As I help set the table, I hope my ability to see past cultural gender lines impresses Ms. Zameeni. She seems only slightly amused, but I’ll take it. Anything helps at this point.
Once we all take our seats, Niloo immediately jumps back into interrogating me with a million questions about being a big star.
“Honestly, I don’t love it.”
“What?” She’s staring at me, her eyes wide.
“I really don’t like all the attention.”
“Then why do you do it?” Maman asks.
“Because I love the music.” And because my brother needs me to.
I’m expecting some pushback, but she drops it. “Let’s eat,” she demands.
Niloo doesn’t seem to take a breath, asking one question after the other while filling her plate, then mine. Ms. Zameeni keeps mad-dogging her from across the table, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Or care. Between Niloo’s nonstop chatter and her mother’s continuous judgment, I begin to wish this wasn’t a sober household.
I take a sip of my soda hoping rum will magically show up in it.
“Ms. Zameeni, this is delicious.” I shove another spoonful into my mouth as proof of her fabulous cooking.
“Thank you.” She starts to cough, pulling the napkin off her lap and holding it to her mouth. Darya leans forward to help her but gets shooed away.
“And your house is beautiful.” I’m trying to pretend I don’t notice her hacking up her lungs.
“I’m sure it’s nothing like your mother’s house,” she answers. “But you know, my husband left me years ago. I raised the girls by myself. He got a new life, and I ended up with the house. Guess it’s the consolation prize for a bad marriage.” Her bitterness is clear.
“Maman.” Darya’s tone is a warning.
“What? It’s the truth.”
“My mother actually still lives in my childhood home. I want to buy her a bigger place but she won’t let me. She’s comfortable there.” Their independence is something that our mothers share, and I lean into it. “My dad didn’t help very much either and, even before he died, she had to do a lot on her own.”
“But she probably doesn’t have to work now.”
I shrug because she’s not wrong about that. “No, she doesn’t. I’m blessed to be able to make that happen for her. But she also has really bad arthritis. If she didn’t, she’d probably be working.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Being sick is very difficult. Especially for independent women like us.”
I’m hoping Ms. Zameeni will start to realize that Darya and I are a lot more alike than it seems. But then she shifts in her seat, wincing. She tries to hide it, but it’s clear she’s uncomfortable.
“Are you okay, Maman?” Darya asks.
“I’m fine. I just slept badly last night and my back hurts.”
I continue to eat the ghormeh sabzi like it’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted. It’s good, but I’m not so sure it’s going to settle well with my stomach. I push food around my plate, pretending I don’t notice anything is wrong. Women like Ms. Zameeni don’t like to appear weak. I know when Mamá was diagnosed, she hated it when we acted like she couldn’t take care of herself.
“Maman, you aren’t eating,” Darya points out.
I get the urge to kick Darya under the table. I know she’s worried, but it would be really cool if she’d stop hounding her mom while I’m sitting two feet away from her.
“I’m not very hungry.”
“But you need to eat. Do you want me to get you something else?”
“I’m not hungry,” she repeats, glaring. Darya opens her mouth the say something else but then shuts it.
“Tell me something about Darya when she was younger.” I need to change the subject before Darya manages to find her tongue.
“Maman, tell him the story about the haircut,” Niloo suggests.
“No,” Darya groans. “Please don’t.”
Her mother actually smiles for the first time since we’ve gotten here. Anxious to keep the lighthearted moment going, I push on.
“Haircut? I have to hear this one.”
“When Darya was about nine, I had this friend, Minoo, who was a hairdresser. She’d come to the house and do my hair for me. I had two little girls then; Niloo was just a baby. And no help to speak of. She’d come over to give me a haircut and this time Darya begged to get one, too.” She leans forward in her seat, meeting my grin with one of her own. “Back then, short, cropped cuts were in. Minoo asked Darya if she wanted a cut like mine, or like her best friend, Dona.”
“What did Dona’s look like?”
