Page 81 of I Hope This Finds You Well
I make like Caitlin and find the least offensive background, shoving a pile of clothes off the couch and posing the camera away from the open chip bag lying beside me. “Hello.”
“You’re engaged?” is what she says, her tone incredibly even as she searches my face.
The phone nearly slips out of my palm. “Uh.”
Mom clucks her tongue. “I knew it was mistake. Aunty Parvin is always getting her gossip wrong.”
“Wait.” The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. The aunty gossip network runs deeper than any cartel. “Who am I engaged to?”
“Aunty Parvin’s eyebrow-threading lady is friends with Nika, the woman who is making the best tahchin and selling on the WhatsApp, who said Babasheh congratulated her for her accounting executive son’s engagement to you. She was getting a radiation therapy and told Dr. Nasseri about it.”
Amazing. I can barely follow, yet I know exactly what she’s talking about.
But shit.
“So it’s mistake?” she says again. “I knew it.”
But if I tell my mom it’s a lie, that information will go all the way back down the gossip chain, back to Armin’s mom. Dread curdles my stomach. If it becomes known that Armin lied to his poor sick mom, not only will he probably change his tune about keeping my email access secret, but his mom will probably freak out, and she’s already frail enough.
“It’s, uh,” I stumble, thinking on my feet, trying not to make eye contact through the screen. “It’s not like an actual engagement. We just, uh,talkedabout it, and—”
A hard-core scream sounds through the other end of the line, so high-pitched it becomes pure crackle through the speaker. “Why do you keep a man secret from me? Send me a picture. Is he handsome? Very proud he is the executive. Should I come over?”
Shit. I may have triggered a wildfire in the Persian community of the western regions.
“I don’t want to make this a big deal,” I begin, but Mom’s camera is already turning into a blur as she moves around the house.
“Oh, my baby! Why didn’t you say you have boyfriend? I was worried you didn’t want to. I will get the best dress, and that ugly Minoo isn’t allowed to come. Actually she can, to see how much more beautiful I am than her.”
More dread sets in. What have I done?
“Mom. Mom!” I shout until she locks eyes with me through the screen. “Please, we must keep this under wraps. Our work doesn’t know, and we’re not allowed to date.”
“Okay, okay.” But the energy comes racing right back. “I didn’t think I’d get to be a bride mom. I’m going to throw the best wedding.”
The song in her voice. The smile. My brain doesn’t have the capacity to throw another log on the shit storm in my head. “Mom, please, you can’t say anything. We honestly need to keep this quiet. That’s why I couldn’t tell you yet.”
“Yes.” She throws her hand at the screen. “I never tell anyone anything. I’m very good with this and classy. I’mnotMinoo.”
We hang up, and I stare guiltily at the pile of clothes I moved.
From: Armin Habib
To: Jolene Smith
Subject: Is this okay?
I open the attachment and a chuckle escapes me. I quickly stifle it when Rhonda casts me a disapproving look.
The picture Armin sent me is of himself in an oversized suit looking uncomfortable at the last regional conference. It’s nothing like the Armin of reality, but oddly perfect for the bullshit version we’ve perfected.
A message comes from him.
Armin:Thank you for making your thoughts so obvious and loud. I’m not a suit guy, okay.
Jolene:Sorry, it’s perfect—I’ll use it. I needed that laugh. But FYI my mom will be sharing this with everyone.
Armin:I somehow knew this exact picture was bound to be distributed widely from its conception, aunty network involved or not.
