The day after my thirty-third birthday, I wake up with a stiffness in my limbs so intense I’m certain I actually died and my body has begun rigor mortis. The sun is far too bright, and my brain bangs against my skull. Pain seems to reach into me from another realm. It’s like everything—all the booze, the workdays, and a lifetime of angst—has taken literal bites out of me.
In short, it’s not a great way to wake up. I clear my throat in a failed attempt to clear the sawdust coating the inside of it.
Then last night comes rushing back.
I remember running into Miley. Did I scar her? Again?
I roll sideways, and the cool corner of my phone presses against my temple. I try not to think about all the cancer waves it must’ve seeded in my brain as I slept. The damn thing looks like a little shit; fingerprints dance all over it like it’s been partying. On the inside, I’m sure it’s laughing at all the things it’s seen me do. It deserves to.
When I grab it, the screen lights up and displays the message I sent to Armin. Shit. I fly into an upright position and blink the screen into focus. Five minutes after I sent it, he read it, yet there’s no reply.
I should get rid of my phone. I should drag my body into the tub and hate myself there for a while, but the cool comforter between my legs is all I have left.
I stare at the wall, at the power outlet that seems to be making a “wow” face at me, when my phone chimes with the noise that means my mom wants to FaceTime.
If I ignore her, she’ll just show up in person. So I hold the phone up to my face and hit accept.
Mom’s already scowling as the call connects, and in the corner of the screen, I can see why: my eyes are bloodshot and ringed with smudged mascara. I tilt the camera away, but it isn’t fast enough.
“Why don’t you wash your face anymore? This will give you wrinkles, and you’re getting older now.”
“I forgot.” My voice is gravelly and worn. “I was having dinner late with friends.” It’s not lost on me that there was once a time I would lie to my mom that I was “staying in,” and how pathetic this new brand of deception is.
“I hope you didn’t drink and drive. Stop showing me your ceiling—I call to see your face.” There’s a hollow hitch in her voice. She’s no stranger to wine herself. People underestimate how traumatic it is to leave a country because it dramatically changed overnight. How messed up it is to start a new life in a place where a good portion of the people will hate you for simply being there.
My mouth and tongue sour against themselves. “I don’t drive.”
“Did you do kosbazi with someone? Is that why your makeup is on?”
The hope in her eyes is the worst.
“No, Mom, my kos was empty the whole night.” We only use Farsi words for the sex talk.
She tsks me again, but through a feat of great restraint, she doesn’t push the issue. “How’s work?” she asks.
“Good, good!” My voice is too pitchy. To drive it home, I say, “My job seems very secure.”
There’s nothing more important to my mother than my financial security. For years I’ve been sugarcoating everything about that job to make it seem like a bigger deal than it is.
“Good. Maybe you’ll get a promotion.”
“If one comes up, I can’t see why not.”
I don’t dwell on how far outside the realm that is. I’m once again thankful I didn’t lose my job yesterday. The trauma that would cause my mom would be too much. When I was a child and we were shopping for school supplies, she told me I didn’t need an eraser, I just shouldn’t make mistakes.
My gaze drifts to the wall again, thick and milky from several layers of paint meant to wash over each previous tenant’s emotional baggage. Maybe it doesn’t look that great to an outside observer, but the life I’ve built here in my apartment is everything compared with what it was when I was living with my parents. Here, I’m free to drink and watch whatever I want and not be perceived with disapproval 24/7. I don’t have to feel like a failure all the time, and when I do, it’s on my terms.
But if I lost my job, those threatening letters from Marty would become actionable in a matter of just a few days. I’d have no choice but to move back in with Mom and Dad.
“Keep working hard and they’ll notice.” Mom smiles, though the top half of her face remains still due to a healthy dose of Botox. But she seems to look deeper into the camera. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Oh yeah.” I nod way too hard. “Where’s Dad?”
Her gaze shifts. “Putting on his shoes. The ugly man drove his car over a curb, so he has to get it fixed—”
“Happy birthday, Jolene,” he pipes in from the background, followed by a throat clearing. A hand holding one shoe appears to wave on the screen.
“Thanks.” I wave back, my hand as stiff as his voice. Speaking to him always leaves me hollow and splintered. Ever since I overheard him seven years ago: “She’s twenty-five and she’s a dependent still. She doesn’t have a life yet; she won’t even make friends.” Shame flushed every inch of my skin, and a few weeks later I moved out. If Mom wasn’t around, we’d only see each other for a sad Christmas dinner.
