What if there was trouble at Customs?
What if it was weird?
What if no one liked us?
Laleh finally tired out at about midnight Portland time, though I had no idea what the local time was, or even what time zone we were in. She turned around and leaned against Dad’s shoulder and fell asleep.
Mom played with my hair, twisting the curls around her fingers, as I steeped a sachet of Rose City’s Sencha (a Japanese green tea) in the little paper cup of hot water I got from our flight attendant.
I pulled the sachet out and dropped it in the empty cup of water I’d used to take my medicine.
“Hey, Darius. Can I talk to you about something?”
“Sure.”
Mom pursed her lips and dropped her hand.
“Mom?”
“Sorry. I don’t really know how to explain it. It’s... I just want you to be prepared. People in Iran don’t think about mental health the way we do back home.”
“Um.”
“So if anyone says anything to you, don’t take it personally. Okay, sweetie?”
I blinked. “Okay.”
Mom’s hand returned to my head. I sipped my tea.
“Hey. Mom?”
“Hm?”
“Are you nervous?”
“A little.”
“Because of me and Dad?”
“No. Of course not.”
“How come, then?”
Mom smiled, but her eyes were sad. “I should have gone back a lot sooner.”
“Oh.” The knot in my solar plexus tightened. Mom pushed a loose strand of hair behind my ear as I stared out the window.
I had never flown over an ocean before. It was night out, and looking down at all that black water below, capped white where the moon glinted off the swells, left me feeling like we were the last humans left alive on planet Earth.
“Mom?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m a little nervous too.”
It was night again when we landed at Dubai International Airport. We had flown all the way into one day and back out again.
I couldn’t remember the last time I had taken my medication. Or brushed my teeth. And my face felt oily enough to generate two or three more Olympus Mons–sized pimples.
