I hadn’t told her I was gay.
Fariba Bahrami was Iranian, and I knew enough about Iran to know that being gay was a subject of some contention. No one ever really talked about it.
The only reason I told Sohrab was because I told Sohrab everything.
It’s not that I thought Mamou would stop loving me.
Not really.
But I couldn’t shake the fear that maybe, just maybe, she would have a problem with it.
I didn’t think I could take it if Mamou looked at me differently.
I didn’t think my heart could survive that.
Mom shifted. I could feel her eyes on me like a targeting lock.
So I said, “No. Just focusing on school right now.”
And then, to change the subject, I said, “How is Babou?”
Mamou sighed.
Sometimes when we talked to Mamou, she started crying.
It was a terrible thing, to see your grandmother cry. To be separated by miles and borders and sanctions from reaching out and giving her a hug.
But lately she just sighed instead.
“He has not changed much. He doesn’t wake up very often.”
“Oh.”
“He asks about you.”
“He does?”
“You and Laleh.”
I felt my own containment breach coming. I sniffed.
“We’re doing okay, Mamou. Will you tell him? And tell him we love him?”
Mamou smiled at me, but her warm eyes shone, and the corners stayed turned down.
I wiped at the corners of my own eyes with the crook of my finger.
“I will tell him, maman.”
LOLLY
“Laleh,” Mom called. “We’re going to be late!”
I couldn’t hear Laleh’s reply from my bedroom, where I was getting dressed for school, but I could tell it didn’t make Mom very happy, because she called out “Come on!”
Mom had waited to go into the office so she could take Laleh to school—usually it was Dad who did it—but that meant she’d be fighting rush hour to get to work.
I grabbed my stuff and headed downstairs. Laleh was sitting on the little stool by the garage door tying her right shoe through her sniffles.
