I let Mom and Dad through, and Laleh followed, bringing Dad up to speed on everything he’d missed—including, according to her, “Miss Hawn doing Mike Progressions.”
Dad looked from Mom to me.
“Microaggressions,” I whispered, and slipped out to grab Dad’s suitcase.
I popped the trunk and fought the big suitcase, which kept catching on the rubber lip of the trunk. Usually Dad packed his suitcase perfectly flat, but this time it was lumpy and awkward, like he’d balled up everything and tossed it in, rather than folding or rolling his clothes into neat rows.
I set the unwieldy suitcase on its wheels and pulled out his smaller one, then grabbed his leather Kellner & Newton messenger bag from the passenger-side footwell.
“You hungry?” Mom asked. “We have some kabob left.”
“Some” kabob was an understatement.
We had enough leftovers to feed the entire Chapel Hill High School varsity men’s soccer team.
“Here. Sit.” Mom forced Dad into his seat at the table. Laleh clambered into the seat next to him and kept up her tales about school.
The kettle was ready, so I filled the teapot and hauled the suitcase upstairs.
Mom followed me.
“Thank you, sweetie,” she said.
“No problem.”
“You can leave it there. I’ll sort out the laundry.”
“Okay.”
I laid the suitcase in the corner by the closet. Mom unzipped it and started pulling out clothes.
Sure enough, they were all jumbled up, and mixed in with Dad’s shoes, which weren’t even in the drawstring cloth pouches he normally used.
Mom let out a sigh so quiet I might have imagined it.
I thought about her living through Stephen Kellner’s depressive episodes before.
I thought about her living through mine.
I thought about how she had to grieve her father on top of all of that.
“Um,” I said. “Do you want some tea?”
“Yes please.”
“Okay.”
While Dad ate his kabob, Grandma and Oma came downstairs. They had changed out of their Persian Casual clothes too, into comfy sweatpants, though Oma still had her hair up.
“Don’t get up,” Grandma said, but Dad did anyway. He gave them each a kiss on the cheek.
“You need a shave,” Oma said.
Dad just shrugged and went back to his dinner.
Everyone was quiet for a second, the kind of quiet you could snap like a twig.
I said, “How was California?”
