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 event today, 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’t take 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.

We sat quietly at the table now, all of us staring at our plates while Zahra disappeared down the hall. We listened to the distant sounds of running water as she washed her hands, stalled for time. I knew she’d have to come out at some point, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to be here when she did. I hadn’t been prepared to face Zahra, not like this, not in front of her whole family.

I stood up suddenly.

“Please accept my apologies. I’m so grateful. You’ve been so kind. But I should go.”

“You didn’t even touch your food,” Fereshteh khanoom cried. “You have to stay—you’re wasting away. Smaller and smaller every time I see you.” She turned to her husband. “Isn’t it true? I don’t like it.”

“It’s true,” agha Dariush said, smiling at his wife. He turned to me. “You should eat more, Shadi joon. Just a little bit more, okay azizam? Beshin.” Sit.

I stared at my full plate. I had no appetite.

“Please,” I said, my voice practically a whisper. “Forgive me. I’m so sorry for intruding and for interrupting your day. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate everything you’ve done for me—”

“There’s no need.” Agha Dariush cut me off with a tender smile. “We still have your letter, azizam. You don’t need to thank us anymore.”

“What letter?” were the first words Ali had spoken since he’d arrived downstairs.

I wanted, suddenly, to die.

That stupid letter. I was out of my mind when I wrote it. I’d been delirious with insomnia for days, trapped under a vicious grief, the waking nightmare that was my life. My brother was dead. My parents were killing each other. Every night my father would fall to his knees begging, begging like a child before a strange, hysterical version of my mother. She’d cry when she slapped him. She’d slap him and scream at him and he’d say nothing, do nothing, not even when she collapsed, dragging her fingernails down her own face.

I didn’t sleep for four days.

I’d lie awake in bed imagining my mother curled on the floor of my brother’s bedroom begging God to kill her and I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t close my eyes. When I finally collapsed at school I’d been so grateful for the reprieve, so grateful for the few hours of peace and comfort Zahra’s parents provided that it nearly broke me. I didn’t know why I’d decided to immortalize those feelings in a letter, the ghost of which kept haunting me. I didn’t want anyone else to see it. I thought I would actually self-immolate if Ali read that letter.

Fereshteh khanoom made a sound—a sharp eh—something like irritation. It was a sound I’d heard a hundred other Iranian parents make when they were frustrated. “Why’d you say anything about her letter?” she snapped at her husband in Farsi. “Now you’ve embarrassed her.”

“I really should go,” I managed to choke out. “Please. I should get home.”

Fereshteh khanoom shook her head at her husband. “Didi chikar kardi?” Do you see what you did?

“Hey,” Ali said, looking at his parents. “What letter?”

“Oh, this was months ago,” his mom said.

“How the hell is that an answer?”

“Don’t say hell to your mother,” agha Dariush said sharply, pointing his fork at his son.

Fereshteh khanoom smacked Ali on the arm. “Beetarbiat.” No manners.