What We Bury, page 17
part #4 of Call of the Crow Quartet Series
Andi ran her fingers through the soft grass. “Of course. I’m not much of a laugher anyway.”
Brooke smiled. “I like that word. Laugher.” She took a deep breath. “So… yeah. I’m thinking of applying to law school.”
Andi blinked in disbelief. Brooke—she of ten thousand hair colors, she of sleeve tattoos and vegan weed brownies—was nothing like Andi’s idea of a straitlaced law school student. But the more she thought about it, the more it made perfect sense. “Yes. You should!” She paused. “You just want to legalize cannabis everywhere, don’t you?”
Brooke snort-laughed. “Ah, you caught me! But… it’s more than that. I feel like I could really make a difference as a lawyer. I know it’ll be a ton of hard work—”
“But you’ll be amazing at it,” Andi said.
“Maybe I’ll apply to UCLA. Or even USC. Follow you down to SoCal.”
“YES!” Andi said with such ferocity that the uke player actually stopped strumming for a second. “Yes! Come down to LA with me. We can be roomies.”
They turned towards each other on the grass and talked excitedly for a while, dreaming out loud, imagining what their college lives would be like. Maybe, Andi allowed herself to think for a moment, what Cyrus had said at the memorial was right. Maybe they really would look back on these days, years from now, and realize that they were just the beginning of everything.
25
Roya
Sunday, May 29
ROYA WAS ABOUT TO DROP a piece of bread into the toaster when she heard a small explosion.
The bread flew out of her hand. She crouched on the floor, pressing her back against the cupboards. What was that? It had come from outside, but it sounded close. She checked the back door. It was unlocked.
Too afraid to move, she listened until she heard it again. BANG. And again. BANG. BANG. Now that it had fallen into a rhythm, she relaxed a little. She knew this sound.
She stood up and opened the curtain. Baba was swinging his axe wildly, chopping at the trunk of the elderberry bush against the back fence.
Roya’s breath caught in her throat. The bush was just getting ready to flower, and soon after that the berries would grow, the ones Maman used to harvest and make into a syrup that helped them feel better when they were sick. And now Baba was trying to destroy it?
She opened the back door and ran through the backyard in her socks, not even caring that they were getting wet and muddy. “Baba!” she yelled, but he didn’t seem to hear her.
He swung the axe with so much raw energy that it scared her. This person was so different from the Baba she’d grown used to, the one who sleepwalked from his bedroom to the armchair and back again, lost inside the impossible cities he was building in his mind.
She called to him again, but he still didn’t turn. It was like he didn’t even know she was there.
Desperate to get him to stop, Roya pulled on his shirt. “Baba! Stop it!”
He turned around, axe still in his hand, and she pulled back just in time to avoid it slicing the end of her nose.
“What are you doing here?” he yelled.
“You have to stop! It’s about to bloom! The flowers, she loved the flowers, and the berries—”
“She’s not here!” Baba still hadn’t lowered the axe. “It doesn’t matter, because she’s not here. She’s gone, and it doesn’t matter, nothing—”
“Sam!” Auntie Leila was coming down the path. She was still wearing her sleeping clothes, an oversized Billie Eilish t-shirt and purple sweatpants. “Sam! What are you doing?”
Baba lowered the axe blade to the ground, but didn’t answer.
“Roya, come inside with me.” Auntie Leila sounded stern. If Roya hadn’t known better, she would’ve guessed that she was in trouble.
Still, she followed obediently, leaving Baba there looking deflated. She glanced back a few times to make sure he didn’t pick up the axe again. It remained on the ground.
“Are you all right?” Auntie Leila asked once they were inside the kitchen.
The bread Roya dropped had landed next to the sink. She poked at it. “I’m fine.”
“What happened?”
The bread had soaked up some water that was pooling around a dirty bowl. Roya mushed her fingers into it. “He was trying to chop down the elderberry bush. It was one of her favorites. She liked the flowers, and they’re about to bloom. I had to save it.”
