Sunday morning, I’m awoken in the most horrifying way known. It starts with an insistent knock on my apartment door and a screeched, “Shut up—is okay.” The tone of voice my mom uses only when speaking to my dad.
What comes next is a yelled, “Jolene baby! I have brought you some ashe reshteh.”
My heart stops, and I leap out of bed.
Shit! I never texted her!
Double shit—I drank some gin last night and passed out watching a documentary about cruise ships in bed. Why did I have to order all that Chicken on the Way and leave the whole mess in my living room?
I throw on a hoodie that I hope covers both my slept-in hair situation and my lost dignity, pile my garbage into the bin, throw the gin bottle and glass under the sink, and do a quick scan to make sure there are no obvious signs that the human embodiment of a bag of merde lives here. There’s an empty chip bag on the coffee table, and an old take-out container that still has broth and pieces of wonton wrapper in it on the counter, but other than that, I should be able to get away with medium complaints. I shovel both pieces of garbage into a random cupboard since the bin is full and brace myself.
I barely open the door. “What brings you here?”
Mom barrels past me with a Tupperware container so huge, she had to have gotten it from a specialty store. “No need to heat this up if you get plates.”
I should’ve known this was coming. Every now and then, she shows up with food without warning. I’m sure it’s to try to keep me living under a similar regimen as when I was home, like I pretend to be, but unfortunately for us both, shit has veered incredibly off track.
Mom starts toward the kitchen, and I debate following after her to stand in front of the counters and somehow distract from how messy it is, but my dad is hovering awkwardly in the hallway. When we lock eyes, he says, “Sorry to show up like this. I told her to call, but you know.” He rocks from foot to foot, as though to demonstrate he’s physical standing there against his will.
“Come in, Dad.”
He smiles awkwardly. “I brought my iPad. I can just watch the golf.”
“Sure.” I smile back as best I can.
I find Mom in my kitchen, the empty chip bag and wonton container already in each hand. “Jolene, you can’t keep soup in the cupboard. It goes in the fridge.”
I snatch them and say, “Thanks, that’s a really good hack, but those are garbage. Can you stop opening my cupboards? I’ll go through them later. I have a system.”
But before I can finish, she is in the cupboard under the sink. My overflowing trash can and the three empty bottles of gin sit there like accusations.
“Are you really drinking this much?”
“No, those bottles are from months ago. And I used some for making sanitizer.” My most bonkers lie to date. I scoop them up and gather them against my chest. “I’ll put them in the dumpster.”
She actually jumps. “Don’t throw away, they give money at the depot for this! Albert, come take these bottles for Jolene to get the money.”
Dad, who is sitting on the couch so awkwardly that it looks like his seat is made of Velcro, says, “I’m sure Jolene can take them in. She’s in her thirties.”
“Yes, I can. And yes, I am, thanks.”
Mom waves her hand half-heartedly in our direction before setting the bowl of ashe reshteh on the counter and popping off the lid. The glorious smell wafts toward me. She’s added so much goat whey and charred garlic that it almost makes everything that’s happening right now worth it.
Almost.
I take a serving and slurp the first bit. This is the best hangover cure. “Thanks for bringing this.”
She riffles through my other cupboards, shaking her head. “I made it so you don’t have to worry about your lunches this week. You need to focus on your work. Now where is your cleaning supplies? These counters need wiping.”
“Don’t worry about cleaning, I’ll do it later. You sit and visit.”
She looks at all ten of my heads. “This place is not something I can stop worrying about. This is not how a polite person lives.” She turns to my drawers next, clucking her tongue with disdain. “Why not clean after you eat? What do people say when they visit?”
There’s no way I’ve let another human in here—the place speaks for itself.
I take a breath. “Well, normally I’d have some kind of warning. People don’t just show up to other people’s homes, especially when they’re still sleeping.”
She narrows her eyes. “You were sleeping? It’s nine thirty. You could’ve been studying for your promotion.”
“I don’t think there’s going to be a test.” Although, given that it’s Supershops Incorporated, there will probably be a non-harassment training module with a quiz at the end.
She scoffs as she wipes my counter with a cloth that is suddenly in her hands, seemingly produced from nowhere. “It’s good to study your job anyways.”
There’s no such thing as winning when the argument is wackadoodle, so I smile and say, “How’s your window garden?”
“I grow the most beautiful cilantro.” Her smile is smug. “Next week, I bring you some.”
I’m about to interject about her plan to return next week, but I’m just happy to hear she’s gardening again. She finishes wiping and shakes her head.
“Jolene, this mess is really bad. How come you’re living like this? It’s like you don’t care.” She says this with all the severity of a doctor making a deadly diagnosis. “Are you okay?”
The crease in her brow—I hate that crease, critical and concerned all at once. I need to curl into a ball. I scramble for some excuse to make it go away. “The problem is that I care too much and don’t know where to start.”
She fake slaps the space between us in a dismissive gesture, her acrylic nails cutting the air like little claws. “Get on with you. It’s very serious to be this bad.” And to prove her point, she wipes the cloth under a windowsill that I’m pretty sure nobody has ever cleaned in the history of this apartment’s construction. “This dust is from long time ago.” She hardens her gaze accusingly, and I stiffen—she is not done with me yet. “How are you going to have a boyfriend over?”
And there it is. She’s pushed the exact buttons that set me off. I look toward my dad in some useless, last-ditch plea for help, but he’s already absorbed in his iPad. I want to scream.
Ever since Ellie’s accident, my parents cannot stop managing my every move. And in the aftermath of a town of people sharing the same bad thought about me, all they truly seem concerned about is making sure that I fit the appearance of a perfectly functioning member of society.
