House of Yesterday

by Deeba Zargarpur

Genres: YA Family

Synopsis

Struggling to deal with the pain of her parents’ impending divorce, fifteen-yearold Sara is facing a world of unknowns and uncertainties. Unfortunately, the one person she could always lean on when things got hard, her beloved grandmother
Bibi jan, has become a mere echo of her former vibrant self. And so Sara retreats into the family business, hoping a summer working on her mom’s latest home renovation project will provide a distraction from her fracturing world.
But the house is not just a structure made of plaster and stone. It holds secrets that have Sara clinging desperately to the memories of her old life. Secrets that only her Bibi jan could have untangled. Secrets Sara is powerless to ignore as the
dark truths of her family’s history rise in ghostly apparitions—and with them, the realization that as much as she wants to hold on to her old life, nothing will ever be the same.
Told in lush, sweeping prose, this is a breathtaking journey into the grief that lingers through generations of immigrant families, and what it means to confront the ghosts of your past.

Release date: November 29, 2022

Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux

Print pages: 352

Sample

CHAPTER ONE

There’s a lot to a memory.

To me, it’s being seven years old and clutching the edges of a scratchy blindfold as the summer sun cascades promises of bright days ahead.

It’s being ten and realizing maybe I pulled off my blindfold too quick.

It’s being twelve and wishing for the dark.

It’s being fifteen and not knowing how to turn the light back on.

It’s the present and past wrapped up so tight until there’s nothing left.

Until it’s gone.

---

It’s funny. The things people never forget.

Take my bibi jan as an example.

My grandmother will never ever leave her room without running dark kohl over her brows. Or approach a man without first throwing on a sheer black scarf to cover her hair and demure smile. Or let me leave the house without chastising me to cover my legs as a proper Afghan girl must do.

I take a sip from my teacup to cover my grin. Because it really is funny, these little things that stay with us. And the big things that somehow seem to slip through the cracks.

A spoon clatters from Bibi jan’s hand. Bits of egg sprinkle on her worn, floral pajamas. The gleaming sapphire-and-gold necklace my grandmother wears sparkles in contrast. I grip my cup a little bit tighter when she bends from her seat to pick up the spoon from the kitchen floor. Her severe face, gaunt and swollen at the same time, turns as she takes me in for the tenth time this morning. Confusion ebbs and flows as her gaze slides right past me.

“Ki asti?” she asks.

Who are you?

My throat gets scratchy and tight, but I still plaster on my best everything is okay smile.

“I’m Sara.” I’m careful to roll the r and keep the a’s soft. “Your granddaughter.”

But my bibi jan is bobbing, her eyes searching for a lifeboat to pull her ashore.

“Ki?”

It’s funny, I think as I remove my glasses. The little details that shouldn’t matter. I shake my hair free from my bun and fluff it up. And

yet. I bat away the watery sting as I smile again and focus on her blurry face. Her carefully brushed dark hair is pulled back into a little bun. Snow-white roots show at her hairline.

I keep breathing as she appraises me. Keep count of the seconds that pass by, running my fingers over each bead on my worn bracelet. I count and remember:

One, two, three …

I’m a toddler, and Bibi jan is singing me a song in her bed.

Four, five, six …

I’m in pre-K, and Bibi jan swats me away from the breakfast table. It’s an endless game of wash-your-face-and-hands-before-eating or accept the consequences.

Seven, eight, nine …

I’m in kindergarten, and Baba jan has died. Bibi jan’s papery hand is tight in mine at the funeral.

Ten, eleven—

“Ah, my Sara jan.” She leans in close. Her Farsi sounds like a song I could never forget. It is a melody that sings to the oldest parts of my heart. “Such a beautiful girl with a beautiful name.”

“Best name in the world, right, Bibi jan?” When she laughs in agreement, my smile is true and genuine. Because out of forty-one grandkids, twenty-nine great-grandkids, and three great-great-grandkids, I’m the only one that was given my grandmother’s name.