Auntie Leila frowned. “This has been very hard for him. It was so sudden, and—stop that. It’s gross.” She scooped up the soggy bread and tossed it into the compost bucket on the counter.
Baba walked through the back door then. “Roya-jaan. I’m so sorry,” he said. “I was just… I needed to do… to do something….”
“So you decided to kill one of her favorite plants? What good was that supposed to do?”
“Sam,” Auntie Leila cut in. “There’s something I want to talk to you about. Roya, can you go collect a few eggs? I’ll make breakfast.”
“No, thanks. I was just going to have toast.” Roya didn’t want to leave. Baba thought everything would be fine if he just said he was sorry? It didn’t work like that.
“Roya. Please go.” Auntie Leila stared intensely at her.
“Fine,” Roya grumbled. She went outside, but not to check for eggs. She crouched right beneath the kitchen window, which was old and thin. If she listened closely, she could just make out their quiet voices inside.
“What do you think you’re doing? You scared her half to death. You’ve got to pull yourself together,” Auntie Leila was saying.
“I know. I’m trying. I didn’t know Roya would come out here, I’m just…” He sighed. “I got a voicemail. The life insurance claim was denied.”
“Oh,” Auntie Leila said. “Oh, Sam. I’m so sorry.”
“The whole thing… it disgusts me. They’re basically saying her life was worthless, because… because of how it ended, and… I shouldn’t have bothered. Should’ve known this would happen.”
“You had to try,” Auntie Leila said gently. There was a long silence, some sniffling, then she went on, “Remember when our parents died? I was Naveed’s age, just starting college, and to have them both go like that, one after the other… I felt so alone, I had no friends, I was crying all the time… and then you all came to visit me for a weekend and rented that house on the beach. Cyrus was adorable, such a happy baby, smiling and clapping and making us laugh. And Naveed would snuggle with me whenever I cried, bringing me the things he found in the sand and telling these wild stories about them, and it was all just so sweet. That visit… it saved me, Sam. It was like a little light I could carry with me whenever things got dark.”
“That whole thing was Mahnaz’s idea,” Baba said. “She always knew what to do.”
Another silence. “I’ve been thinking,” Auntie Leila continued. “Maybe it would be easier if Roya came back to Oregon with me on Tuesday. She could spend the summer down there.”
What? Roya couldn’t leave now! Not with Maman’s ghost roaming the house still, desperately crying out for help crossing over. Since Naveed had taken the tea away from her, Roya was brewing another batch of herbal cider in her closet—but she would need to talk to Maman here, where Roya could feel her restless spirit everywhere. Besides, as much as she loved her auntie, she was distracted by her work and often didn’t know what to do with Roya.
No. She couldn’t go. She wouldn’t go.
But, she knew, Baba would never let that happen. He wouldn’t want them to be apart.
“Really?” Baba said. “Are you sure you’d be up for that?”
She couldn’t believe it. He sounded relieved—like Roya was a huge inconvenience that he’d just been waiting to get rid of.
“Of course. It would be no problem. I’m mostly writing grants this summer anyway, and she could come along if I need to do any field work. Once the trial’s over, maybe the rest of you could join us.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’m already missing so much work—”
Roya stood up and limped back inside. “No,” she said. “No! I’m not going to Oregon! I want to stay here!”
Auntie Leila winced. “It’ll be fun. I’m not far from the beach. And there’s an ice cream shop right down the block—we can go whenever you want.”
“I’m sorry, Roya. This will be better for everyone,” Baba said woodenly.
Roya fumed. So it was true: he really didn’t want her here. “What about school?”
“We can work something out. I’m sure they’ll understand.”
“And PT? What about that?”
“There are plenty of physical therapists in Coos Bay,” Auntie Leila said.
“No. I don’t want to go.” Roya crossed her arms, even though arguing seemed useless at this point.
