I have two of Nick’s business cards now. The old one is a memento from the day we met, still in its plastic baggie, shredded into a jumble of pieces by Nasrin. The new one is pristine except for his handwriting on the back. The harsh scrawl is a nearly violent collision of pen and paper. Nothing he does is slow or measured, not even writing down an address for me:

Calle Acuelta #117
Colonia Aviacion
Tijuana, B.C. 22420
Mexico

Nick’s home for the next year is a language I don’t speak, a culture where even the similar is dissimilar, a foreign country I’ve always longed to visit. I copy the address into my notebook, double-checking the spelling and numbers. “That looks right,” I say hopefully. A small envious thrill is creeping through me. At least one of us will turn the calendar into a brand new life. I’m right back where I started, trapped under the heavy suffocating blanket of my family. My same old life is too many D words, I’ve decided. This is my scribbled list so far:

  • Depressing — the past, the future, and pretty much everything in between
  • Doubt — what my brain does all day
  • Deformed — who needs a mirror when I’ve got my aunts to remind me?
  • Drain — like, I’m going down it
  • Dishrag — me in a word
  • Detest — how my in-laws feel about me now
  • Divorced — the place I’m trying to get to

I’m ambivalent about the last word on the list:

  • Drudgery — my job as a research assistant

Behind me the digital scanner works through its stack of documents at 10 pages per minute. Even with my back turned I know the machine is performing smoothly. I just listen for the hissssssssss KA-CHUNK of another page scanned, another page loaded. My job isn’t research assistant. My job is babysitting the scanner. I almost feel guilty that Nick is paying me for it. So far he’s wrong about frequent paper jams and the ongoing need to rescan pages. The feeder tray has jammed twice in two days and I’ve only rescanned a dozen pages. Mostly I just sit on the bed, one foot tucked underneath me, marinating in my disappointed apathy. Who knew digitizing an archive would be more boring than housework?

Voices are leaking down the hallway and puddling against the bedroom door. I can overhear the English and Farsi but I’m not really listening. For a while my name drifts in the conversation like flotsam. Then it becomes a refrain. Then an angry summons. “Nooshin! Before we die, Nooshin!”

I sigh and unfold myself from the bed — being careful not to tip over the scanner. My Nikes are heavy with dread as I open the door and plod down the carpeted hallway. A little slice of the living room comes into view, then a bigger slice. I adjust my t-shirt, which fits my body like I’m a clothes hanger, and do a hair-toss to hide my crooked eye.

My parents and sister are packed hip-to-hip on the floral-print couch. I’m not used to seeing Dad look this haggard. He’s turning into the Grandfather of my memories, a weary old man who seems baffled to discover himself in America. Mom’s headscarf is wound loosely around her face, revealing new wrinkles and hair streaked with gray. She wears a belted dress that accentuates the hourglass body I didn’t inherit. Between them Nasrin is rigid with tension, sitting as if all her joints have been fused. The cowl of her hijab doesn’t turn to acknowledge me.

Across from the couch are matching wingback chairs. One is occupied by my uncle-in-law Gamal, bleary and red-eyed after a late arrival last night. He wears a cheap black suit that gapes at the chest and stops halfway up his forearms. His beard is full and unkempt and reaches past his open collar. I’m surprised that a Qu’ran is splayed open on his thigh. He has memorized more of the holy book than I’ve even read.

My brother-in-law Afshar slumps in the other chair. I can’t remember if he’s the youngest or second-youngest brother in Saman’s family. Frosted hair curls out from under his stocking cap, knees protrude from the stylish holes in his cargo pants. Middle Eastern pop is drifting faintly from iPod buds, winding from a pocket up to his ears. You’d never guess that he belongs in a cave in the 8th century.

Separating the two families is the coffee table. Its surface is covered with dates, halva and chelo-kabob. The electric samovar is surrounded by five cups of tea going cold. Even divorce negotiations require a display of Iranian hospitality.

“Nooshin, this is the compromise we’ve — Nooshin!” Dad barks to get my attention. “This is the compromise we’ve reached. You will go back to Kansas City and live with your aunt-in-law Euda. Saman will be allowed to visit you whenever he wants, and you will accompany him to mosque. There will be a separation period of up to two years. If you and Saman haven’t reconciled by then, the divorce will be granted.”

The words I hear are papering over the daylight — Kansas City, two years, reconciled. Somehow I find the courage to shake my head. “No way. I’ll never do that.”

“What?” Dad tilts his stubbled chin away, presenting an ear. “What did you say?”

“Would it kill you to speak up once in a while?” Mom snaps.

Being the center of attention is intimidating, then overwhelming. I drop my gaze to the coffee table and try to speak louder. “I don’t want a stupid compromise. I want a divorce. Right now.”

