Darius the Great Is Not Okay(51)

Mom got this funny smile on her face.

“When we didn’t make it home, Babou came and found us. But he didn’t know why we were there, and he hadn’t brought us any shoes.”

“Oh, no,” I said.

“So he carried Mahvash back home, piggyback, and left me in the park. He told me it would teach me to be more responsible.”

That sounded like something Babou would do.

“But when he came back, he had forgotten to swing by our house and get shoes for me. So he had to carry me home too.”

That made me smile.

“He was so strong,” Mom said. And then she sniffled.

I put down my towel and tried to give Mom a sideways hug, but she shook me off.

“I’m okay.” She pushed her glasses up again. “I’m sorry I didn’t teach you Farsi.”

“What?”

I didn’t understand. Our conversation had made a particularly confusing Slingshot Maneuver.

“It was my job to teach you. To make sure you knew where you came from. And I really screwed up.”

“Mom . . .”

She put down her sponge and turned off the sink.

“It was hard for me, you know? Moving to America. When I left here, I was sure I was going to come back. But I didn’t. I fell in love with your dad and stayed, even though I never really felt at home. When you were born I wanted you to grow up American. So you would feel like you belonged.”

I understood that. I really did.

School was hard enough, being a Fractional Persian. I’m not sure I would have survived being Even More Persian.

Mom shook her head. “You’re so much like your dad. In so many ways. But you’re my son too. I tried to do better as you got older, but I think it helped your sister more than it helped you.”

I mean.

It would have been nice to learn Farsi like Laleh.

“I’m sorry, Darius.”

Now that it was just us—all the True Persians had gone to bed—I was back to my American name.

Mom leaned over to kiss the side of my head and then turned the faucet back on. “You’d have an easier time talking to your grandfather if you could speak to him in Farsi. He was never very comfortable in English, even before.”

That was something I already understood. Back home, when we Skyped, it was Mamou who did most of the talking in English.

“He really does love you, you know. Even if he doesn’t always say the right things. He loves you.”

“I know,” I said.

“I think he loves you more, since he never gets to see you. It makes it more special.”

“Yeah. I love him too.”

That may have been an exaggeration.

I mean, I loved the idea of Babou.

But the idea was very different from the reality.



* * *





Laleh was the first one up the next morning. She ran up and down the hallway, singing at the top of her lungs, her feet pattering on the tiles as she danced. She cracked my door and peeked into my room.

“Morning, Laleh.”

“Sobh bekheir!”

“You want some breakfast?”

“Baleh.”

“Okay. I’ll be right there.” I pulled on a pair of socks and followed her to the kitchen.

Thanks to me and Mom, you could hardly tell there had been a Nowruz party the night before. I even wiped down the countertops and stove.

Laleh stuck her nose in the refrigerator. It was stacked so full of leftovers, the light up top didn’t hit anything below the first shelf.

“Noon-o paneer mekham.”

Laleh had entered Farsi-only mode, though at least she was sticking to phrases that I could understand.

I pulled the feta cheese out from the highest corner of the refrigerator door. “You want me to toast the bread for you?”

“Baleh!”

Laleh couldn’t reach the plates, but she got out clean butter knives for us. When the toaster oven dinged—I kind of wanted it to make a Red Alert sound or something, it was so futuristic-looking—I lined a basket with one of Mamou’s tea towels and filled it with bread.

“You want some tea?”

Laleh nodded and pulled out a piece of sangak bigger than her head. She tossed it on her plate and blew on her fingers where the bread had burned her.

After breakfast, Laleh and I settled in the living room—me to read The Lord of the Rings, and her to watch another Iranian soap opera. I had never seen a soap opera in America, so I had no frame of reference, but the Iranian soap operas were absurd.

Every single character seemed to be doing a William Shatner impression.

My sister loved it.

“Look at her coat!” Laleh had finally switched back to English to provide a running commentary for me.

On the television, an older woman sat at a table in a fancy restaurant, wearing a ridiculous white fur coat that made her the exact color (and size) of a polar bear.

“Wow.”

Mamou found us like that, Laleh laughing at the television, me reading my book and concurring with my sister when necessary.

“Sobh bekheir!” Laleh said, switching back to Farsi now that she had a receptive audience.

“Sobh bekheir, Laleh-jan.” Mamou kissed Laleh, and then me. “You had your breakfast?”