by Tahereh Mafi
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 as a pronoun was an error of translation.
There was only they, the collective we, the idea of infinity.
I’d always seen religion as a rope, a tool to help us grow nearer to our own hearts, to our place in this universe. I did not understand those who would malign, without forgiveness or empathy, others who did not conform to a series of static rules—rules that were never meant to inspire competition, but to build us up, make us better. Such moral superiority was antithetical to the essence of divinity, to the point of faith. It was made clear, time and time again, that it was not our place to exercise harsh, human judgment over those whose hearts we did not know. It was made unequivocally clear in the Qur’an that there should be no compulsion in religion.
And yet.
We were all of us lost.
When I pushed open the front door, I realized two things simultaneously:
First, that I’d left my backpack—my stupid, cumbersome, ridiculous backpack—at Zahra’s house, which meant that if I wanted to have any chance of ever catching up on my homework, I’d have to go back and get it, the mere idea of which sent a chill through my heart.
And second—
Second, I realized my father was home.
My first clue were his shoes, sitting neatly by the door, the familiar pair of brown leather loafers I hadn’t seen in weeks. My second clue was the smell of olive oil, chopped onions, sautéed beef, and the soft, sweet smell of fresh, sleeping rice. I heard the sound of my sister’s voice, a peal of laughter.
Quietly, I shut the door behind me, and the scene came suddenly into view.
My mother was in the kitchen, stirring a pot of food made with ingredients that, just hours ago, had not existed in our cupboards. My father was sitting in a chair at the dining table, looking bone-weary but happy, his face older than I remembered it, his hair grayer. Shayda was sitting in a chair next to him, holding one of his hands in both of hers. She looked close to tears but lovely, her dark hair framing her face, her wide brown eyes rich with emotion. I seldom understood my sister, and did not understand her then, either. I didn’t know how she could love a complicated man without it complicating her love. I didn’t know how her mind sorted and prioritized emotion; I didn’t know how she’d landed here—looking incandescent—after all we’d been through.
I realized then that it was none of my business.
I had no right to drag Shayda down with me. Had no right to steal the joy from her body. It was not my fault that I could not bend my heart to behave as hers did, and it was not her fault that she couldn’t do the same for me. I supposed we really were just different, in the end.
My father was the first to notice me.
He stood up too fast, gripped the table for support. Shayda cried out a warning, worried, and my father didn’t seem to notice. His face changed as he took me in, studied my eyes. His eyes. He looked away, looked back, seemed to understand that I hated him, loved him.
Hated him.
I didn’t even realize I was crying until he came forward on slow, unsteady legs, didn’t realize I was sobbing until he pulled me into his arms. I cried harder when he became real, his arms real, his shape real, his body real. I cried like the child I was, like the child I wanted to be. I’d missed him, missed my horrible father, missed the way it felt to be held like this, to press my face against his chest, to inhale his familiar scent. He smelled like flowers, like rain, like leather. He smelled like exhaust fumes and coffee and paper. He was a horrible person, a wonderful person. He was cold and stupid and funny.
I hated him.
I hated him as he held me, hated him as I cried. The man who’d once felt to me like a solid block of concrete felt suddenly like blown glass, papier-mâché. I felt his arms shaking. Felt the cold, papery skin of his hands against my face as he pulled back, looked at me.
I couldn’t meet his eyes.
I looked away, looked down, looked over his shoulder. My mother and sister were watching us closely, the two of them standing side by side in the kitchen. I stared at my mother, her hands clenching a towel, tears streaming down her face.
“Shadi,” my father said quietly.
I looked up.
He smiled, his skin wrinkling, his eyes shining. He pulled me close again, wrapped me against his insubstantial figure. I could feel his ribs under my hands. Could count them. He spoke to me then, spoke in Farsi, pressed his cheek against my head.
“God alone,” he said, his voice shaking, “God alone knows the depth of my regrets.”
Twenty-Three
I ran through the night on shaking legs, tore through gusts of wind, propelled myself through the freezing cold by sheer force of will. I wanted to run forever, wanted to fling myself into orbit, wanted to drive my body into the ground. My skin was crawling with unspent emotion, the sensations spiraling up my back, skittering through my head.
I wanted to scream.
I’d run out the door based on a pretense, the pretense that I’d left my backpack at Zahra’s house and needed to get it back, a pretense that held weight only as a result of Zahra’s mom having called my mom to inform her that I’d had dinner there that night.