But I don’t want to rehash this same old argument. I say what I need to through clenched teeth. “I’m not trying to have a boyfriend over.”
Mom huffs. “You have no friends?”
Normally, that kind of accusation would be my cue to curl into myself with shame, bereft with the reminder that I have absolutely no one.
Instead, I flash back to my evening drinking milkshakes with Cliff. The ease with which we were able to barb each other. The comfort and warmth between us. It’s been a long time since I felt like that. Why does the only person in the world like Cliff have to be the HR guy?
In the days since he dropped me off, this world has brutally reminded me how far I am from having anything like that.
Mom watches me, her lips forming a fine line. “You can have a good life. You can find a good husband. I can help you.” She lifts a hand toward my waist, and I freeze, thinking she’s going to bring me into a hug. Instead, she pushes past me to wipe the next counter behind us. “This apartment is expensive, and for what? Some dirty carpet and a foozooleh mahaleh neighbor child?”
I mean, she does have a point about Miley being nosy, but I’d take her over being under Mom’s roof again every time. At least here I have a door.
“I’m happy here,” I tell her, the words small in my tight throat.
Her voice softens. “You should be happy. You’re about to get a promotion. You just need to stop drinking and being sad about things from a long time ago.”
My lips tremble. Mom’s prescription for me is always just to literally stop being sad. I know it’s not malicious. She grew up believing that depression and anxiety are controllable with the right attitude, fruit, and sunlight. She has traumas of her own that she’s been ignoring, long before my pile of problems joined the mix. As an immigrant, this is survival mode.
There’s only one way to put this conversation to bed. So I do what I’ve always done: push past every thought inside my head and every sinking feeling inside my soul, and say, “You’re right. Starting tomorrow, I’m going to be better.” I snatch the cloth from her fingers and pat her shoulder. “Don’t worry about cleaning. I’ve been wanting to clean this place. I want to have people over.”
Again, I’m back to the milkshakes—to Friday. Why is it every time I think I’m starting to do better, it’s so easy to shift back to the wreck I became last night? How can this be me?
Mom is still staring at me with narrowed eyes, so I continue: “And drinking isn’t even fun. I’m starting to suspect it might be unhealthy even.”
She rests her fist on her hip. “Even drinking a little can cause wrinkles and damage to your heart.”
“I don’t want that. I’ll be happier if I stop, I think. That’s probably the problem.”
She nods. “I hear it’s a depressant.”
“That makes so much sense.”
Mom nods, placated for now. She’s never one to deny an easy answer when it is gifted to her. “Make sure you finish the bowl. It’s very healthy.”
I smile and take another hefty spoonful of the ashe reshteh, letting the comforting, familiar flavors wash through me. “I’ll put the rest in the fridge.”
Once Mom gathers everything, including Dad and his iPad, she turns to me and whispers, “The girl with the dirty fingernails that let us in is still outside. Should we call her mom?”
Oh god. I peer out the window and see Miley’s mousy head leaning against the wall in the hallway. “Don’t worry about her. That’s normal.”
But as soon as I say it, she shifts, sinking lower—she’s just sitting there by herself? Guilt splashes over me.
My parents smile as they open the door, passing her in awkward silence.
“Hey, Miley,” I say. “How’s it going?”
“It’s good.” She shuffles nervously from leg to leg. There’s a little hole in her Toms, and it’s how small her pinkie toe still is that chips into me.
“Sorry if we were being loud.”
She shrugs, indifferent. “I could hear you arguing with your mom about your life inside your apartment.”
I let out a sigh. “Yeah, next time could you not let her in? She needs to call before.”
Miley’s hands curl tightly against her chest. She must be having a terrible day, and it’s not even noon. “Sorry,” she says. “I thought I was helping.”
I shake my head. “It’s okay. It’s just my mom is . . .” Actually, I don’t need to go there with her. “What are you doing out here? I mean, in my hallway?”
“I came to give you this.” She holds out a hand, and I notice for the first time that she is holding a mess of black and white yarn. “Your birthday gift.”
I eye it warily. It looks like a bunch of loose black and white strings tied together, with two googly eyeballs glued onto the situation, seemingly on purpose. Is this a prank where I have to pretend to think it’s beautiful, and then she laughs at me?
“It was meant to be a zebra,” she clarifies.
Miley chews her hangnail, insecure as she waits for me to respond, and my heart tumbles like a domino. That’s why she wanted to know my favorite animal. I accept the unfortunate creature from her carefully, lest it fall into pieces in my hands. “Thank you. That’s really amazing of you.”
She lowers her chin. “It’s nothing amazing. I’m still learning.”
The faint light in her eyes—I’ve seen it slowly begin to dim lately. “Hey, Miley, what are you . . . Is your mom around?” Her eyes shift downward, giving me the answer I don’t want. I’m woefully ill-equipped for this.
“She had to work a double,” Miley says to the carpet that hasn’t been vacuumed in decades. “I was supposed to ask a friend to go over, but everyone was busy, so I’ll just hang out.” It’s the insecure little fists. “Don’t worry, I’m not that young. It’s fine.”
The little gift presses down heavily in my palms. “I know.” It’s technically true; she’s old enough to be alone for a few hours. “So, what are you going to do today?”
“I guess I have more crocheting to do.”
She looks at me—and damn it, I recognize that faint glimmer in her expression. I take an infinitesimal step backward into my apartment’s threshold without thinking, and just like that the glimmer fades.
I nod. “Well, if you need anything—uh, I mean, if something happens, please knock. And if I’m not around—”
She smiles, cheeky. “You’ll be home.”
I press my own smile on and return to my apartment to finish the weekend out, determined that next week I will focus on my plan and not let myself be distracted by anything. Or anyone.
Milkshake hangovers are simply not worth the angst.