The Stationery Shop(81)

“He was determined to learn more about his mother’s condition. Told me that if only she’d been born in a different place at a different time, maybe she could have been diagnosed, treated.” She paused. “Out of all the residents at the center, he was the one I connected to most. He wanted to share his stories. And I loved them. I loved his kindness.”

In the end, his heart had simply given out. Roya had left the bed with him asleep, breathing. He had died later that evening when his daughter came. She would always be grateful for that hour in the bed with him at the end, for the time the two of them had to just be alone. She would always be grateful to Claire for giving her that. And to Walter. For not standing in her way.

“Hello?” Walter’s voice sounded from the foyer.

“We’re in here!” Roya sang out. For some reason, she was happier than she had been ever since the news of Bahman’s death. Actually, happier than she had been in a long time. It was just nice to be with Claire. Maybe it was the scent of saffron from the khoresh giving her a natural high. Zari always said saffron was a natural antidepressant. Oh, and an aphrodisiac, Sister! Dissolve half a teaspoon of saffron in a mug of hot water and drink up, and make sure to put extra in Walter’s food.

Walter came into the kitchen. “Oh, well, what do we have here?” He looked at Roya and then at Claire and then at Roya again. “Roya, this house smells wonderful! I was wondering whose car that was outside! Hello, Claire.”

“Hello, Mr. Archer.”

“I thought I’d be coming home to the fish sticks which, I assure you, are quite the treat, but do I smell delicious khoresh?”

“I had a great assistant. I wanted to surprise you.”

“Funny, because I have a surprise for you myself! Look who I saw pulling into our driveway.”

Kyle’s face was flushed from the cold as he entered the house, and he was in his socks, of course, because she had taught him to never wear shoes inside. She hadn’t had the nerve to tell Claire to take off her shoes—it would have been a bit strange to insist on it that first time. Kyle must have had a busy few days because there was stubble on his cheeks, but it always suited him. Oh, this boy of hers, how handsome was he. “Kyle!” Roya rushed over to hug her son.

“How are you, Mom?”

“Oh, Kyle, this is Claire. She is—” She was going to say the administrator at the center. But she stopped herself. “She is my friend.”

“Nice to meet you.” Kyle walked over and shook Claire’s hand. Claire went the color of crimson.

Walter set the plates and cutlery and Kyle made drinks and the four of them sat at the kitchen table and shared some khoresh. The scent of the rice and stew permeated the house; she was entirely at home in every sense. They hadn’t downsized, hadn’t moved to an assisted-living place even though Zari nagged her about it every chance she got. Roya wanted her kitchen, her own pots, her cookbooks, her armchair, the comfort of her large bedroom, the beauty of her backyard. She wanted to be in her own home for as long as she could. Would she and Walter end up at a place like the center? She didn’t want to think about it.

The khoresh was just the right balance of tart and sweet, the rice fragrant and comforting, the flavors all blended together perfectly. For tonight she was happy to share this meal with Walter and Kyle and this sweet young woman who was smiling now and crunching on tahdig.

Kyle devoured the food. “It doesn’t get better than this, Mom. Thank you.”



Kyle put on his shoes in the foyer as Walter helped Claire with her coat and said, “Watch those steps. They can be slippery!”

“Oh my God, neither one of you has gloves. Your hands will freeze!” Roya said.

Roya and Walter stood side by side at the front door and watched as Claire and Kyle got into their separate cars and drove off.

“How’re you holding up?” Walter asked after he closed the door and it was just the two of them again.

“Surprisingly okay.”

“And the service?”

“His children were quite something.”

“Right, then. I’ll finish in the kitchen. You go on up. Sound like a plan?”



In her bedroom, Roya sat in the armchair that had replaced the rocking chair where she had first nursed Marigold. She had not thought, at the beginning of this winter, that memories from the past would floor her, that she would find that boy from another world, that she would actually go to the center and speak to him. She had thought nothing could get into her tightly sealed life at her age. But of course, it always could. Of course it was never too late for it all.

Just months ago, if someone had told her that she would sit next to Bahman Aslan again, hear his voice (the same voice!) discuss things that were long ago put away, she would not have believed it. She would not have understood, then, that time is not linear but circular. There is no past, present, future. Roya was the woman she was today and the seventeen-year-old girl in the Stationery Shop, always. She and Bahman were one, and she and Walter were united. Kyle was her soul and Marigold would never die.

The past was always there, lurking in the corners, winking at you when you thought you’d moved on, hanging on to your organs from the inside.



Later, Roya would open the blue round box and take out the letters one by one and read them. She would see what she’d written to Bahman all those years ago, and see, too, the last letter, which was not written by her but was written in her voice, in handwriting that looked like hers, from her to Bahman. She would know that someone had added that extra letter telling him she didn’t want to see him ever again. She also read letter after letter from Bahman, the ones he’d written to her through the years. Updating her on his life, telling her about his job, his children, his days. Letters he had never sent. But saved up inside this blue round box along with the letters of her youth.