It has all my homework in it, I’d said. I’ll just be gone for a little while.
A different version of me had used a similar excuse a thousand times to buy myself more time away from these walls, from the suffocating sorrow they contained. I was always inventing reasons to spend longer at Zahra’s house so I wouldn’t have to be trapped in the amber of my own home and my parents knew this, had always seen through me. They probably knew I was up to no good even now, but perhaps they’d also seen something in my face, understood how I might be feeling, that I needed to leave. Run for my life.
Reluctantly, suspiciously, my parents let me go.
I ran.
I ran through the night on burning legs, with burning lungs, dragged air into my chest with difficulty. My limbs were trembling, my body shutting down.
I pushed harder.
I let the wind sear my skin, let it whip the tears from my eyes. I let the cold numb my nose, my chin, the tips of my fingers, and I ran, ran through darkness, chest heaving, breaths ragged.
I collapsed when I got to the park, my knees sinking into wet grass. I rested for only a moment, body bowed halfway to prostration before I pushed myself up again, dragged myself across an open field. When I saw the shimmering lights in the distance, I realized I knew what I wanted to do. I also knew then that Shayda had been right.
I’d probably lost my mind.
The gate was locke
d so I jumped the fence, landed poorly. Pain shot up my leg and I welcomed it, ignored it.
As I stood, I stalled.
I caught my breath, stared. There was no one here. There was never anyone here. I’d walked past this pool a thousand times on similar evenings, wondering always at the effort expended to maintain such a place for the mere mice and ghosts who haunted it.
The light was ethereal here, bright and glowing, the glittery depths swaying a little in the wind. I had no plan. I had no exit strategy. I had no way of knowing how I’d get home or in what state. I only knew I felt my chest heaving, my bones heavy with ice and heat. I was sweating and freezing, fully clothed, desperate for something I could not explain.
I kicked off my shoes. Tore off my jacket.
Dove into the water.
I sank. Closed my eyes and sank.
Screamed.
Silk wrapped around my head and I screamed, tore the sorrow from my lungs, water filling my mouth. I screamed and nearly choked in the effort, thought it might kill me. The water absorbed me instead, swallowed my pain, kept my secrets.
Let me drown.
I kicked up suddenly, struggled as my clothes grew heavy. I broke the surface with a gasp, drank in the cool night air, swallowed untold amounts of chlorinated water. The pool was unexpectedly warm, welcoming, like a bath. I took a deep, steadying breath. Another.
Sank back down.
I listened to the whir of silence, to the thick, distant thuds of water. I let myself fall, let my weight drag me down.
It was somehow a comfort not to breathe.
I sat at the bottom of the pool and the water compressed me, held me with its heft. Slowly, my heartbeat began to steady.
The home I’d run from tonight had been warm, hopeful—unrecognizable from what it had become in the last year. Until tonight I’d never even considered we might be happy again; I’d never dreamed we might use the broken pieces of our old life to build something new. I’d thought, for so long, that this pain I clenched every day in my fist would be my sole possession, all I ever carried for the rest of my life.
I’d forgotten I had two hands.
I felt a key click into the clockwork of my heart then, felt a terrifying turning in my chest that promised to keep me going, to buy me more time in this searing life. I felt it, felt my body restart with a climbing, aching fear. I feared that something was changing, that maybe I was changing, that my entire life was shedding a skin it had outgrown at last, at last.
It scared me.
I didn’t know how to handle the shape of hope. I didn’t know how such a thing might fit in my body. I was so afraid, so afraid of being disappointed.
I felt him before I saw him, arms around my body, a blur of movement, shuddering motion. The world came back to me in an explosion of sound, heaving breaths and cool air, the shaking of branches, whispering leaves. I was gasping, clinging to the slick edge of the pool, my thin clothes painted to my body, my scarf suctioned to my head.
I dragged myself out of the water, collapsed sideways. I was breathing hard, staring up at the sky. I could feel my heart pounding, my pulse racing.
“Sometimes, I swear, I really think you’re trying to kill me.”
I pulled myself up at the sound of his voice, bent my sopping knees to my chest. Ali was sitting at the edge of the pool, his legs still in the water, his body drenched. I watched him as he stared into the glowing depths, his hands planted on either side of him. Rivulets of water snaked down his face. He was beginning to shiver.
“What are you doing here?”
He turned to look at me. “Are you?” he asked. “Are you trying to kill me?”
“No,” I whispered.
