Tell Me How You Really Feel

by Aminah Mae Safi

  Anything could happen today, it was Nowruz. New beginnings, fresh starts. The start of a new year that only spring could bring.

  “You cleaned,” said Farrah in awe. She was wearing a freshly laundered sweatpants set and she was rubbing her hair with a towel, which you weren’t supposed to do because it caused frizz or flyaways and the kind of volume in curly hair that was designated as unwanted by lady mags and appearance-conscious mothers. But Farrah seemed to like her hair big and fluffy and full of all the things magazines and her mother were constantly telling women to avoid.

  “Of course.” Sana had scrubbed the bungalow from top to bottom. She had even dusted the blinds and washed the floors. Vacuumed the baseboards. Everything.

  Farrah tossed the towel away. She reached out and gave Sana a bracing hug and kiss on the forehead. “What would I do without you?”

  “Have bad luck all year round?”

  Farrah laughed, airily and a bit manically. She was, after all, in desperate need of sleep. She pointed to the box of food she’d put on the kitchen table. “Check the clocks. I know I should have fresh food but this is what I could get off of set.”

  “The caterers made it fresh, didn’t they?” Sana went over and checked the box.

  Mom had gotten petit fours from crafty—each wrapped in their own clear boxes and tied with a ribbon. Sana had gotten the wheatgrass and the candles, the apples and dyed eggs. She’d set up the haftseen with bulb of garlic on top of a mirror, sprouts in a dish, coins across the table, and—because she’d forgotten until nearly the last minute—kitchen vinegar in a soy sauce dish. Sana took out the two boxes of petit fours and set each onto the table. Something sweet to start the new year.

  “Bless you. I have no idea how you are even mine sometimes.” Mom leaned in and gave Sana a kiss on the cheek. She began inspecting the setup. “Did—is that a tulip candle?”

  “Someone cleared out the grocery store. Three of them nearby. I improvised.” The haftseen was supposed to have tulips. At least they’d had hyacinths at the store. Sana went into the kitchen to grab the vase of water she’d put them into and set it on the table. She couldn’t get the aesthetics of the haftseen right, the way Mamani always did. But she did her best.

  “Is the jasmine not from the grocery store?” Mom stuck her face in the flowers. She loved the smell of jasmine.

  Sana did, too. That’s why she used jasmine-scented conditioner in her hair. To Sana, it smelled like the start of spring. It was a smell that would only intensify in the heat of summer. To Farrah, it smelled like Los Angeles and freedom from Orange County. And to Mamani, jasmine was the smell of the old country. Of the life that had been left behind, before she had picked up somewhere new.

  “Do you really want the answer to that question?” Sana had ordered a bunch of jasmine online weeks ago. She never remembered about the tulips. They were one of her favorite flowers, but every year she forgot to order them ahead of time.

  “Nope.” Mom picked up one of the coins on the edge of the table and let it drop with a satisfying metallic clink onto the wood.

  The wheatgrass had been the easiest for Sana to find. “Just be thankful that you can order those little crates of greens online.”

  “You can order tulips online, too.” Mom ran her hands along the hyacinths, delicately and softly rustling the petals of the flowers without dislodging them.

  “Seriously? How was I supposed to know there would be a run on tulips?” Sana huffed.

  Farrah laughed. “At Nowruz? In Los Angeles? You definitely should have known.”

  “Maman.” Sana never called Farrah that. Farrah preferred “Mom.” Maman sounded too much like what Farrah had called her own mother growing up. And Farrah wanted to be nothing like her own mother.

  “Yes, Sana-joon. I understand.” And she really did. Farrah rebelled so much against her parents, against their rigidity, their manners. But Mom loved Nowruz. Loved the magic of flowers growing and blooming. The magic of new beginnings and rebirth and the world coming to life again.

  They both did.

  Not that there was really such a demonstrable shift in weather in LA, or even Orange County. But the flowers knew. They opened and bloomed and understood that they had waited patiently for the right moment—when there was enough light, enough sunshine to keep them flourishing. The flowers had the right instincts about these kinds of things.

