by Tahereh Mafi
I spun around, took it all in.
Zahra’s bedroom. I’d kissed Ali in her own bedroom. Any ancient sense of honor I’d once had compelled me now to recoil with shame. I was not proud of myself. I hadn’t meant for any of this to happen. This, here, today, just now—I’d crossed a line, turned my back on the ghost of my best friend. Even after all this time, after all her cruelty, I felt punctured by sorrow. I’d wanted so much more for us.
But then—even as I felt the cold lash of guilt cool my feverish skin, I grew tired. Tired of this feeling, tired of owing Zahra a tithe of my happiness. My guilt was tempered by a realization, an awareness that nothing I’d ever done had been enough for her. I knew that for certain now. So many times I felt like I’d been strapped to the tracks of our friendship, Zahra the train that repeatedly ran me over, only to later complain that my body had broken her axles.
I was tired of it.
I’d been ashamed of myself for a number of things lately, but Zahra’s unfair judgments were no longer among them. I would never again let her hold my feelings hostage. I would never again let her dictate the terms of my life.
Another sharp knock at the door and I startled.
Steadied.
It was time, I realized, to close the book of our friendship.
Twenty
I nearly gasped when I saw her face.
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 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 bo
ther 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.
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 deliciou
s. 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.)
