The Daughter Who Walked Away

by Kimia Eslah

  “Baba!” Omid whined. “Taraneh took all the pastries.”

  Nassrin slumped back to the floor and returned to drawing.

  “I don’t want them to spoil their dinner,” Taraneh appealed to Mojegan.

  Mojegan took in Omid’s sullen stance, Taraneh’s confused expression, and Reza re-entering the room with a tumbler of whiskey. She was certain that in a moment she would vomit or scream. Without reply, she turned toward the bedroom to lie down.

  “Wait! I haven’t told you my great news,” Reza beamed.

  Mojegan pivoted to face him but she did not step back further into the room.

  “We’re moving to Canada!” Reza roared, as a fan might holler at a football game.

  CHAPTER 8

  “SALAM, MAMAN-JAAN? Hello, mother dear?” Mojegan spoke loudly into the mouthpiece of the telephone. Mojegan tried to call her mother at least once a week. She knew her sisters called and visited every day. She tried not to think of herself as neglectful because she knew that her life was different. Akram and Azadeh lived within blocks of their mother, their children were grown, and they did not work out of the house.

  “Mojeeh? Dokhtar-am, salam! My dear daughter, hello!” Batoul began with her long drawn out vowels. “Chetori? How are you? Khoubi? Are you good?”

  Mojegan smiled whenever she heard the Shirazi accent, which she could not detect when she first arrived in Tehran ten years earlier. She imagined her mother, nearly seventy years old, on the phone, cozy in the sitting room with her knitting, a glass of tea and a few sweets, and she recalled the day that the technicians arrived to install the telephone in her mother’s house. They had asked Akbar where to install the unit. Akbar asked his mother about her preference, and Batoul replied jokingly for his ears only, “Put it in the outhouse. If a person’s just sitting about, they can finish two jobs in one.”

  Mother and daughter spent the first twenty minutes catching up on family matters before Mojegan revealed that her family would be moving to Canada.

  “Koja? Where?” Batoul was stunned. Already, Tehran felt like a world away. Another country, across an ocean seemed inconceivable.

  “Why?” asked Batoul.

  “I will explain everything, Maman.” Mojegan tried to remain calm, tried not to cry. “I’d like to come with the children to visit you. Would that be okay?”

  “Mojegan, you don’t need to ask permission to visit your own home,” Batoul scolded her mildly. “Come as you please.”

  “Mochaker-am, thank you, Maman.” Mojegan held her breath to stop the tears. Mojegan arranged to arrive in Shiraz a few days later.

  ***

  When Batoul first embraced her daughter, the tears poured from Mojegan. A few gasps became sobs, and soon she was unable to let go of her mother. Akbar and his wife Zeena, who lived with Batoul, welcomed the three children and led them to the sitting room for cookies and fruit. Omar walked down the kooche to help Reza carry their luggage. The alleyway was too narrow for cars, and Reza had parked the Paykan at a communal lot a block away.

  In the courtyard, Batoul rubbed Mojegan’s head and back with long steady strokes. Mojegan stood nearly a head taller than her mother and crouched sufficiently to press her cheek in the crook of Batoul’s neck. Her mother smelled of almond oil, a scent familiar from her childhood. To be mothered and soothed was an experience Mojegan had desired for years. She wanted to be a child again, to be cared for and protected. She was exhausted from balancing the competing priorities in her life.

  Batoul and Mojegan retired to the older woman’s bedroom and closed the door. Shortly after, Akram and Azadeh arrived with a silver tray of refreshments. Mojegan felt ashamed for crying openly and commandeering the attention of her mother and sisters. At the same time, she was comforted by their desire to protect her, just as they had when she was young.

  “Are you ready to talk?” Akram asked softly. She sat next to Mojegan, who lay across the cushions with her head in Batoul’s lap.

  Mojegan exhaled deeply and sat up. She took the handkerchief Batoul offered and wiped her face dry. Her throat was parched and her lips were cracked. She accepted the glass of tea from Azadeh, who sat cross-legged in front of her and wore a morose expression. When Mojegan’s gaze met Azadeh’s, she was certain she would begin to sob again. Mojegan swallowed the tea and prayed for the lump in her throat to dissipate. Her hands had a slight tremor, and she replaced the tea glass and saucer on the tray.

