One Hundred and Seventy Million
The Christmas dinner was already fully underway by the time I dropped the number. I had been sitting at the far end of the table, the end closest to the sideboard where the extra dishes were stacked and the gravy boats needed passing, listening to my parents toast my brother for the third time in an hour. The centerpiece candle had burned down about an inch.
My water glass was still full. Nobody had offered me the wine. “To Ryan,” my father said, voice warm with the particular pride he reserved exclusively for this purpose.
“To his promotion, his hard work, and everything he’s going to accomplish.”
“Our star,” my mother added. I raised my glass along with everyone else, partly because not raising it would have caused a scene, and partly because I wanted them settled, lulled, right in the middle of their usual script before I stepped off it. Ryan was across the table in a slim-fit dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, occupying the center of the room the way he always had, by virtue of everyone having agreed at some point in our childhood that the center of the room was his.
He was mid-story about his boss pulling him aside in the hallway to discuss future plans, and my parents were listening with the focused attention of people taking notes. He noticed me eventually, as a side effect of scanning the table for an audience. “You made it,” he said.
“I know nights can be rough. Did they finally let you out of the hospital dungeon?”
“We don’t actually chain patients to the walls anymore,” I said. “But yes.”
He laughed as though he found himself charming.
Then: “How’s the, what was it? That data thing. The app.”
“It’s been a busy year,” I said.
“Well, don’t let it distract you from your actual work,” my father said from his recliner position at the other end of the table. “Nursing is solid. Practical.
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