“Thank you for understanding,” I say, and it comes out more of a whisper.
She beams sympathy through the phone; I can feel how much she wants me to know she understands. “I figured as much when I dropped you off. Our kiss. You felt a little stiff—which is fine—so I assumed it might be a big deal if your family saw us.”
Guess that’s the downside of falling for someone intuitive. They always know.
“You assumed right,” I say, some embarrassment tinging my voice.
“I’ll be mindful of that tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” I say, imparting as much gratitude as I can with those two words.
Then the doorknob clicks, and my mom pushes through the doorway. I sit up too abruptly, bordering on suspicious. Mom’s hair is wet with dye and covered in a clear shower cap. “Nareh jan, can you please text Di—oh.”
In Armenian she whisper-asks, “Who are you talking to?”
Usually my mom uses Armenian to avoid the other person onthe line understanding what she’s saying, but that’s not going to work here. And I don’t know what to do—tell Erebuni I’ll call her back and risk seeming abrupt, like I’m hiding her (which I am, and which we just discussed, but it doesn’t feel good, and I don’t want to remind her of it) or ask my mom to leave and risk her getting suspicious about my phone call that I don’t want her to overhear. The latter seems worse.
“Hey, mind if I call you back?”
“No worries. Sounds like your mom?”
I wish I didn’t have to cut our conversation short like this. There was so much more I wanted to talk to her about. Actually make space in the conversation to see if she is ready for her emceeing gig tomorrow, how she’s feeling, if she needs any help, and tell her how much I can’t wait to see her all fancied up.
“Mm-hmm,” I say, trying to sound casual for the benefit of both parties listening. It feels so lame.
She says to call her back anytime and gives me a flirty goodbye, which I unfortunately do not return. Mine sounds like I’m wishing a business acquaintance well.
My mom’s eyes narrow. “Who was that? You never talk on the phone anymore, only to that boyfriend.”
I sit up straight and correct her. “Or to interviewees for a story.” I motion toward her hair. “You primping before the big party?”
My mom lightly touches her shower cap, rustling it. “Yes, the roots were getting very bad. Euffff, they’re springing up like summer locusts.”
A reference to the summers she used to spend in the mountains in Lebanon. She and Diana’s mom have told us the story of being terrorized by bugs a hundred times.
“What were you asking me about Diana?”
She snaps into unofficial event coordinator mode. “Tomorrow she is going to pick the linens and needs your help. I think she called you.”
Damn. Yeah, I do remember a missed call from Diana that I had to screen while I was deep in British hat history with that little girl. “I’ll call her, but I suck at colors and linens. I honestly won’t help at all.”
“That’s okay. You’ll still go.”
“Mom. It’s my one day off, and the banquet’s that night. I haven’t had any rest for, like, a month. No, I’m not spending my one free morning debating tablecloths.”
She seems confounded by my response, by my saying no to anything. “But you have to go. You’re the maid of honor.”
I’m not giving in. I’ve spent too much of my life discussing decorations with my mom, Diana, and my aunt, doling out pros and cons over which is a more tasteful way to go, which is worth the price and which isn’t. I love them, but not thestuff. “Sorry, nope. Linens are not part of the job description.”
Her face closes off to me a bit, and I know I’ve triggered defensive Mom. “You are being so stubborn. Does it have something to do with whoever you were talking to? He’s a bad influence, whoever he is. Don’t lie. You have someone new, I can see it in your eyes. You are excited about something.”
I am surrounded by intuitive women. And Mom is the master. She can pick up on any subtle change, especially if I’m trying to hide something. Probably learned from years of my lying about not eating the kuftes, not finishing my math homework, not breaking the ceramic vase, not brushing my teeth. (What? My mom and dad would both flay me alive for any small transgression. A girl’s got to learn to lie to save her skin.)
Also, I want so badly to tell her. Telling Erebuni was so freeing, and I want to be free with Mom, too. I want to share with her the joy of a new relationship, the whole thrill of it. I haven’t been able to do that with anyone in my life, and it’s not like I don’t want to. I’m dying to. I want her to read on my face,Yes, you’re right. So I’m having a hard time tamping it down when I say, “Ugh, no, that’s always your answer anytime I do something out of the ordinary, like not going to an hours-long tablecloth conference. You think you see something that’s not there.”
She smirks, and I know my facial expression has betrayed my words. “Okay, Nareh, we can pretend there’s no secret man in your life. He better be someone good, though.”
He.Not even the thought that I could be with a woman.