People are stirring restlessly in my peripheral vision. I’ve caused a crisis — or just worsened one. Gamal pats down his beard and glances at his Qu’ran. Mom tries to pass around a plate of dried fruit. It only gets as far as Nasrin, who remains motionless, radiating hostility. Bored, Afshar takes out his iPod and thumbs for new music.

Dad rises to his slippered feet and points at me. His outstretched arm is angled slightly upward because of my height. “I brought this family to America so we could have a better life. I worked two jobs to put food on the table and keep a roof over our heads. I arranged a good marriage for you, with a good family. And now I give you a compromise that allows you to live separately from Saman, but still work on your marriage.” He darkens with anger, a vein standing out in his neck. “After all I’ve done for you, this is how you repay me? What have I done to deserve such an ungrateful daughter? What, Nooshin?”

The only person allowed to intervene is the other senior male. Gamal looks comical in his ill-fitting suit as he gets up to pacify my father. “Please calm yourself, my brother. Remember that God will judge our disputes in the end. God is forgiving and merciful.”

“Yes, you’re right.” Dad lets his arm fall, momentarily distracted. “God is forgiving and merciful. All praise be to God.”

“All praise be to God,” Gamal echoes. He steps closer to Dad, emphasizing their status as decisionmakers for the rest of us. “With your permission, Afshar and I will go back to the hotel. I won’t say anything to Saman until I speak with you. I’ll await your call tomorrow.”

It’s a thinly-veiled threat — straighten her out. Dad wastes no time, directing Mom and Nasrin to handle the goodbyes while he escorts me to the guest bedroom. We pause in the doorway, surveying what’s left of my married life. A powder blue Samsonite hardshell that’s only been half-emptied into the dresser. More clothes and some shoes in the closet. Makeup that I never use, because mascara and eyeliner and eye shadow only advertise my crooked eye. It’s the same reason I tape things to the mirror until it fills up. I already know what I look like. I don’t need to be reminded.

On the bed is my future, if you can call it that. The laptop with a UCLA security sticker, connected to the oddly quiet scanner. Its feeder tray needs a refill. I dip into a cardboard fruit box for another helping of archival documents.

Dad peers down into the fruit box. “This is your job.”

“Yeah. I get paid $9 an hour for this. Digitizing an archive from a maquiladora in Tijuana.” Then I add proudly, “Not bad for my first real job, huh?”

My pride isn’t reflected in his eyes. “We need to talk, Nooshin.”

I want to scream I ran away from Saman TWICE before you needed to talk! But of course I don’t. I just hang my head and nod.

For a while we watch the scanner do its thing — hissssssssss KA-CHUNK, again and again. I become lost in the documents materializing on the laptop’s screen. Their Spanish is pleasantly inscrutable.

Dad settles himself on a corner of the mushy bed. He looks even more brittle with his slippered feet planted wide for balance. “Well, go ahead. You start talking first. I can tell there are things you want to say.”

“Me? Nah. Not really. Although…why is everyone trying to keep us married? I don’t get it. Saman already has his green card. He doesn’t need me anymore. And that’s why he married me in the first place, right? So getting divorced doesn’t matter anymore.”

“As long as Saman refuses to grant you a divorce, his family must seek your return. Anything less would be dishonorable to their family name, even dishonorable to God.” Dad bends over to tug at his socks, which have fallen down. “Gamal and I aren’t monsters, Nooshin. We won’t force you and Saman back together. We understand the circumstances.”

“But you are forcing us back together! Maybe I’d be living with Euda, but Saman gets to visit whenever he wants. And I have to go with him to mosque. That could be daily, you know.”

“Does Saman go to mosque now? At all?”

“No,” I admit.

“Haven’t Gamal and I hit upon a brilliant compromise?” Dad grins, a rare flash of bad teeth. “If Saman doesn’t change his ways, then you can get divorced from him. It won’t matter if he consents or not, because he will have proved he isn’t a faithful Muslim. If he does go to mosque regularly, he will become a faithful Muslim again and you’ll find happiness with him.”

“That’s what you really think? I want to divorce Saman because he’s not a faithful Muslim?”

“That’s the underlying reason, whether you realize it or not. Your marriage is a blessing from God. If you husband dishonors that blessing by turning away from God, it won’t be a happy marriage.” Misreading my dismayed shock, Dad gets up to embrace me. His grasp is cold and frail. “It’s not your fault. Gamal says that Saman wasn’t like this back in Iran. He’s changed since he came to America.”

“So have I,” I murmur into Dad’s thinning hair. I slip from his arms and collapse to the floor. “None of us are the same here. Not even you.”

Overhead Dad seems to hang from my accusation, waiting for me to release him. The scanner finishes its last hissssssssss KA-CHUNK and falls silent again. The unmistakable sounds of sex begin drifting through the townhome’s common wall — a bed’s rhythmic creaking, a man’s grunts, a woman’s silence. I’m so tired of holding it together that I’m falling apart. This is me, a girl shattering into pieces. This is me this is me this is me.