Artifact LA4 - teach.albion.eduteach.albion.edu/amw13/files/2010/11/s-Novel-Artifact-LA4.docxWeb view“Twenty-seven,” I whisper to myself. Twenty-seven cars that have driven by

Artifact LA4

Children’s Novel: Emma’s Quest

Chapter 1

“Twenty-seven,” I whisper to myself. Twenty-seven cars that have driven by in the last five hours. Twenty-seven cars that have not been my dad’s silver Envoy. Sitting on the inside ledge of the Granville’s bay window, I hug my knees closer to my chest and stare out the window . . . waiting . . . waiting . . . waiting.

“Emma?” an uncertain voice interrupts my thoughts, and I turn slightly to face my best friend, Allison. “Emma, are you sure you don’t want to watch a movie or play a game or something?”

“I’m sure,” I reply. I feel sort of bad because I realize I am being terrible company. Normally when Allison and I are together silence is nearly impossible to achieve, and today there has been almost nothing but silence.

I don’t want to ignore Allison. Actually, I feel terrible shutting her out, but how can I explain to her what I’m feeling when I’m not even sure of it myself?

I’m excited to see my mom. I haven’t seen her in more than two months. Ever she left for Armenia to help my grandfather with various arrangements – funeral and otherwise – the house has been different. Things have been quieter. I miss things that I never thought I would miss: things like Mom insisting that I turn off my light and go to bed when I’m reading at night or the way her mouth goes into a thin line when she has to ask me to do something more than once. The entire time she’s been gone I’ve kept my room neat, have done the dishes without my dad asking me, and I even iron my clothes. I miss our “Girls Nights” when Dad used to go away; when we would eat dinner in front of the TV and later give each other manicures and facials, then eat ice cream before bed. I miss the sound of her voice and the way the first question she would always ask when she got home from work would be, “Emma, what was the best thing about your day?” I wonder if everything is going to be just like it was before when she comes home. I wonder if it can be that way again.

I’ve never met my grandpa. He and my grandma came over for my parents’ wedding thirteen years ago, and I think that was the only time they were ever in the United States. But now that Dadik has passed away, Babik is coming to stay with us. I’m anxious to meet this man whom I know only through letters and phone calls on my birthday. What if he doesn’t like me? Will he say that I’m too American? Will he think of me as a real Armenian granddaughter?

I also feel sad about my grandma’s death: sad because it has upset my mom so much, and sad because I never got a chance to meet her. I feel like I should feel sad because she died, and I sort of am, but I feel mostly sad about how her death has affected my mom. It’s hard to actually miss someone you’ve never known.

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I wish my dad would hurry up already!

Allison is still standing awkwardly a few feet from the bay window, uncertain of whether to leave me alone or stay and keep me company. I think I just want to be alone right now. So much has happened, so much feels like it has changed, in the last three months.

It all started with a phone call almost three months ago. Mom and I were eating dinner in front of the TV – something we only do when Dad is away on business trips – when the phone rang.

“I’ll get it!” I exclaimed, jumping up from the couch to get the phone from the kitchen.

“Emma, just let it ring,” Mom said. She thinks that phone calls shouldn’t interrupt dinner, even when the dinner is eaten on the couch in front of the TV while watching TiVo-ed episodes of Gilmore Girls.

“But it might be Allison! Or maybe Daddy’s calling us earlier than he said he would!” I cried back, reaching for the phone. But it wasn’t Allison, and it wasn’t my dad either. “Mom! It says ‘international!’” I called out.

“Answer it,” Mom said, pausing the episode and bringing our half-eaten meals into the kitchen.

“Hello?” I asked, but Mom gave me one of those typical “Mom Looks,” so I quickly added, “Ackley residence, this is Emma speaking.”

On the other end I heard a man’s halting, heavily accented voice ask, “May- I- please- speak- to- Alisia?”

“Yes, one moment please,” I responded in my most formal-sounding phone-voice, and handed the phone to my mom.

“Hello?” she answered. I scowled, thinking it was hypocritical that she got to answer the phone that way and I was scolded for doing the exact same thing. But then I saw my mom sink onto one of the island stools and she looked so . . . lost. Then she started speaking in Armenian, and I knew something was wrong. My mom almost never speaks in her native language except on the rare occasion when she speaks to my grandma and grandpa, or when she feels particularly angry or upset.

I wanted to stay and eavesdrop on the conversation in order to find out the reason for this phone call, but I don’t understand Armenian, and I didn’t know how to behave around my mom, who suddenly looked like a very lost little girl. So I turned off the TV, grabbed my half-finished bowl of herb pasta, and went upstairs to finish eating.

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After eating I realized that there wasn’t anything I particularly wanted to do, but I dug through my art supplies and found my half-filled Disney princess coloring book and a box of colored pencils. Unlike almost everyone else in the fifth grade, I do not think of coloring as a babyish activity.

A few years ago my dad was in the hospital. My mom had been visiting him all day, but visiting hours were over, so she was home. I found her in my dad’s study with one of my coloring books and a box of crayons. I’d never seen a grown-up color before. I knew that artists colored in their own way, but my mom was using a child’s coloring book. Mom must have heard me, or maybe she just had that mom sense that I was there, because she looked at me standing in the doorway, half smiled, and beckoned for me to come in. Without saying a word, she sat down on the floor, handed me one of my other coloring books, and put the box of crayons between us. I don’t remember how long we colored for, but it felt like a long time. We just sat there on the floor, coloring picture after picture, not talking. Ever since then, whenever I’m worried or upset, in a bad mood, or just want a relaxing activity, I bring out one of my coloring books and fill in picture after picture. I find it very comforting, although that night coloring could not block out the occasional sobs of my mom from downstairs. It seemed as though with every passing minute, Mom sounded more upset.

All the clues were adding up to be something really bad. My beautiful, calm mother was slipping into hysterics and was rapidly speaking in Armenian, all because of an overseas phone call. I was relieved to know that my dad’s business trip had only taken him to Ohio, or else I would have been very concerned. The thought that the phone call may have something to do with my Armenian grandparents seemed likely, but I didn’t dwell on it because I’ve never actually met my grandparents.

Mom didn’t come into my room until almost an hour later. Her eyes were bloodshot, her make-up was smeared, and the tip of her nose was red. She sat down on my bed.

I put down my colored pencil and climbed up next to her. “Mom, is everything okay?”

“Your grandmother just passed away,” she said, her voice sounding a little like it had on the phone earlier.

I kissed her cheek. “I’m sorry. It will be okay.”

Mom sniffed. “I didn’t even know she was sick!”

“I bet Dadik and Babik just didn’t want you to worry.”

“I would have gone over there, said goodbye, told her how much I loved her!” Mom began to cry again.

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“I’m sure she knew all that.” Sitting next to my mom at that moment I felt all grown-up. It was like our roles had temporarily been reversed. She was the child needing comforting, and I was the parent comforting her.

Mom sat up a little straighter, brushed the tears away, and said, “I’m going to call Dad now. Do you want to go across the street and play at Allison’s?”

I shook my head. “I can help you.”

“No, Emma. There is nothing for you to do right now. You go have fun with Allison.”

I didn’t really want to hang out with Allison, but Mom looked so sad that I didn’t want to argue with her, so I kissed her one more time and went across the street.

Allison’s older brother, Greg, answered the door, glanced at me, and called, “Allison! Emma’s here!” before rushing back upstairs.

Allison bounced out of the kitchen with spots of flour on her shirt. “Hey Emma!” she exclaimed. “Mom, Abby, and I are making cookies. Wanna help?”

“Sure,” I said, walking into the kitchen, where Allison’s seven-year-old sister was putting all her might into stirring the flour mixture into the cookie batter.

“Hello Emma,” Mrs. Granville said, looking slightly amused at her younger daughter’s struggle. “Abby, why don’t you let Allison or Emma stir now?” she suggested.

Good-natured Abby handed me the wooden spoon and grabbed a handful of chocolate chips out of the 72-ounce bag.

Making cookies was fun; it certainly took my mind off things, at least for a little bit. Then we watched a movie, and Mrs. Granville made real popcorn – the kind made on the stovetop—but by the time the movie was over my mom still hadn’t called me back home.

“Emma, the girls need to get ready for bed,” Mrs. Granville gently said. “And I bet your mom is waiting for you.”

“Yeah,” I said, but when I got home my mom was still on the phone, and didn’t even seem to notice how much time had gone by.

“No, she’s at Allison’s,” I overheard her say as I locked the front door.

“No, I’m back!” I exclaimed, sliding into the kitchen.

Mom’s look was one of disapproval, but she handed me the phone. “Daddy wants to talk to you.”

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“Hi, Dad,” I said.

“Emma, how’s it going?” my dad asked seriously.

“Ummm,” I began, as I backed out of the kitchen and walked up the stairs to my room. “Daddy, when are you coming home?”

“I’m coming home tomorrow. You think that you’ll be okay until then?”

“Mom might not. She’s really upset.”

“I know,” Dad said. “You’ve got to be there for her, Emmy. Can you do that?”

“Yes,” I replied, feeling like a grown-up again. “Dad, what’s going to happen now?”

“Mom’s going to Armenia to help Babik with funeral arrangements, and then I think she wants Babik to come back and stay with us for a bit.”

“I want to go,” I said, knowing at once that my request would be refused.

“Emma, you have school. Besides, if you go with Mom, who will stay home and keep me company?” Dad asked. What he didn’t say – what I knew was the real reason – was that this was something Mom needed to do by herself. She needed to do it without her husband and without her daughter. I didn’t know how I knew this and I certainly didn’t think that I understood it. Still, somehow I knew that even if I didn’t have school I wouldn’t be allowed to take this trip.

Dad said goodnight and I returned the phone to my mom. I got ready for bed, tucked myself in after kissing Mom goodnight, and went to sleep thinking that my life had been changed forever.

The next few weeks were filled with endless international telephone calls, Mom being on the verge of tears at all times, and Dad taking control of all meals, housework, and attending school events. Our house became filled with flowers and sympathy cards. I felt as though I practically lived at Allison’s house. Her house just seemed so much more normal than mine, where I had begun to feel out of place. I was almost no help and, even though I didn’t think it was actually true, I felt like no one really had time for me.

But then Mom left for Armenia and she didn’t know when she would be returning. It all depended on how long it took to get Babik’s visa approved, she told me. Suddenly, the house felt empty. Dad is a good cook, he knows how to do laundry, and he has always helped with cleaning – he says he’s definitely a true modern man – but it still felt like we were guests in our own house.

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Until, that is, about a week ago when we got a phone call saying that Babik’s visa had been approved, and Mom was coming home. Suddenly, the house felt alive again. Dad and I planned a “welcome home” dinner and last night I baked a cake. We cleaned and organized the house so well that it looked like an image from one of those home decorating magazines. Dad even took me to Target and we bought brand new sheets, a comforter, curtains, towels, and a shower curtain for the guest room and my bathroom, which I would be sharing with Babik.

And then this morning at nine o’clock Dad pulled out of the driveway after thanking Allison’s parents for all that they’ve done the past few months. And now I’m just waiting.

“Emma?” Allison asks. I wonder if she’s been standing there this whole time. “Em, they’re here.”

I look out the Granville’s bay window to see my dad’s silver Envoy pull into our driveway.

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Chapter 2

“Emma, are you okay?” Allison asks me, looking concerned.

“Allison, what if he doesn’t like me?”

Allison laughs. “He’s your grandpa; he’s bound to like you. Who ever heard of a grandfather who didn’t like his granddaughter?”

I’m not convinced. My grandpa has never met me. How can you be guaranteed to like someone you’ve never met?

“Well, are you going to go over there?” I don’t respond. “Emma! All day you’ve just stared out that window, waiting for this, and now you don’t even want to go meet the person who is going to be living at your house for the next few months? Your own grandfather?

I take a deep breath. “Okay, I’m going to meet my grandpa.”

Allison grins. “Good luck!”

I grab my coat from the Granville’s coat rack in the foyer. “Tell your mom I say thank you.”

Allison laughs again. “You know you’re welcome here all the time. My parents think of you as a third daughter. Now, hurry! I want to watch your reunion from the window.”

“Spy!” I accuse her, and she shrugs. I leave to walk across the street.

“Emma!” Mom exclaims as I walk down the Granville’s driveway, and I break into a run.

“Mom!” I run into her arms. “I missed you!”

“I missed you too,” she says, hugging me. “It’s been much too long.” She releases me from her grasp. “Emma, meet your grandfather.” She turns to my grandpa. “Hayr, this is your granddaughter. This is Emma.”

I then allow my glance to focus on the older man standing in-between my parents. He looks so serious. In my mind I was holding on to an image of a cute little old man. He was shorter than both of my parents and a little bit chubby, with balding white hair, clean shaven, and was simply a happy looking individual. But this man standing before me is none of that. He is tall and, even as an elderly man, looks stronger than my dad. His hair is grey and thinning, but he doesn’t look like he’s balding. He has a mustache and a short beard and, to be honest, he terrifies me. Aren’t grandparents supposed to be friendly looking individuals? This man doesn’t look happy or friendly. And he definitely does not look excited to see me.

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My heart sinks a little. I was hoping that my fears of my grandfather not liking me were irrational. I was hoping that Allison’s comment about it being nearly impossible for a grandfather to dislike his granddaughter was true. But it is looking like my fears are coming true. Babik doesn’t look like he cares at all that he is meeting his only granddaughter. In spite of all this, however, I realize that this meeting is even more important to my mom than it is to me. So I take a deep breath, gather my courage, and wrap my arms around my grandfather.

“I’m really glad to meet you,” I tell him, and I think that I’m being sincere. I mean, I’m not not glad to have met him, even if he does scare me a little bit.

“Emma,” he says in a heavily accented voice. I wait for more, but everyone is silent. That’s it? He says my name and nothing else? Isn’t he supposed to compare me to my pictures, say how grown-up I look, ask me countless questions about school and my friends? Isn’t he supposed to say something?

“Alisia, should we take your dad’s stuff inside?” my dad asks, breaking the awkward silence.

“Yes, of course,” my mom replies. And she begins speaking in Armenian to my grandfather telling him, I can only assume, that we’re going to take his luggage inside and help him get settled. I hate not being able to understand what she says, but I take comfort in knowing that Dad doesn’t know any more Armenian than I do, and is therefore equally as left out as me.

I walk to the trunk to help with the baggage, and find that there isn’t much. In fact, most of the luggage is my mom’s. Babik has one suitcase. I wonder how he can fit everything he needs for months in that single suitcase. It looks like it’s about the size of one I would use to pack my belongings in for a week-long trip Up North.

“We’ve got it, Emma,” my dad tells me. “Why don’t you show Babik to his room?”

