I make a noncommittal noise. She changes tack, and excitement rushes back into her. “Oh! And guess who I got seated at our table? Garen. You know, the violinist.”
Oops, I almost forgot about him. The last one, the hanging chad at the end of my mother’s list.
“Oh!” I feign enthusiasm.
“Yes, he and his sister, a pianist, will be seated at our table, smack next to you.”
I wonder what Erebuni will think of that. I mean, likely nothing. It’s not like I’m going to be flirting with him.
“Good work, Mom.”
She waves me off, though it’s clear she’s proud of her efforts. “It was nothing. I spoke with Vera, the mother of Lucine, who is very close with Hasmig on the planning committee, and she agreed it would be nice to seat them there since Nene is another cherished musician in our community. It is all set.”
That is one good thing. Hopefully this violinist and his pianistsister won’t be snobs and will talk to Nene about music. I know that’d make her happy, so I make a promise to myself to facilitate it.
I do want to prepare Mom for the very real possibility that I’m not going to fall madly in love with Garen, with any of them. That our little experiment has come to a close.
“Mom,” I start, my voice soft and, I hope, conveying some level of vulnerability. “What if I don’t like any of the guys? Is that, you know, okay?”
And while I don’tneedto ask my mom for permission for this, it still feels like something I want to do. Like that’s still us and our relationship: I’m a kid always asking her for permission. I have to break out of it, but I can’t.
Back, way back, one drunken night in Davis, I was out with the Armenian club—a rare bonding moment hours and hours past the event at someone’s college apartment, everyone lulled nearly to sleep by alcohol but not wanting to leave the moment. I was lying back so deeply in a broken-down couch that I could feel the baseboards beneath me. One of the guys, Shant, was just about passed out on the floor right by my feet. He was wearing sunglasses indoors, and I remember he waved his glass like a drunken holy man and professed, “Your mother is the closest thing you’ll ever have to God.”
I remember falling into a hole then. The thought of mother and God dropped me right into feeling my head in a lap—my mom’s. I couldn’t remember why I dragged up that recollection or why I remembered her in a tight dress, legs packed into tights, and me, clinging to her. I just knew there was something to what he said.
Here in my room, Mom does sense something in me, since shereaches over and touches my shoulder and makes a point of looking right at me. “Of course it is okay, janeegus. You don’t have to like anyone.”
This small relief washes over me, like I took an ice pick to the block of my anxiousness about Erebuni—telling her about Erebuni, specifically. I forgot, too, how understanding my mom can sometimes be when she strips away societal expectations. At her core, she wants me to be happy. I hope.
19
Two good fortunes never come together.
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—Armenian Proverb
For the thirdtime this month, I’m back at the Armenian school, in their grand hall, but this time I’m flanked by my entourage. Mom is in Cleopatra mode, with elegant long eyeliner, wearing a black-and-silver dress. I’ve linked arms with Nene; I did her hair and makeup, and she looks so elegant. Diana is affixed to her fiancé, and they are both looking like the stunning picture of young love you’d see in a gold-framed painting. Their parents look on, proud and relieved that their kids have found each other. Dad’s sister, Tantig Sona, is peacocking big time with her prom-queen hair and acrylic nails with a rhinestone dabbed on each index finger. Our extended family is also already here, somewhere inside. I’m wearing a light gold dress that is, I daresay, super flattering on me, and I’m having such a good hair day that I already took an array of selfies. But I didn’t post them. Instead, I sent the best one to Erebuni, letting her know I couldn’t wait to see her.
Now that I’m here, though, my stomach is feeling less like happy butterflies and more like there’s an oscillator whirring in it, sending acid bubbles all the way up my throat. I have to be four separate selves. One, I need to be the perfect daughter, niece, cousin, who is respectful and gregarious and attentive. Two, I need to be a reporter because I’m reporting on tonight’s banquet since I’ve never felt more “screw Richard” in my life. Three, I need to be Erebuni’s fledgling girlfriend and supporter since tonight’s a big night for her. And four, I need tonotbe Erebuni’s girlfriend but a straight woman interested in the guy she’s going to be seated next to.
Cool.
We pass by the bathroom alcove where Raffi cornered me and asked me out. It was a week and a half ago, but why does it feel like a year ago? We check in and are given our name cards with little fish, cow, or carrot cutouts on them, and walk, our heels clicking, past the already-forming crowd and into the main hall.
Like on shourchbar night, the hall is buzzing with people. The decor is much swankier, with fabric draped dramatically across the ceilings and walls, flowers bursting out of tall vases everywhere you look. Light Armenian music is playing, and there’s a massive mezze display in the center of the room, surrounded by an ever-steady flow of people picking up sesame-topped beuregs, football kuftes, sarmas, hummus, and toasted pita. There’s a photo booth in the corner of the hall with a line snaking along the bottom of the stage. All around the center are tables for guests, and about half of them are currently occupied. I squint to read table numbers. I need to get to my seat soon so I don’t miss my interview window. I cannot blow this. Just a tad more pressure to add to the mix.
Plus, there’s someone else I’m hoping to catch on-camera. There’s a major Armenian celebrity attending, an old B-lister named Alex Vanian. He’s played the “ambiguously ethnic man” in plenty of major movies and shows, but he’s most known for his role as Boris, the lovable curmudgeon neighbor, in a Coen brothers movie. The man’s got a cult following. Armenians love to quote one of his lines to each other: “You’re telling me there’s aratin here?” If I’m lucky, I might be able to get him to agree to be interviewed.
My gaze traipses over heads, trying to find Erebuni’s, but it’s too crowded and I’m too short to spot her. Ugh, I do see Raffi, though. He’s got a glass of scotch in hand, palling around with his bros. They seem to be fawning over him. Just like at the brandy event, it feels good not to care. I pull out my phone and text Erebuni,Here! Where are you?
We’re being interrupted every few steps now by acquaintances saying hi to us. My mom is cheek kissing some woman hello, and the woman says it’s so nice to see her out, and only then do I realize what a big deal tonight is for my mom. Since Dad’s been gone, she hasn’t attended any sort of function like this, the kind she used to love and force us to go to. Seeing her now, beaming at people from her Armenian community, it’s so obvious that she belongs here as much as anyone. I’m glad now that all of this, my whole strange instinct to agree to go to the Explore Armenia events, may have started bringing my mom out of her self-imposed shell.
After a million stop-and-chat detours, my family starts to settle into the two round tables assigned to us. Not bad seats—certainly not the seats of honor, but not tables smashed into the back corner. Diana goes and takes her seat with her family andher fiancé’s family at the other table, and that suddenly makes me so sad, like this marriage is taking her away from me. I know it’s kind of an irrational thought, because she’ll always be my dearest cousin, but it’s things like that, where she is joining with a new family and can’t sit next to me anymore, that get to me. My heart aches for the old days when we were kids and things were simple, and at the same time, I wish for a future where I get to sit with my new partner and their family. I wonder if that would ever be possible with Erebuni as my person.
Shoving that thought away, I set my purse down next to an empty chair where the violinist guy is supposed to sit and hear, “Nar!” I flip around to see Arek, arms outstretched, already coming in for a hug, and Vache right behind him. Arek’s indeed wearing his glitzy navy shirt and shoes so pointy they could stab someone. Vache looks like he strained to find something in his closet that comes close to black tie.
We chat briefly, and I ask them if their parents are around, but Arek’s live in Fresno (like Erebuni’s, who also aren’t attending), and Vache says his parents aren’t into the whole banquet scene.
