The Daughter Who Walked Away

by Kimia Eslah

  When she passed the rickety magazine stands on every city corner, she saw her generation’s fashion choices on the cover of Banovan or Zan-e Rooz. At times, the images were too risqué and she wished the publishers would tone it down a bit. It was difficult enough persuading her mother to accept bare legs, make up, and short hair. It became increasingly difficult when the cover pages were scintillating. The day after her mother had spotted the magazine cover with Bridget Bardot wearing a nightie with its straps falling from her shoulders, Mojegan had to renegotiate her dress length.

  When she had filled her suitcase for the bus trip to Tehran, she was giddy with anticipation for stepping out in any outfit she liked without discussion. She packed all her baby doll dresses, both pairs of Mary Janes, and her small collection of makeup. Having never visited Tehran, she was not sure what to expect. She told herself that she would give it a year, and if it did not suit her, she would return to Shiraz and work at Bimarestan-e Namazi or take work as a nurse-midwife in the rural areas of Fars province. She felt free like a butterfly travelling on the breeze and landing as she pleased.

  On that day in May, during the eighteen-hour bus trip to Tehran, she barely slept. Instead, she journalled and created a list of places to visit. When she did doze, she woke with a cramped neck from leaning awkwardly against the window pane. On arrival in the city, the passengers had gathered their luggage and emptied the bus slowly. The elderly woman who sat beside Mojegan smiled politely and wished her good luck before she walked toward the door. Still in her seat, Mojegan saw crowds of people waiting to board buses.

  It was six in the morning in Tehran, and the central bus terminal was crowded with what seemed like more people than all 200,000 residents of Shiraz. She had read that Tehran’s population was nearly three million. Seeing all those people waiting in lines, she wondered if she would be able to push her way through. Her breath shortened and her face grew hot. She feared that her smaller size made her vulnerable to being trampled. When she heard the bus driver holler at her, she startled and looked about. The bus was empty. He yelled for her to come down and get her suitcase. Mojegan bit her lower lip to hold back tears, grabbed her coat and purse, shuffled down the aisle, and descended the bus steps.

  Standing on the narrow concrete peninsula that jetted out between the parked buses, Mojegan felt overwhelmed. On each side of her the huge engines grumbled loudly, and to compensate people had to yell at each other. She smelled only diesel, burning rubber, and the sour sweat of travellers, who came out of the station in droves to reach their buses. Mojegan stood farther out on the peninsula to avoid being run down by the current of bodies that rushed past on the outer platform of the circular transportation hub. She looked for signs that indicated local city buses. In a momentary break in the human traffic, she saw a man leaning against the brick wall and staring at her. He looked disheveled in his suit and tie, as if he had been awake all night. He had stubble and uncombed hair, his eyelids were heavy, and his head tilted to one side. He might be waiting for someone, Mojegan reasoned.

  She looked away and the gap between them closed. When she spotted him again, he was gesturing vulgarly with his tongue and staring directly at her. Mojegan was terrified. She had never experienced such blatant sexual harassment in public. From the subtle messages of her female superiors, she had gleaned how to handle presumptuous doctors with roaming hands and pompous orderlies with suggestive sneers without becoming a pariah with no future professional prospects. To be harassed crudely and blatantly, in public and in view of others, was an alien experience; the doctors and orderlies seemed like unruly pets in comparison to the savage animal that faced her. Her intuition was to take flight. She wanted to board a bus, any bus, even a bus back to Shiraz. She decided to head inside the building for safety. As soon the gap between them closed again, she grabbed her hard-shell suitcase and merged into the rush of people moving along the platform. When she approached a set of glass doors, she ducked inside and went steadily toward the centre of the building, dodging groups of travellers and precariously loaded luggage carts. Arriving at the centre wall, she looked to see if he had followed her. He had not. She leaned against the wall and covered her mouth with her palm. She felt sick, angry, and ashamed of taking flight.

