I stand, feeling my fullness after the steak and veggies (whichwere only okay, because it’s hard to feed three hundred people, and hard to compete with the Armenian appetizers the hotel agreed to let us serve). I’m in a floor-length ice-blue dress with sheer tulle wrapped around my chest and neck like a halter. It ended up looking cute, for a bridesmaid’s dress. No strapless, no complaints.
I reach for Erebuni’s hand, an Armenian cross ring on one finger, a moon ring on another. “Dance?” I ask.
She smiles and rises. We start to ease our way out of the space we’re in, but then Erebuni stops and directs my gaze toward my mom’s table. My mom is sitting there, puzzling over something held in her hands, just under the table. Strange that she’s not getting up to dance since she was all over the dance floor during the entrance numbers. And Nene’s leaned back with her arms crossed.
“Should we see if your mom and Nene want to come, too?”
Nene has insisted that Erebuni call her Nene, which she’s gladly adopted. It is so goddamn sweet that Erebuni is looking out for my mom. I agree and we change course, toward my mom. The DJ is blasting “Uptown Funk,” which Diana and her giant princess-cake dress are twisting along with. Not sure how she can bend her torso like that in a corset, but there she is, defying physics. Her fiancé—wait,husband—Remi, is dancing alongside her, holding her hand and staring at her like her hotness is about to scorch the earth. Which it is. A crowd has loosely formed around them and is growing in size as guests are beckoned toward the dance floor by Bruno Mars.
As we approach my mom and Nene’s table, Tantig Sona, who was sitting a few seats down from my mom, spots Erebuni and me, lifts her nose right into the air, and sashays past us with palpable disdain. For a moment I’m steeped in it, my very real fearthat my family would reject me, that I would be alone. That Tantig Sona has rejected me. Then I remember: Erebuni is right beside me, casting me in protective strength, and Mom told me not to worry about Tantig Sona for one second. Her opinion does not matter, she told me.
Standing now, just ten feet away from us, Tantig Sona whispers into one of Diana’s tantig’s ears and nods her head toward Erebuni and me. The fear climbs again. A pain heaves inside me, that my own aunt, my dad’s sister, would see me as someone worthy of contempt, kindling for the gossip fire. I’ve known her my whole life. Laughed at her jokes, eaten her food. It hurts, though I know she’s wrong. It may never stop hurting. Diana’s tantig whose ear was being poisoned by Tantig Sona doesn’t so much as turn toward us, and she gives Sona a curt smile, then walks in the opposite direction. And that, that’s been the balm. I am filled again with the remembrance, the feeling of a bright, warm light, remembering that the rest of my family is behind me. I have been so impressed by them and their refusal to indulge in Sona’s need to spread gossip. Not seeing my and Erebuni’s relationship as a piece of gossip at all. Welcoming us and my new relationship with the same enthusiasm as they’d share for any new couple. Mom led the charge, led by example, and for that I am forever grateful.
Erebuni sees Tantig Sona’s gesture. She takes my hand in hers—cool and soft—and gives it a light squeeze. “It’s okay,” I whisper to her. I hope she can read in my words that while it’s not okay of Tantig Sona, and no, it doesn’t bounce right off me, I’m not at all going to let my aunt’s actions get me down.
We approach my mom, who is clutching a piece of paper in one hand and a blue pen in the other. She finally looks up when we’re right on top of her; Mom’s always had a knack for focus.“Aghchiknerus,” she says with the smile of recognition, welcoming us with the Armenian phrase for “my girls.” There it is again, that marvelous feeling of acceptance, that mom has grouped Erebuni and me together.
“Are you taking a quiz?” I ask, because that’s what it looks like from here, questions spaced along a page.
A little boy of seven or eight runs up to her then, a curly mop on his head, and says, “Oreort Anahid, eenchbes uhree?” Everything instantly pieces together as soon as I hear him use the name “teacher.” My mom is straight-up correcting math homework at Diana’s wedding. Now that she’s back in the math business (as a tutor this time), she seems to be having trouble letting go of it. Not even her niece’s wedding can pry her away from fractions.
She turns to him, pleased by his presence. “Perfect score. I could see you weren’t sure about number five, but you worked out a solution. Excellent.” Then to Erebuni and me, “Antranig is my best student.”
The little boy beams. She hands him the paper and waves him away. “Tell your mom that’s an extra twenty dollars. Okay, thank you.”
I smirk. “I love the enthusiasm, but we should probably hit the dance floor. Support Diana?”
My mom waves me off. “Don’t be hard on me, I am bringing in good money now.” She rises carefully.
“Have to appreciate your dedication to your craft, Tantig,” Erebuni says.
My mom reaches for her drink and takes a large gulp. “Vodka,” she says, pronouncing theVas aW. “You know of craft. Everyone is talking about your khachkar.”
She nods her head in the direction of the gift table, whereErebuni has placed one of her amethyst khachkars. It sits with a simple ribbon and gift tag around it. There are three guests surrounding the table, eyes locked on her art. She finished, at last, and the first one went to Diana.
My mom leans into Erebuni. “But don’t tell Diana it’s stealing the thunder.”
Erebuni and I laugh. Then I ask Nene if she’d like to join us, already knowing the basic answer I’m about to receive.
Nene is wearing sage green, her hair done up in a stately bun. She leans back in her chair. “I’m content to watch all you young people. I’ve danced at enough weddings. I’m only going to two more,” she says, pointing at Erebuni and me. She’s said this before, yesterday in the car on the way to the rehearsal dinner and back. “My other two granddaughters’. Karine’s, and yours, Nareh jan. So hurry up, I don’t want to die before I see you and Erebuni get married.”
Mom lets out one quick sigh, like here we go again, and also because it is a lot. I mean it is for me, too. Erebuni and I are still in the early days, but... I can hope. I laugh, I bend over and kiss her on the cheek. I sneak a glance at Erebuni to see how she’s reacting, and I believe I detect a pink flush that wasn’t there before.
Mom, Erebuni, and I teeter in heels toward the dance floor. There’s suddenly a buzz in my pocket—oh yeah, the dress comes with pockets—and I pull out my phone.
It’s from Vache:Hotel rez confirmed, emailed you the info.
A charge of excitement zips through me, thinking about our upcoming trip to Washington, DC. We’ll be covering the Armenian Genocide Recognition Bill for Pom Media, the new Armenian news outlet Erebuni told us about. Vache and I are also going tocollaborate on covering the human-interest pieces at the Capitol, with the descendants of genocide survivors who will be there. And of course Erebuni is coming, too, since her organization helped write the part of the bill concerning genocide education. It’ll be our first trip together. I can’t believe this is my life.
I quickly type back,Perfect, and pocket the phone again. “We’re all set with the hotel,” I tell Erebuni.
“I wish you did not have to travel so much,” my mom whines. “Planes are very dangerous.”
“I promise we’ll take care,” Erebuni replies.
“I believe. You’re more careful than this one,” mom jabs me lightly.
“Hey!” But there’s only lightness in my voice. Mom can roast me all she wants when she’s propping up Erebuni.
