When my nails were shaped, Oma said, “You want to paint yours like Laleh?”
“Not really,” I said.
But then I said, “Do you have a blue?”
Oma’s eyes lit up.
And Grandma said “Here,” and handed over a bottle of this really pretty turquoise.
“Have you ever painted your nails before?”
When they were dried, my nails were this perfect color. It made me think of Yazd. Of the turquoise minarets of the Jameh Mosque shining out in the sun.
Of sitting with Sohrab on the roof of this bathroom in the park where we used to play soccer/Iranian football.
Of drinking tea in companionable silence with Mamou and Babou.
Grandma insisted on doing the dishes, so Laleh and I sat in the living room and helped Oma with a puzzle.
“Hello?” Mom called from the kitchen.
I hadn’t even heard the garage door open.
“Oh. Hi.”
Mom was laden with Target bags. I set them on the counter and grabbed the rest from her trunk.
When everything was unloaded, I hugged Mom and let her kiss my forehead.
“Wait.”
She grabbed my hands and turned them over.
My ears burned.
“Do you like it?” I whispered. “Oma did it. We all did our nails this afternoon.”
“It’s nice,” she said.
But her voice was pinched when she said it, and there was this look in her eyes.
I got this ugly feeling. One I couldn’t shake.
I wondered if Mom was embarrassed by me.
“It reminded me of Yazd,” I said.
Mom rested her palm against my cheek.
“Mom! Mom!” Laleh ran in. “Look!” She showed off her pink nails, which transitioned from fuchsia on her thumbs to bubblegum on her pinkies.
“They’re beautiful, Laleh,” she said. “How was school?”
Laleh told Mom all about her day while I made a pot of jasmine tea.
But by the time it was ready, the puzzle had been cleared off, and Oma and Grandma were playing on their iPads again.
Laleh was curled up reading her book, and Mom had gone upstairs.
