Night had fallen, quiet and silent as always. Negar had turned off the lights, only the yellow glow of the streetlamp shone through the thin curtain into the room. She lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, at the shadows dancing across it.
She couldn’t sleep. As always.
For years she hadn’t slept peacefully. Ever since that night when she saw her mother with a bloody hand, her sleep had been filled with nightmares. Sometimes she saw her mother in dark hallways, sometimes she heard the sound of breaking glass, sometimes she would wake up drenched in sweat and gasping for breath.
Tonight was the same. Eyes open, mind awake, body tired. She thought about tomorrow, about Dr. Mohiri’s office, about the words she needed to say. Words she hadn’t spoken in twenty-three years.
She turned to her right side, hugging the pillow. In Toronto it had been the same—at night she would hug the pillow, stare at the wall, think about Tehran. Now that she was in Tehran, she thought about there. It seemed no place was destined to become home.
She remembered the first day she arrived in Toronto. She was twenty-two, freshly graduated, had received a scholarship. At the airport, when she got off the plane, the air was cold, it was raining. Just like it was raining now. She thought this would be her new home. But it wasn’t.
Twenty years later, she understood that home isn’t a specific place. Home is a feeling, a person, a memory. And she had none of those.
She turned to her left side. When she pulled the curtain aside, the streetlight flooded the room. The street was quiet, a car or two passing by, the sound of tires on wet asphalt. The rain had stopped, but the sky was still overcast.
She thought about her mother. About how tomorrow she should go to the nursing home. Maybe before the psychologist’s appointment, maybe after. She didn’t know. She was afraid. Afraid of seeing her mother’s empty eyes, afraid that her mother wouldn’t recognize her, afraid that perhaps her mother would forgive her.
Something caught in her throat; she swallowed. Tears gathered in her eyes, but didn’t fall. She hadn’t cried in years. She had forgotten how to cry.
She looked at the clock. Two in the morning. Her appointment was at ten tomorrow. Seven hours until she had to wake up. But sleep wouldn’t come.
She got up and went to the kitchen. She drank some water, stood by the kitchen window, looking at the backyard. It was dark, only shadows.
She returned to the room. She sat on the couch and picked up her phone. She scrolled aimlessly, looking at old photos. Photos from Toronto, from old friends, from university classmates. None of them had stayed. Everyone had left.
She thought about how lonely a person can be. In a crowd, in a relationship, in the chaos. Lonely, without anyone noticing.
She put the phone aside. She stood up and went to the window. She pressed her forehead against the cold glass. The glass was cold, like so many things.
She whispered: “God… help me!”
She didn’t know who she was talking to. She hadn’t believed in anything for years. But tonight, in this lonely night, in this strange city, something in her heart said that maybe someone was listening.
She stayed like that, forehead against the cold glass, eyes closed, until morning drew near. Until the sky brightened, until the birds sang, until a new day began.
When morning came, she got up, took a shower, got dressed, ready to go. She looked at herself in the mirror. Tired eyes, pale skin, neat hair. Everything was in its place. But deep in her heart, the same bottomless pit remained.
She picked up her bag and left the house. On the street, the air was cold, smelling of rain. She took a taxi and gave the driver the clinic’s address.
The taxi drove off. Negar looked outside, at the city that was once her home. Maybe today, maybe in that office, something would change.
