I took another bite of cold cereal, shivering as I tried again to remember where I’d left my phone. It had been easier than I’d expected to go so long without it; I’d little use for it without Zahra in my life. Other than her, my brother was the only one who ever contacted me. My heart leaped at that thought, tried to wrench loose my emotional control, but I forced down another spoonful of Cheerios and compelled myself to think, instead, about not choking. And perhaps about homework. I had endless amounts of homework.
I had been unwilling to look too closely at my recent failures.
Failure number one: I missed my multivariable calculus class last night, which meant that even perfect scores across the board would get me no more than a B. This seemed an unbelievable, riotous injustice, and though it occurred to me that I could probably explain to the teacher that my mother had been in the hospital, the slim chance that he might not believe me—or worse, ask for proof of my mother’s mental breakdown—was motivation enough for me to remain silent.
Failure number two: I’d failed my AP Art History exam today. I didn’t need to wait for the results to know this truth. I’d turned in a blank exam; I was going to fail it. Still, there was a chance it might not weigh as heavily, in the end. My teacher was the kind who liked to make the final exam worth half our grade, and as we’d just entered the second week of December, my last chance was right around the corner. In fact, in a couple of weeks I’d have to survive a deluge of examinations, and I had no idea how I’d catch up. There was still so much more looming—college applications, for example.
College applications.
I inhaled so suddenly I coughed, milk and half a Cheerio having gone down the wrong pipe. What was I thinking? I wasn’t going away for college. My eyes teared and I wiped at them with my sleeve, covering my mouth as I continued to cough.
Was I going away for college?
Could I abandon my mother here? All this time I’d been waiting for my father to die, I’d also been considering my future. Shayda was well on her way to transferring elsewhere, to getting married. With three of the five of us gone, I didn’t think I’d have the heart to leave my mother behind.
But now—
A shoot of hope pushed up through my rotting ribs. The one fringe benefit of my father not dying: I might be able to go away.
Start over somewhere else.
When the phone rang I startled so badly I spilled cereal all over myself. I stood up, felt scattered, reached for a towel. I mopped myself up as best I could, sighed over the state of my blanket, glanced at the clock. It was nearly midnight, far too late for friendly calls.
Fear shot through me as I lifted the receiver.
“Hello?” I said.
A beat.
“Hello?” I tried again.
“Babajoon, toh ee?”
My already erratic heart rate spiked. Babajoon was a term of endearment—it literally meant Father’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 say Are 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.
My father did not talk like this. He never talked like this. I’d never doubted that he loved me, but he’d never said it out loud. Never, not once in my entire life.
“Shadi? Rafti?” Did you leave?
I heard his voice, small and staticky, the speaker muffled against my shirt. I brought the phone back to my ear, took a breath, then another.
“I love you, too, Baba.”
“Geryeh nakon, azizam. Geryeh nakon.” Don’t cry, my love. Don’t cry. “Everything will be okay.”
“I’ll go get Maman,” I said, eyes welling, hands trembling. I no longer trusted myself, no longer understood my mercurial heart. “I’ll be right back.”
Eighteen
At dawn, I broke down my mother’s door.
I’d never gone back to
