It’s not like either the sandwiches or the soup were particularly good. Oma used regular American cheese slices and white bread for the sandwiches. And the soup came from a can, made with water instead of milk since, according to Oma, milk gave Grandma gas.
But I thought maybe cooking for us was Oma’s way of showing she loved us, since she almost never said it out loud.
“Can I help any?” Landon asked.
He’d come over after school, with a little bouquet of flowers for Mom and a card for me.
“I’m fine,” Oma said. “You relax.”
Landon shifted in his seat.
I think the sight of Oma cooking with American cheese was deeply disturbing to him.
“Why don’t you make some tea?” Oma suggested.
“Okay.”
So Landon put the kettle on while I pulled down some Second Flush Darjeeling Mr. Edwards had us sample a couple weeks ago. It was maltier than the first flush from the same estate, and brisker, but it was still pretty good.
While the tea steeped, Oma cut the sandwiches into quarters diagonally—the only acceptable way to cut grilled cheese sandwiches—and started ladling soup into bowls. Landon set the table and I went to get Laleh from her room.
“Laleh?”
She was curled up against her pillow, a new book open on her lap.
“What’re you reading?”
Laleh held up the book so I could read the cover: The Fifth Season.
“Is it good?”
“Better than Dune,” she said.
“Cool. You want some dinner?”
We ate in silence, all of us dunking our sandwich triangles in the velvety processed soup product.
It actually did make me feel a little better.
After, as Landon was getting ready to leave, he said, “Are you going to be okay?”
“Yeah,” I said.
And then I said, “It’s not like it came as a surprise.”
And then I said, “Is it awful that I’m kind of glad it’s over?”
I felt terrible as soon as I said it.
What kind of grandson says something like that?
Landon took my hand. “It’s not.”
I sniffled.
“It’s okay.”
He pulled closer to try to kiss me, but I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I—”
Landon bit his lip. “No. It’s okay.”
The doorbell rang.
“That’s probably Dad,” he said.
But when I opened the door, it wasn’t Mr. Edwards standing there.
It was Chip.
“Oh. Hey,” I said.
“Hey.” He ran his hand through his hair. It was messy and smushed from his helmet. He looked past my shoulder and nodded at Landon.
“How’s it going?”
I shrugged.
“Yeah.” He twisted his lips back and forth. “The guys all signed this for you.” He pulled a card out of his messenger bag. “We missed you.”
“Thanks.”
I don’t know why, but the card made me want to cry again, and I hadn’t even opened it.
I never thought I’d have the kind of friends who’d get me cards when my grandfather died.
“How’d we do?”
“We won.”
“Good.”
“Yeah.” Chip shifted back and forth on his feet. “Your nails look nice.”
I looked down at my hands.
“It’s a good color on you.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Um.”
“I’d better get home. But. Well. If you need anything?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Thanks, Chip.”
“See you,” Landon said from behind me. He stepped onto the stoop and wove our hands together.
Chip looked from Landon to me and back. “Yeah. See you.”
We watched him bike away.
Landon held up my hand to study my nails.
“It really is a pretty color on you, you know.”
I smiled.
It felt like breaking the rules.
“Thanks.”
AN OVERABUNDANCE OF FOOD
We held Babou’s memorial at the Portland Persian Cultural Center.
The PPCC (an acronym that always seemed hilarious to me as a child) was a converted mattress store, with a big tiled common room in front and offices in the back for meetings and small gatherings. There was a tiny bookstore, which mostly just had cookbooks and Farsi language learners and pamphlets for local activities.
And then there was the kitchen, which had required the most extensive remodeling.
Iranians are notoriously exacting when it comes to kitchens. Mom used to talk about remodeling ours, at home, but she hadn’t mentioned it for a while. Not when our savings were drained, and the dishwasher was still broken.
Mom showed her ID to the security officer at the door, who beeped us in.
It made me feel weird, that the Portland Persian Cultural Center had to have a security guard.
