by Kimia Eslah
With Nassrin’s head still draped against her shoulder, Mojegan craned her neck to see above the crowd. In these difficult moments, she felt confident in her goals. She would walk the length of the path along the food stalls once more and then wait at the picnic bench for another twenty minutes. If Reza did not appear, she would leave a note in the car. Following that, she and the children would take a taxi home. It is a reasonable plan based on logic, Mojegan thought. It lacks malice. I am not acting out of anger.
She walked the path along the food aisle and she did not see Reza. Instead, she saw a large bonfire, its flames rising taller than her. Within the fire, several saplings were protruding in various directions. Several young men and women stood around the fire’s wide base. A few sang a popular love song by Dariush, “Be Man Nagoo Dooset Daram,” and others drank and swayed to the sad tune about unrequited love.
“Bache-ha, guys, sing something happy,” called Reza as he stepped out from the cluster of trees, dragging a sapling behind him. He threw the small tree into the fire, causing a smoky burn. Clapping his hands jovially, he began singing an upbeat tune by Googoosh. The others hooted their appreciation and followed suit by clapping and singing.
Mojegan made her way to Reza’s side and patted his shoulder. With arms extended up and hands clapping, he turned his head languidly to Mojegan.
“Darling! I love you.” Reza wrapped his arms around Mojegan and kissed her.
Nassrin whimpered and squirmed uncomfortably in the tight embrace. Only then did Reza notice her presence. He turned Nassrin’s face to him and kissed her forehead forcefully. Nassrin whimpered again, too tired to complain explicitly.
“Reza-jaan, Nassrin is not well. I am going to take her home.” Mojegan spoke slowly to make sure Reza understood.
“Of course, do what you need to,” Reza said loudly and nodded slowly. “Koochooloo, little one, get better.” He spoke directly into Nassrin’s ear. Nassrin winced and curled up into Mojegan’s body.
“We are going to take a taxi,” said Mojegan, her eyes trying to keep contact with Reza’s.
“Sure, darling.” Reza looked back at the fire, and then asked with revelation, “Oh, do you need money for the taxi?”
He took out his wallet and thumbed the banknotes.
“No, I have enough,” Mojegan assured him.
“Wait.” Reza placed his arm on Mojegan’s, worried she might disappear. “Looks like I need cash. How much do you have?”
Mojegan shifted Nassrin from one shoulder to the other and removed her wallet from her handbag. She had a few rials, in addition to the taxi fare, that she handed to Reza. Reza kissed her lips, pressing into Nassrin, and returned to start a new song. As she walked through the crowd, who stared in disbelief at the bonfire, Mojegan thought, He is drunk. He has started a fire in the park. He will not remember our conversation.
After collecting Taraneh and Omid, Mojegan walked the children back to their car. On the dashboard, she left a note that explained Nassrin’s sickness and their taking a taxi home. At home, Taraneh played with Omid while Mojegan got Nassrin ready for bed. Nassrin drank small amounts of water and fell asleep for the night. The trio enjoyed a quiet dinner together followed by stories read aloud in Mojegan’s bed. Mojegan tucked in Omid before she headed to Taraneh’s bedroom to wish her a good night.
***
Taraneh woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of something breaking down the hall. She did not know how long she had been asleep, and upon hearing her father and mother yelling, her mind and body were wide awake. She was not surprised at the way their day at the amusement park had ended. Still, she was uncertain what to make of the fighting in the living room. Taraneh had hoped that the unpleasantness of the day was finished when she had returned home by taxi with her mother and siblings. She imagined that her father would arrive home late at night and soon fall asleep.
Baba didn’t seem upset at the park, Taraneh reflected. I hope Maman didn’t start a fight with him. She can’t seem to help herself.
