The Good Daughter

How far would you go to prove you’re a good daughter?

Aria glared at her phone, eyes shifting between dates and prices, thumb lingering over two buttons. One would max out her credit card. The other would take her back to the previous page but not back to the previous day, to a time before her mother’s unwelcome international voice call.

Turkey did not consider itself part of the Middle East. Turkey was just Turkey. Likewise, the Caucasus was just the Caucasus, a small region of three countries squished among Asia, the Middle East, and Europe.

Thankfully, enough time had passed since her move that friends and family back home, many of whom she seldom contacted, no longer assumed she lived in Atlanta when she told them she lived in the capital of Georgia.

Her credit card — one of her credit cards, she was American after all — lounged on the burgundy tablecloth. She traced its outline with her forefinger. The velvety material granted this softly lit restaurant near the Marionette Theatre a more elegant atmosphere than its reasonable prices implied. The sight of the card diminished her desire to use it.

At the thought of another credit card, one she had never seen, one likely tucked away in her father’s well-worn wallet, her finger slipped in anger. The card went flying. She grabbed the piece of plastic off the floor without making eye contact with the couple sitting diagonally across from her.

Willing her heart rate to slow, she examined her forefinger, bending it a few times at both joints. No damage. She shut her eyes, took a deep breath, released it. Only after she had opened her eyes did she remember to stop grinding her teeth. Her jaw felt stiff.

Desperate for a distraction while waiting for Ella to arrive, she observed the couple discreetly, lifting her wineglass to her lips. Deeply red, rich, lush, with a dash of chocolate. The platter of hard and soft cheeses was half empty. Less remained of the bottle of cab.

Georgian wine and cheese were criminally underrated. On this menu, even table or house was delicious. Once in a while, she would treat herself to something from Mtskheta or Sighnaghi, two of her favorite day trips from Tbilisi.

The couple spoke in the language that was the reason Aria had a job. Brits outnumbered Americans in Tbilisi, which made sense, considering geography. But Georgia was one of the few countries in the world where an American passport holder could arrive without a visa and stay for a full year. Clearly, this was not advertised with enough fervor.

Were they expats or migrant workers? Immigrants? She had discussed the differences with Ella on multiple occasions. Tonight was reserved for a topic less theoretical and more visceral. Belle was a part of it but, seeing as she was nine thousand kilometers away, would not be participating.

Aria fiddled with her phone, which clattered on the table.

“So you’ve finally seen the light, but there’s no need to treat your Android like that.”

Ella pulled out the chair on the other end of the square table, laid her white iPhone onto the burgundy tablecloth, and sat her shapely bum down as if she were plopping onto her own couch.

“White is right, right?” Aria quipped.

A pause.

The smile dropped from Ella’s face as she glanced at the half-empty bottle of wine. “I’m Mexican.”

If Aria had not been facing a life-changing decision, she might’ve apologized: “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that” or “That was bitchy, wasn’t it?” It could’ve been the alcohol talking, but Aria’s tolerance was better than that.

Ella, full name Daniela, blond-haired, blue-eyed, proudly Mexican from Sonora, never had to explain herself further when she told new acquaintances, whether in Tbilisi or elsewhere, that she was American. She rarely introduced herself as anything but “Ella.” “Daniela” and “Dani” and “Danielle” were pedestrian.

“Yes, you are,” Aria stated. And took another sip of wine.

The couple’s chattering grew distant. Ella’s hands laid flat. Her fingers twitched as if to reach for the wine or the cheese. A second glass had been set. It was empty, as was her plate. On Aria’s plate sat a nearly-finished piece of Sulguni.

They both understood the expat — or migrant worker — lifestyle took an emotional toll. It was not easy making new friends again and again just to see them leave… or see yourself leave. The two of them had grown as close as sisters.

Aria thought of Belle, her actual sister. Then she thought of her mother. Then of her father.

She held the bottle, picked up Ella’s glass by the stem, and filled it with a generous pour. Ella graciously accepted the peace offering and smiled her thanks.

“Anyway, we can get you an iPhone the next time we’re in Dubai,” Ella said as she helped herself to a piece of Imereti.

