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Fiction

Someone is Calling “Leili”

By Noori Ijadi
Translated from Persian by Sara Khalili
Noori Ijadi pens a story about the hazy journey between life and death, what can be heard in the present time and remembered from the past.

I open my eyes. A narrow sliver of sun is shining on the wall, forming a diagonal line that bends at the corner and breaks. It’s a pale light. I can’t tell if it’s morning or early evening. It seems I have been asleep for years and have had nightmares the entire time.

I remember in a long dream I suffered pain, I moaned and spoke with people I didn’t know. A few times I dreamed of my son, he didn’t speak, he just cried. The hair on his temples had turned gray and he had stubble on his face. Oh, and he had become so fat. I hope the interpretation of these dreams is auspicious.

I miss him and Rana so much that my heart aches and my breath won’t rise from my chest. I hear a loud whistle. Suddenly a girl I don’t know appears next to my bed. I’m having another nightmare. My heart is pounding. The girl brushes away the lock of hair that has fallen on her forehead and she reaches under the bed and does something. I don’t know what! The whistle stops. The girl stares into my eyes, picks up something from beside the bed and puts it over my nose and mouth. “Breathe, Mrs. Saberi,” she says. “Don’t be afraid. I’m Parvin, your nurse.”

I breathe, two or three times, and my heart quiets down a little. The nightmare is continuing. Parvin is here, watching me. Her eyes are small and, I think, black. There are a few dark spots on her nose. She is talking. Her voice is warm and familiar.

“Perhaps you don’t remember you were in the hospital,” she says. “Of course, you’re now back in your own home, in your own bedroom.”

I take a deep breath and look at her. She reaches out and strokes my hair. “That’s better,” she says. “Breathe regularly for a few minutes and I will take off the oxygen mask.” And she smiles. Two creases appear at the corners of her mouth. Just like Rana. I close my eyes and open them again. I want to wake up and walk about the house, and like the past few years that I’ve lived alone, I want to talk to myself, to cook lunch and dinner at a set time and wait for my son and Rana’s telephone call. But Parvin is still standing here, fiddling with something under or next to the bed. “By the way, the whistle you heard is from the machine that’s connected to you,” she says. “It measures your blood pressure and heartbeat and if they fall or rise too much it whistles. Thank God, everything is now as it should be. Do you want me to take off the mask?” I blink, yes. She takes it off and writes something in a notebook with a blue cover. I want to speak, but no sound comes from my throat, and my arms and legs won’t move. I’m like a piece of rock. I couldn’t possibly be awake. I close my eyes again and I pray for morning to come quickly.

Dozens of small and large photographs float around in my mind. I like one of them the most. It’s a photo I took of my son and Rana on the first day of school. They’re holding hands and instead of looking at the camera, they’re staring at each other. I remember they had cried so much that their eyes were red. It was the first time they were being separated. Up until the day they had to start school, I was happy that they were twins and so much alike. But when I realized how difficult it would be to separate them, I wished they weren’t so similar. After I took the picture, I promised them I would never keep them apart outside of school. And I kept my promise. When Rana left with her husband to live in another country, I sent my son to be near her.

How many years has it been? I can’t remember. My hair had still not turned white. I looked like I did in this other photo that I sent to Rana after she gave birth to her daughter.

The sound of the telephone ringing resonates through the house. Parvin answers. I can hear her. I open my eyes. The glare of the sun bothers me. Parvin is standing next to the window. She closes the curtain and says, “She’s awake again . . . it’s still hard to tell how alert she is.” She walks over to me and holds the receiver next to my ear. She says out loud, “Speak, Mr. Saberi. She can hear you.”

I hear my son. He says, “Hi, Mom.” His voice is shaking, not a lot, but it’s shaking. I want to speak to him. I can’t. Again he says, “Hi, Mom. I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry I’m not there.” Parvin holds the receiver a little to the side and in a loud voice says, “I can tell by the look in her eyes that she has recognized you. Go ahead and speak comfortably.” My son says, “I wish I could come again, but unfortunately I have no vacation days left. The day Uncle called to say you’d suffered a stroke, it was by chance that I managed to find a ticket. I took all the vacation time I had left and I came to see you. I stayed with you for nineteen days. Do you remember?” His voice is still shaking, but he’s not crying. I wish he would.

