Page 46 of I Hope This Finds You Well

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 takeher 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 literallystop 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, lettingthe 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?