My mother eyed me with a look that threw daggers in my direction. She was not playing this early in the morning.
I started carefully. “Well, Wyatt, you are a grown ass adult, who can make decisions on your own and whatnot. You pay your own mortgage. You are, generally, a fully functioning member of society.”
If looks could kill, there’d be blood splatter all over my mother’s white tiled floors.
I kept eye contact with her. “However…you clearly were unable to take care of your own shit and, thus, tried to take asharp left exit off of this planet. So staying here a little longer doesn’t seem wildly unreasonable, ya know?”
“Unbelievable, man. Whose side are you on, anyway?” Wyatt muttered.
“The side that keeps you earthside, fucker. Now are we having breakfast or what?” I said, attempting to keep the mood light.
Mila turned to me. “Do you only come around here for scraps of food?”
For someone who had just moved into this family, she’d made herself very comfortable. I had to admit, I really liked that about her. She was resilient in the face of adversity. Lennon would like her.
“Darling Mila—” I started before she cut me off.
“Donotcall me that, asshole.”
A playful grin danced on my face. “Right. Orphan it is. You see, since I’m defective in all the things, I can’t work. No workie means no money and no food. And since I’d focused essentially my entire adult life on having a career in hockey, I’m basically a useless human being.”
Her jaw struck the floor. “Are you okay? Like as a human being who socializes with the rest of society?”
My father decided it was time to chime in. “All right, all right. Let’s sit at the goddamn table and enjoy this breakfast your mother made for all you ungrateful bastards.”
I looked between Mila and Wyatt, the three of us chuckling to ourselves like a bunch of teenagers.
Mom had gone overboard, as she always did. She served up scrambled eggs, toast, bacon, turkey sausage, and hashbrown casserole. The room smelt incredible.
She really did go over the top for us.
She knew deep down that we were grateful, but banter was a part of the culture in this household. After my diagnosis,things had been tense for far too long. I was determined to keep it lighter, even with the hormonal firecracker and the suicidal doctor in the room.
“So, Mom,” I started, ripping a piece of bacon in half, avoiding eye contact, “how fucked up do you have to be to qualify for this therapy group I’m in?”
She dropped her fork onto her plate.
“Do you all mind being respectful of this home with one, the language, and two, my line of work?”
I bowed my head, a sad attempt at hiding my laugh. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I actually do have a legitimate question. There’s someone in the group who’s assigned with the Assisted Suicide program or something…”
My mother looked at her plate, nervous about where the question was going. She nodded quietly to herself. “What about it?”
“Why is that even a program? Like…People that are sad can just choose to off themselves? Medically?” I treaded lightly now.
The room went silent.
The question hovered over the table like a dark cloud. My mother cleared her throat, preparing to speak, because this wasn’t just her work anymore. This conflicted with the reaction she had to Wyatt, her son, and his attempts.
“The Assisted Suicide Program is designed for those whose quality of life has been diminished or non-existent for several years. It is for the deeply disturbed, majorly depressed, and lifelong suicidal persons. This isn’t a program for people who just up and decide that today’s the day they want to die. There is a long list of criteria to meet before even being considered, let alone the work you have to do once accepted.”
My mother continued, still treading lightly. “The person would have had to suffer unimaginable traumas in their life to even be considered.”
I nodded slowly. “And you developed it, right?”
It was then that she was brave enough and lifted her head. Her eyes met mine. “Correct. It’s still only a pilot project at this point. Yes it is controversial, but it carries a heavy weight in my heart as a necessary evil we need in this world to aid those suffering. Mental illness may not look like much, but it can be just as deteriorating as physical disease.”
The way she spoke sounded as if she was not only trying to convince me of its purpose, but now herself.
