Page 94 of What Hurts Us

“Gran?” I called as I pushed the front door open. The fragrant aroma of green onion, coriander, and fenugreek floated through the air.

“Layla joon,” my aunt called from Gran’s kitchen. “Come. Help your maman with the naan.”

Holy Shit.I stood just inside the door, wide-eyed at the utter chaos. My aunt, mother, and grandma whirled around Gran’s house, filling her dining room table with platters, bowls, and plates with every food imaginable. Casserole dishes lined the kitchen counter like soldiers. Giant Tupperware bowls were filled with colorful salads that weren’t really salads. Green watergate salad. Orange ambrosia salad. Green apple and Snickers salad. Frog eye salad that I’d only had once. It grossed me out, even though it tasted pretty damn good.

In a recliner with her legs elevated like an obedient patient, Gran supervised. “What’s in that stew pot you put in the middle of the table, Sep?”

My aunt pointed to the retro Dutch oven that had orange and brown flowers on the side of the white enamel. “Ghormeh sabzi. Lamb and kidney beans cooked with herbs. I’ll fix you a bowl with sometahdig.”

“That’s rice that’s cooked so it gets crunchy and caramelized on the bottom of the pot,” I said as I leaned down and gave Gran a gentle hug. “It’s really good. You’ll love it.”

“Count me in, sugar. Sounds divine,” Gran chortled.

“Joonam,” my mother cooed as she waltzed into the dining room with a platter of naan. Her hijab, a cornflower blue, complemented the maroon power suit she wore. She probably had to be in court this morning and came by after. Her high heels clicked across the vinyl floor. “What are you doing here? Callum said you had a busy night at work. You should be resting.”

“I think what y’all are doing here is a better question.” I leaned down and gave my own grandmother a kiss on the cheek.

My aunt, grandma, and mom exchanged odd looks. “Why wouldn’t we be here?” my aunt scoffed.

“Gran is family,” my mom chimed in as if it was obvious.I wasn’t aware that they had ever met.Maman ignored my confusion and continued making room so she could fit the bread on the table.

I looked around at the mountain of food that could sustain an army or two. “Who is going to eat all of this?” There was no way the five women in the room could tackle even a quarter of it.

“Khanevadeh,” my grandmother said with fervor. “The family!”

‘The family’ was half of Falls Creek. My father and brother joined, along with Cal and a few of the cops from the department. Gran called up her neighbors, who were already salivating at the smell of food filling the street. Conversation flowed in multiple languages, often switching from one to the next depending on who was in the circle. Slices of pecan pie topped with Howling Cow ice cream were devoured next to servings ofhalva.

Callum stood on the back porch, shooting the breeze with my dad and Karim. They looked so natural out there. Cal tipped his head back, laughing at something Karim had said. My mom and aunt bustled around the kitchen, tidying up and packing the absurd amount of leftovers while half of the Ladies Auxiliary tried to convince her to join their ranks.

The havoc they could cause with a shark of an attorney on their side… Cal would have a conniption.

“Azizam,” my grandmother said, waving me over to where she had parked herself beside Gran. “Come. Show me the ring,” she said in quick Farsi.

I grabbed a stray folding chair that someone had brought, set it beside Gran, and held my hand out. The red center stone sparkled under the lamp light. Gold filigree snaked around it in an ornate design. It was by far the most stunning piece of jewelry I had ever seen.

“This is the ring I was tellin’ you about, Farah.”

I had never once heard my grandmother be called by her first name.

“This is the ring that Callum’s granddad put on my finger when we got married,” Gran began. “It goes way back, though. No one’s really sure who had it first, but I remember hearing that my great-grandma wore it on her wedding day.”

She grazed the top of the ring, and I saw the memories play back in Gran’s crinkled eyes. Her own love story and the love stories of the women who came before her. A century or more of highs and lows, wins and losses. Good times and bad.

My grandma placed her hand on top of mine and gave it a squeeze. “And now it goes to the next generation. To carry on our legacy. Our family.”

Ourfamily.

Not mine. Not his. Not my culture. Not his culture.

Ours.

My stomach churned, knowing that the ring—the ring that meant so much to Gran—was part of a lie.

Callum and I had taken something precious and tainted it. We tarnished a legacy.

“Callum’s mama must miss it,”Maman bozorgsaid. “But it looks so beautiful on my granddaughter’s hand.”

Gran scoffed. “His momma was a greedy bitch about that ring. When she and his daddy split up, I told her she could keep it until Cal found a girl he wanted to marry, then she could give it to him to propose with.” Gran tilted her head as if deciding whether she was going to drudge up the past for the story’s sake. “But when they sent him to live with me, I told them the ring had to come, too. No way was I letting someone who wasn’t worthy of it have their hands on it.” She let out a tired sigh. “Cal’s been through a lot. I’ve seen him at his lowest.” Looking at me, she said, “But the happiest I’ve ever seen him is when he’s with you.”

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