Darius the Great Deserves Better - Adib Khorram Page 0,19
door was up, and Mom’s car was in the driveway with the trunk open. I stopped at the curb to stretch my calves, but Mom looked out the door and waved me in.
“Can you help with your dad’s suitcase?”
“Oh. Sure.” I kicked off my running shoes, wiped my face, and jogged upstairs. Dad was sealing his toiletries in their clear plastic bag when I knocked on the door frame.
“Hey. Can I help?”
“Sure. Give me a second.”
He tossed his brown leather shaving kit into the suitcase—he hadn’t shaved yet, and his golden whiskers caught in the glow of the bathroom lights—and zipped it up.
I reached down for the suitcase, but he stopped me.
“You gonna be okay?”
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s only a month. And you’ll be home weekends. Right?”
“As much as I can.”
“Okay.”
Dad had gone on business trips before, but that was back when he and I didn’t get along, and him being out of town was like a little vacation for both of us.
Now the thought of him being gone for so long made my heart ache.
He pulled me closer, his hand resting on the back of my head where the fade had started to grow from bristly to fuzzy.
It seemed like he held on to me longer than usual.
And I got this feeling, this flutter in my diaphragm. I couldn’t explain it.
When he let me go, I asked, “What about you? Are you gonna be okay?”
“Of course. But I’m going to miss you.”
“We’ll have a lot of Star Trek to catch up on when you get back.”
“You know it.” Dad slung his messenger bag over his shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get these loaded.”
* * *
While Mom took Dad to the airport, Grandma and Oma decided to vacuum the living room.
I helped as best I could, moving the couch and the chairs, until they shooed me out because I was in the way.
So I made a pot of Persian tea instead.
Laleh had a cup, with a leftover cinnamon roll, while I made myself some scrambled eggs.
“Doing okay, Laleh?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you sad about Dad leaving?”
She shrugged. “I guess.”
Laleh wouldn’t look up at me. And I thought again that maybe there was something more bothering her.
Something she still wouldn’t say out loud.
Mom got back a little after nine. By that point Grandma and Oma had moved onto a deep-clean of the kitchen, so I grabbed a cup of tea for Mom before they erected their quarantine field.
“Thank you,” Mom said. “I’m going to call Mamou. You want to say hello?”
My chest tightened.
“Yeah.”
I really did want to talk to Mamou.
But every time we did, I was terrified the news would be bad.
We situated ourselves in the office with the door closed to silence the sound of dishes clattering downstairs. Mom’s nostrils flared every time a particularly loud bang rattled the floor.
After a couple rings, Mamou’s face appeared on the computer screen.
“Eh! Salaam Shirin-jan, chetori toh?”
Mamou and Mom talked for a minute in Farsi, and I listened and smiled. Mamou’s voice was warm and happy, even if her eyes were tired.
“Hi Darioush-jan, how are you doing maman?”
“I’m okay. How are you?”
“You know, I am okay. Keeping busy, all the time. How’s your school? Do you have a girlfriend?”
Mamou asked me that just about every time we talked.
I hadn’t told her about Landon yet.
I hadn’t told her I was gay.
Fariba Bahrami was Iranian, and I knew enough about Iran to know that being gay was a subject of some contention. No one ever really talked about it.
The only reason I told Sohrab was because I told Sohrab everything.
It’s not that I thought Mamou would stop loving me.
Not really.
But I couldn’t shake the fear that maybe, just maybe, she would have a problem with it.
I didn’t think I could take it if Mamou looked at me differently.
I didn’t think my heart could survive that.
Mom shifted. I could feel her eyes on me like a targeting lock.
So I said, “No. Just focusing on school right now.”
And then, to change the subject, I said, “How is Babou?”
Mamou sighed.
Sometimes when we talked to Mamou, she started crying.
It was a terrible thing, to see your grandmother cry. To be separated by miles and borders and sanctions from reaching out and giving her a hug.
But lately she just sighed instead.
“He has not changed much. He doesn’t wake up very often.”
“Oh.”
“He asks about you.”
“He does?”
“You and Laleh.”
I felt my own containment breach coming. I sniffed.
“We’re doing okay, Mamou. Will you tell him? And tell him we love him?”