“It’ll be for the best,” Baba said. “I’m going to miss you, azizam, but we’ll talk every day, okay? And you can tell me about your adventures, and you won’t be missing out on anything.” Baba lunged forward and hugged her. “This is for the best. It really is.”
Roya wriggled out of his grasp. None of them were even listening to her. She might as well already be in Oregon, far away from all the things that mattered.
26
Naveed
Sunday, May 29
THE DOOR SHOOK. Someone was knocking on it. “Naveed? Are you in there?”
He didn’t bother rising from the cocoon of his bed. His throat was all shredded up and he felt profoundly depleted. He was a hollow shell with all the meat scraped out, only the brittle exterior remaining.
Stupidly, he hadn’t locked the door behind him when he’d come in sometime before dawn. The only thing he’d cared about then was making it to the toilet without puking on the floor.
Gretchen peeked her head in. Her smile faltered when she saw him. “Oh, my—are you all right?”
“I can’t work today,” he rasped. “I’ve got the stomach flu or something, I don’t want you to catch it.”
“Oh, dear. I’m sorry to hear that—I wish you were feeling well so that you could enjoy this more.”
She held up a magazine. An actual paper one. It took him way longer than it should have to realize that his face was on the front page. “It came out this morning. A lovely article. We’re so honored to have you here with us, Naveed. Would you like me to leave it with you?”
“Nah, that’s okay, I’ll read it on my phone later. Need to go back to sleep for a little bit.”
“All right. I’ll have Frida stop by with some broth.” She began closing the door, then paused. “Oh, and Naveed, I wanted to let you know… if you ever would like to reconsider working the market when you’re feeling better, we’d love to have you help out with that again. Sales really dropped off this last week without you there.”
“I’ll think about it. Thanks.” He turned his back, and she closed the door.
He lay there shivering for a while as the cold air she’d let in floated through the room. Koffka woke up and whined, so Naveed crawled to the door, still under the blankets, and opened it so Koffka could do his business. The dog moved stiffly, groggily. Naveed supposed he should feel bad about that, but he was filled with numb.
Frida came by at some point. She bustled around in nurse mode, taking his temperature and pulse, cleaning up the mixing bowl he’d been vomiting into for the past few hours, making him drink a can of coconut water while she heated broth on the hot plate. She ladled a mug for him and turned off the burner.
“Drink up. Need to get rehydrated,” she said as she handed it to him.
He sipped. Tasted like mud.
“You know, Naveed, there was a time in my life when I became very ill.” Frida’s eyes were focused on the dirt she was wiping off the floor. “I was still Fritz then. We were still living in East Berlin. I’d been feeling like a stranger in my own body for a very long time, but I was terrified of losing Gretchen and Aviva if I told them the truth. Then my father died. He was a difficult man, very cold, very strict—but it wasn’t until after his death that my brother and I discovered he was a Holocaust survivor. It was a secret he kept his entire life, and it ended up poisoning everything around him. Can you imagine what it would be, to live with that weight?”
She paused, but he didn’t answer. He just wanted her to stop talking, to go away.
“I fell ill not long after that. It was very bad. I had to stop working, but no one could figure out what was wrong. I kept thinking about my father, and finally told Gretchen my own secret. It took some time for her and Aviva to adjust, but they understood and wanted to support me. It wasn’t that I became well again immediately, but I finally began to recover. I wasn’t able to get better until I had become my true self, until everything was out in the open. Because what we bury, it has a way of resurfacing in painful ways. Sometimes even across generations. So if there’s anything you ever want to talk about, I’m here.”
What the actual fuck was she getting at? He couldn’t take this anymore. “Thanks, but right now I just want to sleep,” he told her, then retched into the now-clean mixing bowl.
Thankfully, she took the hint. “All right. Get some rest.” She washed her hands and opened the door. “Zei gezunt. I’ll be back to check on you later.”