  Farrah reached out and grabbed the edge of Sana’s sleeve. “Are those pajamas new?”

  “Yes,” said Sana, smiling. It was hard to stay mad at Mom when the new year was starting and spring was happening and the whole house smelled like tulips and vinegar and fresh grass.

  Their phone alarms went off—precisely at the same time—and they each untied the bow on the wrapped petit fours in front of them. It was their own tradition, started when Farrah couldn’t afford sweets except for stuff at crafty on set. And that first year in LA, on the set Farrah was working on, there had magically been petit fours that nobody had touched. Perfectly new and unwrapped. Mom always said that it had felt like a sign that they were going to make it, that they were going to be okay. Farrah added them to the crafty request sheet now, only request she ever put in. Once a year like clockwork. They still felt like a special gift from the universe to Sana.

  “Here,” said Sana, handing over a small package.

  “Ohh! What is it?’ Farrah shook the small box.

  “You have to open it!”

  “Is it a kazoo?” Farrah shook it again.

  “No.”

  “Is it that Tamagotchi my mom never got me?”

  “Mom.”

  “Mamani refused to get me one and I always hope one Nowruz you’ll get me one.”

  “I’m not getting you a Tamagotchi. Especially not for Nowruz.”

  Farrah shook her head. “Like grandmother, like granddaughter.”

  Sana sighed.

  “All right, all right. I’ll open it.” Farrah pulled back the green-and-pink paper to reveal a small box. She opened it, and inside was a miniature enamel tulip pin.

  “Oh, honey. I love it.”

  “I got it off Etsy.”

  “It’s the best, Sana-joon. I’ll wear it to work tomorrow and everything.” Farrah smiled, big and wide. “Now open yours.”

  In front of Sana was a small box. She folded back the wrapping paper—Mom had used the obnoxious glitter kind that got all over the house—and she too had a small box. When Sana lifted the lid to reveal a dainty silver ring in the shape of a snake eating its own tail. Its eyes were tiny turquoises. Sana put it on. “Oh, Mom, it’s beautiful.”

  Farrah smiled, smug and satisfied. She got up from her chair at the table and went and gave Sana another kiss on the forehead. “Excellent. I’m glad you liked it. I figured even Mamani couldn’t object to a shedding snake at Nowruz.” Farrah yawned.

  “Go get some sleep, Mom,” said Sana, admiring her ring and letting it glint this way and that to catch the new light pouring in through the windows.

  “You’re coming back to bed, no?”

  “Yes,” said Sana to her mother’s retreating form. But first she wanted to pray. She thought of her focus for the year as she washed her hands and feet and face. As she took off the ring and covered her hair. As she double-checked the direction of Mecca with her phone. As she moved through the motions—up and down, kneeling to standing, to prone across the floor. Her forehead touched the soapstone—cool and smooth and seemingly ancient. She prayed for a new beginning, a fresh start. A way to rewrite the past to take control of the future.

  Rachel

  The door slammed shut and Rachel nearly dropped the vacuum nozzle in her hand.

  “What the hell is going on?” It was Papa.

  There were many solid, viable answers to this question, but Rachel went with the most obvious. “I’m vacuuming.”

  “Mija. I know that. But since it is neither Yom Kippur nor Rosh Hashanah, I am at a loss.”

  “I’m cleaning.” Rachel shu
t off the vacuum.

  Daniel Recht’s face remained skeptical, but Rachel’s dad began to reverently remove his shoes. This was never his custom. “Look. You don’t clean. I don’t clean. Unless we are having people over, which is all of never to two days a year.”

  “I’m having people over.”

  Papa stopped untying his shoes. “People? You’re having people over?”

  “Person. I’m having a person over.”

  “Were you gonna clear this with me?”

  No. “Yes.”

  Papa made a noise somewhere between a “huh” and a snort. “Right. Does this person have a name?”

  “Sana.”

  Daniel raised an eyebrow.

  Rachel gripped the vacuum nozzle tighter. “Sana Khan. She’s in my movie. She’s going to help me with my film project.”

  “Right. A cast member. Coming over to work.” Daniel’s tone was totally flat, like he was asking Rachel to pass the salsa across the table. But he stared at Rachel with his eyebrow raised. He was waiting for her to crack.