Parvin takes the receiver away and speaks into it. “I’m sorry, but she shouldn’t become excited.” And she walks out of the room.

I look at the walls, the ceiling, the curtains. I want to scream, but I have no voice. My lips open and close, parched and silent. I bite my tongue and believe that I’m awake, awake enough to taste the saltiness of blood in my mouth.

I hear someone calling, “Leili.” Someone who’s not nearby. They must be outside the window. Parvin walks back into the room and the minute she sees me, she runs toward the bed. With something, perhaps a handkerchief, she wipes my lips. She looks inside my mouth and says, “You scared me, Mrs. Saberi. But you and I still have a long way to go together.”

She sits in a chair at the foot of my bed and once more writes something in the blue notebook. Again I hear someone calling, “Leili.” The voice is familiar, but I can’t remember where I’ve heard it. Parvin raises her head and looks at me. Her eyes remind me of someone I knew many years ago. Who? I can’t remember.

Parvin comes over and just like a doctor examines me from head to toe, listens to my breathing, and then reaches for the telephone. She dials a number, walks away, and talks to someone. I can’t hear her. Perhaps she doesn’t want me to know what she’s saying. She comes back and asks, “Mrs. Saberi, can you hear me?” I blink, yes. Talking into the telephone, she says, “She recognizes me, but the rest of the indications are not good. I better have her identity card at hand . . . Where should I look for it?”

I think, What does she want my identity card for? Perhaps she wants to know how old I am. By the way, how old am I? I can’t remember. From those long-ago days when I was a schoolgirl until the time when my husband died, I used to look at my identity card several times a year. Every so often, something was added to it. I remember when I turned eighteen, my photograph was added, at twenty, my husband’s name, at twenty-two, my children’s names, and at thirty-eight, the date of my husband’s death. After that, I never went looking for it again. But I know it’s somewhere in this house. Parvin will find it. She’s a clever girl, I can tell from those dark eyes. The telephone is ringing. I count the rings. One, two, three. What comes after three? I can’t remember.

Parvin answers it. From the tone of her voice, I gather it’s my son calling. I’m happy. She puts the receiver next my ear and says, “Mr. Saberi has some good news.” I concentrate and listen. “Mom, Rana is coming to Iran,” he says. “Her flight took off two hours ago. I drove her to the airport myself.” His voice isn’t shaking anymore. He is talking with that same calm that was in his voice ever since he was a small boy. I’m relieved. He says, “She will arrive at five-thirty tomorrow morning. She was waiting for her daughter’s school holiday to start. I pray you’ll be better by tomorrow.”

Parvin takes the receiver and walks out of the room. I hear her say, “It’s very unpredictable. It may be another hour or a few more months, or she may remain in this state . . . I don’t know.”

Again I hear someone calling, “Leili.” The voice sounds so close to me. I look, but there’s no one there. I don’t know why I suddenly remember my first day in school. I was wearing a blue uniform and brand-new white shoes with five-petal flowers on them. I still didn’t have a schoolbag. I was standing on line with a few other girls who were the same height as me and a fat woman was reading our names out loud from a sheet of paper. My heart was pounding. I was ready to hear my name. I hear a whistle. It’s my turn. Parvin runs over and puts the oxygen mask on my face. “Breathe, Mrs. Saberi. Breathe deeply and calmly.”

I breathe, two or three times. I’m relieved that the whistle has stopped. Parvin strokes my hair and says, “I found your identity card.”

Again I hear someone calling, “Leili.” It must be the fat woman who called my name as I stood on the line for first grade. Her voice and eyes resemble Parvin’s. She says, “Leili Gharib.” My heart is still racing. I take a step forward and say, “Present.” Parvin shouts, “Breathe!” Again I hear, “Leili.” I look. My husband is standing next to my bed, and with the calm that was always in his voice and is now in my son’s and Rana’s voice, he whispers, “Leili!” Parvin screams, “Breathe!” I take one breath, deep and peaceful. I smile at my husband. I hear a whistle.

“كسي صدا مي زند ليلي” © Noori Ijadi. By arrangement with the author. Translation © by Sara Khalili. All rights reserved.

