by Kimia Eslah
Mojegan relaxed into the passenger seat and the comfort of being inattentive. She asked, “What is it?”
Reza started the car and drove five hundred metres, then parked the car.
“It’s a house, our house,” Reza said with a satisfied smile. “You’ve already driven by it twice.”
“Our house?” Mojegan did not look out the window. She stared at Reza with wide eyes.
“Hm-mh,” Reza nodded proudly. “Look to your right.” He pointed out her passenger-side window.
Mojegan pivoted her gaze slowly from Reza to the view out her window. She saw a large red brick wall and above that, tree branches heavy with leaves. She looked down to the sidewalk and she saw a line of ants. They made their way up the brick wall, detoured around protrusions of mortar, and disappeared through a crack. Mojegan thought to say something to Reza, but she was not sure what needed to be said. She wanted to disappear into a crack, as well.
“Shall we go inside?” Reza stepped out of the car and onto the sidewalk.
Mojegan felt paralyzed. She wanted more time to think, time to consider her options, and to confirm she had options.
“I thought you wanted to open your own door?” joked Reza as he bent over and looked in the passenger-side window.
“Yes,” Mojegan said and nodded distractedly as she stepped out.
The property was as beautiful as Mojegan had imagined of the homes in the village. The courtyard, the gardens, the fountains, the swimming pool, the kitchen, the six bedrooms, the four bathrooms, the two living rooms, and two dining rooms were designed exquisitely. She walked behind Reza who described the amenities, and excitedly proposed how to furnish each room. At the end of the tour, he offered her a seat in the courtyard, under a large fragrant mulberry tree, and he described the highly reputable local school, the modern supermarket with a parking lot, and the absence of the urban element that he disliked about central Tehran.
“It is beautiful, wonderful, Reza.” Mojegan smiled, nodded, and stared ahead at the empty fountain. There is too much to say, Mojegan thought. What can I say?
“Great!” Reza clapped his hands loudly. “I knew you would agree.”
Mojegan bit her lower lip and pressed herself to say something immediately. “My work,” Mojegan blurted. “It would take me nearly two hours to bus to the hospital.” She could no longer wear a smile. Instead, her brows were furrowed with concern.
“Yes, yes.” Reza’s good mood was not hampered. “You can change jobs to Bimarestan-e Akhtar. They’re just eight blocks from here. See, isn’t it a great location?”
Stunned by his response, Mojegan looked up at the overhanging branches of the mulberry tree. Bees worked their way about the elongated green and white clusters of blooms. The lower limbs of the bees hung heavily, burdened by the pollen that clung to their legs. She chose to sidestep the disconcerting nature of his attitude toward her work. Instead, she reassured herself that he had acted in good faith and with the best intentions. Rather than becoming defensive about his dictating her career moves, which she predicted would burgeon into an argument about her aversion to risk and his lack of long-term planning, Mojegan considered how to approach the topic from a neutral standpoint.
“It is a beautiful house, Reza.” Mojegan nodded encouragingly. “I am just not sure how we can afford it.”
“That, you can leave to me.” Reza happily slapped his thigh and stood up.
“Yes, thank you.” Mojegan smiled and spoke calmly. “Still, I would like to know how.”
“Oh,” Reza said and sat down gruffly. “I have money. My father left me an inheritance.”
“Are you sure we should spend the inheritance to buy such a large house?” Mojegan questioned him pointedly.
It required considerable effort on her part to avoid berating him with hard-hitting questions about his choices. Without a doubt, she had wanted a strongminded and driven husband with whom she would establish the foundation for a thriving family. As a fatherless child, she had struggled endlessly to demonstrate her normalcy to others, to prove to every friend, teacher, and neighbour that the lack of a father had not damaged her. It had been tireless work to be as dignified, responsible, and successful as the other children, to be as normal as the other children, and she realized that her persistent effort negated any hope of normalcy. In Shiraz, she had consistently received the highest marks in her cohort, she had been the first woman in her extended family to attend post-secondary school, and she had more earning potential than her mother ever imagined. Yet, she would always be known as Aga Rajavi’s daughter, the one who does not remember him. In Tehran, she had a new life with a new husband — a husband who would finally oust her deep fear that she lacked an essential understanding of love and a normal life. More than anything, even her autonomy, Mojegan wanted to create a family with a mother, a father, and children. She wanted the life that she had been robbed of as a child, and she would sacrifice much more than she was willing to admit to herself to complete the vision she had already started.
