After Cliff leaves, it’s like a closed chapter: nothing from that job or those people can hurt me again, not if I don’t want it to. The last gin bottle, taking a break on the coffee table, stares me down.
Is it already time to start drinking again? I’ve had my coffee.
It’s not normal to think like this, but it must be a start that I’m realizing that. And I do want to start somewhere. It somehow feels like things can be okay, now that they’re so broken. Now that there’s nothing left to hold together, I can just deal with what’s in front of me. Where I’m going, I don’t know, but I can put some garbage away. That’s all I have to do.
Next, I have to shower. That’s only standing somewhere where water happens to be falling. Nobody can blame me for that.
Once I manage to get myself washed and into a clean pair of sweats and less dirty hoodie, I find a way to gather the trash and the bottles and take them out. I spend about six hours tidying, and it isn’t anything like I’d built in my head.
After I make myself a can of soup, I spend a good half hour looking at my face in the mirror. Mostly, I try to look myself in the eye.
I find my phone. It’s been out of battery for days. I plug it in before I go to bed.
I get out of bed at the respectable hour of eight a.m. I shower and manage to take some laundry downstairs. I go to the store and get groceries and buy a new vacuum that is a pain in the ass to assemble. I’m heating up a bowl of vegetable soup when I finally make eye contact with my phone.
Tons of messages plaster my screen, sent days ago. I take a heavy breath—best not to put it off forever—and dive in.
Armin: Okay, so our moms are freaking out. Apparently, your mom’s guest list is at 111?
Armin: I’m going to have to come clean. Wish me luck.
Armin: Mom collapsed today. In hospital. Please cancel the party.
Fuck. I should’ve checked earlier.
The next few are from my mom.
Mom: I have invited a few cousins you don’t know, but they’re family.
Mom: Also, when Hassan calls, tell him you want discount because you’re giving him good business.
Mom: Hassan is the dessert maker.
Mom: Are you okay? Ey Jan.
Mom: Armin’s mom is in hospital. Please call.
Mom: You broke up? Oh no. Maybe we can still have party to celebrate you were engaged?
And the last message, sent yesterday, is:
Mom: Please answer. I’m worried.
Worried about what is the question. Because a party that’s basically in her honor being ruined might be the biggest tragedy of them all.
I need to call her. But as I grab my empty glasses from the bedside table, I hear Miley say from outside my window, “Sorry, but Jolene asked me not to let you into the building anymore.”
Then my mom says, “This is very disrespectful . . .”
I sprint to the front hall before things get bad.
“Mom, come in. I was just getting some tea made.”
Mom’s face is pinched as her gaze searches mine, the disappointment already apparent. “Jolene, what are you doing? Armin says you broke up, and you don’t tell me? So many people have asked me if things are still okay for the party. Why aren’t you answering my messages?”
“Sorry, I wasn’t feeling good.” I pull the door wide to my thankfully cleaner abode.
“Drink some tea and eat fruit.” She storms through my apartment and straight to my fridge. She’ll be angry that I don’t have something like pomegranates on hand.
“I just ate a bunch of melon,” I lie. “Hopefully I’ll feel better soon.”
She nods, satisfied for now. “Why did you and Armin break up?”
I shake my head, bracing for the terrible Band-Aid I’m about to rip. “No. That was all a lie—we were never dating . . .” Her face drops. “Or engaged.”
She stares almost through me. I expect her to drill into me with a million questions about it, but instead she says, “But are you okay? Would you still like to have a celebration. One for your promotion?”
A chuckle escapes through the hollow part of my chest. I’m so far away from the person she thinks I am. I inhale, and it’s like the words come flying out of me. “I’m really not doing good.”
I fall onto my couch and put my head in my hands. After a beat, I feel the cushion beside me sink.
“I haven’t been good since Ellie—or even before that. I know you’ve been trying to help me move on and lead a good life, but it’s not happening.” I gasp for air, peering at her from between my fingers as her eyes widen. Her lips press into a line.