“I went to your house,” he said. “You forgot your backpack in my living room. But when I got there your mom told me you’d gone to get it yourself, she said that maybe I’d missed you on the way over.”
I sighed, stared into the water. “How’d you know I was here?”
“I didn’t. I searched the park. I saw your shoes through the fence.” He nodded at the bars around the community swimming pool. “So I jumped it. God, Shadi, I didn’t know what you were doing.” He dropped his face in his hands. Pushed wet hair out of his eyes. “You scared the shit out of me.”
“What did you think I was doing?”
“I don’t know,” he said, exhaling suddenly. “I don’t know.”
I knew.
I picked up my sopping self, dripped over to him, sat down beside him. I noticed then that his fists were clenched. His body was shaking.
“Come on,” I said softly, tugging at his arm. “You’re freezing. You have to go home. You have to get dry.”
“Shadi.”
I hesitated at the sound of his voice. He sounded raw, close to pain. He turned, I turned, I searched his eyes. I saw something in his face that scared me, sent my heart racing. I touched his cheek almost without meaning to, traced the curve of his cheekbone. He sighed, the sound scattered.
“What are we doing?” he whispered.
I felt something snap inside of me, felt something sever. I stared at him with a trembling hope. My soggy mind didn’t know what it was doing. My own name pressed against my tongue.
Shadi meant joy, and all I ever did was cry.
Ali touched my chin, grazed my lips with his fingers. “Do you know what my mom said to me when you left?”
I shook my head.
“She was like, Ali, you idiot, that girl will never be interested in you. You don’t even know how to talk to girls like that. She’s way too good for you.”
I almost laughed. I felt closer to crying.
“Seriously,” he said, and I felt him smile, felt his words touch my skin as he spoke. “My own mother.”
That heat, that inexpressible heat pushed up my throat again, the feeling so familiar now I almost didn’t notice it.
His smile faded in the proceeding silence. He took a deep, bracing breath. He was trembling with cold, with fear. “You know what I want?” he said, pressing his forehead to mine. “What I want more than anything?”
“No.”
His hands were around my waist now, the two of us holding each other upright. “I want you to be happy.”
My eyes stung; I blinked. “Ali—”
“I still love you,” he whispered. “I still love you and I don’t know how to stop.”
I was becoming familiar with this feeling, these wings beating in my chest, this desperate acceleration of emotion. I couldn’t breathe around it, couldn’t see around it, couldn’t have imagined my heart could fissure and fuse, fissure and fuse on into infinity.
“Don’t,” I said softly. “I never did.”
About the Author
Photo by Ransom Riggs
TAHEREH MAFI is the National Book Award–nominated and New York Times bestselling author of many books for children and young adults. She lives in Southern California with her family.
Find her online at www.taherehmafi.com.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
Books by Tahereh Mafi
Furthermore
Whichwood
Shatter Me
Unravel Me
Ignite Me
Destroy Me
Fracture Me
Shatter Me Complete Collection
Restore Me
Defy Me
Imagine Me
Shadow Me
Reveal Me
A Very Large Expanse of Sea
An Emotion of Great Delight
Back Ads
DISCOVER
your next favorite read
MEET
new authors to love
WIN
free books
SHARE
infographics, playlists, quizzes, and more
WATCH
the latest videos
www.epicreads.com
Copyright
AN EMOTION OF GREAT DELIGHT. Copyright © 2021 by Tahereh
Mafi. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
www.epicreads.com
Cover illustration © 2021 by Rik Lee
Cover design © 2021 by Rodrigo Corral Design
Library of Congress Control Number: 2020949382
Digital Edition JUNE 2021 ISBN: 978-0-06-297243-9
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-297241-5
21 22 23 24 25 PC/LSCH 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
FIRST EDITION
About the Publisher
Australia
HarperCollins Publishers Australia Pty. Ltd.
Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street
Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia
www.harpercollins.com.au
Canada
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
Bay Adelaide Centre, East Tower
22 Adelaide Street West, 41st Floor
Toronto, Ontario, M5H 4E3
www.harpercollins.ca
India
HarperCollins India
A 75, Sector 57
Noida
Uttar Pradesh 201 301
www.harpercollins.co.in
New Zealand
HarperCollins Publishers New Zealand
Unit D1, 63 Apollo Drive
Rosedale 0632
Auckland, New Zealand
www.harpercollins.co.nz
United Kingdom
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF, UK
www.harpercollins.co.uk
United States
HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