  For weeks after that incident, she caught herself creating alternate endings. She imagined that she had spit in his face and yelled insults for everyone to hear, or that she had reported him to the bus station guards. Sometimes she chastised herself for having been afraid of him, for allowing him to scare her, and she called herself foolish and childish. She did not mention the incident to anyone, including her fellow nurses. She did not see any purpose in having such an unpleasant conversation. Also, she feared that she might be held accountable for his lewd behaviour: her mother might wonder whether her skirt had been too short; the other Tehrani nurses might accuse her of having invited the unwanted attention by assuming the diffident demeanour that was stereotypically attributed to Shirazi women. Mojegan had no interest in defending herself, especially since she was not certain she could defend herself. A Tehrani woman would probably have smacked him across the face, Mojegan thought begrudgingly.

  Over the course of six months, Mojegan had an education in women’s lives in Tehran. Whereas in Shiraz, Mojegan felt modern and fashionable, in Tehran, she was a plain and modest young woman. She had realized on that first bus trip from the central station to the nurses’ residence that her definition of modern was something else altogether.

  On that inner-city bus ride, Mojegan sat close to the driver to hear the street names and keep her distance from the group of rowdy young men sitting at the back. She tucked her suitcase under her seat, and when she looked up, she saw a young woman sitting directly across from her. Mojegan smiled a small smile and the young woman smiled back, and then looked away politely. Mojegan was impressed by her long straight black hair which fell onto her shoulders like a sheet. Her hair was impossibly straight, and Mojegan wondered how she achieved it. Straightness had always been an elusive state for Mojegan’s thick wavy locks. It was something she saw in magazines, not in person.

  Mojegan scanned the half-full bus to look at the other women. Every young and middle-aged woman on the bus was dressed in a mini-skirt, with knee-high boots, and plenty of makeup, particularly black eyeliner and smoky eyeshadow. They looked just like fashion models, and many of them were reading fashion magazines. For a moment, Mojegan was amused by their uniformity. When another group of women got on the bus and they looked the same, Mojegan wondered she might be on a bus of fashion models. Possibly, the nurses’ residence is close to a modeling agency, she thought naively. When nearly all the women disembarked the bus at one stop, Mojegan was certain she was right. She looked out the window to read the sign for Bimarestan-e Sina and a parade of fashion models heading in the front doors of the hospital.

  Six months later, she was still wearing her knee-length dresses and flat Mary Janes. Every time she considered buying a mini-skirt or knee-high boots, she quickly shook off the thought like brushing raindrops from a raincoat. In the magazines, the leather jackets, mini-skirts, and low-cut necklines looked glamorous to Mojegan. Up close, the clothes seemed surreal and resembled costumes in their outlandish raciness.

  In the nurse’s lounge, her coworkers were prone to giving her fashion advice and offering her their discarded clothes. Mojegan saw their gestures as partly caring and partly patronizing. They wish someone had helped them when they first arrived in Tehran, Mojegan told herself. She understood the implication: she was dressed unfashionably, possibly to the point of embarrassment.

  Her wardrobe might even have been the subject of gossip on slow days. It hurt to think of them laughing at her. She was not used to being the target of attention, wanted or unwanted. More often than not though, the other nurses huddled and whispered their tidbits about unrequited love, nasty breakups, and favouritism. Mojegan could understand the desire to gossip. She missed her s
isters and two closest friends, and she understood the need to connect with the other young women. It seemed natural to come together to chat idly and release the tension of tending to disgruntled patients and disrespectful doctors.

  Back in Shiraz with her friends Zhila and Seema, Mojegan spent time listening to records and debating whether Delkash’s acting was more authentic in Shirforoush or Farda Rowshan Ast. Their friendship was rooted in a time and place that seemed impossible to replicate. At work and at the residence, life changed constantly as nurses took new positions in other hospitals or other cities. Mojegan was aware that there was no loyalty to place or person as each nurse chose what worked best for herself. Without a sense of stability, Mojegan found it difficult to invest in friendships. Like the others, her conversations were nearly always small talk about the weather, the price of travel, shift changes, and the lack of hot water in the late morning. She saw no point in sharing personal details with near strangers who may or may not be there the following week.