I don’t know how to respond. My dad must have noticed how little my grandfather acknowledged me just a minute ago, and yet he wants me to be the one to show Babik to the guest room. Shouldn’t Mom be the one to do that? But if I refuse it’ll seem like I’m being disrespectful, and I also wonder if it’ll hurt Babik’s feelings. I don’t want him to think that I don’t want to be around him. It’s just that I don’t really know how to act in his presence. If he had hugged me and said something the ice would have broken and I would have felt much more comfortable. Instead, I think that the ice thickened, and the only way to break it now is by force.

“Emma,” Dad interrupts my thoughts. “It’s cold, go inside.”

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I don’t even look at either of my parents before turning to my grandfather. “Babik, would you like me to show you to your bedroom?” I ask, feeling much more like a hostess than a granddaughter.

“Yes, fine,” he replies. I hesitate a moment, in case he says anything further, but he doesn’t.

“Umm, okay. Well, we’ll just go through the garage, since that’s already open.” Again, I receive no response, so I just being walking, glancing briefly behind me to see if Babik is following. The awkward silence is killing me, so I try again. “How was your plane trip?”

“Fine.”

We enter the house. “Well, this is the back hallway. We usually put coats in this closet,” I tell him, as I take off my own pea coat and grab a hanger. “Can I take your coat? I can hang it up for you, if you’d like.”

“No,” Babik responds. I’m beginning to feel very discouraged.

“This is the family room. We mostly hang out in here, but Mom likes to read in the study, which is over there. Through there is the kitchen, and if we head up the stairs, those are where the bedrooms are.” I say all of this without waiting for comments in-between my narration, and we walk up the stairs in silence. “Uhhh, the bathroom on the right is the one you’ll be sharing with me. Dad and I bought new towels and a new shower curtain for it. I’m usually really good about keeping it clean, and I bet Mom will make extra sure of that now that I’m sharing it with someone.” We continue walking down the hall. “On the left is Mom and Dad’s bedroom, and mine is at the end of the hall. And this is your bedroom. The sheets and comforter are brand new; I picked them out myself. I hope you like them.” I pause, hoping for some sort of comment telling me that they’re very nice or that was thoughtful or even that they match the room nicely, but it seems like Babik has gone mute. “Umm, so anyway, do you need anything?”

“No,” is, again, the only response I receive.

“Okay, well, just let Mom or Dad or me know if you do. Daddy and I planned a special dinner for tonight, so hopefully you’ll be hungry in a few hours.” Babik just nods, and I turn around before he can see the tears welling up in my eyes. I run into my bedroom, quickly close the door, and start crying.

Why doesn’t he like me? He’s said barely half a dozen words to me since getting here and I’m trying so hard! What am I doing wrong? I understand that he is probably upset over Dadik’s death, but it’s been three months. It’s not that I think someone should get over the death of a loved one in three months, but I would think that an event like seeing your only

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granddaughter for the first time every would at least lessen that sadness for a little bit. But Babik doesn’t even seem sad. He seems mad, or just indifferent. When Mom was upset she cried and talked to people. Babik doesn’t even act like he wants to know me.

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I wish that I could go back over to Allison’s house. I want to tell her everything that’s just happened (or not happened) and have her help me come up with a plan to get Babik to like me. But I know that Mom would be very upset if I went back over to the Granville’s just minutes after she and Babik arrived. It’s also probably pretty likely that she’ll be unhappy with me for going to my room right now, but I didn’t want Babik to see me cry. I also don’t want Mom to see me cry. This is supposed to be a happy afternoon. It’s the day that I’ve been looking forward to for two months. It can’t possibly be spoiled so easily. It just can’t.

Knowing that I’ll have to go downstairs eventually, I decide to do it willingly, before Mom can scold me for it and make today bad because of a fight between us. I walk over to my vanity, brush my tears away, kiss my stuffed penguin for good luck, and put on my sparkle lip gloss before leaving my room. When I open my door, I see that the door to the guest room is closed. Maybe Babik is tired and wants to take a nap.

I go downstairs and see my parents sitting on the couch. “Emma, is your grandfather coming down?” Mom asks me.

“I don’t know,” I say. “His door is closed.”

Mom stands up, but Dad grabs her hand. “Alisia, give him a few minutes. It’s been a long day for him; I’m sure he just wants to relax for a bit. We’ll all spend time together this evening. Emma and I planned a special dinner for tonight. Emma even baked a cake.”

Mom smiles and sits back down, but I see her eyes dart up the stairs. I sit on the arm rest of the couch. “Mom, I don’t think that Babik likes me very much.”

The second I say it, I realize it was a mistake. Mom’s eyes first flash angrily, and then they well up with tears. Quickly, I try to correct my error. “I mean, I feel like maybe he doesn’t know what to say to me. Umm, it’s just that . . . well. . .” I let my voice trail off.

Mom pulls a Grandpa and says nothing, but Dad takes my hand. “Emmy, remember that your grandpa has been through an awful lot lately, and that this is a brand new home for him. He’s probably just feeling a little sad and overwhelmed right now. I’m sure that once he rests a bit and everything settles down, he will love to talk to you and get to know you better.”

I feel a little bit better now that Dad has said that, but I feel bad that I made Mom upset. Desperately, I attempt to think of a distracter. “Mom, we got our school pictures back. Do you want to see them?”

“Of course I do,” Mom says, and I run into the study to sort through the papers in order to find my school photographs. I’m not sure exactly why the pictures were the first thing that popped into my head. Most times pictures of me are taken people have to beg and plead with me to see them – Mom included. But she’s been gone for so long and I just want tonight to be

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good. Maybe by showing her the pictures without her begging – without her even asking – then she will see that I’m trying.

My parents and I spend the next two hours talking. We haven’t all talked together in such a long time. Sitting on the couch in between Mom and Dad just makes me feel so secure. I tell Mom all about fifth grade and about the swim team. Dad talks about what’s going on at work. Mom comments on our various stories, but she says very little about herself and what she’s done the last couple months. Dad doesn’t question her about it, and I follow his lead, choosing not to say anything either. But I find myself wondering what happened during those two months in Armenia. It’s not that I think anything in particular happened, and I know that it really doesn’t concern me, but it seems weird not to know what your mom has been doing for such a long time.

At six o’clock Dad suggests that we start dinner. Mom asks if we need help, but we tell her that this is her welcome home dinner and she can’t have any part in preparing it or cleaning up after it. I’m excited for this. Dad’s making chicken and I’m making Armenian rice pilaf, the only connection I really have to feeling like I am authentically Armenian. I set the table while Dad makes a salad. I use crystal water goblets and the dining set we only use for super special occasions like Christmas Eve. In the meantime, Mom goes upstairs to talk to Babik.

At six forty Dad and I serve the four plates, fill the water goblets and call out that dinner is served. We take our seats at the dining room table and wait for Mom and Babik to come downstairs.

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Chapter 3

Dad and I mostly stare at our plates, stealing glances at one another. We’re both wondering why it’s taking Mom and Babik so long to come downstairs. After a few minutes I ask, “Daddy, do you think that maybe you should go upstairs and see what’s going on?”

“No, they’ll be here soon,” he replies, and I wonder if Dad is just as afraid of Babik as I am. It seems possible. After all, I don’t think that he knows the man much better than I do and Babik looks like a very intimidating man. It seems weird, though, to think of a grown-up as being afraid of another grown-up, especially when that second grown-up is the first’s father-in-law. I mean, it seems perfectly normal for a boyfriend to be intimidated by his girlfriend’s parents, but it seems like once the couple is married that fear would have disappeared. But maybe since Dad never really got to know Babik that feeling of intimidation never went away. I feel bad for my dad, but it makes me feel a little bit better to think that perhaps I am not the only person who is a little scared of Mom’s father.

A few minutes pass and I think about how the food is getting cold. “Maybe we should put everything back to keep it warm,” I suggest, thinking that serving Babik a cold dinner as his first meal here probably wouldn’t be the best idea. I see Dad nod his head, and stand up to take the plates back into the kitchen. At that moment I hear footsteps coming down the stairs and quickly sit down again. Mom and Babik enter the dining room.

“Good evening, Sacha,” my dad says, and I think about how formal he sounds. “I hope that everything in the bedroom suits you.” My dad sounds like he’s running a hotel and is speaking to a hotel guest instead of his wife’s dad.

“Everything is fine, Brian,” Babik replies. I notice that he doesn’t seem to make eye contact with Dad.

“Hayr, take a seat,” says Mom to Babik, pointing to the empty chair. Babik nods and sits down.

“I hope you like Mahdzoon chicken. And Emma made rice pilaf,” Dad says. What he doesn’t say is that neither Dad nor myself had ever heard the word “mahdzoon” until last week when we planned our special dinner. I thought it would be nice to make an authentic Armenian meal, but aside from rice pilaf, which Mom makes quite often, I didn’t know any Armenian recipes. So Dad and I went on an internet search for some, and discovered that “mahdzoon” means “yogurt” in Armenian. We even discovered a recipe for an Armenian Garden Salad, which made both of us laugh because it seems like an ordinary garden salad, except that it calls for Armenian parsley. I wanted to make an Armenian dessert (because dessert is the best part of any meal), but we couldn’t find any chocolate desserts, which is why I baked a cake instead.

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“That’s fine,” Babik says. I find myself feeling upset again. I like cooking and baking, but Dad and I put a lot of time into planning this meal and Babik doesn’t even act like he appreciates it! I know that this is probably all a lot for him to take in, but I think that he should at least act like he appreciates all that we’ve done for him!

“Everything looks delicious,” Mom says gently. “Emma, the pilaf looks perfect. You might have a new job.”

I shake my head. “I don’t think it’s as good as yours. I made it for me and Dad a few times while you were gone. It just didn’t taste the same.”

Mom brings the fork to her lips and eats a bite. “Emma, you’re crazy. This tastes absolutely perfect. Hayr, you have to taste the pilaf Emma made. It tastes just like Mom’s.”

Babik’s eyes flash and I can tell that everyone at the table realizes that Mom has made a mistake in mentioning Dadik to Babik. She begins talking softly in Armenian. I wonder if she’s apologizing.

Babik responds in his native language and it’s the most I’ve heard him speak all day. Mom replies, and I can tell she’s getting upset. Then Babik stands up and my stomach sinks. “Excuse me, I’m not very hungry,” he says.

I’m heartbroken. All that planning, all that preparation, all that work and all Babik ate was two bites of the salad. Two bites! That’s it! I mean, he might have well not have eaten anything. The salad isn’t even the important part of the meal. Anyone can make a salad. I watch Babik walk out of the dining room and I hear him walk up the stairs.

Mom moves as though to go after him. “Alisia!” My dad’s voice sounds sharp. “Let him be.”

“But . . .” Mom lets her voice trail off without even really beginning her thought. “He’s just adjusting,” she says after a moment.

“Alisia,” Dad begins, and he sounds frustrated. “Why did you bring him here?”

For a moment Mom looks like a scolded child, but then she becomes defensive. “What do you mean, why did I bring him here? He’s my father, Brian. My father!” I can tell she’s getting upset because her accent, which is usually barely noticeable, is becoming stronger. “When tragedy happens, you help family. You support them. You take care of them.”

“I understand all that,” my Dad says, and he sounds like he’s attempting to remain calm. “But I don’t understand why you brought him back here when he so obviously doesn’t want to be here. I know that your dad has been through a lot, but he’s a grown man, Alisia. He’s a

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grown man and he has very clearly indicated that he does not want to be here. I just don’t understand why you pushed it.

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Tears start welling up in Mom’s eyes and she moves to get up, but I call out, “No!”

I wonder if both my parents had forgotten that I was there because they both look at me in surprise as soon as I speak. “Mom, you have to eat dinner. You don’t understand how much time Dad and I put into planning this meal for you and Babik. And now Babik isn’t going to eat it and Daddy and I are tired of having meals alone. You have to eat with us.” I take a deep breath, determined not to also start crying. “Please?”

Mom has sat back down. “I’m sorry,” she apologizes. “Of course I’ll eat your meal, Emma.”

“And dessert, too,” I add. She nods.

The food isn’t as warm as it should be because all the family drama prevented us from eating it in a timely manner. Despite this, none of us move to go warm it up. We eat it anyway, almost in silence. It’s definitely not the welcome home dinner I had been imagining, and I’m not sure that it is better than nothing, but I can’t do anything about it now.

After dinner Mom goes upstairs and Dad and I clean up. I stare at Babik’s completely full plate, which looks so sad compared to the three empty ones beside it. Carefully, I bring Babik’s plate into the kitchen, put cling wrap over it, and put it in the refrigerator. I don’t know if it’s wishful thinking, but I’m hoping that maybe later tonight Babik will realize that he’s hungry. And then maybe he’ll want to eat the dinner. It won’t really be the same as if he had eaten dinner with the three of us, but I really want him to have the meal that was planned, in part, for him.

Dad sees as I put the plate in the refrigerator and gives me a small smile, but doesn’t say anything. I wonder if he would have done the same thing. I also wonder if he’s actually upset that Babik is staying with us. My dad hardly never yells, and tonight he sounded almost angry with Mom. It’s been a weird day.

At quarter to nine I get ready for bed. I don’t think we’re going to eat my cake, at least not tonight. I’m a little disappointed, but I also don’t think that I want to be a part of another drama-filled meal. Perhaps cake would be better to have tomorrow night. I brush my teeth and go downstairs to say goodnight to my parents, but they’ve closed the door to the study and are talking in hushed voices, so I know that their conversation is supposed to be private. I’m very tempted to eavesdrop on their conversation, but after everything that has happened in the last six hours it doesn’t seem worth it. Instead, I get a glass of water from the kitchen and walk upstairs to tuck myself in.

I can’t help myself . . . as I pass Babik’s room, I notice that the door is open and I peek inside. Babik is dressed in pajamas and he’s sitting at the edge of a bed looking at a picture frame. I can’t see what picture is inside of the frame, but I’m guessing it’s one of my grandma.

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Seeing him like this makes him look much less intimidating. In fact, he seems lonely. Babik looks sad and uncertain; he looks almost afraid. My instincts tell me that the man I’m intimidated by would not want me to see this version of himself, but I can’t get my feet to move. It is this version of my grandfather that I’m drawn to. I find myself feeling sorry for this poor, broken man who lost his daughter (in a way) years ago, has recently lost his wife, and now is in a new place with no one he really knows. I realize, suddenly, that Babik doesn’t know Mom. I mean, he knew her when she was a little girl, but he hasn’t seen her since her wedding, and I’m certain that she’s changed since then. So basically my grandpa is in a house full of strangers. I feel sad for him.