English Persian (Original)

I open my eyes. A narrow sliver of sun is shining on the wall, forming a diagonal line that bends at the corner and breaks. It’s a pale light. I can’t tell if it’s morning or early evening. It seems I have been asleep for years and have had nightmares the entire time.

I remember in a long dream I suffered pain, I moaned and spoke with people I didn’t know. A few times I dreamed of my son, he didn’t speak, he just cried. The hair on his temples had turned gray and he had stubble on his face. Oh, and he had become so fat. I hope the interpretation of these dreams is auspicious.

I miss him and Rana so much that my heart aches and my breath won’t rise from my chest. I hear a loud whistle. Suddenly a girl I don’t know appears next to my bed. I’m having another nightmare. My heart is pounding. The girl brushes away the lock of hair that has fallen on her forehead and she reaches under the bed and does something. I don’t know what! The whistle stops. The girl stares into my eyes, picks up something from beside the bed and puts it over my nose and mouth. “Breathe, Mrs. Saberi,” she says. “Don’t be afraid. I’m Parvin, your nurse.”

I breathe, two or three times, and my heart quiets down a little. The nightmare is continuing. Parvin is here, watching me. Her eyes are small and, I think, black. There are a few dark spots on her nose. She is talking. Her voice is warm and familiar.

“Perhaps you don’t remember you were in the hospital,” she says. “Of course, you’re now back in your own home, in your own bedroom.”

I take a deep breath and look at her. She reaches out and strokes my hair. “That’s better,” she says. “Breathe regularly for a few minutes and I will take off the oxygen mask.” And she smiles. Two creases appear at the corners of her mouth. Just like Rana. I close my eyes and open them again. I want to wake up and walk about the house, and like the past few years that I’ve lived alone, I want to talk to myself, to cook lunch and dinner at a set time and wait for my son and Rana’s telephone call. But Parvin is still standing here, fiddling with something under or next to the bed. “By the way, the whistle you heard is from the machine that’s connected to you,” she says. “It measures your blood pressure and heartbeat and if they fall or rise too much it whistles. Thank God, everything is now as it should be. Do you want me to take off the mask?” I blink, yes. She takes it off and writes something in a notebook with a blue cover. I want to speak, but no sound comes from my throat, and my arms and legs won’t move. I’m like a piece of rock. I couldn’t possibly be awake. I close my eyes again and I pray for morning to come quickly.

Dozens of small and large photographs float around in my mind. I like one of them the most. It’s a photo I took of my son and Rana on the first day of school. They’re holding hands and instead of looking at the camera, they’re staring at each other. I remember they had cried so much that their eyes were red. It was the first time they were being separated. Up until the day they had to start school, I was happy that they were twins and so much alike. But when I realized how difficult it would be to separate them, I wished they weren’t so similar. After I took the picture, I promised them I would never keep them apart outside of school. And I kept my promise. When Rana left with her husband to live in another country, I sent my son to be near her.

How many years has it been? I can’t remember. My hair had still not turned white. I looked like I did in this other photo that I sent to Rana after she gave birth to her daughter.

The sound of the telephone ringing resonates through the house. Parvin answers. I can hear her. I open my eyes. The glare of the sun bothers me. Parvin is standing next to the window. She closes the curtain and says, “She’s awake again . . . it’s still hard to tell how alert she is.” She walks over to me and holds the receiver next to my ear. She says out loud, “Speak, Mr. Saberi. She can hear you.”

I hear my son. He says, “Hi, Mom.” His voice is shaking, not a lot, but it’s shaking. I want to speak to him. I can’t. Again he says, “Hi, Mom. I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry I’m not there.” Parvin holds the receiver a little to the side and in a loud voice says, “I can tell by the look in her eyes that she has recognized you. Go ahead and speak comfortably.” My son says, “I wish I could come again, but unfortunately I have no vacation days left. The day Uncle called to say you’d suffered a stroke, it was by chance that I managed to find a ticket. I took all the vacation time I had left and I came to see you. I stayed with you for nineteen days. Do you remember?” His voice is still shaking, but he’s not crying. I wish he would.

Parvin takes the receiver away and speaks into it. “I’m sorry, but she shouldn’t become excited.” And she walks out of the room.

