Chapter 7 #2
It was one of the few times she ever yelled at me, switching between English and Farsi, mixing idioms and metaphors until I honestly had no idea what she was trying to say.
But the gist was Don’t let the world tell you you’re ugly just because you’re different.
I never asked again after that, and I’ve grown to love my nose instead.
She did let me wax my unibrow, though, so there’s that.
The pang of grief that hits me isn’t unfamiliar and the intensity of the ache isn’t any less powerful now than it was when her loss was fresh.
Twenty years later, it’s mostly fleeting, like a sharp slap that stings for a moment before fading.
I once told Zaid that it wouldn’t always feel so raw, which wasn’t a lie, but isn’t the full truth either.
Grief doesn’t care about the passage of time.
It strips you down to the bone whenever it wants.
It will leave you bare and bleeding, daring you to rebuild layer by layer, all while continuing to rip at you.
It keeps tearing, keeps sloughing off skin and fat and muscle.
All the passage of time does is teach you how to rebuild faster.
Tonight, my grief is a paper cut. Other days, it’s a knife slipping between my ribs. And sometimes it still leaves only bones behind.
I move farther into the house, brushing past uncles carrying heavy plates of ghormeh sabzi and zereshk polo as the aunties sip tea and titter about how the hair on their husbands’ heads seems to have moved to their backs.
There are plenty of chubby-thighed babies passed my way, little fists grabbing for me as their mothers ask if I’d be willing to babysit for a while, just like I always do during these events.
I’ve been the designated baby wrangler for my cousins and their friends since my mid-twenties, one of the few who wasn’t married or saddled with kids of their own yet.
I gladly took on the role even though my heart ached with every baby snuggle and gummy smile, wanting so badly to have that for myself but never finding the right opportunity.
This time, I tickle their tiny feet and bask in their giggles before handing them back to their disappointed moms and carrying on, looking for a quiet corner to take up residence in.
I feel worse than I did yesterday, even though all I did was sleep once my dad and Axel left.
Clearly that wasn’t enough to fix whatever’s wrong, and now I have to make it through this party without hurling on one of my grandmother’s precious Persian rugs or an uncle’s Gucci loafers.
I bump into the haft sin table when a gaggle of children tangle around my legs as they play a game of tag, nearly sending a copy of the Shahnameh – a holy book to my secular family – flying in the process.
Gripping the edge of the table, I suck in a breath and steady myself, but the scents of spices, rosewater, and heavy cologne make my stomach churn worse than before.
When the kids rush off again, I mumble an apology to the book and the disgruntled goldfish whose bowl I disturbed. I’m about to keep moving when another kid excitedly hops in front of me, and I realize it’s one of Edith’s children.
The towheaded four-year-old wearing a McMorris T-shirt over her frilly dress clings to my knee and giggles as I bend to press kisses to her rosy cheeks.
Edith, her husband, and their kids have a standing invitation to any and all of my family events, mostly because she likes the Farahanis more than the Maxwell-Browns.
She usually shows up too, even without me.
I let Lila babble for a minute about how much fun she’s having and how happy she is that I’m here and how her Uncle Thomas is going to teach her how to drive a kart this summer because she’s finally old enough.
I nod along, listening attentively as I smooth her soft hair back, trying to focus on her bright face instead of how lightheaded I suddenly am.
‘Lila, sweetheart, where’s your mom?’ I ask when she finally pauses to breathe.
Lila throws out an arm, pointing across the room to where Edith and Peter are standing, then rushes off to rejoin the other kids.
When I reach the couple, Peter kisses my cheek before pulling back and smiling.
Edith’s husband is the true definition of a gentleman, with a strong emphasis on gentle.
He’s her polar opposite, soft-spoken and unassuming, and I’m inclined to believe it’s why they work so well.
I take Edith in after she gives me an air-kiss, noting the smirk she’s trying to suppress. ‘You’re looking more smug than usual,’ I comment.
The last time she was this chipper, she’d just discovered that her older brother had been embezzling from their family’s company and was preparing to use it as blackmail against him. There must have been a development.
‘Andrew has decided to take a leave of absence from the company to “focus on his growing family,”’ she says, light and bright. ‘And he won’t be taking the CEO position when Dad retires.’
‘Holy shit. Does this mean you’re going to get the job instead?’
She shrugs. ‘Possibly. But I’m happy enough where I am for the time being.’
