I met her eyes. She must’ve seen something in my face then, because the hard edge to her expression melted away. She set the stack of plates on the table. Took my hands in hers.
“Don’t be afraid,” she whispered. “It’s going to be okay.”
Heat, heat, rising up my chest, pushing against my throat, singeing my eyes.
I said nothing.
Fereshteh khanoom was still holding my hands when she suddenly turned her head toward the stairs. “Ali,” she shouted. “For the love of your mother, come downstairs! Your food has frozen solid.”
So, too, had my limbs.
Twenty-One
When Zahra arrived, I was surprised.
Confused.
She froze in the doorway when she saw me, her eyes giving away her shock, then disappointment. I saw her glance at the clock in the living room. Glance at her mother.
“Bea beshin, Zahra,” her mother said evenly.Come sit down.
That was when I understood.
Zahra had known I was here. She’d known and she’d left on purpose to avoid me, had estimated my hour of departure incorrectly. What I didn’t understand was why she wasn’t in class, where the both of us were supposed to be—and as my mind worked desperately to solve this riddle, I struck gold.
A memory.
The recollection was faint, but certain: a faded syllabus, a blur of due dates. There was some kind of school-wide eventtoday, something teachers were required to attend. Classes had long ago been canceled. The professor had mentioned it on the first day—he’d told us to highlight the date, make note of it in our calendars.
I couldn’t believe it.
The serrated edge of hope was pressing against my sternum, threatening, threatening. I felt, suddenly, like I couldn’t breathe. This had been my single stroke of good luck in months.
I wasn’t going to fail my class.
Tears pricked at my eyes just as Zahra mumbled hello, kicked off her shoes. Fereshteh khanoom shot me a look as I blinked away the emotion, and it didn’t even bother me that she misunderstood. I’d shed many tears over Zahra; there was no falsehood in that. I tried not to watch her as she dumped her backpack next to mine on the living room couch, but I still saw her out of the corner of my eye. She said something about using the bathroom and promptly disappeared, never once glancing in my direction.
I stared at my plate, heat creeping up my face.
I wasn’t welcome here. I’d known I wasn’t welcome here. I wanted to tell Zahra as much, that I knew it and that I didn’t mean to be here, that none of this had been intentional. It was a horrible series of accidents, I wanted to say to her. One mistake after another.
I would’ve left, I wanted to leave, they wouldn’t let me, I wanted to scream.
I’d been sitting at this dinner table for forty minutes, answering a barrage of questions against my will, and I couldn’ttake much more. It would’ve been hard enough explaining my mother’s panic attack, the many ambulances, my father’s heart attacks—his surgeries, near misses with death, an unfulfilled promise to come home—with only Zahra’s parents to judge and analyze. That Ali had been sitting at the table the whole time, refusing to look away from me as I spoke, was more than I could handle. I couldn’t tear open my heart in front of Zahra, too.
Worse: they weren’t done interrogating me.
I hadn’t wanted to tell them about all the hours—the year—my mother had spent crying. I couldn’t tell them she’d been self-harming. I didn’t tell them what the doctor said, didn’t tell them that I broke down her door this morning. I didn’t want to give away her secrets; I knew she’d never forgive me. But I had to share part of it, haltingly, with difficulty, in order to explain why I’d passed out at school today—and why I’d begged the nurse not to call my mother. Still, they’d found my answers insufficient.
But why?they wanted to know.Why? Why?
“Yes—but why?” agha Dariush had asked. “She’d had a difficult night—bad news from your father, her reaction was understandable, especially after everything—but why wouldn’t you call her? She’d want to know, azizam. She wouldn’t want you to hide these things from her.”
I shook my head, said nothing.
Fereshteh khanoom cleared her throat. “Okay. Basseh,” she’d said.Enough.“Chai bokhoreem?”Should we have tea?
We’d not yet answered her question when Zahra arrived home.