I look at the walls, the ceiling, the curtains. I want to scream, but I have no voice. My lips open and close, parched and silent. I bite my tongue and believe that I’m awake, awake enough to taste the saltiness of blood in my mouth.

I hear someone calling, “Leili.” Someone who’s not nearby. They must be outside the window. Parvin walks back into the room and the minute she sees me, she runs toward the bed. With something, perhaps a handkerchief, she wipes my lips. She looks inside my mouth and says, “You scared me, Mrs. Saberi. But you and I still have a long way to go together.”

She sits in a chair at the foot of my bed and once more writes something in the blue notebook. Again I hear someone calling, “Leili.” The voice is familiar, but I can’t remember where I’ve heard it. Parvin raises her head and looks at me. Her eyes remind me of someone I knew many years ago. Who? I can’t remember.

Parvin comes over and just like a doctor examines me from head to toe, listens to my breathing, and then reaches for the telephone. She dials a number, walks away, and talks to someone. I can’t hear her. Perhaps she doesn’t want me to know what she’s saying. She comes back and asks, “Mrs. Saberi, can you hear me?” I blink, yes. Talking into the telephone, she says, “She recognizes me, but the rest of the indications are not good. I better have her identity card at hand . . . Where should I look for it?”

I think, What does she want my identity card for? Perhaps she wants to know how old I am. By the way, how old am I? I can’t remember. From those long-ago days when I was a schoolgirl until the time when my husband died, I used to look at my identity card several times a year. Every so often, something was added to it. I remember when I turned eighteen, my photograph was added, at twenty, my husband’s name, at twenty-two, my children’s names, and at thirty-eight, the date of my husband’s death. After that, I never went looking for it again. But I know it’s somewhere in this house. Parvin will find it. She’s a clever girl, I can tell from those dark eyes. The telephone is ringing. I count the rings. One, two, three. What comes after three? I can’t remember.

Parvin answers it. From the tone of her voice, I gather it’s my son calling. I’m happy. She puts the receiver next my ear and says, “Mr. Saberi has some good news.” I concentrate and listen. “Mom, Rana is coming to Iran,” he says. “Her flight took off two hours ago. I drove her to the airport myself.” His voice isn’t shaking anymore. He is talking with that same calm that was in his voice ever since he was a small boy. I’m relieved. He says, “She will arrive at five-thirty tomorrow morning. She was waiting for her daughter’s school holiday to start. I pray you’ll be better by tomorrow.”

Parvin takes the receiver and walks out of the room. I hear her say, “It’s very unpredictable. It may be another hour or a few more months, or she may remain in this state . . . I don’t know.”

Again I hear someone calling, “Leili.” The voice sounds so close to me. I look, but there’s no one there. I don’t know why I suddenly remember my first day in school. I was wearing a blue uniform and brand-new white shoes with five-petal flowers on them. I still didn’t have a schoolbag. I was standing on line with a few other girls who were the same height as me and a fat woman was reading our names out loud from a sheet of paper. My heart was pounding. I was ready to hear my name. I hear a whistle. It’s my turn. Parvin runs over and puts the oxygen mask on my face. “Breathe, Mrs. Saberi. Breathe deeply and calmly.”

I breathe, two or three times. I’m relieved that the whistle has stopped. Parvin strokes my hair and says, “I found your identity card.”

Again I hear someone calling, “Leili.” It must be the fat woman who called my name as I stood on the line for first grade. Her voice and eyes resemble Parvin’s. She says, “Leili Gharib.” My heart is still racing. I take a step forward and say, “Present.” Parvin shouts, “Breathe!” Again I hear, “Leili.” I look. My husband is standing next to my bed, and with the calm that was always in his voice and is now in my son’s and Rana’s voice, he whispers, “Leili!” Parvin screams, “Breathe!” I take one breath, deep and peaceful. I smile at my husband. I hear a whistle.

كسي صدا مي زند ليلي

چشم هايم را باز مي كنم  باريكه اي از نور آفتاب افتاده روي ديوار و خطي كج ساخته كه كنج ديوار مي شكند و كج مي شود.  نور بي رمقي است.  نمي فهمم صبح است يا عصر  انگار سال هاست كه خوابيده ام و همه اش كابوس ديده ام.