The server came over, and they ordered: kharcho for Aria and stuffed eggplants with pomegranate seeds for Ella. Of course, as usual, they wanted khinkali or khachapuri, but it was too late for any meal as heavy as what tourist magazines advertised as “Georgian dumplings” and “Georgian pizza,” both inaccuracies as inaccurate as labeling kharcho as mere “beef soup.”

The update began. Connor, full name Konstantin, was not going to propose anytime soon. If he did, Aria was not certain how she would answer. Their pairing flipped a stereotype: she was American, he was Russian. Still, the two of them did fulfill one common expectation: the man was the white one in the relationship.

Neither Aria nor Ella had ever stayed in a place — other than their respective hometowns of Los Angeles and Houston — more than three years. They had landed offers abroad to continue their adventures.

But they refused to let their closeness interfere with their independence. They had scheduled to reveal their choices to each other next weekend. Any later and all the higher-paying jobs would be swooped away by other candidates. Aria’s mother liked to tell her the same thing about eligible men.

This impromptu dinner was not about their careers — or what passed as their careers. Another tidbit Aria’s mother enjoyed pointing out.

Ella had gotten the latest on Connor, who knew Aria did not plan to live in Tbilisi a fourth year. He was an expat himself, so in theory he could move with her. But did Aria want that?

“How’s Belle?” Ella asked.

“The sister is doing well.”

More than well in Aria’s mother’s book. Belle was moving up the Wall Street ladder. Dean had recently proposed, and she’d said yes.

Aria had been climbing the international school ladder for some time, but her mother did not seem to get this. Even if Connor proposed, her mother might not be thrilled.

Ella reached for Aria’s hand and squeezed it. “Honey… then it’s something with your parents, isn’t it?” Her voice was soft, but not patronizing.

Just like that, Aria’s walls came down, and the silent tears trailed down her cheeks. She wiped them away before they reached her chin. Ella had methodically eliminated the possible sources of Aria’s distress.

“It’s… my dad.”

Her phone told her a text message had arrived.

Ella nodded. “You should check it.”

Belle: When are you flying back?

Aria showed Ella, who shrugged and spread her arms, sending her own message loud and clear: I’m not getting in between sisters.

Before Aria could decide whether she wanted her response to be witty and sarcastic or scathing and caustic, Belle called.

“Shouldn’t you be at a power lunch right now?” Aria heard either envy or bitterness in her own voice.

“We don’t really say that anymore. And I’m on the way to the airport.”

“What?” Aria sat up straighter.

Ella raised a tweezed eyebrow.

Always the good daughter, Aria thought. Last night, when their mother had said she wanted one of them to come right away and the other to come a week later. It was obvious who would be the first to arrive.

Their mother did not speak English. She had lived in the U.S. for as long as Aria and Belle had been alive.

“I said I’m on my way to the airport. Bad connection?”

“Connection’s fine. Is somebody with her?” Aria asked although she knew the answer. Their aunts and uncles and cousins took turns keeping their mother company at the hospital.

“Yeah…”

One of them had to say it. Who was it going to be?

When they had been pre-teens, their mother loved to tell them they could depend only on each other. She did not mean the two sisters should always have each other’s back. She meant that only the nuclear family was dependable. The sisters were to view their parents with love and admiration and their aunts and uncles and cousins, who all lived down the street, with wariness and suspicion.

“They’re not helping to raise you,” she’d say. “And your cousins aren’t going to take care of me and your father when we grow old.”

“Well,” Belle said at last, “at least somebody’s with her.”

Belle told Aria she’d be in Los Angeles for a week. Aria told Belle that she’d book her flight soon.

“Hopefully I’ll still be here when you get here. If I am and if Mom doesn’t have me running around doing errands or, you know, just translating every single sentence for her, I’ll pick you up at LAX. Otherwise, Uber. Or Lyft. Whichever.”

“Sounds good,” Aria said weakly.

The call ended with not much decided, as the real decisions would be made once they met face-to-face in their hometown, where the two of them had visited separately over the past decade. In other words, the sisters had not seen each other since Aria started her expat life.

“It’s my dad. He had a stroke. A severe one.”

Fingertips to her lips. “Aria… I’m so sorry to hear that.”

“I’m not sure I am.” The words came out before she thought them through.