As the screen shifts back to Mom’s face, there’s a moment of silence that nobody can fill. Here is the part where I should ask about the aunties. Except there are usually at least two whom she’s not on speaking terms with at any given time and mentioning the wrong one could set the mood off.
“Well, thanks for calling.”
“Happy birthday. Once Daddy fixes the car, we take you for dinner tonight? I’ll come pick you up.”
I practically yell, “No!” There’s no way they’re coming here. I need twenty business months to make it presentable.
She huffs. “I’ll only come for a minute. I have to meet Kumar near you. I need more saffron.”
My stomach clenches as I take in the mess of bottles and clothes strewn around the apartment. “I thought your saffron dealer was in Inglewood?” Even though there are quite a few Persian markets in town, Mom gets most of her specialty groceries via a network of dealers sprinkled across the city due to “better pricing and quality.” It’s all very tough to track.
“I stopped going to Peyman. He’s cheapskate and his saffron is no good anymore.”
It’s best not to get into it. “Mom, I’m really not feeling well and won’t be good for a visit. I think I’m getting a migraine.”
Her disapproving gaze churns the acid in my stomach. “You haven’t let me see you in very long time. I didn’t move to not see you and only visit my same old relatives, when Minoo is always bitch.”
My parents are social people, and after high school, while I stayed holed up in the basement, Mom and Dad were still attempting to venture into our too-small town. But they were disgraced by proxy in every way. Dad worked as a chemical engineer at the same company as my friend Ellie’s dad. In fact, my dad reported directly to Mr. Wong. And after everything happened, Dad’s career crumbled at the same rate the wall between me and him solidified. Two years later, he retired in shame, and for seven years we were the town pariahs, living in purgatory under one roof. When I finally took the online courses for business administration, finally got an interview at Supershops, and finally moved two hours away from that town, it became obvious that my parents would leave too. There was nothing holding them there anymore. They came to Calgary, and Mom’s been trying to convince me to move back in with them ever since. It always sounds innocent—“Save money for a house or wedding”—but the real tone of it all is that I’m supposed to want a house and wedding. The guilt of everything I did to them would be enough, but add to that the pressure of the life they want for me, and every conversation we have is the worst.
“We can have dinner another night, I promise, when I’m better,” I say before thinking too hard.
The twist in Mom’s smile sends a shudder through me. “Oh! Why not come to dinner with the aunties this week? They all can wish you happy birthday.”
That would be entering the lion’s den. Every Monday, my mom meets some local Persian ladies for half-price kabob and even cheaper gossip. As soon as my parents moved to town, Mom’s social life somehow became livelier than mine. They try to convince their kids to come, but rarely will one of us cousins be emotionally stable enough to agree to such a thing.
I’m about to pull out the excuses, but Mom’s eyes glint back, hopeful. “Okay,” I blurt out.
Her smile wrinkles her whole face. “Ey jan. Remember to do your makeup pretty. I want to be proud that you came out of my kos.”
“Will do, and thanks for that birthday image. I should tidy up.”
“Good girl. You should leave the apartment and make sure you get some sun on your skin.” She makes a gesture to look behind me. “It’s so dusty and dark, I don’t know why you need to live there.”
Just like that, guilt is replaced with a deeper irritation branded specifically for her. “Talk soon.”
“Eat some fruit,” Mom says as a goodbye.
After letting her go, I spend a good ten minutes zoning out on my phone. I end up watching a disappointing proposal video with cue cards and then reading a clickbait mess of different ways people were caught in lies.
Finally, I’m disgusted with myself enough to shuffle unsteadily off the couch, my every move heating my head. I peel off my dad’s old company shirt and shimmy out of my underwear. The cool porcelain of the empty bath softens the wooziness. I twist the tap with my foot, and as the bath fills, I search YouTube, and then the whole room is filled with the song that was playing when Ellie died.
I sing along.
It’s a sick thing I don’t know how to stop forcing myself to do.
Before I can even finish a thought, giant tears stream down my face and glob at my cheeks.
And they feel like home.
I didn’t even go to her funeral. It was the right move.
When the song ends, I hit play again.
Because if Ellie hadn’t been friends with me, there wouldn’t have been a funeral at all.