Page 9 of I Hope This Finds You Well

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 simplybeingthere.

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 iseverythingcompared with what it waswhen 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.”