And the Mountains Echoed

greeted by a hearty clang of the copper bell. The regulars were used to it—they barely heard it anymore—and new customers mostly chalked it up to the eccentric charm of the place, though there were complaints from time to time.
    You don’t want to ring the bell anymore
, Baba said one night. It was in the spring quarter of my senior year in high school. We were in the car outside the restaurant, after we had closed, waiting for Mother, who had forgotten her antacid pills inside and had run back in to fetch them. Baba wore a leaden expression. He had beenin a dark mood all day. A light drizzle fell on the strip mall. It was late, and the lot was empty, save for a couple of cars at the KFC drive-thru and a pickup parked outside the dry-cleaning shop, two guys inside the truck, smoke corkscrewing up from the windows.
    It was more fun when I wasn’t supposed to
, I said.
    Everything is, I guess
. He sighed heavily.
    I remembered how it used to thrill me, when I was little, when Baba lifted me up by the underarms and let me ring the bell. When he put me down again, my face would shine happy and proud.
    Baba turned on the car heater, crossed his arms.
    Long way to Baltimore
.
    I said brightly,
You can fly out to visit anytime
.
    Fly out anytime
, he repeated with a touch of derision.
I cook kabob for a living, Pari
.
    Then I’ll come visit
.
    Baba rolled his eyes toward me and gave me a drawn look. His melancholy was like the darkness outside pushing against the car windows.
    Every day for a month I had been checking our mailbox, my heart riding a swell of hope each time the delivery truck pulled up to the curb. I would bring the mail inside, close my eyes, think,
This could be it
. I would open my eyes and sift through the bills and the coupons and the sweepstakes. Then, on Tuesday of the week before, I had ripped open an envelope and found the words I had been waiting for:
We are pleased to inform you
…
    I leapt to my feet. I screamed—an actual throat-ripping yowl that made my eyes water. Almost instantaneously, an image streaked through my head: opening night at a gallery, me dressed in something simple, black, and elegant, encircled by patrons and crinkle-browed critics, smiling and answering their questions, asclusters of admirers linger before my canvases and servers in white gloves float around the gallery pouring wine, offering little square bites of salmon with dill or asparagus spears wrapped in puff pastry. I experienced one of those sudden bursts of euphoria, the kind where you want to wrap strangers in a hug and dance with them in great big swoops.
    It’s your mother I worry for
, Baba said.
    I’ll call every night. I promise. You know I will
.
    Baba nodded. The leaves of the maples near the entrance to the parking lot tossed about in a sudden gust of wind.
    Have you thought some more
, he said,
about what we discussed?
    You mean, junior college?
    Only for a year, maybe two. Just to give her time to get accustomed to the idea. Then you could reapply
.
    I shuddered with a sudden jolt of anger.
Baba, these people reviewed my test scores and transcripts, and they went through my portfolio, and they thought enough of my artwork not only to accept me but to offer me a scholarship. This is one of the best institutes of art in the country. It’s not a school you say no to. You don’t get a second chance like this
.
    That’s true
, he said, straightening up in his seat. He cupped his hands and blew warm air into them.
Of course I understand. Of course I’m happy for you
. I could see the struggle in his face. And the fear too. Not just fear
for
me and what might happen to me three thousand miles from home. But fear
of
me, of losing me. Of the power I wielded, through my absence, to make him unhappy, to maul his open, vulnerable heart, if I chose to, like a Doberman going to work on a kitten.
    I found myself thinking of his sister. By then, my connection with Pari—whose presence had once been like a pounding deep within me—had long waned. I thought of her infrequently. As the years had swept past, I had outgrown her, the way I had outgrownfavorite pajamas and stuffed animals I had once clung to. But now I thought of her once more and of the ties that bound us. If what had been done to her was like a wave that had crashed far from shore, then it was the backwash of that wave now pooling around my ankles, then receding from my feet.
    Baba cleared his