I know I shouldn’t stand and stare much longer, so I take a step away. I think about how tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow I will be more patient and more understanding. Maybe tomorrow Babik will feel more comfortable here. As I’m thinking these thoughts the floor creaks and immediately I look at Babik to see if he noticed. Slowly, he looks up from the photograph and stares for a moment at me.

“Sorry!” I whisper. “I, umm, I just wanted to make sure that you were comfortable with, umm, the new bed and everything. Goodnight!”

I want to run down the hall and hide under my covers. Now Babik really isn’t going to like me because he’s going to think – well, he’s going to know – that I was spying on him. But then I hear something that surprises me. “Emma, I have something to show you,” Babik says to me in his heavily accented voice. But this time when he speaks it doesn’t sound harsh or unkind or even indifferent. It sounds almost loving. It sounds almost like the kind of voice you would expect to hear when a grandfather addresses a granddaughter.

I hesitate before taking a step into the guest room, but then Babik says, “Come in,” and I slowly walk over to the bed. “Sit down,” he says, patting the spot on the bed next to him. So I sit and wait for his next instruction. He hands me the picture frame. I was partly right. My grandmother is in the picture, but not just my grandmother. It’s a family photo: a picture of my grandparents and my mom, taken when Mom was probably about my age. Babik points to the little girl. “See her?” he asks. “That’s your mother when she was eleven years old.”

“Yeah,” I say. I don’t want to tell him that I already knew that. Everyone in the picture looks so serious. It reminds me of the pictures you see in history books. But they look like a family. I don’t know how to really describe it. I wonder if that’s the only family photograph my grandpa has.

“And this,” he says, pointing to the woman. “This is your grandmother. This is my Alidz.”

“She’s beautiful,” I whisper, and I mean it. The woman in the photograph is very pretty, and she looks so happy, like she has everything she could ever ask for.”

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“You look like her,” Babik tells me. I shake my head. “You do.” He puts his hand on top of mine. “When you get a little older you’ll see.” I don’t know how to respond. After a few moments of silence Babik asks, “Emma, why hasn’t your mother taught you anything about who you are?”

I think this is a little unfair. I know things about who I am. But I realize that Babik is asking why Mom hasn’t taught me anything about my Armenian heritage.

“I don’t know,” I tell him honestly. “I guess that she just wanted me to figure out who I am on my own.” I’m not sure if this is true or not.

Babik doesn’t say anything for a long time. As I get up to leave he says, “Emma, don’t you want to know about your culture? About who you are? Just because Alisia walked away from it when she was young doesn’t mean that you should be prevented from finding your true identity.”

It sounds . . . interesting for a lot of reasons. First, I love learning new things. I love school and history and learning about other countries is one of my favorite things. I love my Tuesday morning Spanish class because we learn so much more than just the language: we learn about the culture, the people, and the history. Second, Babik has just said that Mom walked away from her Armenian culture. I am realizing how little I know about my parents. Third, creating or finding one’s true identity sounds like something out of a novel where the hero or heroine is on a quest to discover who he or she really is. It sounds so exciting, so interesting. So it comes as no surprise when I hear myself say, “Babik, I would like very much to learn about Armenia.”

I think that Babik is about to tell a story, maybe a history of the Armenian peoples, but then my parents knock at the door. “Emma, it’s nine thirty. Why aren’t you in bed?” my mom scolds.

“Oh, sorry,” I say, and I turn to Babik.

“Tomorrow,” he tells me.

I smile. “Tomorrow,” I repeat.

Mom taps her foot on the ground. “Emma! To bed!” she exclaims.

“One sec,” I tell her. “Babik, do you maybe want your dinner now?” I ask, crossing my fingers behind my back for good luck.

“That would be nice,” he responds. He said nice, not fine!

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“Okay, I’ll get it,” but Mom shakes her head. “Or, I think that Mom will get it for you.” I kiss my grandfather on the cheek. “Goodnight, Babik,” I say.

“Goodnight, Emma,” he replies, and I go to bed feeling extremely happy.

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Chapter 4

“Well?” Allison asks expectantly when she arrives at the bus stop the next morning.

“Umm, he’s not really who I expected,” I respond honestly.

“Yeah, your meeting yesterday seemed awkward.” I had forgotten that Allison had been spying from the window. “Did it get better once you got inside?”

“Not at first,” I tell her. “He didn’t even want to eat dinner with us.”

Allison gasps. “The dinner that you and your dad planned? He didn’t even eat it? That’s terrible! Why is he such a Grinch?”

“I didn’t say he was a Grinch!” I exclaim, defensively. Allison looks startled. She opens her mouth to apologize, but I continue, “I mean, I kind of thought he was a cranky old man at first, but I think he’s just sad. Things got better before I went to bed. He’s going to teach me about Armenia.”

“Oh, that could be interesting,” Allison says, although she doesn’t sound interested at all. Then, after a moment, “Emma, what is your grandpa going to do all day?

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“I mean, your mom and dad will be at work all day and you’ll be at school, so what will your grandpa do?”

“I don’t know,” I tell her. I hadn’t considered what Babik would do during the day. In fact, I hadn’t considered what he would do here at all. What did he do in Armenia? Did he have a job and go to work every day? There are so many things I just don’t know.

“Well, this is our last week of school before winter break. I guess that you can hang out with him starting next week,” Allison suggests.

“I guess. . .” I am looking forward to learning about my culture with Babik, but I don’t think I want to spend all day every day over my winter vacation with him. What about spending time with my friends? Usually Allison and I hang out while my parents are at work. I guess that’s not really necessary now that there will be an adult at my house, but I like spending my days during break at her house. Will Babik feel like I’m ditching him if I decide to hang out with Allison instead of spending time with him? I feel like this has suddenly become more complicated than it should be.

I spend all day at school wondering what Babik is doing all day. Is he watching TV? Is he using Dad’s laptop and surfing the internet? Is he reading a book? Is he taking a walk around

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the neighborhood? Somehow I can’t actually picture him doing any of these things. The only thing I can really see him doing is sitting on the edge of the bed in the guest room and staring at that family photograph that he was looking at last night. I know this is silly. After all, no one would spend an entire day simply looking at an old picture, but it is the only image of my grandfather that I have.

I’m so curious to discover what Babik does during the day that I hardly speak to Allison the entire bus ride home and when she brings up that I’m being unusually quiet walking home from the bus stop I simply reply, “I’m just thinking.”

“Oh,” Allison replies. “Well, do you want to come over? We can do our math homework and then make gingerbread houses. My mom bought these kits and one of them is for Greg, but of course he thinks that making gingerbread houses is babyish, so I’m sure my mom will give you his kit and . . .” her voice trails off as she notices that I am starting at my house. “Emma, are you listening?”

“Yes.”

“Well, do you want to?”

“Do I want to what?” I ask, not fully listening to what Allison had asked.

“Emma!” Allison sounds frustrated. “Do you want to come over to my house, do our math homework, and make gingerbread houses?”

“Oh, umm, maybe later,” I tell her. “I think I’m going to go see how my grandpa is doing.”

Allison nods. “That’s nice of you,” she tells me. I think that she’s being sincere, although I can tell that she’s disappointed that we’re not doing anything. I feel sort of bad. Yesterday I was over at her house for much of the day and we didn’t even do anything together. Today I’m choosing not to spend time with her. I know that if the situation was reversed I would be disappointed, too, but I can’t help the way things are.

“Maybe I can come over after dinner?” I ask. “We could make the gingerbread houses then.”

“Maybe,” Allison responds. “I might just make them with Abby after I finish my homework.”

Abby, who has been walking next to us this whole time, pipes up, “I don’t mind waiting for Emma to come over tonight. I like hanging out with the two of you. It’ll be fun. We can play Christmas music and everything.”

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Usually Allison and I would look at each other and roll our eyes, indicating that we only hang out with Abby because Mrs. Granville makes us, but Allison is staring at her feet. “Well, bye,” I say awkwardly.

Allison forces a half smile. “Bye,” she says. “Maybe I’ll see you later?”

“Sure, I’ll come by in a bit,” I reply.

“Bye, Emma!” Abby exclaims. “See you later!”

I wave and walk up my driveway.

I’m surprised to find the front door is locked. Usually we leave the doors unlocked when someone is home. Maybe Babik is afraid to stay home alone with the doors unlocked. This idea strikes me as strange for two reasons. The first is that although I am quite aware of the dangers of the world, my neighborhood is one of the safest ones in the entire area. Basically everyone knows each other, we have neighborhood barbeques during the summer and almost every household has a kid. I know it sounds corny, but really my neighborhood is like one of those you’d see on a television show or something. Almost everyone is friendly and if anything bad ever does happen, a person’s house is suddenly flooded with food, flowers, and sympathy cards. I mean, just look at what happened when Mom found out that Dadik passed away. That sort of behavior is completely is just what people do in my neighborhood.

The second reason is that it strikes me as strange that a grown-up would feel scared, just like a kid would. Last night I thought that maybe Dad was intimidated by Babik, and that idea seemed weird to me. But Babik is even older and he seems intimidating, so it seems even weirder that he would be frightened. Perhaps it is because it is in an unfamiliar area, and he is in my house all alone. But being afraid of being alone seems like a fear that only a child has. It seems as though by the time you were all grown up you would no longer be afraid of such things. I always imagine grown-ups as being afraid only of having something bad happen to people they love, but maybe they have fears just like kids . . .

I don’t have my own set of house keys, but we do have one of those key pads to unlock the garage, so I walk over there and type in 1-1-0-6 (which happens to be my birthday, 11 for the day I was born and 06 for June) and watch the garage open. When I get inside my immediate thought is that Babik isn’t even here. All the lights are turned off and the dishes in the kitchen sink haven’t even been done. But then I wonder where he would go. He doesn’t have a car and although there is a park at the end of the subdivision and a library a couple blocks away, I don’t think that Babik knows where any of that is, so it seems unlikely that he would just leave.

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I walk upstairs and see that the door to the guest bedroom is closed. Babik is probably in there. Maybe he’s sleeping or reading or just looking at that old photograph. Whatever he’s doing, I don’t want to interrupt. I also am starting to feel incredibly uncomfortable because even though I’m pretty sure that Babik is in the house, I feel like I’m home alone. I’m ten, but Mom and Dad say that I have to wait until the summer, once I turn eleven, to stay home by myself.

Feeling as though I shouldn’t be in my own house, I walk into my parents’ bedroom, pick up the cordless phone next to their bed, and call Allison’s number.

“Hello?” answers the bouncy voice on the other end.

“Abby?” I ask. “This is Emma. Is Allison there?”

“One sec,” Abby says and a moment later I hear Allison’s voice.

“Allison?” I ask. “Am I still invited over to do our homework and make gingerbread houses?”

“Yes, but I thought that you were going to spend time with your grandpa,” my best friend replies.

“Yeah, I was,” I admit. “But his door is closed and my house feels kind of creepy. Plus, making gingerbread houses sounds like fun. So, what do you think?”

Allison re-invites me over to her house and we have an incredibly fun afternoon. Our math homework only takes a few minutes to complete, and we are soon able to decorate the gingerbread houses while singing along to Christmas music. We have to put extra frosting on the pieces of gingerbread to keep the walls from falling down. Abby gets almost as much frosting on her hands and clothes as she put on her house, and we all laugh about it. We attempt to clean up the gigantic mess we made, but Mrs. Granville gets frustrated with our efforts – we spend more time laughing and making a mess with the soap bubbles – and kicks us out of the kitchen. We’re about to find a game to play when the phone rings.

“Emma!” Mrs. Granville calls from the kitchen. “It’s your mom! She wants you to come home now.”

I run back across the street, almost slipping on a patch of newly fallen snow and run into the house. “I’m home!” I call out.

“Emma, what were you thinking?” Mom scolds as a way of greeting.

I’m confused and I don’t say anything at first. What does she mean what was I thinking?

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“There was no reason for you to go over to Allison’s this afternoon,” she continues, answering my unasked question. “Babik was here and the Granvilles have done more than enough for us the last few months. You should give Allison’s mom a break. She doesn’t always need extra company.”

“She doesn’t mind,” I immediately respond. “I’m a good guest, Mom. I’m always polite and I always try to help out and usually when I’m over there Allison and I even play with Abby.”

Mom shakes her head. “Regardless, Babik was here. How do you think it made him feel when he realized this afternoon that you were supposed to be home from school, and never showed up? Emma, you’re more responsible than that.”

I’m beginning to feel upset. “I did come home!” I tell her. “I came home and all the lights were off and the door to the guest room was closed and it was creepy in here. I didn’t even know if Babik was awake or not and so I went over to Allison’s. I always go over to Allison’s after school. I don’t see why it’s such a big deal that I went over there today.”

I can’t read a response in Mom’s eyes. After a few moments of silence she says, “For the rest of this week, I want you to come home and stay in our house after school is over.”

“Why?” I ask. “That’s stupid! If Mrs. Granville doesn’t care that I’m over there, why should it matter?”

“Emma, this isn’t up for argument,” Mom says sternly.

“Fine! Can Allison come over here, then?” I ask.

“No, I don’t think that’s fair to your grandpa to have to look after two girls. He’s not a babysitter, Emma.”

“That’s not fair!” my voice is increasing in volume. “So you won’t let me go over to Allison’s, and you won’t even let Allison come over here? We won’t be loud! We just want to see each other.”

“Emma, you see each other every day in school. I don’t see why you feel the need to do something every single day after school.”

“We don’t get to hang out in school. It’s all work. We get to do fun things when we’re at each other’s homes. Mom, come on. Can’t you at least ask Babik if he minds if Allison comes over? If he says that he doesn’t feel comfortable with it, then I’ll drop it. But maybe he truly doesn’t care.”

“Emma, no!” Mom sounds angry now. I know I’m pushing it and this could lead to further trouble, but I ask, “Can I ask him?”

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“Absolutely not!” Mom exclaims. “Emma, go upstairs. I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.”

“I’m not hungry!” I tell her as I storm up the stairs. I’m very tempted to slam my door, but I know that would make things even worse, so I carefully close the door, pick up my stuffed penguin, and curl up on my bed.

Dad calls me down for dinner half an hour later. I tell him that I’m not hungry. That’s not actually true, but I’m not in the mood to be around Mom right now. But then Dad comes upstairs and tells me gently that I really need to come downstairs and eat dinner with everyone else, so I follow him into the dining room.

Dinner is nearly a silent meal. I wonder if it is more awkward than last night’s dinner. My parents speak to one another and my dad asks me a few questions about school, and that’s it. Once we finish Babik immediately goes upstairs. I begin clearing the plates, but Mom snaps, “I’ll do it myself, Emma,” so I go back upstairs, too.

As I pass Babik’s room I notice that the door is open and my eyes are drawn there.

“Would you like to come in, Emma?” my grandpa asks; the first words he has spoken to me all day.