يادم است در يك روياي طولاني درد كشيدم، ناله كردم و با آدم هائي كه نمي شناختم حرف زدم.  چند بار هم خواب پسرم را ديدم، چيزي نمي گفت و گريه مي كرد.  موهاي كنار شقيقه اش سفيد شده بود و ته ريش داشت.  چقدر هم چاق شده بود.  خدا كند تعبير خواب هايم خوب باشد.

احساس مي كنم قلبم فشرده مي شود و نفسم بالا نمي آيد، از بس كه براي او و رعنا دلتنگم.  صداي سوت بلندي مي آيد.  يك مرتبه دختري كه نمي شناسم كنار تخت ظاهر مي شود.  باز دارم كابوس مي بينم.  قلبم تند مي زند.  دختر طره ي موئي را كه روي پيشاني اش ريخته كنار مي زند، دستش را زير تخت مي برد و كاري مي كند.  نمي دانم چه كاري!  صداي سوت قطع مي شود.  دختر زل مي زند توي چشم هايم و از كنار تخت چيزي را جلو مي آورد، روي دهان و بيني ام مي گذارد و مي گويد، “نفس بكش خانم صابري، نترس.  من پروين هستم، پرستارتون.”

نفس مي كشم، دو سه بار، و قلبم كمي آرام مي شود.  كابوس ادامه دارد.  پروين اين جاست و نگاهم مي كند.  چشم هايش ريز است و شايد سياه.  روي بيني اش دو سه تا لك تيره دارد.  حرف مي زند.  صدايش گرم و آشناست.

مي گويد، ” شايد يادتون نباشه كه توي بيمارستان بستري بودين.  التبه الان تو خونه ي خودتون هستين.  توي اتاق خودتون.”

نفس عميقي مي كشم و نگاهش مي كنم.  پروين دستش را جلو مي آورد، موهايم را نوازش مي كند و مي گويد، “حالا بهتر شد.  چند دقيقه همين طور منظم نفس بكشين ماسك اكسيژن رو بر مي دارم.” و لبخند مي زند.  گوشه ي لبش، سمت راست، دو تا چين مي افتد.  مثل رعنا.  چشم هايم را مي بندم و دوباره باز مي كنم.  دلم مي خواهد بيدار شوم، راه بيفتم توي خانه و مثل اين چند سالي كه تنها بوده ام با خودم حرف بزنم، از روي ساعت شام و ناهار بپزم، و منتظر تلفن پسرم و رعنا بمانم.  ولي هنوز پروين اين جا ايستاده و باچيزهائي زير تخت يا كنار آن ور مي رود.  ميگويد، “راستي اين صداي سوت كه شنيدين مال دستگاهيه كه به شما وصله.  فشار خون و ضربان هارو اندازه مي گيره، كم يا زياد بشن سوت ميزنه.  خدارو شكر الان همه چي رو براهه.  مي خواين اين ماسك رو بردارم؟”  با چشم اشاره مي كنم بله.  ماسك را بر مي دارد و چيزي توي يك دفتر جلد آبي مي نويسد.  مي خواهم حرفي بزنم ولي صدا از گلويم بيرون نمي آيد.  دست و پايم هم تكان نمي خورد.  مثل يك تكه سنگ شده ام.  محال است بيدار باشم.  دوباره چشم هايم را مي بندم و دعا مي كنم زودتر صبح شود.

توي ذهنم ده ها عكس كوچك و بزرگ بالا و پائين مي روند.  يكي از اين را بيشتر دوست دارم.  عكسي است  كه روز اول مدرسه از پسرم و رعنا گرفتم.  بچه ها توي عكس دست همديگر را گرفته اند و به جاي اين كه به دوربين نگاه كنند خيره شده اند به هم.  يادم است چشم هايشان قرمز بود، از بس گريه كرده بودند. اولين روزي بود كه از هم جدا مي شدند.  تا موقع مدرسه رفتن شان از اين كه دو قلو بودند و مثل هم بودند خوشحال بودم.  وقتي فهميدم كه جدا كردنشان چقدر سخت است، آرزو كردم كاش اين همه شبيه نبودند.