That’s code for He better give me the job if he knows what’s good for him, but she won’t say it that baldly around my family.
I glance over at Peter to see what he thinks, noting the glass of white liquid he’s holding slightly away from his body, like he doesn’t know what to do with it.
When he sees me staring, he gives me an awkward smile. ‘Your grandmother handed me this but I’m not quite sure what it is . . .’
‘That’s doogh.’ Simply saying the word makes my stomach roil, though it’s something I usually love. ‘It’s a fizzy yogurt drink. Not sure if you’ll like it.’
‘Oh.’ He eyes the glass for a moment before offering it to me, lifted just below my nose. ‘You can have mine if you’d like.’
When the sour scent of fermented dairy hits me, I clamp a hand over my mouth and nearly retch. I have to speak through my fingers as I back away. ‘Sorry, I need to—’
I take off before I finish the sentence, pushing past bodies as I rush for the nearest bathroom.
To my horror, the door is shut and locked.
My stomach heaves again and I force myself to keep moving, heading for the stairs and hauling ass until I reach my grandmother’s bedroom, praying no one thought to use her en suite.
I burst into the blessedly empty bathroom, dropping to my knees so hard in front of the toilet that I’ll be shocked if I don’t have bruises on them tomorrow. And then I promptly lose everything I’ve eaten today into the porcelain bowl.
I don’t lift my head again until I feel cool fingers sweeping the hair off my sweaty neck, my watering eyes landing on Edith.
‘Thanks for not puking on Peter,’ she says. ‘Lila already did that this morning, so I’m not sure he would have taken kindly to a second round.’
I exhale a pained laugh as my eyes slide shut in a long blink. ‘We both know he would have lovingly patted my back and said, “There, there, darling, let it all out.’’’
She sighs in resignation. ‘You’re right. Big softie, that one.’ She gently twists my hair between her fingers, tying it back with the elastic from her wrist. ‘You done?’
I nod, the nausea subsiding, and I let her help me up after I flush the toilet. She keeps a hand hovering near my elbow as I stop by the sink to rinse my mouth out, then she escorts me into the bedroom, motioning for me to sit on the edge of my grandmother’s flower-patterned duvet.
She sits beside me and frowns. ‘You look terrible.’
I sigh. ‘I must have the flu or something. I slept twelve hours last night and still woke up exhausted. Plus, my stomach hasn’t been right for days. It’s felt like a weeklong hangover without even drinking.’
Edith’s eyes narrow a little more. ‘So, you’re tired and nauseated.’ Then, to my shock, she pokes my boob.
‘Ow!’ I bat her hand away and cradle my aching right tit. ‘What the hell was that for?’
‘And your boobs are sore,’ she continues like a scientist who’s just conducted a successful experiment. ‘Is there a chance you’re pregnant?’
I roll my eyes. ‘Women are allowed to be tired and sick and not be pregnant, Edith.’
‘That’s not an answer.’
I almost snap at her that no, I’m definitely not pregnant, because I haven’t been brave enough to start IVF, though I bite my tongue when Zaid’s face flashes in my mind.
But no. No, that’s not possible. We used condoms, and if several rounds of sperm shot directly into my uterus couldn’t do it, there’s no chance that could have gotten me pregnant.
Except . . . is there?
‘I don’t think I’m pregnant,’ I say, a new kind of nausea starting to swirl in my stomach.
‘But maybe – maybe I should take a test just to be sure.’ I swallow hard, trying to push my heart from where it’s lodged in my throat.
‘Can you go grab my handbag? It’s downstairs in the foyer. I have some tests in there.’
‘You keep tests in your bag?’ she asks incredulously.
Pregnancy tests, ovulation tests, a thermometer to double-check that the ovulation tests are accurate . . . It’s like Mary Poppins’s endless bag if she were in the middle of trying to conceive. ‘Look, this whole fertility thing has been an absurd process,’ I huff.
Edith stands, not about to argue. ‘At least I don’t have to run to the shops for you.’ She pauses for a moment before hesitantly asking, ‘Is there really a chance you’re pregnant?’
‘I guess we’ll find out.’
Ten minutes later, we’re staring down at two tests, one with matching faint pink lines and another that screams the result in bold capital letters.
Edith looks over at me. ‘I’m not an expert,’ she says, ‘but I think you’re pregnant.’
I’m already shaking my head, eyes squeezing shut to block out the irrefutable proof sitting right on the edge of the sink, because this – this shouldn’t be possible.