Work Text:
The only thing in your way is you; that is what reads on the sticky note attached to your notebook. Scribbled under is a mess of attempted calligraphy saying, “Message from your Dad.”
The whole thing feels insidious from the idiotic message seeped with deeper undertones than simple encouragement and the overly exaggerated fancy handwriting. She tries too hard, considering you’re already trapped. Nineteen years old, top of your class at Yale, and you couldn’t tell twenty-six from twenty-one at the club. You’d said “future doctor,” and she seemed to think of the future as a six-month waiting period.
What a fucking joke.
You head in and ace another exam. Your friends are idiots compared to you. Stumbling over anatomy and basic physics like they didn’t come from feeder schools and private tutors, though perhaps that’s the exact reason. They’re dumb, but they weren’t dumb enough not to notice a break in their condoms. Sometimes they even have good ideas, not medically, but socially. Like how you need a couple of shots to loosen up, after all, most doctors need to hold their liquor at those city hospital banquets.
You stumble in sometime around two, and you’d like to think you handle yourself with a bit of grace when she’s still fast asleep on the sofa with a highlighter and today’s paper with a small section folded over reading out, “Top Baby Names for 1969.” The only thing truly in your way was you, because every night would probably feel like this for the rest of your life.
*
Margot hasn’t the least bit of maternal instinct, something you hadn’t expected at her age. Sure, twenty-six wasn’t ancient, medical school had broadened your mind compared to the public opinion of the proper age to be married and have children, but she was supposed to be a lot of the things you weren’t. You weren’t expecting her to be so much like your father, a rather horrible thing to say, which is why you can’t tell it to anyone. They’d probably permanently stick you in psych rotations until you cracked and settled for a residency in family medicine or pediatrics, where all brilliant minds either go to die or where they melt into a mush of emotions.
She’s got this sickening dependence on you, not just as her newlywed husband but as the father of her child. You’d left behind the excited murmurs and proud demeanor in LA with your dad, who had treated you as some strange creature who’d lived off his land like a parasite most days and treated you as the Messiah for the rest. Of course, he’d loved you; that was most of the issue. He had a softness to him that made you sick with envy and a sense of disgust. Compassionate beyond measure, and so desperate in everything he would do that he would ache for the need for approval down to his bone. He’d had it so easy, a simple joke would get a room full of smiles, and his naivety was viewed as charismatic instead of infantile.
It’s no wonder you drink, you’re not cut out to be anything but a successful man. Successful men retain nothing but a room-temperature firm handshake and a mild smile that doesn’t crinkle the eyes unless you want something. You’re meant for surgery, for a reassuring smile and quick conversations in which your patients are so sure you can’t be anything but right that they’re practically handing you steak knives begging you to cut them open now . You’re meant to be trustworthy in the moment and thanked when it ends. You’re not the type to stick around for anything real, and you’re pretty sure you would hate it if anyone asked, anyway.
You’re the smart one from California with the blue eyes and perfect teeth. Your father is not a homosexual, and neither are you.
*
Your father had described Margo as “the wrong choice.” Probably because she wasn’t Julien Alfaro from down the street. But he’d also described medicine as the wrong choice, having nothing to do with talent or skill, is what he’d said that first time he’d let you take a sip of his wine. He’d describe you as cutthroat and calculating, and you knew he’d meant to sugar coat it, yet couldn’t find the replacements in time to catch up with his mouth. “I guess you’re not quite like me,” he’d laughed, and you decided that was a good thing because he’d put you through just about enough.
“Maybe the law would be best, hm? Something where you don’t have to be so personal.” You’d narrowed your eyes, “I can be personal.”
He’d woken up from his daze a bit, “Of course, you’ve got some charm, kid. But I mean, there’s some high-strung emotion involved in being a doctor.”
You hadn’t bothered to describe pride as an emotion, since this was something he was already supposed to know.
There’s a fresh coat of paint on and the neighbors politely wave when they walk past, because the blazing red faggot on the garage door is just a glossy fresh coat of ivory. Your dad has a way of getting out of things, and it’s maybe the one thing about him you admire.
*
You’re twenty years old for a total of two hours when he knocks on your door and hands you a gift for the baby as your present. “You didn’t need to fly down,” You say, your hands are cold and your voice is warm and concerned. You’ve been practicing with Daryl, trying to get that perfect mix of sympathy and professionalism when you deliver inevitable news. “Well, I needed to see him,” he exclaims, despite there being nobody to see just yet. He’s three months away and already jacking up your life, there’s another baby name right there, you think. Margot wants something ridiculous like Christian the Second or Daniel. “Jack,” you respond, and his damn eyes light up.
“Jackson?”
“Just Jack,” you reply, irritated. She picks a hell of a time to get up from her nap, “Ray! It’s fantastic to see you.” He hugs her, “You hadn’t told me you’d picked a name for the boy.” She glances over to you, incapable of truly doing anything , you think, scathingly. “Jack,” you repeat, and you shouldn’t expect her to read your mind, but sometimes it feels like the least she could do.
Her eyes light up, too, and you want to bury yourself under concrete. The two of them manage to set aside their differences and gush away about this spectacular child and his fantasy future. Margot describes him under this magical allure, which you think is half hormone-induced, half an appeal to your ego. Dad describes him as if he’s a shot at redemption, unlike his disaster son, the Ivy Leaguer in pre-medicine.
He isn’t even born yet, and you’re jealous of your son already.