Sensing that her pointed question had annoyed him, Mojegan changed her tone quickly into one of concern. “I mean, I am worried that we won’t have money for other things.”
“Sure, we will, darling,” Reza assured her paternally, to assuage her worries.
“Well, how much is this house?” Mojegan smiled sweetly to indicate that she genuinely appreciated his efforts to soothe and protect her.
“Mojegan, I have already bought it,” Reza said definitively, in an effort to end the conversation. “Let’s just enjoy it!”
He stood up and looked up at the tallest tree admiringly. “Bah bah! Lovely! You won’t get a tree like this anywhere else,” declared Reza.
“I wish you had talked with me first,” said Mojegan softly.
“So you can talk me into buying one of those drab units?” asked Reza rhetorically.
“What units?” Mojegan asked, perplexed.
“Where Bita and Davoud live. In a small box, without enough room to stretch your legs.” Reza flung his hands as if to physically discard the idea.
“I never said we had to live there. We can live in a house, if that’s what you like,” Mojegan explained confidently but kept her eyes downcast. “There are some reasonably priced ones in the city centre.”
“Yes, I would like to live in a house. That’s why I bought this one,” Reza replied brusquely. He stood with his arms crossed and looked disheartened. “Mojegan, I’m trying to make a good life for us. I don’t want us to just survive, fighting battles that have nothing to do with us,” pleaded Reza. He sat by her side and took her hands into his. Leaning toward her, he lifted her chin to look into her eyes.
“I promised to make you happy. Yes?” Reza asked.
Mojegan felt she was falling down a well, and instead of reaching for a handhold, she was bracing herself for impact. “Yes, okay.” she nodded, smiled, and closed her eyes as her jubilant husband kissed her softly on her lips.
CHAPTER 7
MINUTES BEFORE 8 A.M., Mojegan arrived at work in the small emergency room of Bimarestan-e Akhtar, eight blocks from her house in the upscale neighbourhood of Elahiyeh. It was her first day back after her six-month leave following the birth of Omid, her first son and her third child. The rectangular nurses’ station was a mess, with patient files, incomplete forms, and empty mugs of coffee scattered about. Overhead, the fluorescent lights buzzed and flickered erratically. On the blaring radio, the DJ introduced David Cassidy’s “Day Dreamer” as number one on Tehran’s top ten charts for 1973. As Mojegan reached under the counter to turn off the radio, she pressed the waist of her white uniform against a small pool of coffee on the desk ledge. When she stepped back, a long brown line stained her outfit along her abdomen. Discouraged by the mess and tired from a sleepless night, Mojegan closed her eyes and swallowed the lump in her throat. Have a coffee and move on with your day, she coached herself.
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Within a few minutes, she had tidied the station, stacked the patient files, and reviewed the waiting list. In the waiting room to her left, she counted sixteen heads, and at least five were asleep. Down the hall to her right, past the open doors leading to the observation room, she saw several nurses and a few doctors crisscross the room as they attended to patients in curtained quarters. She was surprised to recognize most of the nursing staff from six months earlier. The emergency unit had a notoriously high turnover rate for nurses. A few did not return after maternity leave, others transferred to follow career paths in specialized care, and most burned out and moved to any other ward to escape the feverish pace.
Mojegan thrived in the frantic atmosphere since it created a continuous series of opportunities to organize, coordinate, and direct. The eight-hour shift passed in a flash as she directed resources and prioritized cases. In her mind, she stood surefooted in the eye of the cyclone, able to distinguish tasks and priorities in the storm that others experienced as chaos.