  “Thank you,” Mojegan said meekly.

  “Dokhtar-am, my daughter, can you tell us what’s making you so sad?” Batoul turned to Mojegan and placed her palm on her daughter’s cheek.

  Mojegan did not know what to say. Like a record playing one track nonstop in her mind, she could hear her mother’s advice — the phrase she had heard throughout her childhood and youth, Respect your family by holding your tongue.

  Reza is my family, and I must not betray him, Mojegan resolved. I must be content with life as it is.

  “I am going to miss you all,” Mojegan said in a voice that was a mere thread of itself, and she began to cry again.

  Azadeh and Akram surrounded their sister, kissed her bowed head, and began crying as well. They assured her that they would be in touch and Mojegan could visit any time. Mojegan made small appreciative sounds but she was unable to speak anymore. After a while, she assured them that she was feeling better and insisted that they join the others in the sitting room. Mojegan stayed behind to fix her hair and makeup in the small mirror in her mother’s room. She always liked the mirror’s frame with its intricate meenakari design. A family portrait was tucked in the corner of the frame. It was a square black and white photograph with scalloped edges, a photograph Mojegan knew well from childhood. In the picture, her parents and their children are standing in the courtyard with the house in the background. Mojegan is an infant swaddled in white linen and held tightly to Batoul’s chest. Mojegan’s father is standing between his older daughters and smiling proudly. She wondered about her father, whether he would be proud of her and what he would make of Reza.

  When Mojegan arrived in the sitting room, it was filled with nearly everyone, four generations of relations. The joy of seeing her nieces and nephews, many of whom were close in age to Mojegan, and their children, was as therapeutic as settling into a hot spring. With every conversation, she felt herself healing and growing resilient. They appreciate simplicity, Mojegan reflected. I will also be happy as I learn to do with less.

  By the time dinner approached, Reza had enthusiastically recited his plans several times. He was happy to relate the details again for Omar’s four sons, who arrived last at their grandmother’s house. “In this world, you need to set a course for yourself. No one will do that for you,” counselled Reza, as he looked directly at each of the young men. “I always knew I would head west. That’s where real success happens.” Reza appraised the lot to make sure their attention was undivided.

  “What are you going to do there?” Omar’s youngest asked.

  “Baba! Guy! Don’t interrupt.” Omar’s eldest punched his brother in the arm. “Uncle’s explaining. Pay attention.”

  “No, no, leave him be.” Reza looked patronizingly at the younger man. “He’s still learning.”

  “Please continue, Uncle,” Omar’s second eldest requested.

  “There are many business opportunities, many. I’ve got a contact, a business partner, there.” Reza paused to express his gratitude for a glass of tea. “I will set up a business there to import from here.”

  The four young men nodded their approval.

  “Like what, Uncle?” asked the youngest and flinched at the memory of being hit.

  Methodically, Reza took a long sip of tea, placed the glass back in the saucer, and smoothed out his moustache. “Many things, many things,” Reza nodded wisely. “Over there, they want everything we have. Lots of buyers.”

 
***

  Mojegan and Reza had planned to stay five nights in Shiraz with their children. On the second day, Reza shortened the trip to three nights. From her work in the emergency room, Mojegan understood that he was experiencing withdrawal symptoms. In Shiraz, her family drank alcohol rarely and Reza did not want to appear discourteous by being the only person drinking. Consequently, he was agitated and uncertain what to do with himself.

  On their last day together, all four generations headed a half hour southeast out of Shiraz to Lake Maharlu. The last time Mojegan had visited the salt lake was during a class trip in high school. She had written an essay describing the contribution of the three rivers and the nearby mountain to sustain the lake; without them, it would become a parched field of hardened salt. The alluring pink colour of the water was attributed to algae. It seemed to Mojegan that the lake was an earthly vessel that contained nature’s ethereal beauty. Mojegan remembered walking to the tip of one of the many narrow peninsulas that jetted out into the lake. She had looked toward the Zargos mountain range on the horizon. The bright blue sky above and the pink lake below were beautiful and unsettling.