“The cute little bob that you still see on young girls,” she answers. “But of course Darya wanted to be just like her Maman.” She beams with pride. “Minoo went at her shoulder length hair, cutting it all off.”
Niloo can’t stay quiet too long, bouncing in her seat. She doesn’t let her mom finish. “All off. Like, everything. It pretty much looked like your hair.”
“It did not!” Darya says. We all start laughing, even her mother.
“Okay, maybe not that short, but short. Anyway, Darya takes one look at herself in the mirror and starts screaming. Maman says she ran around the house in circles, stopping at every mirror, staring at herself for a good twenty seconds, then screaming again, hands flailing above her head like she was on fire. She’d head to the next mirror in the house and do it all over again.”
I can’t stop cracking up. Why can I picture this so clearly?
“I looked like a boy!” Darya tries to defend herself, but she’s laughing, too. “It was hideous.”
“No, it wasn’t. You were adorable.” To me Ms. Zameeni says, “But she was convinced she looked bad, so she hid in the house for the next month, refusing to play with any of the neighborhood kids. And back then, the kids played outside together all day. At one point, one of the mothers stopped by to make sure she was okay. She probably thought we’d killed her and buried her in the backyard.” Darya’s mom shrugs as if it wasn’t a totally unreasonable question. “Thank goodness it was summertime. Not sure how I would have gotten her to school.” She braces herself against the table when she laughs, her body too fragile to handle it.
For a brief moment, I begin to feel hopeful, thinking this could work out after all. But then Ms. Zameeni flips the tables.
“What are you doing with my daughter?” she suddenly asks. I almost choke on my food.
“I’d heard so much about you both,” I say, wiping my mouth and placing the spoon gently on the side of my plate. I regain my composure faster than her daughters can close their mouths. “I really wanted to meet her family.”
“No,” she replies. “I mean what are you doing with my daughter?”
I try again. “I really care about Darya. We’ve grown very close while on tour together. She’s an amazing woman.” I lean forward and hold her gaze, wanting her to know I’m telling the truth. Darya’s leg is tapping wildly beside me and I reach out to steady it with my hand.
“She is,” her mother agrees.
“I’m serious about your daughter. I can see a future for us.” I’m hoping my confession will ease Ms. Zameeni’s doubts, but like I’ve been for most of this evening, I’m wrong.
“You can see yourself with my Darya. You, Mr. Famous Superstar, sees a real future with my daughter?” She snorts like it’s the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard.
“Maman—” Darya starts, but her mom cuts her off.
“What?” She glares at her. “It’s a legitimate question. I’m your mother. You may be lost in this fairy tale right now, but it’s my job to stop you from making a mistake. And that’s exactly what I’m doing.”
Darya tries to stand her ground but I can feel her hesitation. I know she cares about what her mom thinks, but I hadn’t realized how much until now.
/> “I know we live different lives, Ms. Zameeni. But we can figure out how to make it work.”
“Really? Are you going to stop being a singer? Settle down and build a home with her? Or are you going to expect her to drop her life and follow you around the world? She’s worked so hard to become a doctor, and now that she has, I won’t let her give it all up for a man.” The intensity of Ms. Zameeni’s stare screams with her anger, but there’s a hint of fear for her daughter’s future in it, as well.
“I would never ask her to do that.”
“No? So what do you plan on doing when you’re apart for months at a time because you’re off to God knows where? What about the nights you’re lonely? Are you trying to tell me you won’t give in to the temptation that follows your kind around? Or is that what you expect, for Darya to turn a blind eye to the affairs you’ll most definitely have?”
I barely keep my mouth from dropping open, but damn. I try to remind myself she’s a concerned mother and her questions aren’t unreasonable. But I’m a good guy, and it’s taking a hell of a lot to keep from losing my cool right now.
“I’m not that kind of a man. I’d never cheat on the woman I love.” I try to keep my tone respectful, despite how defensive I feel.
“Please,” she waves me off. “That’s what you all say.”