Confident and determined to end the argument before it escalated, Taraneh rose from bed and walked to the doorway. Her bedroom door was ajar, and she could hear her parents arguing in the living room. Assured in her belief that intervention was necessary, Taraneh inhaled deeply and opened the bedroom door. She stepped out into the lit hallway and proceeded toward the living room, her shoulders broad and her chest out bravely. Her hands shook and a lump manifested in her throat, but she was determined to intercede. As she drew closer, she could hear her parents yelling over each other. In the centre of the living room, they stood a metre apart, facing each other. Taraneh stood within arm’s reach of her father but behind him.
“It is always about you. You’re the all-knowing Mojegan,” her father shouted with a mocking tone and swayed a few steps.
“Reza. Stop it. You asked me,” her mother retorted angrily. “Don’t you want to know the truth?”
“And you know the truth?” he yelled, waving a table leg in one hand.
“I know how …” Her mother began but stopped abruptly when she saw Taraneh in the room.
“Taraneh, you should be in bed,” her mother scolded her. “Why are you up?”
Taraneh was uncertain how to answer this question. She thought, I am awake because you are yelling and I got scared. Taraneh concluded that such a response would be unwise. She reasoned, It might add fuel to their fire. I’ve come to end this argument, not add to it.
“Baba, I missed you,” Taraneh spoke sweetly. She took hold of her father’s large hand, and gently pulling him toward an armchair, she asked, “Do you want me to help you with your socks?”
Her mother sighed petulantly and exited to the kitchen. Taraneh could hear her opening packages and retrieving dishes. Her father slumped into the armchair and let his head fall back. Taraneh removed her father’s socks and rubbed his feet.
“You are a good girl,” he said with slurred speech. “You know your father loves you. Everything I do is for you, for our family.”
“I know, Baba.” Taraneh kissed the back of her father’s hand.
With his other hand, he patted the side of Taraneh’s head clumsily, not looking to see where his large palm landed.
“Baba, can I please help you get ready for bed?” Taraneh asked, using a tone that dripped with sweetness.
“Bale, yes,” her father said, as he propped himself upright and steadied his rolling head. “Help me up, darling.”
Taraneh grabbed his right hand in both of her own. Determinedly, she anchored her feet and shifted her weight back to lever him up. Her father laughed unkindly and shook away her hands. Taraneh tried to join in the laughter and managed a smile. He pushed himself up and staggered down the hall to his bedroom. Taraneh trailed a few steps behind him.
In the bedroom, Taraneh rushed ahead and pulled back the top sheets. Her father sat at the end of the bed, his arms limp in his lap and his legs spread wide for support. Taraneh came around to him. She noticed that he smelled sour and stale. With considerable effort, she removed his wristwatch and emptied his pockets of his wallet and keys. She encouraged him to move back toward the pillow. He squirmed his way there, and she pulled the sheets over him and turned off the light before leaving the room.
Taraneh passed Omid’s bedroom and then Nassrin’s. Both children were asleep. Taraneh envied their obliviousness. She continued down the hall to the kitchen. Her mother sat on a stool at the island counter with a bowl of popcorn, reading a magazine. She did not look up when Taraneh entered, and Taraneh was unsure what to do next.
“Maman?” Taraneh asked in a quiet voice.
“Bale, yes?” Mojegan responded casually as she continued eating popcorn and flipping through the magazine.
Taraneh tried to avoid sounding worried, but she stuttered and choked when she asked, “Are you okay?”
She stood across the is
land from her mother and wished away the tears that welled up in her eyes. She would have cried, gratefully, if she had expected her mother to be sympathetic. Instead, her mother responded by leaning forward on her elbows, assuming an expression of disdain and exhaling angrily through her nostrils.
“Taraneh, you don’t know what you’re talking about,” her mother snapped.
“I was worried about you …” Taraneh started feebly, feeling foolish.
“There’s nothing to worry about,” she hissed before she turned back to the magazine and ordered Taraneh to bed.
Taraneh bit her lip and swallowed hard before she spoke, “Shab bekhair, good night, Maman.” Taraneh returned to her bedroom and eventually fell asleep. Her last thought was, I need to work harder to keep them from fighting.
