I’d just turned to leave when I heard him say—
“Wait.”
It was soft, uncertain.
I turned back around, the question in my eyes.
Ali moved toward me again. His face was different now, worried. “Last night,” he said, “when I asked you if you were okay—you said no.”
My hesitant smile disappeared. My face became a mask. “I’m sorry I said that. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Don’t— Shadi, don’t apologize. I just wanted to know—are you okay now?”
“Oh. Yeah.” I took a deep breath, forced a smile back onmy face, swallowed down the heat, willed my eyes to remain dry. “Yeah. Great.”
“Is your mom okay?”
“Yeah, she’s great, too.” I nodded. “So much better. Thanks.”
He was about to say something else, but I couldn’t take it anymore. I cut him off in a rush, terrified the tremble would return to my lips.
“I have to go, actually. I need to get home for dinner. My mom’s waiting for me.”
“Oh,” he said, surprised. “That’s... great.”
“Yeah,” I said again, eyes still dry, legs still working. “Really great.”
Fourteen
When I got home, the house was dark.
I closed the door behind me, the familiar whine of an ungreased hinge preceding the heavy close. I leaned back against the door, rested my head against the cheap wood. I smelled new paint, stale air, the faint aroma of Windex. We’d moved into this sterile rental not long after my brother died. It had become impossible to live in a place that housed the museum of his life, the modest bedroom from which my father would drag my mother’s prone, sobbing body every night. I saw her with my own eyes only once, just once before my father chased me out, shouting at me to go back to bed. My mother was curled on the floor of my brother’s room, banging her head against the baseboard, begging God to be merciful and kill her.
Somehow, through the power of violent self-delusion, my parents thought we wouldn’t hear them fighting late at night,thought we wouldn’t have ways of seeing them in the hallway, thought we wouldn’t hear my father begging my mother to come back to bed, begging in a voice I’d never known him to possess.Come back, come back, come back, come back.
She’d slapped him in the face.
She’d thrown feeble, desperate punches at his chest, clawing at him until he finally let go, let her sink to the floor. I watched from a half-inch opening in my bedroom door, my heart pounding so hard I could barely breathe. In the dead of night my parents became strangers, each utterly transformed into versions of themselves I did not know.
I watched my father fall to his knees before my mother, a penitent dictator. I watched my mother reduce him to ash.
On the morning my father announced we were moving, no one even lifted their heads. There were no questions, no discussions.
There was no need.
We left that place behind, did not drive past our old street, did not discuss the hours my mother now spent in her closet. But when I closed my eyes I still heard her voice; I still saw her desperate, inhuman face.Kill me, dear God, she’d cry. She’d slap herself in the chest, drag fingernails down her face. Mano bokosho az een donya bebar.Kill me and take me away from this world.
I turned on the lights.
I dropped my backpack by the door, kicked off my shoes. My chest was tightening like a vise around my lungs, my visionblurring. In my mind I saw a stethoscope, a brown smudge, a scuffed gold wedding band.
Has she ever said anything to make you think she might be a danger to herself?
I felt heavy and cold.
I stared at an ancient, painted nail buried in the wall by the door, stood in the entryway staring at it for what felt like forever. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I was hungry, I had homework, I needed to shower, I had to find my phone, I wanted to put on a sweater, and I needed to change the bandage on my knee, the wound of which had been throbbing since yesterday. I was cold and damp and shivering, my head hot, my hands unsteady. I had a thousand human needs that needed tending to and I felt paralyzed by the weight of those needs, felt impotent in the face of all that I required. I’d been starting to scare myself lately, worrying that I perhaps I wasn’t eating enough or sleeping enough. I couldn’t afford to fall apart, which meant I needed to do better, but my heart and mind were so full these days they were stretching at the seams, leaving little room for the efforts I’d once made to participate in my own life, in my own interests.
Somehow, I dragged myself upstairs.