At this point, I have no idea how to convince her. Plus, I don’t trust that I can control my anger as she continues to be rude. I turn toward Darya, hoping for some help. I can tell Ms. Zameeni that I’m a good person and that I don’t believe in cheating. I can try to give her details of my past, of who my father was, and how Mamá raised me to be better than him. But it won’t matter coming from me. She needs to hear it from her daughter, because Darya is who she trusts. But Darya seems to have lost her ability to speak.
Niloo stares at her sister from across the table. When Darya continues to stay silent, Niloo doesn’t let me get eaten up by her mom, jumping in to help me herself.
“Maman, that’s not fair. You don’t know Anthony.”
“I don’t need to know him. His kind is all the same.”
“My…kind?” Irritation begins to boil beneath my skin. “Are you referring to me being a man, a musician, or a Latino? Because I assure you, none of those things impact my character.”
The silence in the room is deafening. I no longer care about the way Ms. Zameeni is glaring at me or how worried Niloo looks. I’m too busy staring at Darya in disbelief. How could she just sit there while her mother roasts me?
“Excuse me,” I say, knowing I have to get out of here before I lose my shit. I can hear Darya finally find her tongue as I’m halfway to the front door.
“Maman, what is wrong with you?”
I hear the screech of her chair. She finds me in the foyer, pacing. My face is burning and I’m working my jaw. “I think I should go.”
“No,” she protests. “Don’t leave.”
“I don’t want to say something I’m going to regret. And my kind can’t be rude in someone else’s house. My mother raised me better than that.”
“I’m sorry about my mother’s behavior, Anthony. It was out of line.” She bounces on her toes. “I should have said something.”
We lock eyes as my gaze bores into her. “Yes, you should have. Is that who you think I am? The man she’s describing?” I want to hear her say she knows I’m nothing like that. That she knows the real me. I need her to.
“No, of course not.”
“Then why didn’t you say anything?”
She groans. “I don’t know. I got nervous. She’s my mom,” she answers and tugs on the hem of her shirt. “It wouldn’t make sense to you,” she adds with a mumble.
“Try me.” I’m desperate to understand. I need her to convince me there’s hope for us.
“It’s stupid to anyone who isn’t an Iranian daughter. I know I’m a grown woman and that it shouldn’t matter what my mom thinks. But it’s different for me. Her approval is important. It always has been. I was raised with the idea that we always please our parents. They sacrificed everything to bring us to this country so we could have a better life. We owe it to them to make them happy.” She reaches out and grabs my arm. Her touch burns my skin. “It’s old-fashioned and I should get over it, but I can’t, okay? Especially when she lost everything with my dad. And now she’s sick.”
“I get wanting your mom to be happy. I want her to be happy about us, too. But are you going to walk away from what we have because she doesn’t want you to be with me?”
“It’s not just my mom. She’s right about our lives. How do we even make this work? I can’t tour with you forever. And there’s no way I can go overseas with you. I only have three months off. That’s it. Then I have to go back to work.”
I want to tell her that I’m not even sure about this singer thing anymore, that I would love to give it all up and live here, in Los Angeles, with her. But I can’t, because I have obligations to the guys. I made a commitment to them and I can’t just break it over my own selfish needs. Especially on a whim.
“What are you saying?” My heart is beating so hard I’m sure it’s about to rip through my chest.
“Anthony, I—”
“Darya, I love you.” I’m not certain about a lot of things in my life right now, but this is one thing I’m sure of.
Darya’s mouth opens slightly and she takes in a sharp breath. I’ve never said that to her before and I’m not sure if this is the best moment. It’s not romantic or grand. But I’m desperate not to lose her.
She doesn’t move, and I start to worry I’ve made a mistake. Then, just as I’m getting ready for her to walk away from me, she closes the distance between us, pulling me into her arms.
“I love you, too.” She kisses me, and for a few moments, everything feels right in the world.
Suddenly, her mom starts coughing from the other room. She doesn’t stop, the hacking getting deeper. Darya freezes against my mouth, her muscles becoming rigid. Then she’s off, running back into the kitchen.
