“You didn’t tell me that part!” Mom shouted.
After that, Laleh told everyone—through occasional hiccups and tears—about watching Iranian soap operas with Babou, who knew every character and every plot line going back twenty years.
There was a lull after that, and I refreshed Landon’s tea for him.
“Thanks,” he said. I squeezed his hand under the table, and he looked at me kind of funny.
“Hey Mom,” I said. “Have you told everyone about Babou and the aftabeh?”
Mom’s eyes got huge as the crowd around us tittered.
“Who told you about that?”
“Zandayi Simin.”
“I am going to kill Simin-khanum!” Mom said. She sighed, and then started talking in Farsi.
Behind me, Grandma asked, “What’s an aftabeh?”
“It’s kind of like a watering can. You use it sort of like a bidet.”
Oma snorted, and Grandma covered her mouth, but then I couldn’t say anything else over everyone cracking up.
MIKE PROGRESSIONS
Eventually the last guests trickled out. Landon helped Mom fold up the tables and stack the chairs while Laleh picked up paper cups and plates for the trash. In the kitchen, I helped Oma and Grandma manage the mountain of leftovers.
“You doing okay?” Grandma asked.
“I guess.”
I held open a gallon-sized ziplock bag for Oma to load with kabobs.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Oma said. “Something bothering you?”
“I never told Babou I was gay.”
Oma took the bag from me and zipped it closed. She looked at Grandma and then back to me.
“Do you think . . .” I started to say, but Oma cut me off.
“You know, I knew your parents had trans friends in college. But it was still hard coming out to them.”
“Why? Did they take it bad?”
Oma shook her head. “No. And they were so busy with you I don’t think they processed it all that much. You were just a baby.”
I nodded.
“I remember your mom, she kept asking what she was supposed to do with all her photos. From their wedding, from when you were born. But then she got used to it. She and Stephen both did. I think they adjusted quicker than Melanie.”
Grandma cleared her throat, and Oma shook her head and started shoveling rice into another plastic bag.
I had never heard my grandmothers talk about Oma’s coming out.
I wanted them to keep talking.
“What do you mean?”
Grandma gave me this long look. She glanced at Oma, who had emerged from the refrigerator with two bags of sabzi.
“Just that people can surprise you,” Oma said. She set down the sabzi and rested a hand on Grandma’s shoulder. “And sometimes you have to let them, and trust that things will work out.”
Mom popped her head in. “I just heard from Stephen. His plane’s finally landed.”
“We’ll finish up here. You go get him,” Grandma said.
“Thanks. See you at home?”
“Sure.”
Mom kissed me. “I’ll take your sister. She’s exhausted.”
“Okay. Love you.”
“Love you.”
* * *
After we finished up, Landon and I filled the trunk of Oma’s Camry with the leftovers.
“You wanna come over?” I asked.
“Can’t tonight.”
“Oh.”
“Will you be okay?”
“Yeah.”
Landon squeezed my hand. “I think maybe you need to be with your family anyway.”
Oma turned on her NPR but left it on low. It was kind of soothing: this low, melancholy voice I couldn’t quite make out, whispering in my ear.
Landon looked at me and gave me this sad smile.
And then he rested his hand on my leg, kind of on my inner thigh.
I stared at it: the way his fingers rested against the smooth gray fabric of my dress pants. His pinky traced the inseam back and forth, back and forth.
My ears burned.
I had this ugly feeling in me again.
I wanted to tell Landon to stop, but I couldn’t.
He had been so patient with me today, and maybe I should’ve been more patient with him in return.
But I didn’t want to get an erection in my grandmother’s car.
So I took my hand and wrapped it around his. I pulled it off my leg and wove our fingers together.
He gave me this look.
Like he was annoyed with me, maybe.
Or disappointed.
And I got another ugly feeling. Like I wanted him to just leave me alone.
That’s normal.
Right?
* * *
Even with finishing up at the PPCC—and dropping Landon off—we still made it home first.
