I looked into her eyes—Zahra’s mom’s eyes—and my heart steadied on its own, my fears disappeared, my face blossomed into a familiar smile. I’d missed her, missed her face. A sudden, cold pain pierced through me.
Fereshteh khanoom, I called her.
Khanoom meant lady; it was an affectionate term, respectful. But her name, Fereshteh, meant angel.
“Bidari, khoshgelam?” She smiled. Are you awake, my beauty?
She opened her arms to me and I stepped into her hug, held on. She smelled the same, the way she always did, like rose water.
I pulled back, feeling suddenly young.
“Chetori?” she said. How are you? “Khoob khabeedi?” Did you sleep well?
“Thank you, yes,” I said quietly. “Thank you for everything.”
She beamed. “Asslan harfesham nazan,” she said, dismissing my statement with a flutter of her fingers.
She was still wearing her hijab, and seemed to realize it as she spoke. In a single motion she slipped it off her head, explained with a laugh that she’d gotten home from work not long ago, had forgotten to take it off. She’d gotten home late, I realized. She’d probably stayed later than usual at the office, no doubt to make up for the time she’d lost in the middle of the day.
My smile felt suddenly weak.
“Bea bereem paeen,” she said, not missing a beat. “Ghaza hazereh.” Let’s go downstairs. Food is ready.
“Oh, no,” I said, panicked. “I can’t— I should get home.”
She laughed at me. Laughed and took me by the arm and literally dragged me down the stairs. My heart was pounding, my fear spiking.
“Please, Fereshteh khanoom. Lotf dareen, shoma.” You are very kind. In Farsi, I said, “But I swear to God I’m not just trying to be polite. You’ve embarrassed me with your kindness.”
I was laying it on thick with some old-school, effusive statements, but I did it on purpose. Iranian parents always seemed delighted when I talked like that, when I made the effort to be formal and polite. They found my incompetent Farsi oddly charming, especially with my American accent.
And just then, I did not disappoint.
Fereshteh khanoom lit up like a Christmas tree, her eyes glittering as we stepped off the stairs and into the dining room. She turned to face me, pinched my cheek. “Vay, cheghad dokhtareh nazi hasteetoh.” My, what a sweet, darling girl you are.
Never mind, it had backfired.
“Dariush,” she said, calling for her husband. “Bodo biyah. Shadi bidareh.” Come quickly. Shadi is awake.
Agha—Mister—Dariush, as I called him, hurried into the living room, smiling and saying hello with a level of fanfare and enthusiasm that left me painfully embarrassed. I felt flush with joy and horror, unsure what to do with myself. Their kindness was too much, an overcorrection, but I actually believed them when they said they’d missed me. I felt it like a dart to the heart.
“Thank you. Thank you. But I should go,” I tried again. “Please, really, I’m so grateful, thank you—I’m so sorry for troubling you—but I really, truly—”
“Khob, ghaza bokhoreem?” Zahra’s dad cut me off with a wink and a smile, clapped his hands together. So, should we eat?
My heart sank.
He frowned, looked around. “Fereshteh,” he said, “Ali kojast?” Where’s Ali?
Fereshteh khanoom was standing in the kitchen, pulling plates out of a cupboard. She didn’t even look up when she started shouting his name. “Ali,” she bellowed. Then, in Farsi: “The food is getting cold!”
“Fereshteh khanoom,” I said, trying, one last time, to exit stage left without insulting them. It was the height of cruelty to refuse them the chance to feed me—practically a sin—and I knew it. They knew it. And they weren’t letting me off the hook. “Please,” I said. “You’ve already done so much. I’m so grateful. Mozahemetoon nemikham besham.” I don’t want to be a burden.
“Boro beshin, azizam,” she said, shoving a plate in my hands. Go sit down, my love. “I already called your mother. I told her you’d be having dinner here tonight.”
A violent fear briefly paralyzed me.
She’d called my mother. Of course she’d called my mother.
My smile slipped and Fereshteh khanoom caught it, point oh five seconds of weakness and she caught it, her eyes narrowing at my face.
“I didn’t tell her what happened,” she said quietly, still speaking in Farsi. “But before the end of this night, you are going to tell me. Do you understand?”
My chest was heaving. I felt suddenly faint.
“Shadi. Look at me.”
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 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