I follow, but stop when I see Ms. Zameeni throw me an uncomfortable look as she strains to catch her breath. I back out of the room until she’s no longer in my sight. I stay close in case Darya needs me, but I know I should give them some privacy. When I hear the sisters talking quietly to her, I feel it’s safe to head back into the living room. I sit on the couch and drop my head into my hands.
I haven’t prayed for a long time, but I clasp my hands in my lap and pray for Darya’s mom to be healed. “Por favor, Dios, sánala.”
Just then, Ms. Zameeni’s coughing starts up again and I’m on my feet. But as I make it to the dining room, I hear voices and stop. She’s settled down and from her tone, they’re locked in a serious conversation.
“I’m tired, azizam. My body can’t take much more. I just want to be in my home, with my loved ones. Khaleh is going to come stay to help me. I don’t want to feel this bad anymore.”
“No, Maman, you can’t stop treatment. We’ll find other doctors. I’ll get you more consults.” Darya starts to cry and turns to Niloo. “Why aren’t you saying anything?”
“Because I see how she’s suffering, Darya. You’re not here,” Niloo answers.
“That’s not fair.” Darya sobs.
“I don’t mean it like that. You’re doing what you’re doing for us. I know that. But I don’t want to torture Maman just because I don’t want to accept the truth.”
I can see Niloo from where I’m standing. She walks over to her sister and drops down beside where Darya is leaning on Ms. Zameeni’s knees. She wraps her up in her arms and Darya continues to cry. Their mother gently runs her hands across both their heads, and they create a triangle of unity.
Ms. Zameeni notices me hovering and locks her gaze on mine. She gives me a grim smile before she starts coughing again. This time she can’t catch her brea
th, gasping so hard that by the time I’m in the room, she’s turning blue. She tries to stand and wavers off her feet. I make it to her side, wrapping my arms around her before she falls. I lift her, cradling her against my chest. Her tiny, thin frame reminds me of a fragile child. I hold her close as she continues to wheeze, too weak to have an opinion on who her Prince Charming is.
“Get her stuff,” I demand. I’m on the move as they obediently follow, both on autopilot, stuck in a haze of panic and fear. Niloo throws the door open, and Travis sees us coming. He bursts into motion. He opens the back door of the SUV and I scoot into the seat with Ms. Zameeni still in my arms. But right before I make it inside, two paparazzi appear from behind some nearby bushes, frantically snapping photos. Niloo sees them running toward us and freaks out. Darya steps in front of her and pushes one of the photographers away.
“No!” she yells at them. “Go away.”
As the engine rumbles to life, Darya looks at me, and I can feel her anger. I don’t blame her. It’s my fault photographers are here. I want to tell her I took every precaution I could to keep them from figuring out where I was, but it’s useless. Because it happened anyway.
My heart aches as I take in the scene. Ms. Zameeni is groaning in pain against my chest as she struggles to breathe, Niloo is stressed out, the crowd around the car is growing with paparazzi, and Darya’s staring at me with accusation.
I’ve made this situation so much worse.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Darya
“She’s dehydrated,” Trina reports. “And she has pneumonia.” The sad gaze of her usually vibrant eyes pulls the air from my lungs, threatening to suffocate me. I want to be angry at my best friend for acting like there’s no hope along with the rest of them, but I don’t have the energy to throw a fit.
“Has her doctor been called?”
“Yes. She should be here soon.” Trina reaches out and squeezes Maman’s hand. Maman struggles to open her eyes, giving Trina a small smile behind her closed lids. “Rest now, Maman,” Trina says, her accent butchering the word but making my insides feel warm with nostalgia, anyway. It reminds me of better times. Nights filled with sleepless hours of studying while Maman came in with cups of chayee and shirinee every hour to keep our energy up. I wish I had a time machine so I could go back to those moments. But tea and sweets won’t help us now.
Set to Music Page 20