But even with years of practice, my inside dialogue was never completely revealed to the outside world. I am still considered a quiet person. Maman says, “Bless his soul, you take after him. Your father would hardly say two words.”

We both remembered at the same time that he did talk in his final days. “Too much talk,” Maman stresses. “Nothing worthwhile.”

Tonight I didn’t brew mint tea for Maman even when she said, “God, my blood pressure has gone up.” I didn’t say, “You can take a pill.” As Shahla would have said. I was busy. The fridge door was clean but I was wiping it again and considering cleaning the old spots on the stove. Right then I knew I should say something no matter how irrelevant or stupid.

My silence was bothering me like a tight woolen dress in hot weather. I wanted to take it off. Maman was weeping while putting on her shoes, and I still couldn’t play the role I expected of myself. I remained right there at the door. Maybe everything would go back to normal; a routine good-bye between mother and daughter. I needed this old world ritual that sooths the pain like a balm. But Maman disappeared in the stairway and didn’t even glance back.

Chapter 9

9

Maman doesn’t cry only when she is in pain. She cries when the phone rings a lot or the television is too loud. She cries when she is cold and can’t stop her shivers with blankets, or when Shahla comes from work and goes straight to her room. When she goes to the bathroom, you can hear her wailing as if she has a burning infection. Maman cries even in her sleep.

Her wailing is not related to old age. Years ago, when Father brought company home and ordered dinner, her wailing echoed in the basement. It echoed in the rooms. It echoed in the backyard. Then Father would inevitably throw something at the wall to stop the wailing.

But the noise never stopped. Father sold the turntable and bought a radio. He turned the volume high, but the weeping didn’t stop. Maman carried this noise with her like an electric device.

When Father was on the road, her weeping subsided. Our ears no longer felt like ears. They were merely soft pieces of flesh attached to the sides of our head without any specific function.

After Father became housebound, Maman’s weeping escalated, as if now it was intentional. It wasn’t the sound of crying. It was disgust. It was hatred. It was pain. Her weeping felt like an electric current passing through your body and drying your blood instantaneously. The noise was unrelenting, and no other noise, from Father’s screaming to the sound of the water fountain in the little pool, the clinking of the soda bottles, or Aunt Mahboub’s laughter, could compete with it.