  Rachel wouldn’t crack. She nodded, clutching the vacuum closer. “Exactly.”

  “Totally normal for you to be vacuuming at two o’clock in the morning.”

  Rachel opened her mouth, then thought better of it. She looked down and saw she was practically hugging the vacuum cleaner.

  Dammit.

  “Start over, mami,” said Daniel, pointing upward as he spoke. “From the top.”

  Rachel took a deep breath. “I don’t want her to see that this place is a mess.” And it was. The apartment wasn’t dirty. It was never dirty, per se. But both Rachel and her father were messy people.

  Daniel made a sound like an incorrect buzzer on a game show. “Try again.”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  Papa thought about that for a moment. He finished removing his shoes. He walked over and sat down on the sun-faded, greige couch. He tapped the fabric of the cushion beside him. Rachel dropped the vacuum hose and sat beside her father.

  “I believe you.” Papa looked right at her when he spoke. A bit unnerving when so much of their relationship and conversations were conducted in snatched bits of phone conversations. He had dark shadows under his eyes from his hours. Some salt-and-pepper stubble growing across his tan, olive skin. “I don’t think you’re telling yourself everything.”

  “I’m ashamed.” Rachel looked away.

  “Look at me, mija. You’re a kid. You have no more control over the circumstances of your birth than who you love. And you’ve never been ashamed of that.”

  “I know,” whispered Rachel.

  Daniel put his hands onto his knees, bracing himself. “Are you going to let yourself feel ashamed of where you’re from?”

  “No.”

  He inspected her face. “But you do want to keep cleaning.”

  Rachel cringed. She had to. She couldn’t stop herself. “Yes.”

  Papa pushed himself off the couch, standing with the kind of effort only a long day at work could produce. Rachel knew that kind of bone-deep tiredness like she knew the lenses in her kit. He went into the kitchen, turning on the sink with a squeak.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Washing the dishes. What does it look like?” Papa put soap on the sponge. “Come and help me dry.”

  They washed and dried and put away the dishes in companionable silence. When they were done, Rachel felt the tension that had welled up in her chest subside. He gave her a kiss on the forehead, then crashed out on the couch. Rachel took the hint. Enough cleaning for the night. She went to her room and slept—deep, blank, and dreamless.

  15

  The Trouble with Angels

  Sana

  The drive down to Orange County was uneventful. The usual amount of traffic, if not slightly less. If everyone was going to their own Nowruz parties, then they were either already there, or they were staying in their own neighborhoods for the day.

  Not an option for Sana.

  Mamani still cooked to prove that nobody could take the old country out of her. And to reinforce that she’d married a man who had made enough money that she could cook with pure leisure in mind.

  Sana had to dress her best. A flowy, knee-length skirt and a floral print top. Her hair smoothed and pulled back, as usual. Sana added a little extra flick to her eyeliner. If she had an extra special game to cheer at, Sana usually would add a touch more highlighter. But Mamani was from a different generation. She didn’t understand all these young girls “making themselves shiny on purpose.” When it came to special events at Mamani’s house, Sana added extra eyeliner, like her grandmother would appreciate.

  If Sana thought she could get away with old clothes on Nowruz—even ones Mamani hadn’t seen before—she would have armchair diagnosed herself with delusion. Mamani could smell new clothes. Sometimes Sana “accidentally” left the store tags on just so Mamani could fuss over the new item and cut the tags out herself.

  It was the little things with Mamani.

  Mom rang the bell, and a frazzled Mamani swung open the door. “You didn’t park in the drive, did you?”

  “No, Maman.” Farrah leaned in to brush a kiss on her mother’s cheek.

  “Because your brother will be late and he’ll need the spot.” Mamani double-checked the circular driveway from the door.

  Farrah leaned into Mamani’s other cheek. Farrah’s serenity always increased as her mother’s plummeted. They were inverse corollaries of each other in so many ways.

  “And the other guests.” A crash sounded. Mamani started, then left the doorway empty as she went to the noise’s source.

