’ve been nursing it for a whole week, calm down,” I say dismissively, but Elise is having none of it.
I watch in mute shock as she goes to my garbage can, digging out a paper bag that had housed the whiskey bottle earlier,plucking off the receipt that was stapled to it before comparing the receipt with the bottle.
