CHAPTER ONE
There’s a lot to a memory.
To me, it’s being seven years old and clutching the edges of a scratchy blindfold as the summer sun cascades promises of bright days ahead.
It’s being ten and realizing maybe I pulled off my blindfold too quick.
It’s being twelve and wishing for the dark.
It’s being fifteen and not knowing how to turn the light back on.
It’s the present and past wrapped up so tight until there’s nothing left.
Until it’s gone.
* * *
It’s funny. The things people never forget.
Take my bibi jan as an example.
My grandmother will never ever leave her room without running dark kohl over her brows. Or approach a man without first throwing on a sheer black scarf to cover her hair and demure smile. Or let me leave the house without chastising me to cover my legs as a proper Afghan girl must do.
I take a sip from my teacup to cover my grin. Because it really is funny, these little things that stay with us. And the big things that somehow seem to slip through the cracks.
A spoon clatters from Bibi jan’s hand. Bits of egg sprinkle on her worn, floral pajamas. The gleaming sapphire-and-gold necklace my grandmother wears sparkles in contrast. I grip my cup a little bit tighter when she bends from her seat to pick up the spoon from the kitchen floor. Her severe face, gaunt and swollen at the same time, turns as she takes me in for the tenth time this morning. Confusion ebbs and flows as her gaze slides right past me.
“Ki asti?” she asks.
Who are you?
My throat gets scratchy and tight, but I still plaster on my best everything is okay smile.
“I’m Sara.” I’m careful to roll the r and keep the a’s soft. “Your granddaughter.”
But my bibi jan is bobbing, her eyes searching for a lifeboat to pull her ashore.
“Ki?”
It’s funny, I think as I remove my glasses. The little details that shouldn’t matter. I shake my hair free from my bun and fluff it up. And yet. I bat away the watery sting as I smile again and focus on her blurry face. Her carefully brushed dark hair is pulled back into a little bun. Snow-white roots show at her hairline.
I keep breathing as she appraises me. Keep count of the seconds that pass by, running my fingers over each bead on my worn bracelet. I count and remember:
One, two, three …
I’m a toddler, and Bibi jan is singing me a song in her bed.
Four, five, six …
I’m in pre-K, and Bibi jan swats me away from the breakfast table. It’s an endless game of wash-your-face-and-hands-before-eating or accept the consequences.
Seven, eight, nine …
I’m in kindergarten, and Baba jan has died. Bibi jan’s papery hand is tight in mine at the funeral.
Ten, eleven—
“Ah, my Sara jan.” She leans in close. Her Farsi sounds like a song I could never forget. It is a melody that sings to the oldest parts of my heart. “Such a beautiful girl with a beautiful name.”
“Best name in the world, right, Bibi jan?” When she laughs in agreement, my smile is true and genuine. Because out of forty-one grandkids, twenty-nine great-grandkids, and three great-great-grandkids, I’m the only one that was given my grandmother’s name.
I want to see the way her smile radiates, not from her mouth but from the wrinkly little corners of her eyes. So I wait a little longer before putting my glasses on. Just in case.
“Erik, don’t forget, we’ve got to make sure the dumpsters are cleared and ready to go on Monday.” My madar emerges from the hallway. She is a whirlwind of perfume and freshly manicured nails. She’s talking a mile a minute as she shimmies her way around Bibi’s chair into the kitchen. She throws a quick smile Bibi’s way before draining her coffee mug in record time and drops it in the sink.
Mornings with Nargis Amani are unpredictable. It’s a lot like rolling the dice. You never quite know which version you’re going to get.
I slurp my tea quietly, hoping today’s mood is forget-Sara-promised-to-go-to-work-this-morn—
Let’s go, Madar mouths at me.
I sigh dramatically. Lady Luck has forsaken me yet again.
“Ki asti?” Bibi jan’s spoon is midair again as she stares at my mother. Only, Bibi’s voice these days is like a whisper, as if some part of her knows that she has shrunk from the great woman she used to be.
Madar doesn’t hear her.
“Great. I’ll be coming over later to figure out a few more things,” Madar says into the phone. “See you in a few.”
Click.
Bibi jan spoons another mouthful of runny egg and misses her lips by three inches. It nearly lands on top of my foot.
“Who is she?” She squints and drums her fingers against her hips, like the answer is on the tip of her tongue.
I point at Madar and lean in close so my mouth hovers directly near Bibi jan’s good ear. If this was two years ago, Bibi would joke, I’m too young for things like hearing aids.
“Your daughter.”
Bibi jan continues to stare and shakes her head. It only takes a moment before she sits back in her seat, lost in the sea of her mind.
“Sara, we’ve got a bunch of houses to check on today.” Madar kisses the top of Bibi jan’s head before rushing out of the kitchen to the car. The Bluetooth is already ringing. Madar’s mind is a million miles away.