بعد از اين عكس به هر دويشان قول دادم نگذارم غير از ساعت مدرسه از هم دور باشند.  و به قولم عمل كردم.  وقتي رعنا با شوهرش رفت تا در يك كشور ديگر زندگي كند، پسرم را فرستادم پيش او.

چند سال مي شود؟  يادم نيست.  آن موقع  هنوز موهايم سفيد نشده بود.  شكل اين عكسي بودم كه بعد  از تولد دختر رعنا انداختم و برايش پست كردم.

صداي زنگ تلفن توي خانه مي پيچد.  پروين جواب مي دهد.  صدايش را مي شنوم و چشم هايم را باز مي كنم.  نور تند آفتاب چشمم را مي زند.  پروين كنار پنجره است.  پرده را مي بندد و توي تلفن مي گويد، ” دوباره بيدار شدن… هنوز نميشه گفت تا چه حد هشياري دارن.  جلو مي آيد و گوشي تلفن را كنار گوشم مي گذارد.  بلند مي گويد، “صحبت كنين آقاي صابري، مي شنون.”

صداي پسرم از توي گوشي مي آيد.  مي گويد، “سلام مامان.”  صدايش مي لرزد، نه خيلي ولي مي لرزد.  مي خواهم جواب بدهم.  نمي توانم.  دوباره مي گويد، «سلام مامان.  نمي دونم چي بگم.  فقط ببخشيد كه اونجا نيستم.”  پروين گوشي را كمي كج مي كند و بلند مي گويد، “از نگاهشون ميشه فهميد شمارو شناختن.  با خيال راحت حرف بزنين.”  پسرم مي گويد، “كاشكي مي تونستم دوباره بيام ولي ديگه مرخصي ندارم.  اون روز كه دائي تلفن كرد و گفت شما سكته كردين، تصادفي بليت گيرم اومد، من هم هر چي مرخصي داشتم گرفتم و اومدم ايران.  درست نوزده روز كنارتون بودم.  يادتون مياد؟”  صدايش هنوز مي لرزد، ولي گريه نمي كند.  كاش گريه مي كرد.

پروين گوشي را بر مي دارد و توي تلفن مي گويد، “معذرت مي خوام، نبايد هيجان زده بشن.”  و از اتاق مي رود بيرون.

به ديوار و سقف و پرده نگاه مي كنم. دلم مي خواهد داد بزنم ولي صدايم در نمي آيد.  لب هايم خشك و بي صدا به هم مي خورند.  زبانم را گاز مي گيرم و باور مي كنم كه بيدارم، آن قدر بيدار كه شوري خون را توي دهانم حس مي كنم.

انگار كسي صدا مي زند ليلي، كسي كه اين دوروبر نيست.  بايد اين از آن طرف پنجره باشد.  پروين بر مي گردد توي اتاق و تا چشمش مي افتد به من، به طرف تخت مي دود.  با دستمالي، چيزي، لبم را پاك مي كند، توي دهانم را نگاه مي كند و مي گويد، “منو ترسوندي خانم صابري، ما حالا حالاها با هم كار داريم.”

روبرويم روي صندلي مي نشيند و باز توي دفتر جلد آبي چيزي مي نويسد.  دوباره كسي صدا مي زند ليلي.  صدايش آشناست ولي يادم نمي آيد اين صدا را كجا شنيده ام.  پروين سر بلند مي كند و نگاهم مي كند.  چشم هايش شبيه يك نفر است كه سال ها پيش مي شناختم.  كي؟  يادم نيست.

پروين جلو مي آيد و مثل يك دكتر سرتاپايم را معاينه مي كند، به صداي تنفسم گوش مي دهد و سراغ تلفن مي رود.  شماره مي گيرد و با كسي حرف مي زند.  درست نمي فهمم چه مي گويد.  شايد از عمد نمي خواهد من بشنوم.  دوباره بر مي گردد كنار تخت.  از من مي پرسد، “خانم صابري، صداي منو مي شنوي؟” با چشم اشاره مي كنم كه بله.  توي تلفن مي گويد، “تشخيص ميدن ولي بقيه ي علايم خوب نيست.  بهتره شناسنامه اشون دم دست باشه…كجا رو بگردم؟”

