“Hello?” I tried again.
“Babajoon, toh ee?”
My already erratic heart rate spiked.Babajoonwas a term of endearment—it literally meantFather’s dear—and hearing it without warning, hearing it in my father’s unexpectedly tender voice—
I lost my composure.
I took a deep breath, forced a smile on my face.
“Salam, Baba,” I said. “Khoobeen shoma?” So formal. I always used formal pronouns and conjugations with my father, even to sayAre you well?
“Alhamdullilah. Alhamdullilah.”
He didn’t say yes. He didn’t say he was fine. He said,Thank God, thank God, which could mean any number of things.
“What are you doing awake so late?” he said in Farsi. “Don’t you have school tomorrow? I can’t remember what day it is.”
I held steady as my heart sustained a hairline fracture.
How long had he been in the hospital, drugged and dissected, that he couldn’t remember what day it was?
“Yes,” I said. “I do have school tomorrow. I just couldn’t sleep.”
He laughed. The fracture deepened.
“Me neither,” he said softly. Sighed. “I miss you all so much.”?
I clenched the phone desperately. “Maman said you’re coming home tomorrow. She said you’re doing better.”
He went quiet.
“Mamanet khabeedeh?”Is your mother asleep?
“Yes,” I said, my eyes burning, threatening. “Why? What’s wrong?”
“Hichi, azizam. Hichi.”Nothing, my love. Nothing.
He was lying.
“Baba?” I was holding the phone with two hands now. “Are you coming home tomorrow?”
“I don’t know,” he said in English. “I don’t know.”
“But—”
“Babajoonam, could you wake your mother for me?” Back to Farsi.
“Yes,” I said quickly. “Yes, of course. I’ll—”
“It’s so good to hear your voice,” he said, sounding suddenly faraway. Tired. “I haven’t seen you lately. You’ve been busy? How’s Zahra?”
My eyes were filling with tears, my traitorous heart tearing apart. My father was dying. My father was dying and I had not been to visit him, had not wanted to talk to him, had delighted in planning his funeral. I suddenly hated myself with a violence I could not articulate, with a passion that nearly took my breath away.
“Yes,” I said shakily. “Zahra’s good. She—”
“Khaylee dooset daram, Shadi joon. Midooni? Khaylee ziad. Mikhastam faghat bedooni.”I love you, Shadi dear. Did you know? Very much. I just wanted you to know.
Tears spilled down my cheeks and I held the phone to my chest, gasped back a sudden sob, pressed my fist to my mouth.