I want to tell her, I’m doing fine, thanks for asking.
I wish she’d notice and say, Bibi jan brushed her own hair today?
I’m not that brave.
Instead, I leave my own soggy eggs untouched and hug my grandmother, run into my room to grab my camera, and rush out the door. As the door slams shut, I can’t help but wince at Bibi jan’s parting words that have turned me from loved one to no one.
“Ki asti?”
* * *
Exactly a year ago, Madar and I made a deal. It was the summer before freshman year and the world was semi-back-to-normal after a virus put most of the world in lockdown. During the months of social distancing, I consumed my body weight in hot fries and Sprite while binge-watching all of Code Geass, Haikyu!!, Inuyasha, and Tokyo Ghoul. Madar was convinced I’d die of processed food overdose and lack of vitamin D, which I admit was a very real possibility.
The Afghan in her was appalled at my lack of ambition when the lockdown was over, so she took it upon herself to light the flame, so to speak, by making me head of social media and tech support for the family house-flipping business.
In reality, I was just a glorified and (key word) free photographer for the houses.
Madar called it an investment in my future by taking an interest in saving the family business.
I called it making a profit on other people’s misfortune, but that’s a discussion for another day.
I scroll through the pictures on my camera, deleting some to clear up space. There’s an embarrassing number of selfies and failed dance routines that I would rather not explain. Tap. Erase. Madar rolls her eyes in disgust as I gnaw away at my nails. I stop on a cute candid of Bibi jan tidying up her room. It makes me smile.
Our car zooms and loops along the lush winding roads of eastern Long Island, the place my mother and her family—all ten sisters and one brother—have called home for about forty years. My mother was only thirteen when they arrived.
Sometimes, I ask Madar what it was like to pick up and start over in a foreign land.
Sometimes, I wish I could do it too.
To escape and start over somewhere new.
“We were running from a war, jan,” she would remind me.
As the wind roars through the open window, I find myself thinking, I’m running from a war too.
“Can you shut the window? It’s bothering my ears.” Madar takes a sharp left and my camera nearly goes flying out the window. The GPS recalculates. “It literally told me to turn here.” Madar fiddles with the navigation, swerving for two seconds almost into the wrong lane. A passing car honks.
“I’d really like to digest my breakfast in peace, if that’s all right with you.” My camera falls between my beat-up sneakers. I leave the window open. Rebellion isn’t really my thing, but I will hurl if I have to spend another second enduring Madar’s driving without fresh air.
Madar soon forgets about the window when we arrive in front of a decrepit house. I blink twice. I don’t recognize this one.
“Who died and left this disaster?” My brow crinkles. “This isn’t the Centerport house.” I notice a sign that reads SUMNER COURT.
“Slight detour. We just got this one a few days ago.” Madar shuts off the car. “Let’s go inside and see what we’ve got to work with.”
I shrivel up in my seat. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s day one photos of the houses.
“Is it safe?” I fiddle with my seat belt before stepping out of the car. I bring my camera to my eye and rapid-fire three pictures of the driveway, yard, and facade of the house itself. Like a pro, if I do say so myself.
“Of course it’s safe.” Madar shoots a quick text before rubbing her hands together in excitement. “We got a great deal on this one. If we fix it fast, this could really help us out this year. Come on.”
Dandelions and other hideous weeds are living their best lives in between the cracks of the driveway. Peeling paneling runs across once-white trim on the boarded windows. High arches curl around the entryway, with overgrown bushes and vines snarling around the foundation of the house. In its prime, this house could have been beautiful.
It makes me wonder what went wrong for the former owners to lose it.
I feel the weight of eyes through the partially boarded-up windows of the second floor. A rusted wrought-iron fence gate squeals, and every hair on the back of my legs rises. I look up—there is no one there, but the feeling of being watched lingers.
“You know, this is how all those Netflix horror films start.” I rock on the ball of my foot and decide to wait in the car. “Maybe I should just…” My hand is on the handle, all I need to do is—
The car beeps. Locked.
“… or not.”
“Don’t be a baby,” Madar calls as she huffs up the winding walkway to the front door.
A shadow falls on me as I make my way up the driveway and approach the crumbling porch. The house is massive—bordering mansion level. There’s peeling gray paint scattered along the entryway and I have to jump over rotted wood to get to the front door.
My fingers catch on the rusted doorbell just as a shard of light pierces through the doorway and into the wide-open foyer. Rainbows bloom across the marble as it leads up the winding stairs to the partially exposed second floor. Silvery cobwebs drift languidly between the gaps in the railing and the solitary chandelier that sways high above.
Copyright © 2022 by Deeba Zargarpur.