Apparently there had been lots of windows broken, and even some harassment incidents, before I was born. And after too, but Mom always said the worst was right after 9/11.
For as long as I could remember, the PPCC had security officers at the doors and little cameras tucked into the corners of the ceiling. But those hadn’t been around when Mom first found the place, and invited Dad to a Hafez reading for their third date.
Dad was supposed to be here, but his flight got delayed out of LAX, and he didn’t know when he’d make it home.
“Can you take these?” Mom passed me a huge cardboard box full of tiny vases with jasmine blossoms in them.
I missed the smell of jasmine in Babou’s garden.
“Yeah.”
I took the box in one hand and offered Laleh my other. She rested her fingers in my palm, and I led her to the kitchen, which was also the staging area for decor.
The nice thing about the Portland Persian Cultural Center was, it was already an explosion of all things Iranian: Photographs of Iran lined the walls, many of them faded pre-revolution images of Tehran and Tabriz and Shiraz. There were even some of Yazd. Paintings of Nassereddin Shah—the least controversial figure in Iranian portraiture—hung in a few spots. (Not that he was without controversy, but still. He predated the Islamic revolution and even the Pahlavi dynasty that had preceded it.)
Tinny speakers in the ceiling played the Iranian equivalent of elevator music.
“You thirsty, Laleh?”
“Yeah.”
I poured her a cup of water and went back to help Oma and Grandma carry in the aluminum trays of rice and kabob from Kabob House, this Iranian restaurant in Beaverton.
No gathering of Iranians would be complete without an overabundance of food.
Everyone wore nice dresses—Mom’s was black, but not mournful—while I was in gray dress pants and a dark blue button-up. Underneath I had on my jersey from the Iranian national soccer team, Team Melli.
Sohrab had gotten it for me, when I visited Iran. It made me feel closer to Iran, and Babou, and playing Rook, and sitting in silence drinking tea.
I grabbed a paper towel and wiped my eyes.
I kept crying at weird times.
I had never lost someone I loved before.
I didn’t know how to deal with it.
* * *
“Darius? Hey.”
There was one other Iranian at Chapel Hill High School: Javaneh Esfahani.
She was a senior, and now that we didn’t eat lunch together, I barely ever saw her. She was in AP classes during the day, and busy with Associated Student Body after school.
Javaneh wore a sleek black dress with a red blouse over it and a dark red headscarf. She had on new glasses too, cat-eye ones with green highlights on the frames.
“Oh. Hey.”
“You look like you could use a hug.”
“I guess so.”
Javaneh snorted and pulled me in.
I couldn’t remember ever hugging her before. She felt warm and comfortable, like your blankets when you first wake up in those late fall days before you turn the heat on, and you can’t imagine ever getting out of bed because you know the floors are going to be cold.
“How’re you doing?”
“Okay. Trying to keep it together for my mom.”
She nodded. “When my grandmother passed away, my dad had a really hard time too.”
“That sucks.”
“Yeah. I still miss her sometimes.”
I sniffed. Javaneh pulled a couple Kleenexes out of her huge black purse.
She was still in high school, but she already had the voluminous purse of a True Persian Woman, the kind that opened into an alternate dimension.
“Thanks.”
“Sure.” She looked behind me. “I think someone is here for you.”
“Oh?” I turned to find Landon standing in the doorway. He was dressed all the way up, in a dark suit with a white shirt and gray tie.
He looked impeccable.
“Hi.”
“Hi,” he said, and wrapped me in a hug. I melted into him.
We didn’t kiss, though. I think maybe he was trying to figure out what the rules were, surrounded by a bunch of Iranian strangers.
Maybe he was.
Maybe I was too.
When we pulled apart, I said, “Javaneh, this is my boyfriend. Landon.”
Javaneh beamed and offered her hand.
“Javaneh Esfahani. I go to school with Darius.”
Landon’s shoulders relaxed as he took her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“Same.” Javaneh glanced toward the big room, and her eyes bugged out for a second. “Oh, no. My parents are trying to help.”