“You are doing good,” she says. “Men aren’t as important as your career. Just because Armin didn’t work out, your promotion is still a big deal.”
I lose my breath and gasp for air. “I’m not getting promoted. I was fired last week and I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
The sob pushes through as soon as the words are out. My chest tumbles—it’s like something inside me is falling.
My mom’s expression is as solid as stone.
Finally, her face breaks, and so do I.
I’m crumbling into her lap, another silent sob stuck in my throat.
Just before I land, she holds me and hugs me and it feels like everything. “It’s okay, baby.”
“I’m sorry I cut you out. You don’t even know me anymore because I hide so much. Mom . . .” I reach for her wrist. The same wrist I’d grab for safety my whole life. The same wrist that’s always been there. “There were days—there are days—when I’m not sure why I’m here.”
Her chest shakes, and she whispers into my hair, “Oh, baby, I love you no matter what.” She tightens her hands around me. “So much of the things I was hoping to protect you from I couldn’t. But I will always be here for you.”
And it’s that, just her assurance, that feels like enough. I crouch into her. This is the first time something has felt like home with her in forever. She squeezes my hand. She’s my mom. I’m her Carl.
We break apart. There’s a moment of silence that shakes reality back into my bones.
And so I continue through silent tears. “I might have to move back in for a bit, until I get back on my feet.”
My mom nods. “Of course! This way I can help you.”
I shake my head. “Mom, it has to be different this time. I need to be able to eat what I want and grow without control. I need to be able to heal, otherwise I’ll be back here again.”
She nods silently, while her gaze catches on a dark smudge under a light switch. “Okay.”
I don’t know if I believe her, but I don’t have a choice. So I continue. “Also, I think I need professional help from someone—a therapist maybe. I need to deal with my issues, my trauma, the drinking, and everything I never tried to address. Could you help me with it? It might cost more than I can handle.”
Every single thing in me clenches. And even though I’m on the couch, it feels like my knees will buckle. Finally, Mom says, “I would have paid for you to have a fancy party to make you happy. I will pay for this.”
I grin. “Thanks, Mom.”
Her gaze shifts downward. “Now, I have something.”
“Is it about the cake? Because I don’t know if the owner of the bakery can even pull it off. I was kind of hoping to see what would happen.”
She mock slaps me. “I know. I felt like he was bullshit too, but his prices are good.” Her gaze softens. “I want to ask one thing.”
“Yeah?”
Her lips form a line. “Even though you don’t have to do what I say, can you invite me to do things with you? It will be hard living with you again if you never want to hang out with me.”
I look directly at her, but she’s burying chin in her chest. “What do you mean?”
“My sisters always have lunch or go shopping with their daughters. I moved here for you, and I wish I could know you better, but every time I come visit, you get mad at me for coming over and touching your special garbage in the cupboard.”
I laugh, but a sob presses through. Because my god. “Yeah. If you change the venue of the Monday aunty dinner, I’ll even come to that.”
“Why change? That’s the best kabob.”
“The waiter rejected me, and I’m humiliated.”
“Pssh.” She shakes her head. “I found out he’s not very nice to his mom and he thinks with his kir. Good thing I stopped that before it got serious.”
After we clean our faces, she grabs her purse and heads to the door. “I need to go cancel more party things. I might need to threaten Hassan for my deposit. He’s always ugly about these things.” And she’s muttering curses in Farsi. Hassan the baker is now comparable to a donkey’s dong it seems—a far fall from grace.
After she leaves, I’m not as settled as I’d like. One niggling thought keeps eating at me.
Before I think too hard, I send the text.
Would you like to have lunch, just us, next week?
As soon as it’s marked delivered, I stop breathing. But the answer doesn’t come. I need to unsend. I want to throw my phone into a garbage can and forget I ever sent it.
Ding.
The relief is too much.
Dad: Yes, that sounds good! I’ll pick you up.
My eyes well up, but I’m smiling.