“Umm, okay,” I respond, and sit next to him, each of us in the same places we were last night.

“Emma, would you like to hear a story?” he asks.

I wonder if this has to do with my Armenian culture, with what he is going to teach me. “Yes,” I tell Babik. “I would love to hear a story.”

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Chapter 5

“Are you and your mother fighting?” Babik asks me. He asks it so abruptly. Dad would have asked something like, “What’s going on with you and Mom?” Babik, however, simply asks the question directly.

“Well, we’re not fighting exactly,” I tell him. He raises his eyebrows. “I mean, I guess we’re just disagreeing.” I hesitate. “Babik, I’m sorry if I worried you this afternoon when I wasn’t home. I really did come home at first, but I didn’t see you and your bedroom door was closed and I didn’t want to bother you, so I just went over to Allison’s. I’m over there a lot, you know, so if you ever wonder where I am, you should call over there. Her number is on speed-dial; it’s number two. Anyway, I didn’t mean to worry you, if I did.”

Babik looks like he’s almost going to smile. “You are a good Armenian daughter,” he tells me. “You are willing to accept responsibility for your actions.”

I don’t know how to respond to this. “So, are you mad that I didn’t stay here when I got home from school?” I ask awkwardly.

“No,” Babik tells me. “I wondered where you were, which is why I called your mother, but I am not mad. You are a good girl, Emma. You should spend time with your friends and have fun. That is fine. Perhaps in the future you could leave a note explaining where you are.”

“There won’t be a next time,” I mumble.

“Sorry?” Babik asks.

“Mom says that I’m not allowed to go over to Allison’s for the rest of the week,” I explain. “She says that I have to come home from school and stay here.”

Babik scoffs. “I’ll talk to your mother. I’m sure we can work something out. Perhaps sometime Allison can come over here.”

“Mom says no,” I say. “But please don’t tell her that I told you! She’ll be really upset with me if she thinks that I disobeyed her and went to you about this.” I suddenly feel like I’m betraying my mom. Before Dadik’s death and everything, Mom and I were super close. Now she’s been home for barely twenty-four hours and she’s scolding me about going over to my best friend’s house. I’ve never had to worry about how my mom will respond to what I do. I don’t like it.

“We’ll figure something out,” Babik tells me, and I suddenly feel like we’ve created a bond. Through a short mentioning of a disagreement with my mother, Babik and I have suddenly created the beginnings of a true grandfather-granddaughter relationship. “You know,

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you’re a lot like your mother,” he continues. I don’t ask how he knows that after having two very brief conversations with me, but I can’t help but wonder. I then realize that Babik is beginning his story.

“Your mother was very smart,” Babik says. “Is very smart. She always thought that she was destined for bigger things than what was available to her.”

I find myself wondering about this. Mom never talks about destiny. She very much believes in hard work and determination to become successful. I wonder if Babik’s word choice is accidental or if Mom really did at one point believe in destiny.

“When she was about fifteen-years-old there was an opportunity for an exchange program through her school. Alisia would be able to come here to America to study for a year. She was already fluent in English, taking it at school since second grade, as well as teaching herself since she was even younger than you, Emma. Your mother begged your grandma and me to let her do the exchange program. She explained how it would benefit her future, what a great culture experience it would be, how much she would appreciate it . . . she tried just about every persuasive tactic she could come up with. But when it came down to it your grandmother and I just didn’t have enough money to send her abroad.

“Like you, Emma, Alisia was an only child. We felt terrible telling her it would be impossible, but the funds we had for her schooling was for university. When we told her she couldn’t go abroad, your mother was furious; she wouldn’t speak to us for days. I bet you have a bit of that stubborn streak in you, too.” I feel myself blushing. It’s true, I can be very stubborn, but I try to be more easygoing like my dad is.

“So, months passed and toward the end of the school year your mother came home with an envelope. It was her study abroad acceptance letter. She had forged our signatures on the form and applied to study abroad despite that we had told her it would be impossible to afford it. Of course, your grandmother and I were very upset. We had not brought our daughter up to be a liar, but I don’t think that your mother had ever wanted anything as much as she wanted to do this. But we still could not afford it. Alisia tried to get us to use the money set aside for her university schooling, but her mother and I refused to do that. It was very important to us that she continue her education.

“But your mother, she was so stubborn and so very determined, Emma, do you know what she did?” I shook my head, but I had a feeling that Mom figured a way to get to the United States without her parents’ help. “She accepted the study abroad invitation even though she had no money for a plane ticket. Then she went to everyone she knew and asked if they had any odd jobs for her. She explained what she wanted to do and, would you believe that almost every person she asked found an odd job for her. She didn’t spend any money all summer and

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when it was a few weeks before she was to fly to the United States, she had more than enough money for the plane ticket. When your grandmother and I asked what she was going to do for

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spending money in America or how she planned to get back home, she said that she would find a job in the States. She certainly knew how to work to get her way.”

I try to imagine my mother as a stubborn, determined teenager, a few years older than myself. Wasn’t she scared coming to the United States without knowing anyone? I would be terrified, but the way Babik tells the story, Mom was excited to go – it was all she really wanted. I never knew that Mom was here before she went to college, though. I always thought that the first time she was in the United States was when she went to Harvard. I wonder if Babik was sad that she was so anxious to get out of Armenia. I wonder if he was sad that his daughter was so far away for an entire year.

“So your mother went to the United States. Your grandmother and I knew that she was excited, but we thought she would get homesick after a few weeks. We were almost positive that she would want to come home long before the year was up. Instead, we hardly ever heard from her. She wrote infrequently and hardly ever called. She became so popular in America: she found a job, made many friends, went to school dances, and even met her first boyfriend.” Babik’s eyes are tearing up. I wonder if Mom knows how sad Babik was when she was away.

He takes a deep breath and continues, “When the year was up she came home almost an entirely different person. She was even more confident than when she left. She was almost an American. She had not been true to her culture during her year away. But your grandmother and I were still glad to have her back. We had missed her very much while she was gone, and we were so proud of her for being so successful. She could now begin applying to Armenian universities and continue her education. But then we found out that while she was in the United States she had applied to various American universities. She applied to Harvard, Cornell, Stanford, Princeton, and Yale. Your grandmother and I couldn’t believe it. She had been gone for a year, and she wanted to leave again in the fall to go away to a university – away where we wouldn’t be able to see her. She said that the American universities offered her more educational opportunities, that she would be more cultured, that they were some of the top universities in the world. And, of course, your mother being so intelligent and so fluent and confident in her English skills, I think she got into all of them.

“Of course, as you know, she went to Harvard. She did extremely well, majoring in communication, and graduating with honors. But she hardly ever came home. She had friends’ houses that she stayed at over the holidays. She came home her first summer, but after that she found summer jobs and remained at school or in the surrounding area. And then she met your father and got engaged before the end of her senior year of college. They planned the wedding for the next summer – an American wedding. She was married on a beach, not even in a church. Your father’s parents bought our plane tickets. The wedding reception served no Armenian food.

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By the time your mother was twenty-one, she had practically completely turned her back on her culture, her background, her people. And now, Emma, she has a daughter – she has you – and you know nothing about who you are. You should be proud of your culture, you should be aware of what those in Hayastan have gone through. You should feel kinship with other people who share your culture.” Now Babik really looks like he’s about to cry.

I’m a little bit thrown off by the word Hayastan, but I assume that it means the same as Armenia because that seems to be the only thing to make sense. I wonder if Babik feels like he lost Mom. I wonder if the reason he is so determined to teach me about Armenia – its people, its culture, its history – is because Mom turned away from all that. But if Mom turned away from the Armenian part of herself, which I guess at one point was kind of the only part of herself, maybe she won’t want me learning about everything. Will she be upset at what Babik is teaching me? Will she be upset that he told me about her?

It’s still early, but I can tell that is all that there will be for the night. “Goodnight, Babik,” I say after there has been silence for awhile.

“Goodnight, Emma,” he replies, and I go to my room to think about everything I’ve just been told. I never knew all that about my mother. I mean, I knew that she was determined and stubborn, but I never knew what really happened in her past. I can’t help but think about the hurt look in Babik’s eyes when he talked about how Mom didn’t come home during her breaks from school and how she had a fully American wedding. He looked crushed, like he felt unimportant and rejected. What would make Mom turn away from everything?

With all these thoughts spinning in my head, I grab my journal that my other set of grandparents bought me for Christmas last year and begin to write. My Grandma Ackley told me that I should write in it every day, but I don’t usually have the patience for it. Plus, until now I haven’t had anything really that interesting to even write about. However, I do find that writing helps me sort through my thoughts, so I write down everything that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours. I write for nearly two hours, until my dad comes upstairs and tells me that it’s time to get ready for bed. Exhausted, I put on my pajamas and brush my teeth, wondering what stories Babik will have to share tomorrow night.

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Chapter 6

But the next night Babik doesn’t tell any stories, and he doesn’t tell any stories the night after that, either. I wonder if he’s changed his mind about teaching me about my Armenian heritage. I wonder if Mom has asked him not to tell me anything else, or perhaps he just doesn’t want to do it anymore. Mostly I wonder about the stories that I’m missing out on.

I mentioned this to Allison while we’re waiting for the school bus Thursday morning. “Well, maybe your grandpa thinks that you’ve changed you mind,” she suggests.

“Why would he think that?”

“I don’t know. Have you asked him about hearing the stories?” she asks me.

“Well, no, but it was his idea in the first place.”

“Maybe he thinks that you saying that you were interested in hearing about Armenia was just you being nice on his first night in America. Maybe he thinks that you don’t really want to learn about everything and that’s why he hasn’t said anything. I think that you should tell him that you still want to hear the stories or whatever. Really, Emma, how is he supposed to know that you want to if you don’t even tell him?”

“But I did tell him!” I sigh. What Allison is saying makes sense. It makes perfect sense for me to directly ask my grandpa about the stories he has, about my Armenian heritage. But for some reason I don’t want to ask him about it. It’s silly, I know, but I want him to be the one to come to me about it. I thought that we had created a sort of bond the other night when he told me about Mom, but now he’s been quiet about sharing our culture with me. It’s not that Babik and I haven’t been talking at all . . . he speaks with me at dinner and yesterday he even asked me how my day was at school when I got home, but we’re not talking about things that I thought we would be discussing. We’re talking about what I’m already very familiar with, and what I’m most interested in right now is learning about the unfamiliar. I want to learn about my culture.

I suddenly find myself remembering that one of my immediate thoughts about learning about my Armenian identity was that it reminded me of a story, one in which the hero or heroine goes on a quest for his or her true identity. I guess that it’s not much of a quest if the heroine gets handed all the information without any effort on her part. With this thought, I silently promise myself that after dinner tonight I will ask Babik about the other stories he has. I will initiate the discovery of my Armenian identity.

Unfortunately, this promise to myself makes me worry all day. I worry that Babik might decide that he does not want to teach me after all. And then I worry that he does want to teach

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me, but it makes Mom upset. I don’t know why she would be upset that I’m learning stories about my history, but she did choose to leave Armenia and made a decision not to share her heritage with me, so maybe she would not want me to have such a connection to it. I don’t know which of these two worries is worse. If Babik refuses to share the stories with me I will feel like I am missing out on something really important I should know about myself. I also will feel like I’m missing out on the opportunity to truly get to know my grandfather. I can’t help but think that these stories will be the true connection I have with my grandfather, that without them I will never truly know him. However, if he agrees to share his knowledge with me and Mom gets upset or disapproves, will I be able to continue? Even if Mom doesn’t make me stop learning about Armenia, will I be able to, without feeling bad, continue learning about the culture, knowing that it upsets her so greatly?

All day these thoughts distract and worry me. I try telling myself that these are silly things to worry about, that everything will work out, but it’s hard to convince yourself of something that you don’t actually believe. For the second time this week I am unnaturally quiet when Allison and I ride the bus home from school. This time, however, she also remains quiet. We walk home almost without saying a single word to one another until I tell her, “I’m going to ask him tonight.”

The great thing about having a best friend is that you can say apparently unclear sentences like that, sentences that would likely make no sense to anyone else, and your best friend will often know exactly what you’re talking about. Allison smiles in response to my statement and says, “Good luck.”

“Good luck!” Abby echoes.

Allison and I roll our eyes. “Abby, do you even know what she’s being wished good luck for?” Allison asks her little sister.

“No, but I still wanted to say it,” Abby responds. Allison and I wave goodbye and as I walk up my driveway to open my garage I listen to the sisters bicker. Sometimes I wish that I had a sister to disagree and argue with. Allison and I complain a lot about having to play with Abby, but I don’t really mind it because it makes me feel like I have a little sister, too.

I punch in the code to the garage, to into the house, take off my boot and my coat, walk into the family room and find myself overcome with laughter. There was Babik sitting on the floor, surrounded by a bunch of remotes looking completely confused as to what to do.

“Babik?” I asked. “Do you need help?”

“Ah, Emma! I wanted to see what was on the news. Your mother told me I could watch television, but when I pressed the button, something happened and I couldn’t fix it. I don’t believe I broke your television, but I don’t know how to fix it.”

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I hold back a giggle. Babik is now holding the remote to the Bose sound system, which is super thin and small, not at all like a TV remote. “I’ll fix it,” I tell him. It only takes me seconds to fix the TV and get it to a news station.

Babik looks amazed. “How did you do that?” he asks me.

I try not to look too amused. “Here, I’ll show you,” I tell him, and I show him how to work the TV and TiVo. I decide not to explain how the DVD player works; if he wants to watch a movie, we’ll save that for a different time. I suddenly feel very important, even though the only thing I’m doing is showing Babik how to work our TV. But there’s something about being needed and having knowledge that you can share with others to help them that makes me feel special.

“Babik?” he looks at me and I hesitate. Maybe I should just wait for him to bring up the subject. But I don’t. Instead I take a deep breath and say, “If you’re still willing, I would love to hear more stories about Armenia.”

Warmth suddenly spreads to Babik’s eyes and a genuine smile lights up his face. “Really?” I nod and think that perhaps Allison was right; maybe the reason Babik hasn’t brought up the subject was because he thought that I was uninterested. Of course, that couldn’t be further from the truth, but I suppose that Babik had no way to know that. “How about before you go to bed tonight?” he asks me and I tell him that sounds perfect.

Dinner is good, too.

“What do you think about getting the Christmas tree this weekend, Emma?” Dad asks me.

“Yes, yes, yes!” I exclaim. I love Christmas tree shopping. Unlike most of my friends’ families, my family buys a real Christmas tree every year. Each December a couple weeks before Christmas we get bundled up, drive to Hunter’s Tree Farm, and trudge through the snow and cold looking for the perfect Christmas tree. Once we find it we bring it home, put it in the Family Room, and drink hot chocolate while decorating it. Then Mom and I usually bake sugar cookies and the three of us decorate them after dinner. There’s something about picking out a real tree each holiday season and decorating it that just makes having a Christmas tree so much more special than if we were only to put up the same fake one every year.

