“Mr. Grigoryan, don’t you and your wife have low blood sugar?” Mom edged closer and wrapped his hands over the tin. “A couple of cookies might be good before you hit the road.”
Mrs. Grigoryan furtively looked over at her husband.
Mr. Grigoryan broke. “Fine. We’ll have two each. No more!”
They took the cookies and went out the door.
Mom appraised me. “One day you’ll be married for as long as they have. They met at the church fundraiser years ago. I think this is going to be your year.”
I nervously ran a hand through my long, dark waves. “Yeah, maybe.”
Mom tilted her head. “Nairie, remember, you have to be friendly and open when boys approach you.”
My inner anger boiled. Just a few years ago, my mother would skin me alive if I was ever in a room alone with a boy, but now that I was “of age,” all bets were off.
I slapped a smile on my face anyway. “Okay.”
“Before I forget, your aunt, Lilit, is coming into town.”
“Really? We haven’t seen her in a while.”
“Sometimes she gets the itch to see us when it’s convenient.”
I didn’t mistake the disdain in my mom’s response.
Aunt Lilit was my father’s older sister. She was unconventional in the sense that she stayed single all her life, traveled the world as a flight attendant in her glorydays, and rarely came back to visit family. Lilit was one of the few people in the family who took an interest in my art. During her visits, she always spent one-on-one time with me, catching up, regaling wild stories, or providing sage and daring advice. Lilit would always bring me a souvenir from her travels, and it inspired a lot of my wanderlust.
Mom went back to the kitchen. “Don’t forget about the banquet, and your upper lip needs waxing!” she called over her shoulder.
I rolled my eyes but self-consciously stroked my faint mustache. I knew exactly what would happen at the banquet. Mom would try to set me up with a misogynistic bachelor, and a fog machine would cough up its last efforts on the dance floor. Every banquet was the same. And every day working with my parents was just as dull, but as far as they were concerned, it was the best job I could ever have.
The first thing I wanted to tackle as shop manager for their jewelry store was to organize the mountains of files Baba hoarded in the back room. Groundbreaking work, really.
I wandered through the rooms of my parents’ house while the party raged on. We weren’t celebrating anything in particular. It was just the weekend, and the whole family was free. A small get-together like this often snowballed into a large party since so many aunts, uncles, and cousins lived near each other.
Baba sat with some family members at the patio table. They shared plates of baklava and reminisced on life in the old country. His hairy arms, which were covered in gold jewelry, gestured wildly as bickering ensued. George could never pass up a good verbal fight.At the shop, he’d often get into shouting matches with my uncle about petty things like the recent drama onAmerican Idolor who won the neighborhood soccer tournament back in 1970. Every statement sounded like an accusation, but there was love there if you listened closely.
Baba was just as strict as Mom, but I was closer to him because he was a little more lighthearted. He’d always crack a joke or two, never leaving a conversation on a bad note.
I sat across from their table and sketched Baba. I illustrated his bald head and the crow’s feet around his round eyes, shading in his furry eyebrows and rounding out his potbelly.
My Uncle Aren motioned for me to come closer. “Nairie, let me see.”
I showed him my notebook.
Uncle Aren grimaced. “The pencil adds ten pounds, huh?”
“Hey!” Baba said with mock offense.
We all laughed, but before I could hear my Baba’s next tirade, I went back inside the house.
My parents would often see my drawings, but they never made any meaningful comments about them. Other than when it got in the way at work, and then they’d tell me to put it away. One day, I found Baba in my room, looking over some pages in my sketchbook. He didn’t say anything, just patted my arm and squeezed my shoulder before leaving. I wanted any sort of feedback, even if it was bad, but they chose to remain ignorant, and sometimes that felt worse.
Lindsey was my safe space. I could feel okay wanting things and putting myself first. I neverconfessed my dreams of being an artist to my parents, but Lindsey knew and cheered me on. She would always say you only live once and that everyone deserves to be selfish once in a while. Lindsey was always like a second mother to me. So if the extra set of hands gave Elspeth time to keep Lindsey’s pub running, I’d do anything to help.
I hated to admit it, but being a part of my family felt lonely. Even in a house full of people, I didn’t have any meaningful conversations. It felt like they were all just going through the same motions.
In the next room, a gaggle of girl cousins practiced makeup tutorials. My aunts reprimanded them for not usingenougheyeshadow. Outside, a small dance party was gaining traction as Baba and my uncles formed a semicircle together.