In the morning, Taraneh awoke to familiar sounds about the house. She heard her father singing in the shower, Omid playing in his room, and her mother preparing breakfast in the kitchen. She assumed Nassrin was asleep since her sister was typically the last one out of bed. Taraneh stared at the ceiling and remembered the events of the previous night. Anxiety gripped her body and she felt paralyzed in bed.
When she arrived in the doorway of the dining room, dressed in her school uniform, she looked at her parents to gauge their mood. Dressed handsomely in a suit, her father ate a breakfast of eggs and noon heartily. Her mother wore her prim nurse’s uniform with her hair tied up. She helped Omid spread sour cherry jam on toasted noon-e barbari, soft and thick flatbread. The thickness of the bread absorbed the sweet syrup. Omid took a large bite and acquired a red jam moustache that amused her mother.
“Sobe bekhair, good morning,” her father said from the side of his mouth. His eyes smiled at Taraneh.
Taraneh took the seat next to him and directly across from her mother and Omid. She looked at the breakfast spread and felt nauseated. Taraneh considered refusing breakfast, but quickly realized that that might start an argument. Better I eat something, like normal, Taraneh resolved.
“Sobe bekhair, khoshkel-am. Good morning, my lovely,” her mother said sweetly to Taraneh. “Would you like eggs or jam?”
Their mother turned her attention to Omid whose sticky jam fingers were perilously close to her white uniform.
“Jam, please,” said Nassrin, who rushed into the room, still pulling on her dark blue pinafore.
Nassrin sat beside Omid. Their mother passed Nassrin a piece of bread generously topped with jam. Nassrin held the bread over her plate and licked the dripping syrup from the edges. She assessed all the sides of the thick bread and when she was satisfied that not a drop would be lost to the plate, she began to take cautious bites. Nassrin had tied her own ponytail and it sat askew on the left side of her head. Taraneh walked over to Nassrin and wordlessly redid her little sister’s hair. Nassrin sat still while Taraneh completed the task. In that moment, Taraneh noticed that her mother and father exchanged an amicable look of approval. Taraneh returned to her seat, and for the remainder of the day, she felt ashamed for overreacting the night before.
***
Mojegan spent her day learning the administrative duties of her new position as head nurse. She focused on her work and dismissed flashbacks of the previous night. During her lunch break, she headed out for a few laps around the hospital. Within a few minutes, she was crying soundlessly. She chewed hard on her lower lip to distract herself. The physical pain in her lip stopped the tears and deadened her emotions. From years of experience as Reza’s lifeguard, Mojegan had learned to not become attached to her emotions and to not dwell on the past. Often, Reza’s inebriated state prevented him from recalling the events that caused her heartache, or he remembered the events but associated them with revelry. Either way, it never mattered how she felt about being pulled under the dark waters of his intemperate episodes. It only mattered how well she managed the accompanying waves of destruction and callousness. Breaking the water’s surface and keeping them both afloat each day was all that mattered and all that she could manage. She had no energy left to feel.
Mojegan could see the treetops, hear the traffic, smell the exhaust, feel the ache in her lower lip, and taste the blood in her mouth, but her sadness was muted, somehow distant, along with joy and frustration. The sense of urgency that typically motivated her was dulled and she felt lethargic, apathetic. This can be helpful, Mojegan reassured herself. I was taking things too seriously. This is good for me.
Mojegan turned away from the hospital and toward a corner shop. She purchased two bags of puffed corn and a box of cream-filled biscuits. As she walked slowly back to the hospital, she finished the two bags and the box. In the trash receptacle outside the emergency room door, she threw away the empty packaging. Still absorbed by the numbness, feeling distant and equanimous, she reflected on her binge. I can vomit, Mojegan thought, but I don’t have a toothbrush. Soap will do.
When she arrived home that afternoon, the children’s caregiver, Khanome Veisi, sat on the floor of the living room playing cards with Omid. Nassrin was nearby, drawing a picture of her favourite doll, and Taraneh was reading a book in her room. As she did every day, Mojegan cordially greeted and thanked Khanome Veisi and then walked with her to the front door. The fifty-year-old woman was lively and competent, and the children appreciated her motherly touch. In Mojegan’s ideal world, her own mother would care for her children, and they would grow to know her as personally as Mojegan did.