I want to see the way her smile radiates, not from her mouth but from the wrinkly little corners of her eyes. So I wait a little longer before putting my glasses on. Just in case.

“Erik, don’t forget, we’ve got to make sure the dumpsters are cleared and ready to go on Monday.” My madar emerges from the hallway. She is a whirlwind of perfume and freshly manicured nails. She’s talking a mile a minute as she shimmies her way around Bibi’s chair into the kitchen. She throws a quick smile Bibi’s way before draining her coffee mug in record time and drops it in the sink.

Mornings with Nargis Amani are unpredictable. It’s a lot like rolling the dice. You never quite know which version you’re going to get.

I slurp my tea quietly, hoping today’s mood is forget-Sara-promised-to-go-to-work-this-morn—

Let’s go, Madar mouths at me.

I sigh dramatically. Lady Luck has forsaken me yet again.

“Ki asti?” Bibi jan’s spoon is midair again as she stares at my mother. Only, Bibi’s voice these days is like a whisper, as if some part of her knows that she has shrunk from the great woman she used to be.

Madar doesn’t hear her.

“Great. I’ll be coming over later to figure out a few more things,” Madar says into the phone. “See you in a few.”

Click.

Bibi jan spoons another mouthful of runny egg and misses her lips by three inches. It nearly lands on top of my foot.

“Who is she?” She squints and drums her fingers against her hips, like the answer is on the tip of her tongue.

I point at Madar and lean in close so my mouth hovers directly near Bibi jan’s good ear. If this was two years ago, Bibi would joke, I’m too young for things like hearing aids.

“Your daughter.”

Bibi jan continues to stare and shakes her head. It only takes a moment before she sits back in her seat, lost in the sea of her mind.

“Sara, we’ve got a bunch of houses to check on today.” Madar kisses the top of Bibi jan’s head before rushing out of the kitchen to the car. The Bluetooth is already ringing. Madar’s mind is a million miles away.

I want to tell her, I’m doing fine, thanks for asking.

I wish she’d notice and say, Bibi jan brushed her own hair today?

I’m not that brave.

Instead, I leave my own soggy eggs untouched and hug my grandmother, run into my room to grab my camera, and rush out the door. As the door slams shut, I can’t help but wince at Bibi jan’s parting words that have turned me from loved one to no one.

“Ki asti?”

---

Exactly a year ago, Madar and I made a deal. It was the summer before freshman year and the world was semi-back-to-normal after a virus put most of the world in lockdown. During the months of social distancing, I consumed my body weight in hot fries and Sprite while binge-watching all of Code Geass, Haikyu!!, Inuyasha, and Tokyo Ghoul. Madar was convinced I’d die of processed food overdose and lack of vitamin D, which I admit was a very real possibility.

The Afghan in her was appalled at my lack of ambition when the lockdown was over, so she took it upon herself to light the flame, so to speak, by making me head of social media and tech support for the family house-flipping business.

In reality, I was just a glorified and (key word) free photographer for the houses.

Madar called it an investment in my future by taking an interest in saving the family business.

I called it making a profit on other people’s misfortune, but that’s a discussion for another day.

I scroll through the pictures on my camera, deleting some to clear up space. There’s an embarrassing number of selfies and failed dance routines that I would rather not explain. Tap. Erase. Madar rolls her eyes in disgust as I gnaw away at my nails. I stop on a cute candid of Bibi jan tidying up her room. It makes me smile.

Our car zooms and loops along the lush winding roads of eastern Long Island, the place my mother and her family—all ten sisters and one brother—have called home for about forty years. My mother was only thirteen when they arrived.

Sometimes, I ask Madar what it was like to pick up and start over in a foreign land.

Sometimes, I wish I could do it too.

To escape and start over somewhere new.

“We were running from a war, jan,” she would remind me.

As the wind roars through the open window, I find myself thinking, I’m running from a war too.