Suddenly I find myself wondering about Christmas in Armenia. “Babik,” I begin. “Do you put up Christmas trees in Armenia?” It seems strange that I don’t know this. My mom grew up in Armenia, and never once did I ask her how she used to celebrate the holiday when she was a little girl. I guess it was because I never assumed that it was much different than how our family celebrates now. Maybe that’s a silly assumption, but Mom never really talks about her

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life in Armenia, and until now I’ve never really had any reminders that she did grow up somewhere different . . .somewhere where maybe they have different traditions.

“Yes, we have Christmas trees in Hayastan,” Babik tells me. “But they’re not decorated like your ornamented trees here.”

“How do you decorate them?” I ask.

“With fruit.”

“Real fruit?” I ask. “Gross! Doesn’t it go bad and get all moldy before it’s even Christmastime?”

Babik laughs. I think it’s the first time I’ve heard him laugh when we’re all together. “Not real fruit, Emma. Decorations in the shape of fruit. And there are usually gold bows and red, orange, and blue ribbons.”

“Mom decorated our tree with red bows a few years ago,” I tell him. “But usually we just put ornaments on our tree. We have a bunch of them. They’re really pretty.” But then I think that maybe Babik would like to celebrate Christmas as though he was in Armenia. Maybe that would make him feel more at home. “Where do you find fruit decorations?” I ask.

“Why?” Mom asks.

“Maybe we could have an Armenian Christmas tree this year,” I suggest. “That would be kind of neat.”

“You don’t want to put up all the decorations since you were a baby, Emma?” Dad asks me. I hesitate. Dad knows how much I love unwrapping the ornaments from their tissue paper each time we decorate the tree. I always enjoy hearing and remembering about the stories behind each one, recalling past Christmases. If we didn’t get to do that this year I would be kind of sad. But I also want Babik to feel involved, and I think it would be pretty neat if we had an Armenian Christmas. Dad must notice my hesitation because he says, “What about if we get two trees this year, Emma? We could pick out the normal one for our decorations and maybe we could get a smaller one and make it an Armenian Christmas tree. Does that seem like a fair idea?”

I nod and look at Babik. “Yes, Brian. That sounds fine,” he tells Dad. But I look into his eyes closer and they show the smile his mouth doesn’t. He turns to me. “Emma, in Armenia Christmas is celebrated on January sixth. Would you like to celebrate Christmas twice this year? You can celebrate it as you would normally on December twenty-fifth, and then in January we could have another celebration, like it would be in Armenia. Would you like that?”

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“Yes!” I exclaim, and my dad says, “I think that seems like a great idea.” Mom, however, doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t look upset, but she doesn’t look excited, either. I wonder if she dislikes the idea that we’ll be celebrating an Armenian Christmas.

“Mom, what do you think?” I ask her.

“I think if your grandfather wants to help you learn about what an Armenian Christmas is like, that would be very nice of him,” she tells me.

“Will you help, too?” I ask. It is one of the first times I’ve ever referred to her actually being Armenian.

“I don’t know, Emma. I’m going to be very busy with work. I’m sure that you and Babik will have lots of fun planning it, though.” I nod, a bit disappointed. It would be nice if my mom would get involved, too. I don’t understand why she would bring Babik here and then refuse to participate anything Armenian. It seems like with him being here she would want to rediscover her heritage, in a similar way to how I’m discovering it for the first time. Instead, she never mentions anything about it and doesn’t even seem to want to be a part of it.

I’m really excited to celebrate an Armenian Christmas, though. I really hope that Babik helps me make it as realistic as possible. I want the decorations, the food, the Christmas tree – everything – to be as much like it would be in Armenia as possible. This is going to be so much fun!

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Chapter 7

Mom and I do the dishes while Dad goes around the house collecting the trash and Babik retires to his room. I’m bringing in the dishes from the dining room and Mom is putting the dishes in the dishwasher. As I bring in the last few dishes Mom suddenly asks, “Emma, are you sure you want to have an Armenian Christmas as well as an American one?”

“I’m sure,” I tell her. “I think that it’ll be fun. And it’ll give me a chance to learn more about Armenian traditions and stuff.”

Mom sighs softly. “But January sixth is after you go back to school. You’ll have your schoolwork and swim practice will start and I don’t want those things to suffer because you are making preparations for a celebration that we already celebrated. Besides, Emma, do you know why Christmas is celebrated on January sixth in Armenia?” I shake my head. “It’s because the Armenian church believes that Christ’s birthday, which is what Christmas is supposed to be about, should be celebrated on the day of his baptism. Honey, we don’t celebrate Christmas based on the religious connections it has. We use it to appreciate what we have, to spend time with each other.”

For a moment I don’t say anything, but then I tell her, “I just think it is a nice thing to do. If we don’t celebrate regular Christmas as a religious holiday, I don’t think we have to celebrate the Armenian Christmas like that, either. I just want to do it to be a part of my Armenian culture. I really want to learn about it, Mom. Please?”

Mom is silent for a few moments. “I know it will make your grandfather happy,” she tells me. “But please make sure that it doesn’t interfere with school.”

I promise Mom that it won’t. It’s not a hard promise to make. I’ll go back to school on January fourth, and our celebration will be on the sixth. I don’t think I’ll be super busy those two days. Also, I don’t think that there will be that many preparations. I just think that it would be something fun for Babik and me to do together.

We finish doing the dishes and then I go see Dad in his study, where he is reading the paper.

“Hey, Emmy. How are things going?”

“Fine,” I say.

“It seems like you and your grandpa are getting along pretty well. That’s good. I know how happy it makes your Mom that the two of you will have an actual relationship.”

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“She doesn’t seem very happy,” I tell my Dad. “It seems like she’s mad, like she doesn’t want Babik talking to me about Armenia.”

Dad shakes his head. “Emma, it’s not that she doesn’t want you learning about Armenia. I think it’s just hard for her because that’s part of her life that she hasn’t thought about for a long time.”

“Maybe she should have thought about it,” I whisper, but loud enough for Dad to hear. “I would have liked to hear about it. I would have liked to know about it. Even if Babik never came to visit us, I still would have liked to know.”

Dad smiles at me. “I know you would, Emma, but Mom has her reasons for wanting to create a life for herself that is completely separate from her Armenian roots. I tried many times to encourage her to make her it a part of her life – a part of our lives – but it’s not something that she wanted to be a part of. But maybe now that Babik is here and you are learning about things she will become more involved.”

“Dad, do you think that it hurts Mom’s feelings that I am learning about stuff about Armenia since she doesn’t really want to be a part of it?”

“No, Emma,” my dad replies. “I just think that it’s something she is getting used to. I think that she’s very glad that you and Babik are getting along, and I don’t think that she’s upset that you’re learning about Armenia. Keep trying to include her, Em. I think it’s a good thing – what you’re doing is a good thing.”

I’m glad that Dad thinks so. I was beginning to feel like maybe I shouldn’t learn about Armenia or my Armenian heritage. As much as I find it interesting; as much as I want to learn about it and I want to have that connection with Babik – and with Mom – I don’t think it would be worth making Mom sad.

I go upstairs to read until it gets closer to bedtime. Sometimes I think about how neat it would be if I could write a book. But I don’t really think that I have anything interesting to write about. Unless . . . suddenly I get an idea. I wonder if I could take the stories Babik tells me and turn them into some kind of book. Realistically, I don’t think that it would ever become an actual published book, but it might be something cool to keep for our family. And when I grow up and have kids of my own, they will be able to learn about their Armenian heritage. They will grow up knowing what I never knew until now.

Excited, I put down the book I’m reading and rummage through my art supplies to find an empty spiral notebook. Mrs. Brown, my fourth grade teacher, always made us brainstorm before writing, but I’m too excited and too impatient to do that. I just want to write. So far the only thing I know is the story of Mom and how she was so determined to study in the United States, but it seems like a good enough place to start. I write down everything I can remember

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Babik telling me the other night. I vaguely think that I could just copy this story from my diary, since I wrote it down then, but there’s something about re-writing it; about making this its own story – my story – that I really like.

I write for more than an hour. When I look at my digital clock on my nightstand and see how much time has passed I feel a little silly for taking so long to record a story that Babik told me in about 15 minutes. But it’s just that I wanted everything to be perfect. I wanted it to sound like an actual story. I put my pajamas and get ready to go to the guest room. Before leaving my room I hesitate at my desk and pick up the spiral notebook, uncertain if I should show Babik what I’ve just written. I decide not to. I’m not exactly sure why, but it just seems like he is the one telling me stories. It would probably be kind of silly to show him a copy of exactly what he told me in writing. So I put down the notebook and walk down the hall.

Babik’s door is slightly open, but I knock on it anyway. “Come in,” I hear him call from inside. I carefully push the door open. I’m beginning to feel much more comfortable with my grandfather, but I still feel a little uncertain when I enter his personal space. I still feel like I need an invitation to address him and can’t just walk into his room. Maybe that will change soon. I hope it changes. I want to be that girl who has a super close relationship with her grandpa. In my mind I picture us going out to lunch and taking walks together, often talking about Armenia, but also just talking about normal things, like school and life. But even though I imagine this, I have a hard time actually placing Babik anyplace outside our house. I don’t really imagine him wanting to go out to lunch. Maybe it’s because I still don’t know him well enough.

Babik pats the bed once I come into the room. “Have you had a good night, Emma?” my grandpa asks me.

I nod, and he asks me what I’ve been doing. “Writing,” I tell him, although I don’t say what it is that I’ve been writing.

“For school?” Babik asks me.

“No,” I say. “I just like making up and writing stories. Sometimes we do that at school, but usually I just do it at home.”

“I’d like to see these stories, if you wouldn’t mind. . .” Babik’s voice trails off, and for perhaps the first time he seems nervous. I’ve seen him act sad and I’ve seen him act distant, but I’ve never seen him appear as though he is nervous. I wonder why asking if he can see my stories worries him.

“They’re not very good,” I tell him. “It’s just something that I like to do in my free time.” Babik looks disappointed so I quickly add, “But sometime I’d like to show them to you. But they’re not done yet. I’ll show them to you once I’ve finished.”

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“I’d like that,” Babik says. I find myself wondering if he’ll be disappointed that the stories I plan on showing him are not my own creations, but the stories that he is telling me. Maybe sometime I will write Babik a new story. Maybe I will write him the stories of Mom, Dad, and me: the story of his family that he doesn’t know.

“What would you like to hear about tonight, Emma?” Babik asks me after it has been quiet for a few moments.

I am surprised; I didn’t think that I would be the one choosing what the stories I listened to would be about. I never thought about requesting anything. I just wanted to sit and listen. I didn’t have anything special in mind, and I tell my grandpa this.

“Would you like to hear a story about your mother around Christmas?” he asks me. I nod.

Babik takes a deep breath and begins to speak. I wonder if he has spent time thinking about what would be a good story to tell, or if he has only just decided what he was going to say right now. I think that he probably planned it. Babik doesn’t seem like the type of person who really likes to do things last minute; he seems like a planner.

“One Christmas when your mother was eleven she begged Dadik to allow her to make the Christmas Eve dessert. See, Emma, in Armenia there is a tradition of having rice pilaf, fish, nevik, and yogurt soup for dinner and bastukh for dessert.”

“We can make those when we celebrate our Armenian Christmas!” I excitedly tell him, determined to find out what nevik and bastukh are, but not wanting to interrupt Babik’s story to find out. I like hearing about what Mom was like when she was younger. These are stories that I have never heard before.

Babik smiles at my comment. “That would be nice,” he tells me. “But don’t ask your mother to help you make the bastukh.” He gets a slightly far-away smile, and I wonder what he’s thinking about, and if he’s missing that little girl Mom used to be.

“Uh oh, did she mess it up?” I ask.

“Well, Alisia was determined that she was going to make the dessert by herself. I think it was because her cousins were coming to dinner. Your mother’s cousin Dalita was a year older than your mom and the two girls always had some sort of rivalry. I think it made your grandmother a little sad because Dalita’s mother was Dadik’s sister, and those two were best friends. But since they were little girls, Alisia and Dalita were always trying to outdo each other. And the year before we had Christmas dinner at Dalita’s home, and the girl helped her mother make the entire Christmas dinner. Everyone praised what a wonderful cook Dalita was, and I think it made your mother a little jealous.

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“So, the week before Christmas Alisia told her mother that she wanted to make Christmas dinner all by herself. But your grandmother would have none of that. Christmas Eve dinner is one of the most important meals of the year, and Dadik was not going to trust Alisia, who had very little practice in the kitchen, to make the entire dinner by herself. Like me, she thought that the only reason your mother really wanted to cook was to prove that she could be as good as or better than Dalita. But your mother was a stubborn little girl, and eventually Dadik agreed to let her make the bastukh.

“Now, bastukh is sort of like a—“ Babik hesitates, searching for the right word. “Well, it’s a dessert made out of grape jelly, cornstarch, and flour. It’s not a terribly difficult recipe to make, which is why your grandmother was willing to trust your mother to make it, I think. There seemed to be very little that she could mess up.

“So, the morning of Christmas Eve Alisia got up early, determined to make the perfect dessert without any help. She stubbornly refused to let your grandmother oversee what she was doing in the kitchen, and so Dadik kept out of the kitchen while your mother was baking.”

I smiled, imagining an eleven-year-old Mom working in the kitchen, probably making an absolute mess, determined to prove that she could do something. Mom is a pretty good baker now; maybe whatever happened with the bastukh encouraged her to become better.

Babik smiles at me. “Do you think you know what happens, Emma?” I shake my head. Actually, I think that the dessert doesn’t turn out, but I don’t want to interrupt his story. “Well, to the great relief of your grandmother and myself, her bastukh turned out perfectly. We tasted a bit before Dalita and her parents arrived. Alisia was so pleased with herself. Dadik had to practically force her to eat her dinner because she was so excited for dessert.

“Finally your grandmother announced that it was time for dessert, and your mother was so excited. She jumped up from where she was sitting and told Dadik that she wanted to put the bastukh on a serving platter and serve her dessert. And she put it beautifully on the plate, but as she walked out into the dining room, she somehow tripped, dropped the plate, and the bastukh was ruined.”

“Oh no,” I whisper, getting that sinking feeling in my stomach, thinking about how crushed Mom must have been after having her perfect dessert ruined.

