In the Time of Our History by Susanne Pari

Author:Susanne Pari [Pari, Susanne]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington Books
Published: 2022-09-26T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 16

When Julian got back from soccer, Mitra was dressed and pacing the living room. “We need to go for a walk,” she said.

He dropped his gym bag and picked at his damp T-shirt: a British flag with the word GREECE under it. “Gotta jump in the shower first.”

She stopped pacing, stood with her hands in her jeans pockets, shoulders tense. “You can shower when we get back.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I’ll tell you when we’re out of here.” Her voice sounded at once pleading and angry.

She was silent as they climbed the hill away from the Sunday bustle of Twenty-fourth Street. Usually they took their weekend walks past neighborhood shops or at farmers’ markets or craft fairs; sometimes they hiked in the Headlands across the Golden Gate, but they rarely walked the quiet residential streets; Mitra did this often enough on her own in order to stay familiar with home sales and renovations. She led him toward a bank of eucalyptus trees along the ridge, and they sat down on a weathered wooden bench. The peeling bark of the massive trees reminded Mitra of shedding skin.

“Salimeh’s pregnant,” she blurted.

“What? Shit. You’re joking, right?” Stupid words, all of them.

“Take a good look. One thing a Moslem girl knows is how to make her body invisible and her face unreadable.”

Julian put his elbows on his knees, held his head with both hands. “Did she tell you this?”

“No, Mrs. Tokuda noticed it.”

“She’s been looking so much healthier, filling out.”

“Exactly.”

“And she’s happier, even a little carefree. You think she’s in denial?”

“Either that or she’s adept at hiding and playacting like most Persian girls.” Like Ana, Mitra thought.

“How far along is she?”

“Mrs. Tokuda surmised seven months.”

“Jesus, that far?” He sat up, looked at her. “You think the mother knows?”

“Of course she doesn’t know.”

“How could she not?”

“She’s a mother whose worst nightmare is this. I mean, you’re a doctor, and you didn’t even notice.”

“That’s not fair. I don’t live in the same room with her. We barely communicate—just good morning, how are you, good night. I doubt she knows the English word for pregnant.”

“Still.”

“You’re blaming me? Come on, Mitra.”

She stood up, walked a few paces away, then turned. “It was your idea to bring them here. Your idealistic sense of chivalry, and all these exoticized notions you have about Iranians. Tell me, if they were British or American, would you’ve considered taking them in? A couple of homeless strangers?”

“I see I should be more like you, eh? Cold and insular.”

Touché, she thought. His face was red with anger, a muscle next to his eye twitching. Her words had cut him, and she immediately regretted her callousness. He was right; this wasn’t his fault. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m just freaking out.” She tried to remain calm, but she couldn’t tamp her fury. “How did this happen?” she said, flinging her arms up.

“She’s a teenager,” he huffed. “Evolutionary imperative.”

“You’re making jokes?”

“Not really. It’s true. I just can’t imagine her having a boyfriend. She’s so shy.”

Mitra sat up straight. “Do you think she was raped?”

“Jeez, Mitra.

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