“Can you shut the window? It’s bothering my ears.” Madar takes a sharp left and my camera nearly goes flying out the window. The GPS

recalculates. “It literally told me to turn here.” Madar fiddles with the navigation, swerving for two seconds almost into the wrong lane. A passing car honks.

“I’d really like to digest my breakfast in peace, if that’s all right with you.” My camera falls between my beat-up sneakers. I leave the window open. Rebellion isn’t really my thing, but I will hurl if I have to spend another second enduring Madar’s driving without fresh air.

Madar soon forgets about the window when we arrive in front of a decrepit house. I blink twice. I don’t recognize this one.

“Who died and left this disaster?” My brow crinkles. “This isn’t the Centerport house.” I notice a sign that reads SUMNER COURT.

“Slight detour. We just got this one a few days ago.” Madar shuts off the car. “Let’s go inside and see what we’ve got to work with.”

I shrivel up in my seat. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s day one photos of the houses.

“Is it safe?” I fiddle with my seat belt before stepping out of the car. I bring my camera to my eye and rapid-fire three pictures of the driveway, yard, and facade of the house itself. Like a pro, if I do say so myself.

“Of course it’s safe.” Madar shoots a quick text before rubbing her hands together in excitement. “We got a great deal on this one. If we fix it fast, this could really help us out this year. Come on.”

Dandelions and other hideous weeds are living their best lives in between the cracks of the driveway. Peeling paneling runs across once-white trim on the boarded windows. High arches curl around the entryway, with overgrown bushes and vines snarling around the foundation of the house. In its prime, this house could have been beautiful.

It makes me wonder what went wrong for the former owners to lose it.

I feel the weight of eyes through the partially boarded-up windows of the second floor. A rusted wrought-iron fence gate squeals, and every hair on the back of my legs rises. I look up—there is no one there, but the feeling of being watched lingers.

“You know, this is how all those Netflix horror films start.” I rock on the ball of my foot and decide to wait in the car. “Maybe I should just…” My hand is on the handle, all I need to do is—

The car beeps. Locked.

“… or not.”

“Don’t be a baby,” Madar calls as she huffs up the winding walkway to the front door.

A shadow falls on me as I make my way up the driveway and approach the crumbling porch. The house is massive—bordering mansion level. There’s peeling gray paint scattered along the entryway and I have to jump over rotted wood to get to the front door.

My fingers catch on the rusted doorbell just as a shard of light pierces through the doorway and into the wide-open foyer. Rainbows bloom across the marble as it leads up the winding stairs to the partially exposed second floor. Silvery cobwebs drift languidly between the gaps in the railing and the solitary chandelier that sways high above.

Stay away, a lone voice—familiar yet foreign—warns as my foot hovers over the threshold. Before it ensnares you. I hesitate. What was that?

“What is taking you so long?” Madar’s voice rings out from somewhere beyond. “Oh wow. Come look at this deck. This is going to be so beautiful once we get started.”

“Um. What’s the story with this house?”

“Abandoned,” she calls out. “Hurry up, we have three other houses to check on today.”

This is just getting better and better. “What happened to the owners?”

Madar doesn’t answer back. She’s already someplace else. I can do this. I can do this. I shake my nerves and, on the count of three, enter the house.

Call me superstitious or an idiot, but I believe there’s a lingering history in these old homes. I can feel it in the way my footsteps echo against the worn tile, as my fingers brush the once-loved walls leading to a room with vaulted ceilings and a fireplace. Ever since my parents started their house-flipping business ten years ago when I was a kid, to pass the time I’d wander and twirl in old halls, putting faces and stories to the gaps in explanation from these bank-owned properties.

My parents and I used to make a game of it. Tell us the feeling, Padar would laugh as Madar measured rooms and made plans to realize her hopes and dreams for each house. But all that changed when Padar moved out a year and a half ago, leaving their once-plans to fade away. So now, I play pretend.

“Tell us the feeling,” I mutter to the dusty great room.