After the birth of Taraneh, her first child, she realized that she would not become an oncology nurse, at least not until the children graduated from high school. There was no time to study. She grieved her loss privately, and in place of one dream she placed another. She aspired to become the next head nurse of the emergency room.
Mojegan looked up from a patient file to see her co-worker Afsaneh hurry past the nurses’ station with several files in hand. Afsaneh stopped short of the waiting room and backtracked to the nurses’ station. With a small jump and gasp, Afsaneh ran around the counter and embraced Mojegan tightly, crumpling the files in the process.
“Bache-ha! Guys!” Afsaneh called over Mojegan’s shoulder without releasing her. “Mojegan’s back.”
Within seconds, five other nurses came rushing for a chance to hug Mojegan. Several patients in the waiting room stirred at the appearance of a group of nurses, and Afsaneh excused herself to accompany the next set of patients to the observation room. On her way, she flattened the files, then smiled back at Mojegan and placed her hand over her heart. The other nurses also expressed their delight to see her. Before they returned to their duties, each promised to catch up with Mojegan during their break. Only Parveena remained at the station with Mojegan. Over the next hour, Parveena briefed Mojegan on the state of affairs. Mojegan grew pleased that many of the protocols she had established were still in use.
When she took this position five years earlier, she struggled to develop a sphere of influence. Her accent betrayed her as an outsider, her youth undermined her experience, and her gender undercut her boldness. She remembered the many nights she cried about her inability to make headway with the staff and the administration. Reza tried to show compassion, but Mojegan learned that sustained empathy was elusive to him. Also, their perspectives on work were divergent.
Reza treated work as a necessary evil. He took pleasure in preparing for work. Each workday, he was sharply dressed and impeccably groomed. Yet, he had no ambition to make his mark or to strive for excellence. When he did achieve his promotion, it was due to his manager’s fondness of Reza’s friendly disposition at the office and after hours at the club. Reza was content to see an increase in his salary, and he looked forward to similar promotions and raises.
Mojegan praised Reza when he announced his promotion but she kept her admiration in check. She feared that his complacency and good fortune would eventually fail him, and she did not want to encourage his tactics.
One evening after Mojegan had put the girls to bed and they were alone, she suggested that he take an active role in furthering his career. He guffawed and walked away. “Mojegan, I’m doing fine,” he said, pouring himself a whiskey and settling in the living room, in front of the nightly news. “It’s you who’s interested in a career,” he said loudly over his shoulder to Mojegan, who tidied up the dinner dishes in the kitchen. “And, I don’t know why you even care. They’d pay you either way.”
Mojegan had worried that the conversation might turn around and come at her, full speed. And it did.
“You’re not so smart, Mojegan, to give advice” said Reza, partly turning his head toward her but keeping his eyes fixed on the television. “You work yourself to the bone but it’s the higher ups that make the real money. A nurse will never make that kind of money.”
Mojegan had heard this before from Reza and she was in no mood to re-live the conversation. She promised herself to steer clear of any discussions about Reza’s career ambitions. This topic was added to the extensive list of undiscussable topics that she’d compiled within a few years of marriage.
At the top of the list was how much and how frequently Reza drank. One night in the first year of their marriage, she tried lovingly to approach the topic. Reza had brushed off her hand from his arm and poured his fourth whiskey. “What does it matter, Mojegan? I go to work, I come home. What does it matter if I like to drink at night?”
“Reza, I love you and I am worried about you.” Mojegan knelt beside the sofa and placed her hands on his knee.
“I don’t drink during the day,” said Reza with his face turned to Mojegan but his eyes on the television. “I don’t gamble or cheat on you. I don’t hit you.”
“You are right. You are a loving husband,” Mojegan said sympathetically. “I just … I worry.”
Mojegan worried about Reza’s habit of drinking every evening. He prepared his first drink as soon as he arrived home and continued to pour himself glasses of liquor until midnight, when he passed out in bed. Mojegan had never seen anyone drink this way. She was worried about the consequences of Reza’s drinking, but she was also concerned about the underlying causes of this habit.