Babik gave me a small half-smile. “Yes, she was very upset. She burst into tears and ran upstairs to her room. Your grandmother went to follow her, but Dalita asked if she could go instead. I didn’t think it would be a good idea; your mother was almost certain to be upset by Dalita’s presence, after her dessert had been ruined. But Dadik told me to let her go, and so I did. Those girls were in Alisia’s room for so long that all the adults began to worry. But then those two girls came out, acting like they were the best friends in the world. They told us adults to stay put and continue talking, and they went into the kitchen. Less than twenty minutes

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later, they came out with plates of halva, which was perhaps even more delicious than the bastukh because it was made by Alisia and Dalita.”

“What did Dalita say to make Mom become friends with her?” I ask.

Babik shakes his head. “I’ve asked your mother that a few times, and she never tells me.”

I find this answer slightly disappointing and resolve to ask Mom about it sometime soon. “What happened after that?” I ask Babik.

“Dalita and your mother remained friends for a long time, and every year at Christmas, no matter whose house it was, they would make halva together. But after that Christmas, your mother never ate bastukh again.”

Babik’s story ends. Standing up, I kiss him lightly on the cheek and whisper, “Goodnight, Babik. Thank you for the story.”

“You’re welcome,” he replied. There is a pause and then he asks, “Emma?” I look up.

“Perhaps at our Christmas celebration it would be best not to make bastukh.”

I nod. “Okay. Maybe we can make halva, instead.”

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Chapter 8

The next morning Allison and Abby arrive at the bus stop before me. “Did our luck help you?” Abby asks with a huge grin.

Allison looks at me and rolls her eyes. “Abby, not everything is your business!” she scolds. Abby pouts for a moment and then says, “Well, Allison, Emma is nicer than you. And I bet she will talk to me.”

I turn to Allison and raise my eyebrows slightly before telling Abby, “Well, last night went pretty well, so if your luck helped me with that, then thank you.”

Abby skips a little and says, “You’re welcome!” She stops skipping. “So, what did you needed luck for?”

“Abby!” Allison and I both exclaim together, and Abby presses her lips together, scowls, and stops talking.

“Tell me about it once we get on the bus?” Allison asks me, and I nod.

Allison and I spend the entire bus ride to school talking about what happened when I got home yesterday. I tell her about Babik’s struggle with the TV and the remotes and she laughs. Then I tell her about how we’re going to celebrate an Armenian Christmas.

“That’s so cool!” my best friend exclaims. “I wish that our family could do something neat like that. We just go over to my grandma and grandpa’s on Christmas Day. And it just gets so boring! That would be so cool to celebrate two completely different Christmases. I wish I could, too.”

I wonder if Allison is hoping that I will ask her to come to our Armenian Christmas. I wonder if I should. Is it bad if I don’t really want to? Allison is my best friend, it’s true. But I feel like this isn’t her thing; it’s not even something that the two of us are supposed to be doing together. I don’t know if that’s selfish of me or not, but I feel like this is my thing, and if Allison becomes a part of it, then it will not be as special. I want it to be my thing with Babik and my parents. I just feel like this is something that Allison can’t be included in.

I don’t want to hurt her feelings, though, so I quickly change the subject and ask her what she did last night. I kind of wanted to tell Allison about the story Babik told me about Mom last night. I wanted to ask her advice about how I should bring the story up to Mom so I can find out what ever happened between her and Dalita. But I think that I might be talking about Babik and Armenia too much. Maybe I’m not being a very good friend to Allison. I think that we’ve spent a lot of time talking about me lately. I’ve been so excited about Mom coming

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home, then worried about Babik, then excited about learning about Armenian culture that I hardly even know what’s going on in my best friend’s life.

So Allison launches into a story about the argument she got into with her brother. And then she talks about how she played Life with her Dad last night, and he even let her play with the changed rules. (Over summer Allison and I changed the game board of Life to make it more interesting. We added spaces where you can have more kids or get divorced or get a second job. Her mom was a little unhappy with us for changing the board and making it more likely that your life won’t turn out perfectly, but the game entertained Allison and me for almost the whole summer.) It’s nice listening to what’s going on in her life, but I still find myself wanting to talk to her about the story that Babik told me. I’m not going to, though. I think that if I can’t include Allison in everything, then I probably shouldn’t talk to her about it at all. Besides, maybe Babik wouldn’t want me sharing these stories with anyone else.

School today is fun, but kind of pointless. Since it’s the last day before our winter break, we don’t actually do anything productive. We get the time before lunch to catch up on anything we’re behind in. This is actually very convenient for me because I’m completely caught up on all my assignments. Ms. Levy, my teacher usually has us either read silently or work in our writer’s notebooks when we’re done with our work. But I wonder if she’ll let me record Babik’s story, instead.

I really like Ms. Levy. This is only her second year teaching, and she’s really fun. We have a lot of work to do, but she makes it interesting. If I decide to be a teacher when I grow up, I want to be just like her.

“Can I help you, Emma?” she asks as I approach her desk.

“Umm, Ms. Levy. I was wondering something.” She smiles at me and I continue, “Well, I know that usually we’re supposed to read silently or work in our writer’s notebooks if we’re done with all of our work. But my grandpa is staying at our house right now, and he’s from Armenia. I’ve never met him until now, and he’s been telling me stories about Armenia and my mom when she was little. Anyway, I’ve been writing down the stories that he’s been telling me. I want to make a book out of them. And I was wondering if you would mind if I use my free time to write down the story he told me last night, instead. I would write it in my writer’s notebook, but I really want to take it home, so I can have it with me over break. . .”my voice trails off.

Ms. Levy smiles at me. “Of course, Emma. I think that sounds like a wonderful idea. If you get a chance, you could always copy it into your writer’s notebook. Or, if you want, you can use the computer and type it.”

I shake my head. “I kind of like just writing it. I don’t know why.”

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Ms. Levy nods. “I like writing things out by hand, too,” she says. “When I was in college, I would print out copies of all my papers and edit them with a pen instead of just making the changes on the computer.”

I laugh a little. I like when Ms. Levy tells our class stories about when she was younger and the classes she used to help in before she became a teacher. I wonder what she was like when she was my age. “Emma?” I realize that she’s asking me a question. I meet her gaze. “Emma, I was just saying that if you ever feel comfortable doing so, I’m sure that the rest of the class would love to hear about Armenia and what your grandfather is teaching you. You don’t have to tell the stories about your family, but if there is anything interesting that you learn and you want to share it with the class, please let me know. I would love to have our class learn more about different cultures. And I don’t know anything about Armenia or Armenian culture, either, so it would be a good learning experience for me, too.”

“Really?” I ask her. It would be like I would be the teacher.

“Of course,” Ms. Levy says. “Just let me know, okay?”

“Well,” I begin excitedly. “In Armenia they celebrate Christmas on January sixth. And so this year my family is going to celebrate Christmas on the twenty-fifth, like normal. But we’re going to celebrate in January, too. Maybe when we get back to school I could share what an Armenian Christmas is like?”

“That sounds like a terrific idea, Emma.”

I can’t wait to go home and tell Babik about what Ms. Levy told me today. But first we have our holiday party at school. Parties are so much fun. I especially like it because between our classroom and Mr. Brown’s room is a removable wall, so we open it up and combine the three fifth grade classes (Mrs. Marino’s class comes from across the hall). Everyone gets to hang out together. We do a book exchange and lots of parents come with so many goodies. On the classroom TVs there is a holiday movie playing—this year it’s The Polar Express, but hardly anyone actually watches it. Mostly everyone just talks and eats, waiting anxiously for the bell to ring and to be done with school for awhile.

Mrs. Granville stops by as we’re cleaning up. She was helping out with Abby’s holiday party and asks Allison if she wants a ride home. “Nah,” Allison tells her mom. “I’ll just ride the bus home with Emma, if that’s okay.” Mrs. Granville smiles, kisses the top of her daughter’s head, and tells her that she’ll see her at home.

Once her mom leaves Allison says to me, “Well, at least Abby won’t be trying to eavesdrop on all our conversations, now.” I laugh, but still secretly wish that I had a little sister to get truly annoyed with when she tries to hang out with my friends and me or tries to

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eavesdrop on my conversations. Little sisters can probably be annoying when they’re around all the time, but I would still love to have one.

Allison and I spend almost the entire bus ride home talking about all the things we want to do over break. Unlike her brother, we don’t have any homework while we’re away from school. I think the worst part about going to middle school will be that there probably will be so much more work to do. So we plan on all the movies we want to see, that we want to go ice skating and sledding, that we want to go to the mall, and we want to have countless sleepovers. We’ll bake Christmas cookies over the weekend and hopefully it’ll snow some more so that we can make a snowman.

Suddenly Allison stops. “What’s wrong?” I ask her.

“Are you going to have time to do all this stuff?” she asks me. “I mean, aren’t you going to have to spend time with your grandpa?”

“I’ll spend time with him,” I said. “But Babik said that he’s going to talk to Mom, and you can come over to my house, too. We can hang out over there, so that I’m not always going over to your house. And I don’t have to spend all my time with him. I want to hang out with you; you’re my best friend.”

Allison half-smiles. “Don’t you have to plan your Armenian Christmas?”

“I don’t think there’s much to plan,” I tell her. “Besides, that doesn’t even happen until after we go back to school. Armenians don’t celebrate Christmas until January sixth.”

“That’s weird,” Allison says. “It’s after New Year’s.”

“It’s not weird,” I say defensively. “It’s just the way we do it.”

“We?” Allison asks me.

“Armenians,” I correct myself. “Besides, they probably think that celebrating Christmas in December is weird. It seems kind of unfair to say that their traditions are weird just because they’re not the same as ours.”

Tears well up in Allison’s eyes. “Sorry,” she whispers. “I didn’t mean it as a bad thing.”

Suddenly I feel really bad. I know that Allison didn’t mean it as a bad thing. She didn’t even say weird in a mean way. “It’s okay,” I tell her. “I’m sorry, too. I’m just really excited about learning about Armenia and the culture and everything. It’s something about myself that I’ve never known before. And I just don’t want anything to ruin it. And I know that you weren’t trying to say anything mean about it. I thought it was kind of strange at first, too. But it’s

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exciting, you know? I get to learn about who I am and a culture that I never used to know anything about.”

“Emma?” Allison asks me. “Why do you need to learn about Armenia to learn who you are? I mean, aren’t you still the same person you were a week ago?”

I shrug. Am I the same person I was a week ago? Does learning about the Armenian side of myself make me a different person? Or does it just make me realize that there’s a part of me that I never knew existed? “I don’t know,” I tell her honestly. “I guess that it’s just something I like learning about. I feel like it’s an important part of who I am, even if I didn’t know that part was truly a part of me before.” I don’t know if I’m making any sense to Allison, and I’m very sad that our excited conversation about winter break plans has ended this way.

“Do you want to come over later today?” I ask as the bus arrives at our stop and we step off.

“Am I allowed to?” she asks.

“Of course you are!” I exclaim. “Just let me double check with my grandpa. I’ll go home, ask him, and then give you a call once he says that it’s okay.”

“I’m going to meet your grandpa?” Allison asks me. I can’t quite tell if he’s happy about this idea or not.

“Well, yeah,” I say. “If you want to come over, that is. I think that he’d like to meet you. He can be kind of intimidating at first, but I think you’ll like him.”

“I have to ask my mom first, too,” Allison replies.

“Okay. Well, you go ahead and ask her, and I’ll run inside and ask Babik if he minds if you come over for a bit. Maybe we can make hot chocolate or something.”

Allison smiles and runs off to her house as I run off to mine, thinking that if things go well this winter break just might be the best one ever.

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Chapter 9

“Babik, I’m home!” I call as I close the garage door and walk inside. I take off my coat and boots and put them in the coat closet. “Babik?” I drop my backpack on the floor and run upstairs. “Babik!”

The door to the guest room is slightly opened. I wonder if he’s been sleeping. Maybe I woke him up from a nap. I hope he won’t be mad. I knock lightly on the door. “Babik?” I whisper. “Are you awake?”

“So much yelling, Emma. What is so important?” my grandpa asks me.

“Sorry!” I exclaim. “It’s just that I’m super excited to be done with school for two whole weeks! And the party was super fun. And we didn’t have to learn anything new today. And then on the bus ride home Allison and I planned all the fun things we want to do over break.”

He smiles at me. “I am glad you had fun today.”

“Me too. And, so I was wondering. . .” but I let my voice trail off. Maybe I shouldn’t ask Babik if Allison can come over. What if he says no? Allison will be so disappointed. I’ll be so disappointed. Or, what if he says that it’s okay, but then Mom gets mad about it? She was so angry when I asked her before. I don’t want to get into trouble.

“Wondering what, Emma?” Babik asks me gently.

I take a deep breath and gather up all my courage. “I was wondering if Allison could come over this afternoon. She’s my best friend, you know, and I thought that maybe she should meet you. I thought that maybe you would want to meet her, too. She’s really nice, and we won’t be loud or bother you, I promise. We’ll just make hot chocolate and watch a movie or make friendship bracelets or something.” I say this all very quickly.

“You want Allison to come over here?” he asks.

“If you say it’s okay,” I respond. “I mean, it’s okay if you don’t, but I just thought that maybe she could because before you told me you would talk to Mom. You said that you would tell her that you don’t mind if Allison comes over here sometimes. I really do promise that we won’t be annoying or anything. You don’t even have to meet her, if you don’t want to. I just thought that maybe you would want to see who my best friend is. We do almost everything together.”

“I would like very much to meet Allison,” Babik says. “What time did you want her to come over?”

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“Really? Can she come over right now?” I ask excitedly. Babik nods and I give him a hug. “Thank you!” I exclaim. “I’m going to call her right now!”

Allison picks up the phone after the first ring. “Hello?”

“Do you still want to come over?” I ask.

“Your grandpa said that it’s okay?” I think that I can hear the smile in her voice. I tell her yes, and Allison says that she’ll be right over.

Thirty seconds later, watching from my living room window, I see Allison’s front door open up and watch her dash across the street. She’s ringing the doorbell as I swing open the door.

“That was fast,” we both say at the same time. I’m talking about the time it took her to get over here, and she’s referring to the time it took me to open the door. We both laugh.

“Come on in!” I exclaim, realizing that Allison hasn’t been over to my house in quite awhile. Recently it’s been because Babik’s been here, but before that it was because I was at her house with all the stuff going on. Suddenly, Allison looks extremely nervous. “What’s wrong?” I ask her.

“Emma, what if he doesn’t like me?” she asks.

“He’ll like you, don’t worry,” I tell her. “And we don’t have to hang out with him. I just thought that you two might like to meet each other. He’s really not mean, I promise.” Allison nods, but she doesn’t say anything. I lead the way upstairs and knock on Babik’s door.

“Come in,” the gruff voice inside calls out. As usual, Babik is sitting on the bed, with the family photograph on the nightstand next to him. I wonder if he ever reads or anything in here, or if he just uses it as a place to sleep and think.