  On that sunny and cloudless day, Taraneh, Nassrin, and Omid disembarked from the car and exclaimed in unison, “Bah! Wow!” All three set off running to the end of the nearest peninsula, following the handful of younger second cousins who hooted rambunctiously into the large openness of the lake. Reza joined a few of the male relations who sat smoking on the hoods of their cars, parked side by side near the shoreline. Mojegan stood at the base of the peninsula. She looked out at the children playing and mothers chatting, and she heard the men exchanging tales about driving on the mountain roads. This, she wanted this. She wanted to be part of a large family, to have the children run about together, to see the men counsel and joke with each other, and to join the women as they talked about anything and everything. This is what she had imagined when she was younger. She never imagined she would raise her family in isolation, severed from everyone who grounded her in wholesomeness.

  “Salam, prodigal daughter,” Soheila spoke softly into Mojegan’s ear.

  “Ammeh, auntie, lovely to see you.” Mojegan embraced Soheila and kissed her thrice. “Maman mentioned you would join us.”

  “Yes, I just drove up.” Soheila indicated her parked car.

  “You drove?” asked Mojegan, overtly amazed.

  “Bale, hatman. Yes, of course.” Soheila smiled unfazed. “Should I have walked here?”

  Mojegan laughed and locked arms with Soheila. Though Soheila was a family friend and not a relative, Mojegan had always considered her to be an aunt. During her youth, she had watched her mother grow close to Soheila in a way that Batoul reserved only for immediate family. As Mojegan’s impression of her mother matured into a nuanced rendering, she became exceedingly impressed that two women with such contrasting personalities had maintained an intimate bond for over four decades.

  It was Soheila’s boldness and modernity that encouraged Mojegan to pursue her studies in nursing. Soheila would have never advised Mojegan directly, for fear of intruding into Batoul’s sphere of influence. Simply, Soheila doused her with praise for her academic drive and excellence — the sort of praise Batoul offered in measured quantities. Remembering Soheila’s generosity caused Mojegan to pull her aunt closer to her side. Feeling safe and nostalgic, Mojegan rested her head on Soheila’s shoulder and looked out at the lake.

  “I love you, too.” Soheila kissed the top of Mojegan’s head.

  Mojegan smiled and kissed Soheila’s shoulder.

  “Your little ones are happy,” said Soheila, looking out at the tip of the peninsula.

  The children were kneeling at the water’s edge and collecting chunks of salt deposits to hurl back into the lake. Mojegan heard peals of laughter when one large chunk fell into the water close to shore and splashed the children nearby.

  “Reza sounds happy, too,” Soheila said.

  “Uh-huh,” Mojegan voiced. Her eye lids fluttered and she felt very tired suddenly.

  “And you?” Soheila asked.

  “Yes, good.” Mojegan felt the lump in her throat return. She considered excusing herself to attend to the children, or asking Soheila to join her in meeting up with the other women at the tip of the peninsula. She thought of two days ago, crying uncontrollably into her mother’s lap. At that time, she felt she had barely escaped with her honour and she had nearly betrayed her husband for the meagre relief she would derive from telling someone. Standing on the shore, one day away from leaving for Tehran and one week away from leaving Iran, she felt she lacked capacity to contain her wretchedness, her disbelief, and her turmoil.

  “Mojegan, do you want to hear a good one about Mullah Nassurdin?”

  Surprised by her offer of a humorous story about a foolish philosopher, Mojegan lifted her head and replied, “Bale, yes.”

  Soheila smiled and began, “Mullah Nassurdin is eating dates without removing the pits. A man walks by and asks him, ‘Mullah, why are you eating the pits?’ Mullah Nassurdin replies, ‘Because the merchant who sold it to me included the weight of the pits.’”

  They chuckled and Mojegan rested her head on her aunt’s shoulder again.

  “I used to eat the pits,” Soheila admitted.

  “What?! Why?” Mojegan asked, confused.

  “I was in love. The pit came with the fruit and I thought I was meant to eat it all,” Soheila looked out at the pink lake. Her expression was sombre and her voice was distant.

  “Someone before you married?” Mojegan also looked ahead.

  “No, it was my Mosein.” Soheila pursed her lips and nodded.