There’s a heaviness, like a sense of … melancholy lingering. I pause. Again, I feel the weight of eyes. My foot creaks on the wood floor, but all is still. Get a grip, you’ve done this a hundred times before. I swallow and continue to snap pictures.

Madar thinks collecting before-and-after pictures will get me more interested in the family business. In reality, I think having me around on the jobsites helps distract her from the Padar-shaped hole in the business.

I continue exploring the house. Large windows line the walls, and the boards of wood covering them cast darkness in the open space of a family room. It opens into an empty kitchen, with the oven and fridge torn right out. There are French doors leading outside, and I see my mother stepping carefully on an enormous deck, testing the creaking wood as it gives with each step.

The air is denser here, like a weight that makes it hard to breathe.

A history that feels—

There’s a crashing sound mixed with Madar’s shrieks.

“Madar!” I bolt and jump straight through the doors onto the deck. The wood has given way, and her left foot has sunk through. I grab her hands and pull. Her jeans are torn and her calf is bleeding a little.

“Why would you come out here? This thing looks like it should have fallen down yesterday.” We hobble back inside, and Madar leans against the kitchen island. There’s a scowl on her face as she brushes her hair back.

“Just what I needed,” she mutters, already rolling up her pant leg to her knee and inspecting the cut. “Well, it’s not so bad. Just a scratch.” She shrugs and her phone rings and, just like that, she’s jammed it back in her ear. “Erik. Hold on a sec.” She looks at me. “Go see if there are some bandages around here. I’m gonna wash it out in the sink.”

I’m slack-jawed as I watch my mother rinse out her injury like it’s nothing. Doesn’t she care about rust or bacteria? God knows what’s been lurking in those pipes.

“I wouldn’t trust that water if I were you.” But one glare from Madar and I’m backing away and down a hall that leads to a little bar space. I open the cabinets and nearly shriek as roaches fall out and scatter across the floor. Disgusting. “Unless you want to get an infection, we need to go to the store.” I shake a baby roach off my shoe. I am so ready to head back to the car and out of this trap of a house.

There’s a soft patter of footsteps followed by a few wavering beats of a drum.

“Hello?” The noise comes from behind me, leading me down a hall and into a darkened wing of the house. The beat of the drum continues. “Is anyone there?” Goose bumps run down my arms when there’s no answer.

“Trespassing is a felony, you know!” I call out into the darkness. I walk into the L-shaped hall.

Still no answer.

I turn on the lights to the first room on the left—bathroom. Empty. Click. Picture.

At the bend, there’s a room with a stained twin bed. Old clothes are strewn along the floor. Empty.

Behind me, an echo of laughter.

I twirl on my heel. “This is private property.” My voice wavers as the hall turns, leading into a pitch-black area. The drum grows louder now.

My legs tremble as I look back toward the light, where Madar is still talking on the phone. I want to bolt back.

Light of my heart, dance. The voice I heard before sings out, again and again. The drum shakes the air as the light tinkle of another instrument joins in. I’m drawn into the darkness, one foot following another until there is nothing but me, my racing heart, and the beat of the drum.

I fiddle with the flash and auto-timer on my camera. Flash. Picture. A burst of light. Dust rains heavily from the ceiling, making me gag, but that’s not what makes me scream. I jump back, my foot catches on something on the floor, and I fall hard on to the ground. My camera skitters somewhere.

Click. Flash.

The beat of the drum grows louder.

The voice continues to sing.

The light from the camera illuminates a lone figure, spinning wildly in a circle. A woman. Her hair is dark and curled. The edges of her blue-and-gold beaded dress clash furiously against her hips. A thick gold necklace studded with sapphires chokes her neck.

I shriek like a banshee. The woman stops, her face shrouded by the darkness of her hands. The drum speeds up until I realize it is not a drum but the beating of my heart, pounding furiously against my throat.

And slowly—so very slowly, the figure turns her head and moves her hand, and I’m left screaming at a haunting young face, one that I recognize only because I’ve seen it in pictures.

My bibi.