Allison and I walk into the room. “Babik, this is my best friend. This is Allison. Allison, this is my grandpa.” I feel very grown-up introducing the two of them.

“Hello, Allison,” my grandpa says, offering my best friend his hand.

Allison hesitantly accepts it. “Hi, Mr. Mahakian,” she says. “It’s nice to meet you. Emma’s been talking a lot about you this week.” I think that Allison also sounds kind of like an adult, the way she has just told my grandpa that it’s nice to meet him.

Babik smiles. “All good things, I hope.”

“Oh, yes. Lots of good things,” Allison replies.

“Good.” Babik turns to me and asks, “What are you girls going to do today?”

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“I thought we would just make some hot chocolate,” I tell him. He nods. “Would you like some?”

“How about I make cocoa for you and Allison, instead?” Babik asks me. I turn to Allison to make sure that it’s okay with her, and she shrugs.

“Sure, Babik,” I tell him. “That would be nice.”

Ten minutes later, the three of us are sitting in the kitchen, drinking what might be the best hot chocolate that I’ve ever had. Babik put a little bit of cinnamon in our mugs, and then put whipped cream on top, and drizzled chocolate sauce over the whipped cream. It’s like something out of a fancy coffee shop or something.

“Is this an Armenian hot chocolate recipe?” Allison asks my grandpa.

“No, I believe it is a Spanish recipe. My wife used to make it for Emma’s mother when she was a little girl. But it’s good, isn’t it?”

Allison starts to say that it’s very good, but I break in, “But Dadik wasn’t Spanish!”

Babik laughs. “No, Emma, she was not. But she always liked to cook and I think she had some distant relative from Spain. Anyway, she just thought it was a good recipe and your mother always enjoyed it very much.”

Babik asks Allison lots of questions about her family, what she likes to do, and what her plans for the holiday are. Allison happily answers all questions. I feel like I should be happy that they’re getting along so well, but I feel kind of jealous. I love the stories my grandpa is telling me about Armenia and Mom, but he doesn’t ask me lots of questions about what I do at school and stuff like that. I feel left out.

Then I hear Allison say, “Emma told me that you’re going to celebrate two Christmases this year. That’s really neat. I wish that my family would do that.”

“Yes, well, it was Emma’s idea,” Babik responds. “She wanted to celebrate an Armenian Christmas.”

“I think it sounds like a lot of fun.”

“Would you like to come?” Babik asks Allison, kindly.

“Oh, well. . .” Allison looks at me. I don’t know what to say. “Isn’t it a family thing?” she asks, a little awkwardly.

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“Of course not!” Babik exclaims. “Christmas is about spending time with people who are important in your life. You are a very important part of Emma’s life, so you are of course more than welcome to come to our Christmas celebration.”

“I’ll have to ask my mom, but I’d like to come,” Allison says. I see her look over at me again, but I stare into my almost-empty mug of hot chocolate. Allison’s eyes are still staring at me, I know, but I continue not to look up.

We all sit in silence for a few minutes and finish our hot chocolate. “Well, I think I should probably be going,” Allison says, breaking the silence. “Thank you for the hot chocolate, Mr. Mahakian. It was very good.” She pauses. “Bye, Emma.”

“Bye, Allison,” I reply. “See you later.”

Allison gets up and goes home. After she leaves I take the hot chocolate mugs to the kitchen sink. It’s stupid, I know, but I begin to cry.

“Emma? What is wrong?” Babik asks, sounding extremely concerned.

“It’s stupid!” I exclaim, just wanting to run up to my room and cry on my bed. But Babik stands up and wraps his arms around me.

“I’m sure it is not,” he says.

“It’s just that I thought the Armenian Christmas was going to be our thing,” I say, wiping the tears from my eyes.

“You didn’t want Allison to be invited?” Babik asks, looking confused. I shrug. “I just thought that since she is your best friend, you would want her to be a part of this.”

“But it’s not her thing!” I exclaim, realizing that I sound kind of like a brat saying that. “I like doing things with Allison, but she’s not Armenian, and I’ve never celebrated an Armenian Christmas before, and I just think that it should be something special.”

Babik leads me back to the table and we sit down. “What about having Allison there would make it be not special?” he asks me. “Shouldn’t it make it more special because you get to celebrate something important to you with someone who is important in your life?”

“I guess.”

“Emma, if you don’t want Allison to come to the Christmas celebration, then you should tell her.”

“That would hurt her feelings.”

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Babik nods. “Perhaps it would. But I think it would be nice if she is here with you. Emma, one of the best things about being knowledgeable about your culture is being able to share it with those you love and those who are important to you. It shouldn’t matter that Allison isn’t Armenian. What should matter is that she’s someone who you care about very much, and therefore want to involve her in the important things in your life. I think that you sharing you Hayastan culture with her is a good thing –for both of you.”

I nod. “Okay. I’m going to go call her right now and tell her that I’m sorry.” I get up to leave, but first kiss him lightly on the cheek and say, “Thank you, Babik. Thank you for teaching me about Armenia and for letting Allison be included, too.”

Babik doesn’t say anything, but he smiles warmly at me, and I take the phone up to my room to talk to Allison about the Armenian Christmas we’re all going to have together.

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Chapter 10

“I can’t believe that break is over tomorrow,” Allison sighs as she flops onto her bed. “It’s gone by way too fast.”

“Way too fast,” I agree. I do think that our break has gone by really quickly, but I’m also kind of excited for it to be over because that means that it’s closer to being able to celebrate our Armenian Christmas. Three more days!

The past two days Allison, Babik, and I spent have almost all day preparing for the celebration. Yesterday we went to the craft store and bought a bunch of wooden pieces of fruit. Actually, Dad drove us because Babik said that he doesn’t feel comfortable driving here. So, Dad dropped us off at the fabric store and the three of us shopped while he went grocery shopping. We bought tons of paint and glitter, too. Then Dad came and picked us up and once we got home Babik, Allison, and I painted the wooden fruit that we were going to use to decorate the Christmas tree.

The painting took way longer than I thought it would. It took both days. We could only do half a piece of fruit at a time and then wait for each to dry. Otherwise, when we set the wet piece down, the paint simply smeared or came off. But it was so much fun. Once the paint dried, we picked some pieces, painted them with Elmer’s glue, and rolled the fruit in glitter. It made such a mess and Allison and I still have glitter stuck beneath our nails and in our hair.

Today we decorated the tree. Mom and Dad helped with this part, too. I was hoping that Mom would help us decorate the ornaments, but she said that she was too busy, and thought it was something nice for Babik, Allison, and I to do together. I think that it was a nice thing, too, but it would have been even nicer if she had been a part of it.

I’m really looking forward to making the food for the celebration, but we can’t do that until Tuesday night and Wednesday afternoon, or else it’ll go bad. I haven’t said anything to Mom about making halva, but I really hope that she’ll help me. Allison isn’t going to help make the dinner or dessert, but she is going to come over to our house for the meal and everything after.

Suddenly I realize something. “Allison!” I exclaim. “I haven’t gotten my grandpa a Christmas gift.”

Allison stares at me. “Well, I bet he doesn’t expect you to get him anything. I mean, my parents just always sign our names to the gift they give our grandparents.”

“But this is different!” I insist, and I really think that it is different. Not only is my relationship with Babik different than Allison’s relationship with her grandparents, and not only

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is this the very first time that I’m celebrating Christmas with my grandpa, but also it’s an Armenian Christmas. It seems like I need to get Babik something really special because this is supposed to be a really special occasion. I know that it’s the thought, and not the present, that counts, but I want to get him something special. I want to make this Christmas something that he is going to remember forever. It’s just that I have no idea what to get him. Adults are so hard to buy for because it seems like they don’t need anything, and they don’t have toys that they want. Clothes really doesn’t seem like an appropriate thing to get him either. I feel like it should be something that has to do with Armenia.

“What do I do?” I ask Allison. I feel kind of panicked.

“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask your mom?”

“Because she’s just going to tell me that Grandpa doesn’t expect anything and it’s about the people you celebrate with, not about gifts.”

“And you don’t think that’s true?” Allison looks confused.

“No, I think it’s true,” I reply. “But I also really want to get Babik something special. I want to make this first Christmas together perfect. And I want to get him the perfect gift.”

Allison sighs a little bit. “Emma,” she hesitates. “Well, it’s the last day of our winter vacation. Don’t you want to do something fun?”

“Yes, but—“ I begin, but I am cut off by Abby running into the room.

“And here’s Emma and Allison in Allison’s bedroom,” she narrates, carrying Allison’s video camera.

Allison jumps up from the bed. “GIVE ME THAT!” she screams at Abby. “Abby, that is not yours and I did NOT tell you that you could use my camera. Give it back.”

Abby stomps her foot. “You weren’t using it, so who cares?” she asks defiantly.

“Because it’s not yours!”

While the siblings are arguing, Abby continues to record their entire fight. Suddenly, I have an idea. “Abby, you’re brilliant!” I exclaim.

Allison and Abby stop their argument immediately.

“What?” my best friend exclaims. “Emma, she stole my video camera. The one my parents just gave me for Christmas.”

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“I don’t mean that she’s brilliant for taking your camera,” I say. “It’s just that she gave me the perfect gift for Grandpa’s gift. I can tape our Christmas celebration on Wednesday, and then give the recording to him, so that he’ll have a copy of it to remember forever.”

Abby grins. “Ha!” she exclaims to her sister. “Emma thinks that I’m brilliant.”

Allison rolls her eyes and snatches her camera away from her little sister. She turns the power off and hands me the camera. “You can use mine,” she says.

“Are you sure?” I ask. “My dad has a video camera, too, and I’m sure he wouldn’t mind letting me borrow it.”

“I know,” says Allison. “But I want to help.”

I smile and look over at Abby, who looks very pleased with herself. “ABBY, GET OUT!” yells Allison.

Abby pouts and storms down the stairs. Allison turns to me. “What do you want to do?” she asks.

An hour later Mrs. Granville comes upstairs and tells me that my mom called and wants me to come home. Allison and I say goodbye and that we’ll see the other tomorrow, both expressing disappointment that it will be at school.

I walk in through the garage. “I’m home!” I exclaim.

“Emma, come here,” I hear Mom call once I get inside. I walk into the living room. Mom is sitting on the couch with a book. “Why do you have Allison’s video camera?” she asks.

“Oh, she’s letting me borrow it for Wednesday,” I say. “I thought that I would tape our Armenian Christmas celebration and then put it on a disc and give it to Babik. That way he will have a copy of our Christmas together forever.”

Mom slightly smiles and pats the cushion next to her. I sit down. “You and Babik have really gotten close these last three weeks, haven’t you?” she asks me.

I nod. “I like hearing about the stories he tells about Armenia,” I tell her. “I like hearing about you when you were little. It’s all stuff that I never knew about before. I think it’s interesting. I like knowing about it. I like learning about that part of me. I like learning about that part of you.”

“Emma, I’m sorry that I never shared that part of myself with you,” Mom says, and she sounds a little sad.

“I would have liked to know,” I tell her. “But Daddy said that you didn’t want to.”

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Mom shakes her head. “It wasn’t that I didn’t want to,” she says, and pauses for a moment. “Did you know that your name is Armenian?”

I shake my head. Emma doesn’t sound like an Armenian name to me. “I thought it was German,” I respond, remembering last year when Allison and I spent hours looking up the name meanings of almost everyone we knew.

“It is,” Mom admits. “And it’s Latin, too. And probably a bunch of other nationalities. But it is also Armenian. And it means ‘universal.’ I thought that you would be a child of both cultures. I thought that I could become as American as you wanted while also teaching you about your Armenian identity. Emma, when you were first born I did intend to share everything about Armenia with you. I wanted to teach you the language and the stories of the culture. I wanted to share the food with you and make you proud of your Armenian heritage.”

“But you didn’t,” I tell her. “I didn’t know anything about that. I only knew how to make rice pilaf and how to say grandma and grandpa.”

Mom really looks sad now. “I know,” she says. “I didn’t want you to be like me.” I look at her, confused. “Oh, Emma, I broke Babik and Dadik’s hearts when I left Armenia. I was so caught up in wanting to be worldly—I wanted to be smart and popular, to be a true American girl and not be held back by my roots. And then I was too proud to admit how much I missed my homeland. I thought that I made my choice and that it was a choice I had to live with. If I introduced you to your Armenian culture, Emma, and if you rejected it, like I did, I would have been devastated. So, I thought it would be better for you to be the American girl I always dreamed of being. I thought it would be easier—for everyone—if you were a child of one culture. I didn’t think about what you would be missing out on. I’m sorry.”

“I wouldn’t have rejected it,” I tell Mom. “I would have been universal, just like my name. I would have been Armenian and American.”

Mom has started to cry. “Yes, you would have, wouldn’t you?”

I nod. “Don’t cry!” I exclaim. “It’s not too late.” I wrap my arms around her. “Babik has been telling me lots of stories, one every night. And lots of them are about you when you were growing up. But I’m sure there are lots that he can’t tell me.”

“What do you want to know?” Mom asks me.

I smile. “How do you make nevik, yogurt soup, and halva?”

“Christmas Eve dinner?” Mom asks me and I nod. “Honestly, Emma, I don’t think I’ve made any of that by myself except for the halva. But, how about on Tuesday night we figure out how to do it together? I’ll look the recipes up and make sure that we have all the ingredients.

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I’ll come home from work early on Wednesday and we’ll spend the afternoon cooking and baking. Would you like that?”

“Very much,” I tell her.

Mom smiles, perhaps the most genuine smile I’ve seen since before Dadik died. “Okay, now go upstairs and get ready for bed so that you have time to listen to Babik’s story tonight. I’m sure you don’t want to miss out on that.”

“Do you want to listen to it, too?” I ask her, wondering if Mom feels left out now.

“No, Emma. I think this is something good for you and Babik to do together. You and I will do our own things, too. And on Wednesday night we’ll all celebrate an Armenian Christmas together.”

“Okay!” I exclaim, and I happily bound up the stairs, skipping every other one. Having Mom involved is going to be the best thing ever. It’s just going to make everything so much better!

Wednesday afternoon I can hardly wait to get home. Allison teases me on the bus ride home. “You’re like a little kid who is super excited for Santa to come!” she laughs.

“Oh, this is so much better than Santa,” I say. Yesterday Mom and I went grocery shopping for the ingredients we were missing for the Christmas dinner. Mom printed off pages and pages of recipes. She says that she doesn’t know if we’re going to make a delicious dinner or if it’s going to be a total disaster, but we’re going to try. I’m so excited.

“What time should I come over?” Allison asks me, bringing me out of my daydream of cooking with Mom in the kitchen—a scene which, in my imagination, looks like it should be straight out of a movie.