فكر مي كنم شناسنامه ي مرا مي خواهد چكار؟  شايد مي خواهد بداند چند ساله ام.  راستي چند سالم است؟  يادم نيست.  از آن روزهاي دور كه مدرسه مي رفتم تا وقتي شوهرم مرد، هر سال چند بار شناسنامه ام را ورق مي زدم و مي خواندم.  گاهي چيزي به آن اضافه مي شد.  يادم است در هيجده سالگي ام عكس دار شد، در بيست سالگي اسم شوهرم به آن اضافه شد، در بيست و دو سالگي اسم بچه ها و در سي وهشت سالگي تاريخ فوت شوهرم.  بعد از آن ديگر به سراغش نرفتم.  ولي مي دانم يك جايي توي خانه است.  پروين پيداش مي كند.  دختر زرنگي است، از آن چشم هاي سياهش پيداست.  تلفن زنگ مي زند.  زنگ ها را مي شمرم، يكي، دو تا، سه تا.  بعد از سه چه عددي است؟  يادم نمي آيد.

پروين جواب مي دهد.  از حرف زدنش مي فهمم پسرم است.  خوشحال مي شوم.  گوشي را كنار گوشم مي گذارد و مي گويد، “آقاي صابري يه خبر خوب دارن.”  حواسم را جمع مي كنم و گوش مي دهم.  پسرم مي گويد، “مامان، رعنا داره مياد ايران.  دو ساعت پيش پرواز كرد.  خودم بردمش فرودگاه.”  ديگر صدايش نمي لرزد.  با همان آرامشي كه از بچگي توي صدايش بود حرف مي زند.  خيالم راحت مي شود.  مي گويد، “فردا صبح ساعت پنج و نيم مي رسه تهران.  منتظر بود مدرسه ي دخترش تعطيل بشه بعد بياد.  خدا كنه تا فردا بهتر بشين.”

پروين گوشي را بر مي دارد و از اتاق بيرون مي رود.  صدايش را مي شنوم كه مي گويد، “قابل پيش بيني نيست.  شايد يه ساعت ديگه تموم بشه، شايد هم تا چند ماه تو همين وضعيت بمونن… نمي دونم.”

باز كسي صدا مي زند ليلي.  اين صدا چقدر به من نزديك است.  نگاه مي كنم، كسي را نمي بينم.  نمي دانم چرا ياد اولين روزي مي افتم كه به مدرسه رفتم.  روپوش آبي پوشيده بودم، با كفش هاي سفيد نو كه كنارش گل پنج پر داشت.   هنوز كيف نداشتم.  با چند تا دختر هم قد خودم توي يك صف ايستاده بوديم و خانم چاقي اسم مان را از روي ورقه ي سفيد بلندي مي خواند.  قلبم تند مي زد.  آماده بودم تا اسم خودم را بشنوم.  صداي سوت مي آيد.  نوبت من است.  پروين مي دود كنار تخت و ماسك اكسيژن را روي دهان و بيني ام مي گذارد.  مي گويد، «نفس بكش خانم صابري، عميق و آروم نفس بكش.”

نفس مي كشم، دو سه بار.  خيالم راحت است كه صداي سوت قطع شده.  پروين موهايم را نوازش مي كند و مي گويد، ” شناسنامه اتون رو پيدا كردم.”

دوباره كسي صدا مي زند ليلي.  بايد همان خانم چاقي باشد كه سر صف كلاس اول صدايم كرد.  صدايش و چشم هايش شبيه پروين است.  مي گويد، “ليلي قريب”  هنوز قلبم تند مي زند.  يك قدم جلو مي روم و مي گويم، “بله”.  پروين بلند مي گويد، نفس بكش.”  دوباره مي شنوم ليلي.  نگاه مي كنم.  شوهرم كنار تخت ايستاده و با آرامشي كه توي صداي خودش، صداي پسرم و صداي رعناست زمزمه مي كند، “ليلي.”  پروين داد مي زند، «نفس بكش.”  يك بار نفس مي كشم، عميق و آرام.  و به شوهرم لبخند مي زنم.  صداي سوت مي آيد.     يازدهم آذر 1389
 

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