Undecided(94)

“So,” Byron says, peering at me over his wine glass. “You’re at Burnham, is that right?”

“I am.”

“My alma mater,” my father chimes in, uninvited.

Byron just glances at him before returning his attention to me. “What are you studying?”

“I’m undecided.”

“I thought this was your second year.”

“It is.”

My mom smiles reassuringly. “There’s no timeline for finding your way,” she assures me. “When you get there, you’ll know.”

Dad and Sandy scoff in unison.

“I’m sorry, Robert,” my mom says tersely. “Is something wrong?”

“Wrong?” he asks. “No, Diane, nothing’s wrong. Why would it be?”

“I—”

“Though there is a timeline,” he continues. “It’s four years. And each one costs a small fortune.”

I cut my turkey into miniscule pieces and try to avoid eye contact. Though my grades—and, for the most part, my behavior—this year have been much improved, I still don’t think they’d be thrilled to learn I’m newly evicted—or why.

“So what does one learn when they’re ‘undecided?’” Sandy asks, not unkindly. I’d really rather be eating under the table than having this discussion, but I recognize that she’s just trying to deflate the tense bubble blooming between my parents.

I shoot her a tiny smile and recap my classes from this year and last.

“That’s a very broad selection,” Byron remarks.

“She’s twenty-one,” mom says dismissively. “Not everyone knows what they want when they’re twenty-one. Sometimes you have to try on a few pairs of shoes before you find the ones that fit.” She looks proud of her analogy, but my dad rolls his eyes.

“She’s not Cinderella, Diane.” Then he quickly glances at me. “Though you’ll always be my princess.”

Now everyone rolls their eyes.

“I have an engineering degree,” he continues, undeterred. “Nothing wrong with that.”

Mom narrows her eyes. “You edit cookbooks. Where does engineering come into play?”

“It looks good on a resume.”

“You were a philosophy major in first year, and a biology major in second. You were undecided for quite a while, yourself, Robert. There’s no rush, Nora.” She pats my hand.

My dad scowls. “That’s easy to say when you’re not the one paying the tuition.”

“You’re the one who insisted she go to Burnham. Let her test the waters a little bit and find out what she really wants. When she’s ready, she’ll make her choice. Won’t you, honey?”

I shift in my seat and think of Crosbie. “Yeah.”

Dinner drags on interminably, and Sandy and Byron book it out the door as soon as they’re able.

“Well done, Diane,” my father remarks, bringing dishes into the kitchen.

“Me?” she protests. “You’re the one painting people into corners.”

“How? By hoping our daughter actually learns something at college? Is having some expectation of her really that ridiculous?”

“I’m right here,” I point out, standing two feet away with a stack of plates.

“You’re making her feel bad!” my mom snaps.

“She feels fine,” my dad retorts. “And maybe if—”

“Could we stop talking about how I feel?” I interrupt. “And maybe talk about how you two feel? For once?”

They freeze and turn slowly, as though just now remembering I’m here. “Nora, honey,” my mom says. “Everything is fine. We’re just talking.”

“Because we care,” my dad adds.

“You’re lying,” I say flatly. “To me. To each other. To Sandy and to Byron. To everyone. You’re stuck in this charade of pretending everything is okay because you think that’s the best thing for me, but it’s not. I’d really much rather have you be honest about everything, once and for all. Keeping this all bottled up is only making everyone miserable.”

“We’re not—”

“Just say it,” I interrupt before they can start to argue. “Tell the truth. Put everything out in the open. And if you can overcome it, great. And if not, that’s fine, too. It’ll hurt, but you’ll live.”

I’m still living, after all, and I’m tired of these tortured holidays. Tired of swapping sides of the duplex and making small talk with strangers and never having any turkey. To date my efforts to be different have involved a fair bit of lying—to myself, to other people. It’s time for the truth.

“I hate you, Robert,” my mother says finally. “I just really hate you.”

My dad looks stunned. “Diane! Nora is—”

“An adult,” she finishes firmly, if a bit sadly. “She’s an adult and just like she knows Santa didn’t bring any of those gifts this morning, she knows this whole ‘getting along’ charade is just that—a charade. And a dreadful one, at that.”

His mouth works, but nothing emerges until, “I suppose I hate you too,” he offers grudgingly. “And I hate this duplex. You never mow your side of the front yard and it always looks lopsided.”