Departing for LA I experience one of those poignant discomfiting moments with a couple, when you see them engaged in everyday life — parting for a trip, in this case — and the intimacy between them is almost unbearable, like you’re intruding on their privacy, the omnipresent camera in a reality TV show. Farid is staggering around with armloads of luggage, and Nasrin keeps asking him to drop everything so she can unzip their bulging tops and doublecheck the contents, and they keep bickering back and forth — why are you taking that if it’s only a brief visit? what are you doing with the kids while I’m gone? did you leave anything for us in the fridge? They’re just like I imagine a happily married couple to be. A little annoyed with each other, a lot in love.

(Saman and I interact like puppets pulling our own strings…)

My suitcase and all of Nasrin’s luggage are packed into the Saturn’s trunk, since Farid needs the minivan to shuttle my nephew and niece. Their bright faces riot around our hips in glee. A couple nights alone with Daddy — synonymous with watching Cartoon Network for hours on end, a steady diet of donuts and Happy Meals, staying up later than Mommy would ever allow. Kid heaven.

(”When are you going to give Saman a son?” my mother-in-law nags in Farsi…)

In the car Nasrin’s silence is screaming at me. I slouch in the passenger seat, my chin pinned to my right shoulder, feeling my weakness like a burst of nausea. There’s nothing I can do to stop her from unleashing her temper. Suddenly our relationship seems tectonic — peaceful for years, then everything falls to pieces in an upheaval. I don’t know why it has to be this way. I desperately wish it doesn’t have to be this way. Because it will take so long to heal the wounds she inflicts on me.

(Saman is angry like that too, abandoned in Kansas City with “that guy” lurking in his imagination…)

Speeding across the barren scrub of Camp Pendleton, the accusation finally boils out of her frowning mouth. “Are you going to leave your husband?” The words land on me like pent-up blows. Nasrin has been spoiling for a fight ever since I arrived in San Diego without Saman’s permission. The violence of conviction is written in her face. Her little sister is discarding her marriage like clothes that don’t fit anymore. Making the biggest mistake of her 23-year-old life. And whatever else she thinks when she looks at me and I don’t look back.

(An aunt I barely know is bent over my hand, inspecting the heirloom diamond on my finger, rasping “You married well…”)

Instead of exploding into Farsi, a volcano in the driver’s seat, Nasrin just slumps a little. Then she slumps a lot. Then she begins trembling with sobs that grow stronger and stronger, until her face is streaked with tears and her shaking hands are guiding the headlights toward the shoulder, decelerating fast, and my seatbelt tightens across my flat chest. When we finally screech to a halt, she slams the car into park and loses all self-control. Her bowed weeping is the worst kind of accusation, miserable and cutting and dire. Beyond her silhouette the highway traffic is rushing, sometimes so close we rock on invisible swells.

(In Nick’s truck The Strokes are singing I’m not drowning fast enough…)

After a while Nasrin retrieves a kleenex from her purse and leans into the rearview mirror, wiping away eyeliner like spilled ink. Her lips begin moving. Don’t I care that Saman never hits me? Have I already forgotten that I don’t have to work or go to school, only take care of my husband? Am I so ungrateful for his family’s ambition and traditional Persian ways? Anger is flooding her voice. Disdain. “Dad and Mom aren’t going to let you throw your life away,” she predicts. The words crack my defensive trance. Somewhere inside me emotions are churning, blunt blind vying shapes that blot each other out. I rest my forehead against the cool glass of the passenger door window. Orange County picks up speed, from stationary to streaking past.

(My hope can’t fill a lipstick case…)