On Rotation(46)

“That’s your phone?” she said, clearly pissed that I had compromised the tranquil spa vibe. “It’s been going off for the last ten minutes.”

“Sorry,” I said, my fingers fumbling with my padlock.

“Next time, silence it before you leave,” she said, then throwing on her shirt, she walked out of the locker room with a huff.

I finally got my locker open, scrambling through my belongings for my still-blaring phone and feeling my stomach sink. My regular ringtone was a lot less abrasive—the Kill Bill sirens were assigned to my parents, at Nia’s suggestion. “It’s like a boss fight theme,” Nia had joked. “This way, you’re never caught unaware.” She was right, but she hadn’t considered the unfortunate side effect—I’d now Pavlov’ed* myself into an immediate panic at the sound. It was worse when my parents called like this, multiple times in a row, taking away any opportunity I might have to claim that I’d simply “missed them.” That almost always meant that trouble was afoot.

Just as my phone prepared to ring one more time, I gritted my teeth and picked up.

“Hello,” I said, settling back on my haunches.

“Angela.” It was my mother speaking this time, though I suspected that Daddy was hovering somewhere nearby. “How are you? It’s been a long time since we spoke.”

I just called you last week, I thought, and you chastised me about my waning reproductive potential and tried to set me up with Auntie Abena’s nephew.*

“I’m fine,” I said. “I’m actually out right now—”

“Oh, you can take five minutes,” she insisted, as if any conversation with her ever lasted only five minutes.

I busied myself by shuffling through my locker’s contents as Momma prattled on about the seamstress she had hired to sew our kaba* for Tabatha’s traditional ceremony, and then complained about one of her new hires, a woman named Felicia who had signed on for her caretaker job and immediately quit when she realized that she would need to clean up after her clients. I offered my typical assurances, humming when appropriate, asking for clarification, but careful not to offer my real opinions—The design you’re asking for is complicated, that’s why it’s more expensive. Felicia asked you about managerial positions during the interview, I don’t know why you thought she wouldn’t be prissy—and lulled myself into a false sense of security that this conversation would be benign.

“Anyway, how is your research project coming along?” Momma asked. “You’ve started it, yes?”

“Yeah,” I said. I could hear the sirens again, but this time they were in my head. “I finished the literature review, at least. I’m just waiting on Dr. Donoghue’s final comments.”

“Good, good,” she said. “You’ll have to work very hard, you know. Not like you did with Step.” I flinched. Here we go. “I was looking online, and it says that, to be an orthopedic surgeon, you need a very high score. You didn’t get that, so you’ll have to focus on research. This is a good start.”

“I have no interest in being an orthopedic surgeon,” I said.

Momma snorted, affronted. I could almost see her face through the line—chin tucked into her neck, mouth downturned in a frown.

“And why not?” she said. “They make the highest salaries. Why would you not want that?” When I didn’t respond immediately, she clucked her tongue. “You think when I came to this country I wanted to go around cleaning other people’s behinds? No! But we needed the money. All this time you are in medical school, are you going to throw it away to be, what?” She paused, considering. “A psychiatrist?”

“Maybe!” I said. A woman drying her hair at the counter met my eyes in the mirror, and I lowered my voice. “I don’t know. Can we talk about this later?”

“Fine,” Momma agreed. “But I want to make sure you have a plan. You’re almost finished with this first paper, then? What are you working on next?”

I hesitated. I could avoid the question, but Momma had her nose on me and would call me out. I could tell her that I hadn’t picked my next project, but then she would berate me for being unprepared.

Or you could hang up, Tabatha would say. But if I hung up, I would have to pay for my intransigence in pounds of flesh later. So, instead, I told the truth.

“Actually, I’ve been working on a research protocol for a new project.”

In spite of myself, I found myself describing the project in detail, going into depth about the interview questions that Dr. Reed and I had drafted, the intense IRB approval process, our proposal for funding that was due in less than a month. To my surprise, Momma didn’t interrupt, and as I spoke, I felt something warm and unfamiliar blossom in my chest. I was excited, I realized, and about research. Research had always been a means to an end, a thing to dip my toe in to get to the next step in my path, an activity done out of begrudging necessity. But here was a project that I had conceived myself, that had arisen out of a need that I had identified—

“Is this one of Dr. Wallace’s projects?” Momma said when I was finished.

I bit the inside of my cheek.

“No, but—” I started.

“Because it sounds a little . . .” Momma paused, searching for the word. “Fluffy to me. Why haven’t you picked one of the projects on her list? I think that would be better.”