Page 10 of I Hope This Finds You Well
My stomach clenches as I take in the mess of bottles and clothes strewn around the apartment. “I thought your saffron dealer was inInglewood?” 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 towanta 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 isthe 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 mommeets 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.
Bcc Bcc’ident
The buzz of one forever-dying fluorescent light mixes with the saddest scent in the world: burned hazelnut coffee. And another dreadful week begins.
Caitlin eyes me as I approach our pod, and her smirk makes my head pound. Rhonda looks up and then quickly diverts her gaze to mark my arrival. I wish there was a way to stop people from looking at your face.
It’s the sheepish grin Armin’s directing at me that does it. Heat creeps into my neck as the events of Friday pour over me for the millionth mental replay.
Caitlin’s keyboard smashes as I pass. I’m too distracted by my need for death to care, when a little yellow box in front of my computer catches my attention.
I stand over it protectively as I subtly slip the box open, and I’m greeted with a gourmet-looking rainbow sprinkle donut. Taped onto the inside lid, a sticky note reads:Welcome to thirty-three.—Cliff.There’s a tiny cat smiling on the bottom.
What’s wrong with this guy? He’s supposed to be the example of professional behavior?