  She was surprised at her intense feelings of relief and joy when she found Bita. They met during Mojegan’s first night shift in her second week. On the staffing board, Bita’s name was written next to Mojegan’s, indicating that she was to serve as Mojegan’s coach for the shift. Mojegan had already worked with three nurse coaches during her first week of day shifts. They were experienced nurses who trained the new hires in hospital protocols. Mojegan had learned that the coaches wanted three things of her: a confident voice, a confident hand, and perfection. Their militant approach to coaching the new nurses was intended to toughen them to handle the overlapping needs of a unit at capacity with tuberculosis patients. On the first day, Mojegan was instructed to speak loudly, stop using niceties, and stop asking patients for permission. By her fifth shift, Mojegan felt like a rolling boulder making her rounds, not smiling, not stopping. In and out of rooms without a word to anyone, she imagined that the patients and families assumed she lacked a heart. On her sixth day, she learned to her surprise that the tuberculosis unit was only half full and the last time all the beds had been occupied was two years earlier, in 1965. It seemed that since 1952 the incidence of TB in Iran had decreased consistently due to the combined efforts of medical organizations, governmental bodies, and international agencies. Quick-stepping from patient to patient to perform her work now seemed needless, even comical. Mojegan thought that she must look as ridiculous as a woman dressed in a winter jacket on a summer day.

  When she arrived for her first night shift, she was bursting with questions: Why had the administration hired her when the TB unit did not need more nurses? Why were the coaches pressing them to be quick and aloof? Mojegan dropped off her coat and purse in her locker, smoothed out her white uniform, and made her way down the quiet corridor to the brightly lit nurses’ station.

  It was approaching six-thirty and the unit was nearly silent. The last visitors were saying their farewells and promising to come again soon. The pristine nurses’ station, with its glossy chest-high counter that reflected the overhead fluorescent lights, was empty, except for one young nurse who tidied file folders and repeatedly eyed the clock in anticipation of the end of her shift. Mojegan greeted the nurse with a friendly smile but turned quickly to the staffing board. She saw her own name, and next to it was Bita’s. She did not know what Bita looked like but she thought she remembered a patient mention her. Mojegan turned to see an older nurse coming from the far end of the corridor. She was about the age of Mojegan’s mother and wore a similar expression, grave and preoccupied. The coach held several file folders tightly to her chest with her left arm and swung her right arm in rhythm to her marching feet. Mojegan took three steps back and into the small conference room that adjoined the nurses’ station. She did not have a plan, but her instinct was to hide, even if only momentarily. She thought, People misjudge me based on my appearance and now I am doing this nurse the same disservice.

  Mojegan decided there was no need to be intimidated by her nurse coach, and then she heard the older nurse growl at the younger one. “Enough with those file folders. You have spent the last fifteen minutes pretending to work. When was the last time …”

  Mojegan did not hear the rest but took another two steps back into the room and slowly closed the door. She turned to sit and consider her fate when she saw a nurse seated at the small table. Startled, Mojegan apologized for intruding. Still she could not bring herself to step out into the nurses’ station.

  The other nurse was greedily eating a shirini napeloni — yellow cream squirting out from the layers of flaky puff pastry. Some filling splattered on the table and some on the paper towel being used as a plate. With each undignified bite, powdered sugar blew off the top of the pastry and descended like smoke clouds from fireworks. Mojegan stepped back to avoid the flying globs of cream and plumes of sugar but there was no space to stand that was not in the pastry’s trajectory. The nurse was wholly absorbed in eating the pastry and paid no attention to the horrified expression on Mojegan’s face. In fact, the nurse kept her eyes shut while she ate, presumably in enjoyment. Mojegan could hear her small moans as she took mouthful after mouthful and licked the corners of her mouth in between bites. When she placed the last bite into her mouth, she leaned back in the chair and chewed slowly. After she swallowed, she licked the corners of her mouth again and exclaimed, “Baah, baah, baah, mmm.”

  She looked at Mojegan and smiled innocently. Her upper lip was covered with powdered sugar and there was more than one glob of cream on her uniform. With her finger, Mojegan gestured to the food on the nurse’s face and uniform, and then she offered a serviette from her pocket.