  “What’s the meaning of this? It’s clear the house, not wreck it.” Mamani’s voice faded as she moved, still shouting, deeper into the house.

  Dadu appeared, holding two old-fashioned glasses. “You should take this.”

  “Starting early, Baba.” Mom took one of the glasses and gave her father a kiss. She sniffed the glass.

  Dadu shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  Another crashing sound, followed by the muffled sounds of shouting. Mom nodded and took a swig of her drink. “I think I will.”

  Dadu chuckled, then turned to Sana. “You’re too young for our habits.”

  “I don’t drink, Dadu.”

  “Good girl.” Dadu gave Sana’s hand an affectionate pat.

  Sana said nothing. True, she practiced her faith a bit more strictly than her mother and her grandfather. She and Mamani had that in common. But Sana wanted to be a surgeon. Drinking could lead to hand tremors. Not now. But ten, twenty years down the road. After education had been paid for and training completed. It wasn’t worth the risk, even if it wasn’t a guarantee.

  “Come,” said Dadu. “Your cousin is over here.”

  “Maman’s screaming with company over?” Mom took another swig of her drink.

  Athena Mashi came up from behind Mom and stole the drink out of her hand. “No. Just you and Sana-joon and her impressionable cousins. Wants all us girls to know how to manage a household one day.”

  “Yes, that is so among my goals.” Sana laughed.

  Dadu’s face grew serious for a moment. Sana and Athena Mashi stopped laughing.

  “You know,” he started, “it was different when your grandmother was growing up. She didn’t have the same options, the same choices. She didn’t have Princeton or surgery available to her the way you do. But she made brave decisions where she could.”

  A sinking pit welled in Sana’s heart, threatening to swallow her whole. In ten days, she might not have any choices at all. Might not have gotten the fellowship. And she still hadn’t put down her deposit. But she didn’t let it show. Didn’t have her expression slip enough to need a moment to recover. Her face held fast, even as her heart went into turmoil. “You mean when she married you?”

  “When she married me? Yes. When she finished her education before she agreed to marry me, too. There weren’t many paths open to me then, but there we
re even less for your mamani. She overcame them all.”

  Sana wasn’t so sure about that. Yes, Mamani had bet on the right horse, so to speak, and triumphed in her marriage. But she had a degree in art history that she used to decorate homes rather than study the classics, the way Sana knew Mamani longed to. Mamani’s triumph, her true victory, wasn’t in finances or work. Wasn’t even in pursuing her academic dreams or publishing a thesis way back in the day. No, Mamani’s true path to triumph was her ability to make whatever she ended up with look like what she wanted all along. Mamani made the short end of the stick look desirable.

  Sana looked at him, sure he could see the guilt shining through on her face. Sana had nearly every option. She had next to every future still ahead of her. And still, Sana faltered. And still, she couldn’t commit to what she had been working toward her entire life.

  But Dadu didn’t sense any of this. Or if he did, he didn’t show it. He patted her hand again and said, “I’m going to make sure your mamani hasn’t killed anyone with that big French pot.”

  And then Sana was left alone. Not alone-alone. She was less than a foot and a half away from Jasmine. She could hear most of the conversation from where she stood. It was an argument, honestly, because it was her and Lilah. But Sana tuned it out.

  Athena Mashi walked by and caught Sana’s expression; she frowned. “You okay?”

  Sana pasted on a bright smile. “Fine.”

  Sana rolled her eyes at Jasmine and joined the discussion of whether camo pants were now back in style again. It was easier than letting go of her secrets, easier than confessing that she had no idea what her future would look like. It was easier to remain silent.

  But for the first time Sana wondered if there was a cost to her silence. An invisible price to keeping the peace.

  Rachel

  Student filmmakers regularly complained about the editing bay. If you were at the film labs, the room was dark and empty and the software would crash and the clips would misalign and the work was already shitty enough without having to go and do it all over again. If you were at home, the same was true, but usually you were cratering everything running on your laptop and, occasionally, frying out a personal hard drive. There was no win, when editing. Just the slow, methodical clipping and placing, the aligning of the audio, and the smell of an overheating computer running double time to stay cooled off.