“Umm, I think around 6:30,” I tell her. “Everything should be ready by then. We’re going to have dinner first, and then do presents and stuff.”

When the bus arrives at our stop, I call goodbye to Allison as I run to my house. “Ready, ready, ready?” I call out as I dash inside.

I hear Mom laugh in the kitchen. “Emma, slow down!” she exclaims. “Go wash your hands, and then we’ll start the soup.”

Mom and I have so much fun making our Christmas dinner. Neither of us really knows what we’re doing, and we have to check the recipe every thirty seconds. However, we laugh about it, and Mom tells me stories about her childhood in Armenia and the days of cooking with her mother. She even tells me about the conversation she had with Dalita the Christmas the

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dessert was ruined. It’s the first time Mom and I have bonded over our Armenian heritage and it seems perfect.

At six fifteen everything is almost ready and Mom and I go upstairs to get ready. At exactly six thirty Allison rings the doorbell, and at six thirty-five we all sit down to dinner. Mom and I look at each other and cross our fingers, in the hopes that our dinner has turned out. It all looks like the pictures we printed off. . .

Babik takes the first bite and I hold my breath. He chews very slowly. Mom also looks impatient. Finally he says, “It’s delicious,” and I want to jump up and down.

Dinner is fun, although it doesn’t really feel like Christmas, probably because we already had one Christmas celebration. After we clear the table—Mom says that she’ll clean up later—we go into the living room. The Christmas tree looks really neat with the fruit ornaments and bows the colors of the Armenian flags. Under the tree are three presents, one for Allison and two for myself.”

“Oh, Mr. Mahakian, you didn’t have to get me anything,” Allison says.

“I wanted to,” Babik tells my best friend. “Shenoraavor Nor Dari yev Pari Gaghand, Allison.”

“That means ‘Merry Christmas,’” I whisper in Allison’s ear, translating one of the few Armenian phrases I understand.

“Merry Christmas to you, too,” Allison whispers, carefully opening up her gift. It’s a delicate bracelet. Allison immediately hands it to me and sticks out her wrist. I put it on her. “Thank you!” she exclaims after the bracelet is on.

“You’re welcome.” Babik then hands me my two gifts. I open the larger one first. It’s an Armenian-English dictionary.

“Oh, Babik, thank you!” I exclaim. Last week I told him that I wanted to learn how to speak Armenian. He told me that I should learn from Mom, but I told him that I still wouldn’t be able to write it.

“Look inside,” he says. I open the book and inside he has written the Armenian proverb “You are as many a person as languages you know” in both English and Armenian, signing it “Love, Babik.”

I go to hug my grandfather, but before I can he tells me to open the other gift. I do, and it’s a beautiful leather-bound journal. “They’re for those stories you like to write. Everyone needs somewhere special to record their thoughts,” Babik tells me, and I run over to him.

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“These are the best gifts I’ve ever gotten!” I exclaim, and I’m being completely serious.

We all stay in the living room for awhile, until Mom tells me that Allison should be getting home and I need to get ready for bed, since I still have school in the morning.

“Alisia, aren’t you forgetting something?” Babik asks my mom, and Mom looks at him, confused. “There’s an important tradition we’re leaving out,” he says. “And since Allison won’t be here first thing in the morning, I think we should do it now.”

Mom nods, finally understanding, and disappears into the kitchen. She returns carrying five pomegranates.

“What are those for?” I ask.

“We’re going to break them open on our doorstep,” Mom says. Allison and I raise our eyebrows at one another.

“Why?” Allison asks.

“In Armenia,” Babik begins to explain. “The morning after Christmas families break pomegranates open on their doorsteps in order to let the seeds escape, which represent plenty and happiness in the year to come.”

Mom hands each of us a fruit. Allison and I shrug, but follow the adults outside, where we splatter pink pulp all over our porch. After Allison leaves and everyone goes inside, I stare at the countless number of seeds on the porch, and I imagine that each one is a good thing that will happen this year.

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Chapter 11

“Emma, I have something important to tell you,” Babik says the next Monday, after he has finished telling me a story about how my great-great grandmother and her two sisters survived the Armenian genocide by living in a German orphanage. After the genocide, they were found by their neighbor, who had managed to survive the death march by faking death. This young man later remarried and raised my great-great grandmother and her sisters as his own children.

I am surprised to hear this story. First, I’ve never heard of the Armenian genocide. We talk about what Hitler did to the Jewish people during the Holocaust in school, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone mention what the Turks did to the Armenians shortly before that. I told Babik that we don’t talk about it in school, and he looked sad but told me that he was not surprised. Tomorrow, though, I’m going to ask Ms. Levy if we can talk about it. Last week I explained some Armenian Christmas traditions, and it led to a class discussion about other traditions and cultures, too, which was fun. I bet that Ms. Levy would let us talk about this, too.

The second reason I’m surprised about this story is that it has nothing to do with my grandparents or my mom. Every other story Babik has told me over the last month has centered around my mom and her parents. All the stories have all had to do with Armenian culture and traditions, but they have not been about history. This, however, was different. It was more like a history, something about the Armenian people, and not just my immediate family, even though it involved my great-great-grandma. Plus, it was just sad. I mean, it had a hopeful ending because the main characters survived, but it was about something tragic—something tragic that hardly anyone bothers to talk about.

“Emma?” Babik asks me. “Are you listening?”

“Sorry,” I apologize. “What did you say?”

Babik takes a deep breath. “Next week, Emma, I am going back to Armenia.”

I feel like my heart has stopped for a moment. “But-but-” I stammer. I can’t believe that Babik is going to leave! I guess that I always knew that he wouldn’t stay at our house forever, but I didn’t think that he would leave so soon. “Don’t go!” I exclaim, and I burst into tears.

My grandpa takes my hand. “Emma, I have to go. Armenia is my home.”

“This can be your home,” I sniff. “You can keep the guest room. I’m sure that Mom and Dad won’t mind. And then you can keep telling the stories. You can teach me how to speak Armenian.”

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Babik shakes his head. “I have to go. I miss being home. I need to be by Dadik.”

“What about us?” I cry. I’m vaguely aware that I might sound kind of ridiculous, and it’s quite possible that I sound very selfish. I know that taking care of loved ones who have passed away is important for Armenians. And it’s probably been very hard for Babik to be so far away from Dadik all this time. However, it doesn’t seem fair. I feel like I’ve only just gotten to know my grandfather. I’m only just beginning to learn about my Armenian culture. If he goes away, when will I ever see him again?

Babik doesn’t say anything, so I continue, “Don’t you want to stay with us? You can be close to Mom again. We can all be a family!”

He sighs loudly. “We are a family no matter how far away we are from each other. Emma, I am so glad to have gotten to know you, my only granddaughter, but I cannot stay here.”

“Fine!” I exclaim, jumping up from the bed and running out the door. As I dash into my room, I almost run into Mom, who was in there putting my laundry away.

“Emma!” she exclaims. “What is wrong?”

I throw myself onto my bed and sob into my pillows. “Babik doesn’t want to stay with us anymore!” I sob.

Mom sits on the end of my bed. “Emma, look at me,” she says.

I turn to my mom, the tears continuing to stream down my face.

“Do you really think that Babik doesn’t want to stay with us?”

“Yes!” I say with a scowl. Mom raises her eyebrows. “Well, he said that he wants to be by Dadik’s grave and he wants to be home. But he could make this his home!”

“Oh, Emma,” Mom says. “Do you remember two summers ago when you and Allison went away to Girl Scout camp and half-way through the week you called Dad and me crying, telling us that you wanted to come home?”

I nod. “But you wouldn’t come pick us up.”

Mom laughs. “No, I wouldn’t. I knew that you would have fun. And you did. You met new friends at Girl Scout camp and you learned lots of new things. But at the end of the week you were ready to come home.”

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I’m silent for a moment, thinking about what Mom has said. “Babik has been away longer than a week,” I say. Mom nods. But I like having him here. There’s so much stuff I thought we would still do together. He was going to teach me Armenian.”

“Emma, I’m so glad that you and your grandpa became so close and I know that you had a special bond, but you and I can do some of that, too. Don’t forget, I grew up speaking Armenian. And I would like very much to be a part of sharing Armenia with you.

“I know that you’re sad that Babik is leaving, but think about how hard it is for him, too. I know how much he’s going to miss you. He loves you very much, Emmy, and I know that he’s sad that he’s not going to get to see you do all the amazing things that you will do.”

“He’s going to miss you, too,” I tell my mom. Mom nods.

“We’ll do something special before he goes,” she promises me. “We can have a nice dinner and a little going-away party. You can invite Allison.”

“Mom, can I go to Armenia sometime?” I ask.

She stares at me for a moment. “Someday, Emma, I promise that we will both go,” she says, giving me a hug. She kisses the top of my head. “Goodnight, Emma.”

Mom turns off my light, but after lying in my bed for what feels like hours I get up and tiptoe down the hall. Babik’s light is still on. I tentatively knock at the door. “Babik, can I come in?” I ask.

He opens the door and I immediately hug him. “Babik, I’m sorry I left like that earlier. I know that you need to go home. I’m just going to miss you so much!”

My grandfather stares at me with tears in his eyes. “I wish I could be both places,” he says.

“I know,” I whisper. “Goodnight, I love you.”

“I love you too, Emma.”

I go back to my bedroom, climb under my covers, and fall asleep almost immediately.

The next morning Mom has decided to go into the office late. She stays home and makes me breakfast in the morning. Babik is still upstairs. “Emma, I was thinking about something to do for your grandfather before he leaves next week. I know how disappointed he is that he has missed out on so much of our lives. So I was thinking that you and I could make a scrapbook of our family, something that Babik can have with him in Armenia so that we will always be by his side. What do you think?”

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“I think it’s a great idea!” I exclaim. “Can I help?”

“Of course!” Mom laughs. “I thought it could be something that we do together. Maybe we can start tonight. We have a lot to do before next Monday. You can go through the photo albums when you get home from school and pick out the pictures that you want to use. We’ll go to CVS this evening and make copies of them.”

“Okay!” I then decide to tell Mom about writing down all the stories Babik has been telling me. “I thought that maybe it would be something that I could give him when he leaves,” I say. “Do you think he’ll like it?”

Mom smiles. “I think he’ll love it!” she exclaims.

The next week passes by way too quickly. Mom and I work on the scrapbook as often as we possibly can. There are just so many things that we want to include: birthdays, Christmases, family vacations, first days of school. . .

When Mom and I aren’t working on the scrapbook, the rest of my free time is spent typing up the stories that I have recorded. Ms. Levy binds the pages for me on Friday afternoon. I feel like I’ve written a book, even though they’re not stories that I’ve made up myself.

Babik continues to tell me stories about Armenia, but there seems to be something different about them now that I know there is going to soon be an end. They almost seem more important, as though I have to hear as much information as possible before Babik leaves for Armenia, not knowing when we will see each other again.

Saturday morning the scrapbook is finished and Mom and I wrap everything up. We have planned the going away dinner, which is the exact same as the welcome home dinner, except for dessert we’re having halva. Allison is going to come, too. She’s also sad that my grandpa is leaving, although I don’t think that she can be nearly as disappointed as I am about it.

Sunday night, Babik’s last night in America is both exciting and sad. I’m super excited to give him his gifts. The scrapbook Mom and I made might be the best gift ever, and I think that it will make Babik feel like he is truly a part of our lives. The last few pages are pictures from the last month of all of us. However, I’m sad knowing that tonight is the last night that we all have together.

Unlike the welcome home dinner, this one goes exceptionally well. No one leaves the table in anger, and the meal has turned out perfectly. There are no awkward silences. In fact, everyone has so much to say that it seems like dinner will never end in time to give Babik his farewell gifts. However, the time finally does come. “Emma, do you want to get the presents for Babik?” Mom asks me.

“Alisia, there was no need for gifts,” Babik tells my mom.

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“But these are really special gifts,” I insist.

“They are,” Mom agrees. “And Emma is so excited to give them to you.”

I run upstairs, where the wrapped scrapbook and collection of stories have been hidden under my bed for the last thirty-six hours, and dash back down. “Here!” I exclaim, breathless, as I practically drop the gifts in my grandpa’s lap. “Open them!”

“Which one first?” Babik asks.

“Umm, I think the bigger one,” I tell him, which happens to be the scrapbook.

Babik opens the gift and slowly flips through the pages, beginning with Mom and Dad’s wedding—which he and Dadik were at—and ending with our Armenian Christmas celebration. “It’s beautiful, Emma,” he says, his eyes looking like they did that first night when I saw him with the family picture.

“Mom helped, too,” I say, wanting to make sure that I don’t take all the credit.

Babik turns to Mom. “Thank you,” he says. “This is the best gift I have ever received.”

No one says anything for a few moments, so I break the silence by saying, “Open the other one now!” Babik does, and after seeing what it is he smiles.

“Babik’s Tales,” he whispers, reading the title I’ve given the stories. “Thank you, Emma.”

“Thank you, Babik,” I tell him. “For everything.”

Babik doesn’t tell me a story about Armenia tonight. Instead, I tell him one of the stories I’ve written in my journal. It’s actually mostly a true story, about a girl whose grandfather comes to visit from Armenia and helps her learn about her Armenian culture. At the end of the story the girl makes plans to visit Armenia, where she will get to see the location where all the stories she’s heard have taken place.

“One day I’ll come see you in Armenia,” I tell Babik when my story is finished. “Mom will come, too. And so will Daddy. And I will be Emma of Armenia and Emma of America. I’ll be Emma, universal.

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Epilogue

Staring out my living room window, I watch my mom and grandpa in my Dad’s silver Envoy pull out of the driveway and drive down the street. I watch them drive away until they disappear.

So much seems to have changed in the last month. I know much more about Armenian culture and traditions and I am beginning to learn the language. I established a relationship with my grandfather whom I had never met before. I created a new relationship with my mom.

But maybe it’s not so different from what it was before Babik came. Allison is still my best friend. I still like school and learning and writing stories. I am excited to start swim practice on Wednesday. And I am still Emma Ackley, American daughter of Alisia and Brian.

However, I also have an Armenian identity. I have a culture that I can share, something that connects me to my mom and my grandpa and anyone else who shares that identity or wants to learn about it. I really can be Emma, universal.

As I continue to stare out the window, I watch as Allison and Abby walk outside, on their way to the bus stop. Hurriedly, I put on my boots and my coat, call goodbye to my dad, and run outside to meet my best friend.

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Artifact LA4 - teach.albion.eduteach.albion.edu/amw13/files/2010/11/s-Novel-Artifact-LA4.docxWeb view“Twenty-seven,” I whisper to myself. Twenty-seven cars that have driven by

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