“That’s the problem with you, Mojegan,” Reza spoke at the television. “You don’t think. You just worry.”
When Mojegan did not respond, Reza turned to her, took her chin in his right hand, and kissed her lips. The astringent taste of alcohol on his lips depreciated the sweetness of his loving gesture. “Enjoy yourself, darling.” Reza squeezed her chin gently before he released her. “Do you want a drink?” He laughed at his own joke and turned back to the television.
Mojegan rose and kissed the top of his head before she retired for the night. On the way to bed, she looked about for any clutter that might cause him to stumble later.
At nearly the same time, Mojegan learned that the second topic they couldn’t discuss was Reza’s spending habits. When it came to money, Reza considered his wife a killjoy miser who had her priorities confused. Mojegan was aware of his impression of her, and at times she wondered if her purse strings were unnecessarily tight. Fueled by Reza’s reluctance to discuss money, her worries eventually overwhelmed her and she broke the silence one evening.
“Mojegan, what do you want? A list? Receipts?” Reza threw up his hands in frustration. “I provide for all of you. Can’t you just enjoy life?”
Mojegan bit her lower lip and wrung her hands. What do I want from him? she asked herself. To be partners. To stop worrying about the unknown.
“Reza, you know my family lived a modest life,” Mojegan tried. “I’m not used to spending a lot of money.”
“Darling, you’re not that person anymore. I will take care of you.” Reza knelt in front of their bed and took her hands in his. “Would I ever let anything bad happen to you and our children?”
“No, of course not.” Mojegan shook her head and smiled meekly. “I know you will take care of us. I just want to know that we have enough saved for the future.”
“Of course we do.” Reza patted her hands. “I promise to let you know if we ever get in trouble.”
At this, Mojegan only nodded. She was raised to never get in trouble, to create as many contingency plans as necessary to avoid trouble. At that point, Mojegan began to set aside a portion of her own income as emergency savings. This was one of her first secrets from Reza.
***
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br /> During her lunch break on her first day back, Mojegan did not eat. Instead, she went for a walk around the hospital. She had decided to diet and exercise until she shed the weight from her pregnancy with Omid. I am twenty-seven years old, Mojegan chastised herself. My body should be slim and toned, not pudgy and misshapen.
She thought about stopping at the bookstore that was within a block of the hospital. They had a wide range of children’s books and she visited them often. Mojegan enjoyed amassing a collection of her favourites. She wanted the children to have books at home, but it also fulfilled a promise she made to herself as a child, to have her own library. She had bought several classic folktales, along with a few modern stories about inquisitive little children or young animals who ventured out in search of knowledge. Mojegan preferred these playful stories that fostered empiricism. She refused to bequeath the superstitious beliefs she learned as a child. Most of the modern tales were political allegories to question authority and rebel against the state, aspects which Mojegan downplayed.
In the evenings, Mojegan read to Taraneh, Nassrin, and later on, Omid. They sat beside her, lay on her lap, or bounced about the room as she read stories and used voice impressions that drew the children’s attention away from the illustrations and to their mother’s face. They craned their necks, narrowed their eyes, and peered closely at their mother, bewildered as to how she summoned the voices from the same mouth that held her own. They were similarly amazed when their father let out a wild lion’s roar or a long howl of a wolf, though they did not stop to peer at Reza’s mouth. They scattered like small animals and responded with peals of laughter and pleas to stop. Reza also enjoyed captivating them with stories but he preferred to tell his own. When he began a tale, Taraneh and Nassrin hurried close and watched his expressions intently. The stories centred on Reza’s experiences as a clever little boy in Bandar Abbas and as a star football player in the army. Taraneh, who had heard the stories many times, often added details to the retellings. At these times, Reza grinned, took Taraneh’s small chin with three fingers, gave her head a little shake, and called her a smart aleck. Taraneh beamed with pride and appreciation for her father’s attention. As young as they were and as much as they loved their father, the girls understood that their mother was their caregiver. Their father was a free spirit and a caged bird. He was interested in telling stories but he did not want to hear any. In this way, the girls knew their father very well but he did not know them.