Sputtering on the wine. “Aria! What the hell?”

“I…”

Their food arrived, and Aria used the time to compose herself, taking slow slurps of her kharcho, keeping her head down. Every time she dared to look up, she saw the concern etched on Ella’s face. The quiet lasted until the kharcho and eggplants were nearly gone.

Then Aria told Ella about the credit card. She stumbled in the telling, grappling with the words, adjusting and re-adjusting the tone in which she delivered them, struggling to paint a balanced picture, to strike an even portrayal that would not mark her as a petty daughter or her father as an unforgivable parent.

During the financial crisis, Aria’s father had lost over a hundred thousand dollars in the stock market. He had maxed out his credit cards; applying for another under his own name was a recipe for refusal. Behind everyone’s back, he opened one in Aria’s name and paid off as much as possible.

Even if Belle had known, she would not have been in any shape to help. She was still in business school at the time, paying off student loans from undergrad while racking up new ones. Their mother could have helped, as she controlled the family’s finances, but their father didn’t want her to know. Manly pride and feminine hysteria and outdated honor and emotional debt and other bullshit that meant nothing when half of your body could not move.

By the time Aria found out, she was tens of thousands of dollars in debt.

“What your dad did… was… despicable. But not unforgivable.” Ella spent a few moments picking at the pomegranate seeds with her fork. “But that’s not really it, is it?”

Aria smiled bitterly. This was why she kept Ella around. Her anger at her father was only an excuse. She did not want to give up her freedom.

“What would you do if you were me?”

Ella inhaled through her teeth. “I can’t tell you what to do.”

“You won’t. I’m also asking other friends who lead the expat lifestyle.”

A dramatic gasp and a sensational touch to the heart. “Scandalous.”

“Absolutely.” A pause. “So, what do you think?”

All humor fled Ella’s face. “I wouldn’t ever have to make the kind of difficult decision you’re facing. I’ve got three sisters.”

“Don’t you have four?”

A sheepish smile. To lighten the mood. “Just making sure you were paying attention.”

“Undivided.”

“My parents aren’t super healthy either, but all of my sisters live in Houston. They would never ask me to give up my life abroad to come home. I’m the middle one. Too young to be given the heavy responsibilities. Too old to be given the light responsibilities. My mom broke her wrist a month ago, and they didn’t even tell me. I found out in the group chat. There’s nothing I can do over here. I mean, in a way, it kind of stings that they think it’s okay not telling me. They say it’s so I won’t have to worry, and even if I did worry, it wouldn’t do any good. But a part of me deep down thinks that they think I don’t care. Too busy living it up. You know the glamorous life we expat teachers have.”

Aria had lost count of how many times friends in California assumed she partied every night in Dubai. Not everyone has been a teacher, but everyone has been a student, so everyone has an opinion on education. Too many people seemed to think that teaching abroad was all fun and games. Well, for the salary many schools offered, it might as well be.

Her mother had said she would be a bad daughter if she did not come back to help for six months to a year. A caretaker was not an option. A care facility was not an option.

Both would have been covered by insurance, but one of Aria’s aunts had had a minor stroke several years ago, and they found out what a nightmare caretakers and care facilities could be.

Why couldn’t their mother have just learned English over all these years?

Why couldn’t Belle, the daughter living in the same country, move back?

Six months to a year might not sound like a long time, but it was not about the amount of time but about what Ella had already guessed.

Her father had gotten himself into this mess. If her mother had been a more understanding woman, maybe he would’ve asked her for help. This was the fruit they bore.

But… they were still her parents.

The message was clear: Belle had an actual career; Belle was going to have an actual marriage. Aria had different jobs in different places. Connor was not someone anyone in her family had ever considered marriage material. Hadn’t Aria always said she was mobile? Shouldn’t she be able to move back and teach online or something? No, helping to take care of her father and acting as interpreter for her mother would be her full-time job. Belle had a full-time job that wasn’t mobile, or so she said. Aria would not pretend to understand Wall Street.

Did she understand her job? Her family? Herself?

“So, what are you going to do?” Ella asked.

Aria grabbed her phone and glared at the website.

Dash Ip has led the expat lifestyle for a while now. He also writes novels.