He rolled his eyes. “Can someone please just tell me what this letter is?”
“I have to go,” I said desperately. “Please. I’ve infringed upon your kindness enough.”
“Mashallah, she’s so articulate, nah?” Agha Dariush beamed at his wife. “‘Infringed’ khaylee loghateh khoobiyeh.” “Infringed” is such a good word.
“Jesus Christ,” Ali muttered.
His mother hit him again.
Agha Dariush looked up at me then, put me out of my misery. “Of course you can go, azizam. You must want to get home to your mother.”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Ali,” he said to his son. “Pasho.” Get up.
To me, he said: “Ali will drive you home.”
Ali pushed back his chair too quickly, wood screeching against wood so hard he nearly knocked over his seat. I watched as Fereshteh khanoom stared at him in surprise, studied his face with a sudden, dawning comprehension that drove the fear of God into my heart.
“No,” I said quickly. “That’s okay. I can walk home.”
“It’s freezing outside,” Ali said, half shouting the words.
I looked at him, felt my heart quicken. Turned away.
“I like the cold,” I said to his father. “But thank you for the offer.”
“You don’t even have a coat,” Ali said. “Why do you never have a coat?”
“Yanni chi, never?” Agha Dariush was looking at his son like he’d lost his mind. “If she wants to walk home, let her walk home.”
“Shadi, why won’t you let me drive you home?”
I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe Ali was doing nothing to conceal his frustration. I couldn’t believe he wouldn’t pretend, for five more seconds, in front of his family. It was as if he didn’t know—or perhaps didn’t care—that his mother was watching, seeing everything.
“I only live four streets away,” I said, inching backward.
“You live half a mile from here.”
“I don’t—” I swallowed, grew flustered. Zahra had reappeared at the dinner table, and she did not look happy. “I’ll just, I’m sorry, I—”
“Wait,” he said, “at least let me give you a jacket—”
“I’m sorry,” I said, staring at the carpet. “Forgive me. Thank you for dinner. It was delicious. I’m sorry.”
I nearly ran to the door.
Twenty-Two
Dear Fereshteh khanoom and agha Dariush,
Thank you for picking me up from school today. I didn’t think anyone would come for me. You were so kind. You bought me medicine and let me sleep in your house, and agha Dariush made me a sandwich and I think it was the best sandwich I’ve ever eaten. I think Zahra is the luckiest person in the whole world to have you for parents, and I hope she knows how wonderful you are, that you are special parents, that not all parents are like you, and that she is very, very blessed to have you. I don’t know what would’ve happened to me today if you hadn’t come for me, and I’m so grateful. It had been a very hard day but you made it so much better, and I will always remember today, I will always remember how you treated me, and how you didn’t get upset with me for not using the medicine you bought. I hope it wasn’t very expensive. I will always be grateful to you and I pray that God blesses you and your family for your kindness, and for your generous hearts, and I hope I will know you forever.
Thank you again for everything. Thank you for being kind to me, and thank you to Fereshteh khanoom for letting me borrow some of Zahra’s clothes, I will wash them and return them as soon as possible.
God bless you,
Shadi
I walked home hunched over, huddled into myself. I’d left my jacket in my locker and had never returned to school to grab it, and I was sorry to admit that Ali was right. It was freezing.
I shoved my hands in my pockets, looked up at the dark sky, prayed it wouldn’t rain. My fingers closed, suddenly, around a piece of paper.
I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, tugged it free. It was a poor rectangle, folded hastily. I pried it open, smoothed it out.
It was a form.
Something from the nurse’s office—the kind of thing students were asked to fill out upon arrival—but this one was blank. There was no information, not even my own name, just a scribble across the bottom with a phone number and a brief message:
Call me when you wake up, okay? I’d like to make sure you’re not dead. (This is Noah.)
I surprised myself when I smiled.
I was shivering in the cold without a jacket, terrified about the future, but I was smiling. It felt strange. I didn’t know what to do about anything these days—not about my mom, who wouldn’t accept professional help, not about my classes or my looming college applications, and not about my father, who may or may not have been dying.
I didn’t know what to do about Ali.
I didn’t know what was waiting for us or what the future might hold, whether it would hold us at all. Still, I felt a burgeoning hope when I thought of him, felt it push through the pain. I felt, for the first time, like one of the raging fires in my life had snuffed out.
I’d apologized.
Not long ago I thought I’d have to live my entire life plagued by the drumbeat of a single regret. Not long ago I thought Ali would never speak to me again. Not long ago I thought I’d lost forever something I knew now to be precious. Rare.
I looked up then, searched the sky.
When I found the moon I found God, when I saw the stars I saw God, when I let myself be inhaled by the vast, expanding universe, I understood God the way Seneca once did—God is everything one sees and everything one does not see.
I did not often believe in men, but I always believed in more.
The God I knew had no gender, no form. Islam did not accept the personification of God, did not believe in containing God. The common use of he