I put the kettle on, set to 165 degrees so I could make some Dragonwell, and got changed out of my Persian Casual clothes.
I still felt kind of weird and tingly where Landon’s hand had been on my inner thigh, perilously close to my penis.
The garage door rumbled beneath my feet. I shook my head and pulled on some clean underwear and a pair of joggers.
I had to wait a minute before going downstairs.
Mom was at the door, holding it open for Dad. She murmured something to him, and he laughed and whispered something into her ear, and then he saw me.
“There he is,” he said, and pulled me into a Level Twelve Hug.
I couldn’t remember the last time Dad hugged me so tight or for so long. His beard rubbed against my cheeks. It had gone past the scratchy phase and into the coarse phase, where it wasn’t super soft but it wasn’t bothersome anymore.
I had never seen my father with a real beard before. It was darker than his sandy blond hair, almost a light brown, and it was patchy around the corners of his mouth.
I felt something wet against the side of my cheeks too, but I didn’t say anything about that.
I didn’t know how.
So I said, “I’m glad you’re home,” and squeezed him back as hard as I could, until he finally seemed to have enough. He patted my back, then rested his hand on the nape of my neck and pulled me in to kiss my forehead.
“I’m sorry I’m late.”
“It’s okay. I’m glad you’re home.”
I let Mom and Dad through, and Laleh followed, bringing Dad up to speed on everything he’d missed—including, according to her, “Miss Hawn doing Mike Progressions.”
Dad looked from Mom to me.
“Microaggressions,” I whispered, and slipped out to grab Dad’s suitcase.
I popped the trunk and fought the big suitcase, which kept catching on the rubber lip of the trunk. Usually Dad packed his suitcase perfectly flat, but this time it was lumpy and awkward, like he’d balled up everything and tossed it in, rather than folding or rolling his clothes into neat rows.
I set the unwieldy suitcase on its wheels and pulled out his smaller one, then grabbed his leather Kellner & Newton messenger bag from the passenger-side footwell.
“You hungry?” Mom asked. “We have some kabob left.”
“Some” kabob was an understatement.
We had enough leftovers to feed the entire Chapel Hill High School varsity men’s soccer team.
“Here. Sit.” Mom forced Dad into his seat at the table. Laleh clambered into the seat next to him and kept up her tales about school.
The kettle was ready, so I filled the teapot and hauled the suitcase upstairs.
Mom followed me.
“Thank you, sweetie,” she said.
“No problem.”
“You can leave it there. I’ll sort out the laundry.”
“Okay.”
I laid the suitcase in the corner by the closet. Mom unzipped it and started pulling out clothes.
Sure enough, they were all jumbled up, and mixed in with Dad’s shoes, which weren’t even in the drawstring cloth pouches he normally used.
Mom let out a sigh so quiet I might have imagined it.
I thought about her living through Stephen Kellner’s depressive episodes before.
I thought about her living through mine.
I thought about how she had to grieve her father on top of all of that.
“Um,” I said. “Do you want some tea?”
“Yes please.”
“Okay.”
* * *
While Dad ate his kabob, Grandma and Oma came downstairs. They had changed out of their Persian Casual clothes too, into comfy sweatpants, though Oma still had her hair up.
“Don’t get up,” Grandma said, but Dad did anyway. He gave them each a kiss on the cheek.
“You need a shave,” Oma said.
Dad just shrugged and went back to his dinner.
Everyone was quiet for a second, the kind of quiet you could snap like a twig.
I said, “How was California?”
“Busy,” Dad said.
“When do you have to go back?”
He sighed. “Monday.”
“At least it’s warm there,” Grandma said.
Oma nodded but didn’t add anything. She was studying Dad with pursed lips.
The silence came back.
That’s the thing about silences. Sometimes they keep coming back.
“Anyone else want tea?”
“Sure.” Oma glanced at Grandma and then back at Dad. “You sure you’re doing okay, Stephen?”
“I’m sure.”
“All right.”
Grandma rested her hand on Dad’s shoulder. “You look tired.”