Darius the Great Is Not Okay(72)

“Dad . . .”

“Suicide isn’t the only way you can lose someone to depression.”

Dad looked up at me again. There were no walls between us.

“And it kills me that I gave it to you, Darius. It kills me.”

There were tears in his eyes.

Actual human tears.

I had never seen my father cry before.

And due to some harmonic resonance, I started crying again too.

Dad scooted closer to me. And when I didn’t scoot away, he wrapped his arms around me and pulled me down to rest his chin on top of my head.

When had I gotten taller than Stephen Kellner?

“I’m so sorry, son. I love you so much.”

I let Dad hold me, like that tiny potato-sack version of myself, sleeping on his chest when I was a baby.

“You’re okay,” he murmured.

“No. I’m not.”

“I know.” He rubbed my back up and down. “It’s okay not to be okay.”



* * *





Dad and I stayed and watched the sun set, gilding the turquoise minarets of the Jameh Mosque for a few breathtaking moments before plunging Yazd into twilight.

Dad let me talk about Sohrab, and what he had said.

He let me be sad.

“You really love Sohrab. Huh?”

“He’s the best friend I ever had.”

Dad looked at me for a long moment. Like he knew there was more.

But he didn’t ask.

Instead, he pushed the hair off my forehead, kissed me there, and rested his chin on top of my head again.

Maybe he knew, without me saying it out loud, that I wasn’t ready to talk about more.

Maybe he did.





THROUGH A WORMHOLE



Sizdeh Bedar was pretty much cancelled.

Everyone was going over to the Rezaeis’ house. They packed the food Mamou had made for the picnic.

“Happy birthday, sweetie. Have fun with your dad,” Mom said, kissing my forehead before she grabbed a platter of dolmeh.

“Thanks.”

Mom rested her palm on my cheek.

I thought about her dealing with Dad’s depression for all these years.

I thought about her dealing with mine too, and how much harder it must be with two of us.

I thought about how painful it must have been, to want to help and not be able to.

Not really.

My mother was strong and enduring as the Towers of Silence.

So was Mamou. She kissed both my cheeks. “You are the sweetest boy I know, maman,” she said.

“Darius?”

Laleh wrapped her arms around my waist.

“I’ll always be your friend.”

I knelt down and kissed Laleh on the cheek.

“I know you will, Laleh.”

“I made you some tea. For your birthday. It’s in the teapot. I didn’t even put sugar in it.”

“Thank you.”

Laleh squeezed me again. She whispered in my ear, “You can add sugar if you want, though.”

That made me smile.

“Okay.”



* * *





It was weird walking down the streets of Yazd with my father instead of Sohrab.

Weird, but not bad.

Dad kept pointing out different doors that he liked, or baad girs he thought were particularly impressive. But he didn’t stop to draw them. He had left his sketchpad at home.

“I want to spend time with you,” he explained.

I didn’t know how to handle all this attention from my father.

It seemed we had increased our intermix ratio by a substantial factor.

But it was nice.

The minarets of the Jameh Mosque were even taller than the baad gir of Dowlatabad Garden. I craned my neck and stared up at them.

“Wow.”

“Wow,” Dad agreed.

We crossed the fountained courtyard, staring up at the minarets and the huge, pointed archway that towered above us. It felt like being swallowed by an enormous celestial beast.

Dad was speechless.

I knew, without him saying it out loud, that he was in love with the place.

The halls and chambers were quiet. Morning prayers were done, so it was mostly empty, except for tourists like us. Our footsteps echoed endlessly. My dress shoes squeaked on the smooth tiles.

I had yet to recover my Vans from Sohrab’s house, but Mom had promised to bring them back with her.

I studied my father as he stared at the tile work on the ceiling: endless geometric patterns that made me think of traveling through a wormhole. Dad’s face was relaxed—no smile, no frown. All his walls had come down.

Dad had never hidden his depression from me. Not really.

But I never knew how close I had come to losing him.

How hard he fought to stay with us, even if it made him into a Borg drone.

I didn’t want to lose him.

And he didn’t want to lose me.

He just didn’t know how to say it out loud.

I think I understood my father better than I ever had before.



* * *





Mamou made my favorite dish for dinner: zereshk polow, which is rice mixed with sweetened dried red barberries.

Red barberries are small berries that look like rubies, except they have little nipples on them.