  “Oh.” Mojegan turned away from Soheila, unsure what to say.

  In Batoul’s family, speaking ill of each other was a rare occurrence. Mojegan did not remember an occasion when a sister or brother spoke of the flaws of a spouse or child. She understood that couples discussed grievances and spoke freely with their children, but it was considered crass to divulge shortcomings in the company of others. Hearing Soheila speak about her husband’s failings slightly embarrassed Mojegan.

  “I know these are not the type of things your family talks about.” Soheila stared into the distance.

  “No, they’re not.” Mojegan chewed her lower lip, also staring ahead.

  Soheila chuckled and continued, “He was young. I was young.” Soheila exhaled. “I wanted to love him, wholly. I thought that meant being married without complaint.”

  Mojegan nodded her head and continued to chew her lip. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth.

  “After some time, my logic didn’t make sense. We weren’t getting closer. I was starting to hate him.”

  Mojegan began to wring her hands and roll her shoulders back. She was nearly at capacity.

  “Obviously, we worked it out,” said Soheila, smiling. “I guess I got tired of eating the pits.”

  Soheila turned to face Mojegan, who was crying without a sound, biting her lip, and wringing her hands. “You deserve happiness.” Soheila embraced Mojegan and whispered in her ear, “On your terms.”

  “Uh-huh,” Mojegan managed.

  Soheila rubbed her back with both palms. When Mojegan regained composure, the older woman handed her a handkerchief. They walked the length of the peninsula arm in arm and Mojegan looked straight ahead. She heard the children squeal and saw them point at the sky. Against the brilliant blue of the sky, a flock of flamingos took flight. The pink mass circled twice before it disappeared over a mountain ridge.

  CHAPTER 9

  ENTERING THE LOBBY of her apartment building, Mojegan smiled in gratitude at the young boy who held open the door. Dressed in an oversized yellow and blue jersey of the Brazilian football team, he tucked his ball under his arm to offer her more berth. She maneuvred past him with two bags of clothes she had picked up from the clothing room at the community c
entre. She turned to thank him but he was already across the driveway. Mojegan watched him join one of the groups of children in the open field that was part of the apartment complex. The sleet and cold winds of the Canadian winter had ended a week earlier, at the start of May, and the neighbourhood children were enthused to play without the cumbersome winter apparel they’d worn for five months.

  She waited for the elevator along with an elderly woman who stared at the dial. The woman, who was eighty or older, was dressed in a tattered pink housecoat and worn-out slippers. Pressed closely against her chest, she held a rolled-up bundle of newspapers. The script was unfamiliar to Mojegan, and she assumed it was an East Asian language. Mojegan had seen this woman many times in the lobby, usually instructing or chastising her grandchildren in a language Mojegan did not understand but in a grandmotherly tone she recognized. Though she had never exchanged words with this grandmother, Mojegan felt a slight affinity toward her. She tried to keep a friendly smile ready in case the woman looked at her but she knew from experience it was unnecessary. Among the residents of the eighteen-floor rental building, some people had no interest in exchanging pleasantries. She grew to appreciate the ones who did smile and greeting her.

  In the elevator, Mojegan placed the bags at her feet and asked the elderly woman which floor she would like pressed. The woman said nothing, pressed the button for the fifteenth floor, and stared at the dial overhead. Mojegan pressed the button for the sixteenth floor and looked down at her work shoes. She might not be able to speak English, Mojegan consoled herself and shifted gears. I really need new shoes.

  A small hole was developing on the outer edge of her left running shoe. The shoes were bright white from regular scrubbing but worn out from overuse. Mojegan worked as one of three receptionists at the Flemingdon Park Community Centre, a short walk from her apartment building. Four years earlier, when they attained permanent resident status, she landed a job as a nightshift cleaner at the local grocery store. One year later, she completed her English classes and she applied for every desk job within a twenty-block radius. The centre was the only place to call her in for an interview. It was also the lowest paying position, at the minimum wage of three dollars an hour. The manager was impressed by Mojegan’s maturity and enthusiasm for improvement, compared to the other applicants, who were inexperienced youth, willing to tolerate low wages for a few months while they sought better paying jobs.