Stuck between a rock and a hard place

“You never call me anymore,” My mom exclaimed in her broken English, squeezing me tight the second she saw me turn the corner onto the street. Her hands were small and bony, but gripped my shoulder tightly, giving me a kiss on the cheek. I returned the hug, my arms looping around her lower back before gently untangling myself from her. Not that I didn’t mind the hug, but the humidity during a Boston summer lent itself to minimal physical contact and putting a distance between you and the next person as if we were still in quarantine mode. 

“What? I call you once a week, Mom.” I responded in Chinese, throwing an arm around my dad’s shoulder in greeting. His hand patted my back, his feeble version of a hug, but the force of his normal pat still knocked the breath out of me slightly. He let out a soft chuckle under his breath. My fluency in Mandarin was slowly deteriorating, but replying in my parents’ native tongue allowed me to practice my pronunciation while also making them feel more comfortable responding to me in only Chinese. 

“Not enough.” A firm retort on her part. “One call for twenty minutes once a week. I want to speak with you longer than that. And when are you coming home again? Last time you came home for two days. Not long enough. Auntie said that Cindy came to visit for almost two weeks. Can’t you do that?” My heart compressed in my chest, out of both annoyance and guilt. I took her arm, breaking my unspoken physical distancing rule,  and led her down the street towards the restaurant. My dad trailed behind on his phone, surely trying to deal with something at the church. Or watching sports. 

“Who’s Cindy?” I squinted my eyes, trying to place the random name in my head to a person I was supposed to know. “And okay. I will call you more during the week. But I won’t be able to come home for a couple of weeks, I already made plans with friends. Besides, I was just home last weekend.” The words sounded bitter coming out of my mouth, even without malicious intent, but I couldn’t seem to bring myself to respond in a different tone. My apology also escaped me, getting caught in my throat. 

“It’s okay,” my mom waved her hand in the air as if swiping at an invisible fly. “I know you’re too busy for Mom and Dad anymore. Just call us more.” A wave of something harsh came over me, and it wasn’t the sweltering heat of the sun. Anger, some, and sadness, but mostly guilt. Home was only an hour bus ride away. I could make that trip more often. I made a silent vow to try to visit home more frequently. 

“How is the job search going?” My dad piped up from behind us, finally tucking his phone away. Him, somehow wearing jeans in the sauna of the outdoors but not even seemingly bothered by it. “Do you have any leads? And what websites are you applying on? LinkedIn isn’t going to cut it. You need to contact recruiters.” The sudden mention of my career was like a trigger, my guilt suddenly melting away as my annoyance grew. 

“I’m trying, but it’s really tough right now, and I--” 

“You’re not making enough right now. Daddy and I are helping to contribute money to your Roth account, but you need to keep trying. You’re a smart girl, we know you will get there.” My mom rubbed my arm hastily, her attempts at physical comfort almost worse than her verbal reassurance. “You’re lucky. You have so many more opportunities than we did as kids. You have so much time, but not infinite.” 

“I know.” I kept my reply curt, not wanting to snap at my parents within the first ten minutes of seeing them, but also hinting to them that I didn’t want to continue the conversation further. They took to that hint as a cat does to water. 

“And what about school? Are you still thinking of applying to grad school? You will need to start studying for the GMAT. Do you have the textbook? You know, some companies will help you pay tuition. That’s also why you need to switch jobs.” My dad interjected again. I bit my tongue. It was a new record for them. Talking about my infrequent phone calls, my inadequate job, and my nonexistent grad degree all before a simple “hello”. I’m reminded of why I can only bring myself to call them once a week.

“Yes, ok, I understand,” I reply weakly. I see the sign for our destination ahead and let out a sigh of relief for the opportunity to change the subject. 

“We’re here, guys. Just this place up ahead.” The neon “Open” sign flickered. 

“What kind of food is it?” My mom inquired, scrutinizing the menu. “American? That’s fine. Just don’t eat too much. You know that goes straight to your belly.” She patted my stomach, looking up at me. “And stop frowning so much. It will leave wrinkles.” She reached up and smoothed out more forehead with her fingers. Holding my face between her hands. 

“You are so beautiful. And we are proud of you, Xiaobao.”  

I nodded silently as the three of us entered the restaurant. 

“Just, call us more. Ok?”