  “Dast-et daard nakoneh, thank you,” the nurse said, taking the serviette. She tidied herself and then the table. “I know it was rude of me to eat the napeloni like that. I rarely buy it because it is so hard to eat without getting it everywhere.”

  “Hm-mh,” Mojegan nodded and then gestured to splatter that had been missed.

  “I love napeloni. My husband bought six of them fresh yesterday.” She looked up at Mojegan between spot cleaning her outfit. “Today, only one was left, thanks to my three children. I brought this one to work. Mmm, so good.”

  Mojegan smiled at the nurse’s expression. It was similar to her mother’s joyous face when she realized she could keep bastani, ice cream, at home in her first refrigerator. For the first week, her mother ended every meal with bastani.

  “Yes, I like them, too.” Mojegan tried to gain favour, in case the nurse recognized her initial reaction as disapproval.

  “Hm,” the nurse said absent-mindedly as she checked her uniform again. “So what are you in for?”

  “Yeani chi? What do you mean?” Instantly, Mojegan recalled the imminent start of her shift with the yelling coach nurse. She sighed and grimaced.

  “Why are you in this room, with the door closed?” asked the nurse with a sisterly smile.

  “I guess I am preparing myself for my shift,” Mojegan looked down at her shoes dejectedly. There was a glob of yellow cream on her white running shoes. With another serviette from her pocket, she wiped it clean. “I guess I am stalling from … from meeting my coach, Nurse Bita.” Mojegan tried to sound neutral, though she was exhausted from being strong.

  She almost wished this nurse would offer her a hug. She had not embraced anyone in more than a week, not since she hugged her mother and sisters goodbye at the bus terminal in Shiraz.

  “You are hiding from Nurse Bita?” She tilted her head and wrinkled her forehead in surprise. “What’s wrong with Nurse Bita?”

  “You didn’t hear her yelling at the other nurse,” Mojegan heard herself say. She knew she sounded childish but she needed kindness after a week of cold small talk and colder nursing.

  “Out there?” The nurse indicated with her chin, and then shook her head. “That’s not Bita.”

  “It’s not?” Mojegan smiled with relief.

  “No, I�
��m Bita.” The nurse smiled widely, showing her dimples.

  “No, you’re not,” blurted Mojegan as her relief switched to confusion.

  “Yes, I am,” Bita sang with a little tune. “Out there, that’s Shireen, and she does yell. Only sometimes.”

  Bita became a wild rose bush blooming with joy and warmth just as Mojegan had started to believe that Tehran was a dark forest of tangled underbrush where no one truly knew or cared about anyone else. Initially, Mojegan avoided becoming fast friends, just as her mother had always cautioned her against. She did not play practical jokes or tease Bita, as she did ceaselessly with her sisters and friends back home. She did not ask intrusive questions about Bita’s family or hometown, and she did not offer detailed personal information about her mother or her career aspirations. Mojegan tried to contain her enthusiasm, whereas Bita charged ahead, sharing intimate details and asking personal questions. Bita wanted to know about Mojegan’s family in Shiraz, what her mother thought of her living away, whether she was marrying soon, and whether she liked working at the hospital. Mojegan tried to provide brief answers with a dignified air. Bita mocked her in return and teased her until Mojegan capitulated. Within two months of meeting, they shared space, exchanged looks, and spoke cryptically like sisters. Mojegan felt revived from her loneliness.

  Over a small mountain of fresh bamieh, small syrupy donuts, sitting cozily at a table in one of Tehran’s ubiquitous pastry shops, Bita explained the hospital’s hiring practices. “They are constantly hiring nurses because the turnover rate is inconceivable,” said Bita as she popped another walnut-sized pastry into her mouth and licked the syrup from her lower lip.

  “Why? And, why put them in the TB unit?” Mojegan asked.

  “Are you sure you don’t want any?” Bita held up a single syrupy donut between her thumb and index finger, then she inched it slightly closer to Mojegan while smiling gleefully.