I nodded, not wanting to interrupt.
“She started disagreeing with the officers, the ICE and USCIS people. And then they said I was going to have to go back.”
I didn’t jump in even though I had a million questions. I could tell it took everything in her to repeat this story for me after repeating it a hundred times already to her other family.
“They put me on a plane back to Heathrow in London with an air marshal next to me on the flight, and then I had to wait in the detention center there. They let me get a sandwich in the airport, but they had the air marshal with me the whole time, even for the bathroom, where she waited outside my stall. From there I went to Iran, and the air marshal couldn’t follow me onto the plane, so she gave me my phone back. And now . . . now I’m here.”
“I’m so sorry, Ameh. I’m so sorry,” I said, choking up.
My aunt, who was normally so happy and cheerful, looked like a shadow of the person I knew. I couldn’t believe I’d only met her in real life once. She was such a big part of me, but I hadn’t seen her in forever. Why did it have to be so hard?
“It’s not your fault, azizam,” Sara said, wiping her eyes with a tissue. “Maybe we can meet in another country next year.”
I’d heard of families doing that—meeting in Canada or Europe, where they had better immigration policies with the Iranian government. That would be nice.
“They did let me do one thing, though,” Sara said with a smile.
“What?” I asked. Let her watch a movie on the plane?
“Go check your front door. It should be there by now. Then come back.”
I nodded and headed downstairs, wondering what could be out front. I opened the door, sunlight hitting my face for the first time that day. On the porch was a package covered in airline barcodes like a checked bag. I brought it back upstairs.
“Is this it?” I asked, holding up the box.
Sara nodded. “Open it.”
I cut through the tape and opened the box. Inside was a bunch of makeup and stuff I’d never seen before. I sorted through the tinier boxes inside.
“Ameh, this is awesome! How did you get it here?”
“Ms. Jordan helped me. They wouldn’t let her carry it back to you in the terminal, but she helped me send it from the airport after they searched it.”
Inside the box was a vial of 100 percent kohl charcoal, a wax kit, eyelash curlers, facial oils, and all kinds of things I had no idea what to do with.
“Thank you so much, Ameh!” I smiled for the first time in a while. It wasn’t the same as having my aunt here, but it made me feel a bit better. “Can you show me how to use them?” I asked, holding up the glass vial of kohl. It looked like something out of a medieval apothecary.
Sara shook her head. “It’s too complicated to show you over video, but don’t worry, I got a good replacement.” She gave another sad smile.
I nodded, though I wasn’t sure what she meant. It didn’t matter. “Nobody can ever replace you, Ameh. I love you.”
Sara tilted her eyes up so the tears didn’t spill over her cheeks. “I love you, too, azizam.”
■ ■ ■ NATIONAL MALL LUNCH
Mom decided that even though I wasn’t going to school today, I still had to learn something. She dragged me to the mall, where we ate in the cafeteria between the East and West Buildings of the National Gallery. An indoor waterfall cascaded into the bright dining area, and all around us were field trips and tourists visiting DC.
“Parvin?” Mom asked, edging my sandwich closer. I had forgotten it was there. I took a bite, suddenly starving. In that moment, I was so hungry I just wanted to fill myself up. I finished half of my sandwich lightning fast, then reached for the chocolate cake Mom had bought at the dessert station.
“Slow down! Chew, please.”
I sighed and finished the rest of my sandwich.
“It’s nice in here,” I said between bites. “I forgot it was so . . . normal.”
Mom kept quiet, sipping her coffee. She had a cup with every meal, that’s how addicted she was. Her hands were stained with ink, probably from frantically making notes yesterday at the airport with her illustration pens.
“It’s hard to see the world move on when it feels like your own is falling apart,” Mom said in a soft voice. She made as if to run her fingers through my hair but I squirmed away.
“That hurts!” I whined. Mom always forgot that I had curly hair, the kind you couldn’t just run your hands through, while hers was stick straight.
“Oh, right, sorry, sweetie.” She patted my arm instead. “I used to bring you here when you were in your stroller. Your dad was working at an agency downtown, and I missed designing so much I would bring you to the museums and just look at all the work.”
I vaguely remembered those days. The National Gallery had huge mobiles hanging from the ceiling, and I would look up at them as a toddler, soaking it all in.
“Come on, let’s go see some art.” She held out her hand. I hadn’t needed to hold my mom’s hand since elementary school. But today, I didn’t care.
“Which museum are we going to?” I asked. The National Gallery cafeteria was a hub for all eleven museums on the mall, but Mom had never said which one she wanted us to visit.
She smiled. “We’re gonna go see your ancestors.”
■ ■ ■ FREER GALLERY 1:00 P.M.
Mom led us