He stayed in bed for a while after she left. Eventually, he got up, blanket still pulled tight around him, and turned his phone on. As he waited for it to wake up, he reheated the pan of broth. Then he sat down at the table, across from his mother’s place, where her mug and her phone and her poem still sat, and picked up his own phone.
The notifications flooded in. Baba had texted earlier in the morning. I love you, son. That was all.
Cyrus’s last texts were sent after Naveed had abruptly left the memorial, a stream of messages berating him for hurting their sister and running away afterward, insisting that he needed to come back and apologize to her in person. Well, at least he could trust Cyrus to be real with him.
If he only knew the hell that Naveed had saved Roya from. But he wasn’t going to bother explaining that to Cyrus.
There was a short message from Andi, too. I’m worried about you, please tell me how you’re doing #ns2
Great. She had invoked the pact. To keep up appearances, he needed to come up with an answer that sounded sincere. After typing and erasing for what felt like hours, he ended up with something he hoped would appease her. I feel like shit the memorial was so hard and I know I freaked out and I’m sorry. Been puking all night, probably something I ate, don’t worry Frida’s taking care of me thank you for checking in but right now I just need to rest
She responded quickly. So sorry you’re sick :( but thanks for being honest with me. Feel better! I’ll check in tomorrow
Another text appeared on his screen while he was reading her reply. This one was from Jamal. Naveed, I’d like to thank you again for taking the time to talk to me. The response to the article has been phenomenal so far. I won’t give out your contact info without your permission, but I’ve forwarded you an email that I received from a literary agent colleague interested in getting in touch with you. Best, Jamal.
While he sipped more mud-broth, Naveed found the article online and let his phone read it to him, since he couldn’t get the words on the screen to make sense. The text-to-speech voice mispronounced his name, of course, and its robotic cadence gave the story an extra layer of detachment, so that even though it was parroting back words he vaguely remembered saying, they felt very distant, like a speech a different person had made.
Once it ended, he still felt nothing. He supposed that Jamal had done a good job of presenting him exactly how he wanted to appear publicly, like a person who was passionate about something, a strong person ready to fight. And it was good that his words had not been diluted, that his anger and resentment at the food and pharmaceutical industries, at the system as a whole, had come across very clearly. The focus on the documentary was great, too. But it was weird how Andi was barely in there, when he knew the truth: she was a whole lot better at fighting than he was.
The article also placed a sudden, intense amount of pressure on him. After all, words were one thing, action another, and he didn’t have any idea what he was actually going to do about any of the issues he’d raised.
He opened his email. The literary agent gushed about Naveed’s work in an enthusiastic letter, obviously eager for him to get in contact. It made him feel like vomiting again.
He set down his phone and stared across the table at his mother’s empty chair. “I don’t know what to do,” he told her.
Koffka lifted his head. Was it only Naveed’s imagination, or was there a hint of resentment in the dog’s eyes?
Naveed thought about what Gretchen had said earlier, about how she wanted him to consider working the market again. And then it hit him, so obvious that he wondered why he’d never seen it before.
He was only here because Gretchen and Frida wanted him to be the face of their company, their salesman. Because he was good for business. He had been their pawn, he had been playing the great capitalist game just like they were, just like everyone was.
“Does it even matter what I do?” he asked. “Does any of this matter?”
The silence gave him his answer. The answer was the emptiness, the lack of response, the very definition of nothing.
The answer was no.
He picked up the poem his mother had copied down. I will greet the sun once again. Spoken like someone who actually looked forward to starting a new day. He definitely couldn’t relate.
Naveed looked at the sequence of numbers around the edge, and this time, one string of numbers stood out. 1979. Yes—that had to be the beginning. 1979, the year Maman’s father had been executed. The year she and her mother had escaped Iran at the beginning of the Islamic Revolution and emigrated to Lebanon and eventually to the U.S.
He typed in the sequence that he was sure, now, was correct. 1 9 7 9 4 3 6 7.
The phone opened up.
The background of her home screen was a glowing red tulip. He felt like he was watching something bloom.