Looking absently in the hallway mirror, Mojegan thought of her mother. Batoul was never an overly affectionate woman but she was attentive to her children’s needs. When Mojegan struggled with exams and questioned her aspirations, Batoul pressed her to finish what she had started. Mojegan learned from her mother to see things through: merely setting goals is worth nothing; it is completion of a task that deserves commendation. That is what Mojegan felt compelled to do, to see this family through. Through what? To what? Mojegan besought herself. Maman, what should I do?
Mojegan pressed the heels of her hands into her temples to stop the headache that manifested again. In the same moment, Taraneh appeared at the end of the hallway and looked at her mother with concern and Reza entered the front door with a playful smile and a box of pastries. Mojegan and Taraneh both smiled back at Reza and asked about his day.
“Khoub khoub, good good.” Reza kissed them and stood with his arms spread. “I have great news!” He kissed them again, slipped off his shoes, and headed to the living room. Taraneh looked up at Mojegan with her eyebrows raised. Mojegan shrugged, smiled, and wrapped her arm around her daughter. They joined the others in the living room. Nassrin and Omid greeted their father joyfully and instantly turned their attention to the pastries. Reza lifted the lid of the white box and revealed nine shirini napeloni, a fine plume of icing sugar rising from the puff pastries. Mojegan was transported to the first day she met Bita. She remembered the delight with which Bita devoured the flaky pastry, and how she got cream and powdered sugar over everything. A stone of guilt and sadness lodged itself in Mojegan’s throat when she remembered Bita and her last day at the Bimarestan-e Sina.
“They’re going to love you,” Bita had said as she embraced Mojegan.
“I am going to miss you,” Mojegan said into her friend’s shoulder.
“You’re not moving out of town.” Bita pulled back and held Mojegan by her shoulders. “We’ll get together. I want to meet your little one when he is born.”
“How do you know the baby is a boy?” Mojegan smiled.
“I have a feeling. Oh, and I read your coffee grinds this morning,” Bita joked and embraced her again.
They took their seats at the nurses’ station. Mojegan wiped her cheeks and continued making notes in files. Bita looked down at her own paperwork.
After a few minutes and without looking up, Bita asked, “Did I ever tell you about my father?”
Mojegan continued making notes, “No. Has he passed?”
>
“No, he’s still alive and living in Damavand,” Bita said.
“Oh,” Mojegan said distractedly.
“For the longest time, I thought all fathers were the same.” Bita stopped writing but didn’t look up, “Just like mine.”
“Hm,” Mojegan closed one file and opened another.
“Then, Davoud became a father; we became parents,” Bita paused and swallowed hard, “and I realized that something was very wrong in my family, with my father.”
Mojegan heard the pause in Bita’s voice and saw the intensity of emotion that gripped her friend. Reflexively, she wanted to lighten the mood, snap Bita out of her account, and circumvent this retelling, which was obviously intended for Mojegan’s benefit. Instead, Mojegan did not move. She stared at her file and held her pen tightly.
“When I was in that sphere, the bubble that a family can create around itself, I couldn’t see what was abnormal,” Bita turned her head slightly and looked at Mojegan. “Do you understand?”
Mojegan did not speak or turn to look. She gave the smallest nod.
“There are some things that we need help with,” Bita whispered. “Alcoholism is a disease.”
“Baase, enough,” Mojegan said decisively but quietly. “I am sorry about your father.”
“Hm,” Bita nodded compassionately and returned to her paperwork.
Bita never met Taraneh, and Mojegan never returned her calls. Life and work can do that to friendships, Mojegan told herself.
At the living room table, Taraneh held back Nassrin and Omid from lifting the napeloni out of the pastry box.
“Wait, it’s dinner time,” Taraneh pleaded as she closed the lid and held the box over her head.