Tuesday afternoon, twodays after my firing, there’s been no word from Erebuni after the segment aired. Hours afterward, after some deliberation, I texted her a link to the clip online. All I said was,Here’s the segment. You were perfect. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
But no response then, no response now.
I’m sitting in a scalding-hot bathtub full of bubbles. I lit a candle, one Diana got me that saysmaid of honoron the front. It smells like lemon and bergamot. This is the first nice thing I’ve done for myself, other than survival-mode eating, if you count that, because I have zero appetite. No showers, no sweets, onlyfitful sleep. And fifteen-year-old sweatpants with holey shirts. I don’t know who I am without a job.
I dry my hand and pick up my phone, keeping it over the edge of the bath. Nothing from Erebuni still. I might have also called her once, right before I got into the bath. I close my eyes and try to feel her, stretch my hand across the universe to tap her on the shoulder and tell her how sorry I am. To feel her presence and send her loving warmth, but I can’t quite get there.
Still, thank God for retreating into the water. I can’t stand being in the house. My plight seems to physically pain my mom. Since the banquet, she’s had horrible stomachaches and odd shooting pains in her legs and ribs. It’s all because of me. So the last few days I’ve been lurching around the house thinking that I’m slowly killing my mom.
I never felt like living with my family was some kind of failure. But now? It feels so demoralizing. Once my severance runs out, I’ll be the mooch daughter living off my mom’s meager teacher’s pension. It’s four weeks long, so I’m going to use it well and apply to as many jobs as possible. As soon as I get out of this bath. Which might be never.
My phone pings, and I open my eyes, my heart singing with hope. Erebuni, it has to be.
Instead, it’s Trevor. And it says,I miss you.
Without my willing, my eyes close. I set the phone down and sink into the water. My arm stings at first, though it also feels good.
To hear him say that... I didn’t know how much I needed it. I didn’t realize how utterly alone I was feeling until his message. I thought I had no one in the world, but now I have Trevor; it’s late at night there and he’s thinking of me. This is exactly him,swooping in at my lowest moment—there, dependable. How could I have forgotten that? Isn’t that worth more than the extreme highs and lows of my short infatuation with Erebuni?
I go for my phone again.Same, I text back.
At once I feel wretched. The serotonin boost I got from his earlier text has vanished, and I’m drained. I feel like I’m cheating on Erebuni, though she made it clear she wants nothing to do with me.
He texts back,Germany hasn’t been as fun as I hoped.
If I respond, if I tell him I want to see him, that’d be it, I couldn’t go back to Erebuni. I shift, my body distorted under the water. The bath feels too cold suddenly, but instead of adding more hot water, I get out. I blow out the candle, sending lemony smoke curling up into the air before disappearing.
After drying myself and wrapping the towel about my steaming body, I text him back, but all I send is a sad face. Because it’s not him I want to talk to, get together with. It’s Erebuni. I am not giving up on her. Not yet.
I plumb the regions of my mind. How? How to get her back?
I am standing stock-still in the humid bathroom, eyes closed, pending inspiration. Her final words come to me. And there it is, a pilot light, sparking this energy in me I haven’t felt in days. There might be another way.
23
The fly enters into the ear of the lion and conquers him.
????? ??????? ?????? ?? ????,?? ?????:
—Armenian Proverb
It’s been aweek and a half since my idea, and though I haven’t heard a word from Erebuni, I’ve been busy. I channeled all my breakup energy into writing an essay titled, “Fired for Interviewing a Congresswoman and Other Stories from the Newsroom.” Not only has it been written, it’s been submitted to fifteen outlets. And has been rejected by thirteen of them so far.
Lucky number thirteen arrived this morning. The first thing I did when I woke up was grope for my phone and hit my e-mail app, and I was greeted with:
Thank you for giving us the opportunity to read your piece. While the subject matter was intriguing, it does not fit our issue at this time. Please submit to us again in the future.
Well, at least that one was polite. I got one that basically said, “This drivel is not the kind of work we publish.”
The only reason I’m still halfway confident about it is because Vache—yes, Vache—helped me edit it. I tentatively reached out to him over text, feeling that of all my new friends, I needed to apologize to him first (and suspected he might be the most receptive to it). He suggested I come meet him at his work, Monocle Coffee, and we chatted over lattes in cups so large they resembled soup bowls.
Turns out Erebuni didn’t say much about the breakup to the friend group, and it was a strange relief to hear that she hasn’t been going around bashing me to her closest friends. Vache seemed to think we broke up because of my being engaged. I cleared that up for him but also came clean and told him how badly I had lied to my mom to save face. And that I’ve been miserable because of it.
He seemed to understand how deeply I meant it, and I could feel there was something in him that really wanted to remain friends despite it all. So we kept on chatting, got to talking about writing, and I spilled my idea to him. Then, miraculously, he offered to take a look at it for me. And damn, he has an eye.
Now I’m lying on the floor of my bedroom, stretching my hamstrings after a luxurious hour-long workout because I have nothing else to do and I need to feel like I’m doing something. When I’m concentrating on the burn of my muscles, I don’t have to concentrate on the fact that I have only two open submissions left, and most likely they’ll follow the trend: “No, we don’t want your essay.”
It wasn’t good enough. Or no one cares about sexism wrapped up in Armenian issues. Richard said it himself, and I’m startingto think he was right: They don’t know who Armenians are, and they don’t care.
