The Daughter Who Walked Away

by Kimia Eslah

  “You look so beautiful,” he slurred into her ear and gripped her arm harder.

  “Merci, Baba,” Taraneh smiled weakly.

  She hoped this was leading to a request. She dreaded the painfully slow conversations when her father soliloquized her positive traits. During his monologues, she was expected to smile and thank him, then attribute her accomplishments to his hard work and dedication to their family. Taraneh had learned the lines well and she could perform them absentmindedly, but she had grown tired of the practice. She waited hopefully for him to ask for something. The idea of having to perform the tired roleplay in front of the guests repulsed her.

  “I love you, Taraneh,” he mumbled before he turned to Mr. Talebi, sitting on the couch. “Hossein, Taraneh is very special. You won’t find another girl like her.”

  “Hatman, of course,” Mr. Talebi said respectfully, smiling and nodding first at her father, then at Taraneh.

  “Dokhtar-e khoshkel-am, my beautiful daughter,” her father said in a singsong voice, “please refill the ice bucket.”

  With that, he released his grip on Taraneh. She moved quickly out of his reach and to the buffet where the empty bucket sat. After refilling the bucket with ice, she returned to serve herself dinner. Balancing cutlery, a Pepsi can, and a plate heaping with roasted chicken and rice, she returned to her bedroom.

  In the room, she found Nassrin, Pegah, and Parviz sitting with their plates propped on their laps. Parviz sat on Taraneh’s bed across from the two young girls. He was focused on cutting bite-sized pieces of chicken without knocking over his plate. Taraneh considered heading to her parent’s bedroom to avoid sitting next to the awkward boy. Parviz, with his outdated clothes and unstylish haircut, was even less tolerable than his brownnose sister.

  Since they arrived in Canada, Taraneh had worked nonstop to fit in with her white classmates. Over four years, she had learned to speak like them and look like them. Packed away were the colourful knitted sweaters she and her friends wore in Tehran, as well as the delicate hair clips and her four sets of flower-shaped earrings. She put them all in a box at the back of their shared closet and refused to give them to Nassrin when she begged. Taraneh understood that these possessions, which she and Nassrin had prized in Tehran, were considered tacky among white girls in Canada. She did not want Nassrin to struggle with a reputation as an unfashionable newcomer — fresh off the boat, as they had referred to Taraneh.

  Looking at Parviz, with his bowl haircut, dressed in a green collared shirt buttoned up all the way and tucked into a pair of khaki flood pants, Taraneh wanted to scream. He doesn’t even try to fit in, she thought exasperatedly. He acts like he doesn’t but his life must suck.

  At that moment, Parviz looked up and smiled awkwardly at Taraneh, displaying a mouth full of braces. In an attempt to avoid cringing overtly, Taraneh dropped her gaze to her plate as if to inspect it closely. She decided to sit and eat with them to please her mother, who was likely to check in during dinner. After her mother’s routine inspection, Taraneh planned to disappear to her parents’ bedroom with her copy of V.C. Andrew’s latest novel, If There Be Thorns. Her wristwatch indicated nine-thirty. She calculated there was still three hours left to her parents’ party. Enough time to finish her book. Taraneh took one step into her bedroom before Omid pushed her aside and stormed in.

  “Give me back the Sittler!” Omid hollered at Parviz. “Now!”

  From his seat on the edge of the bed, Parviz scanned the room, seemingly befuddled and embarrassed for Omid. He exchanged looks with Pegah, and they both shrugged.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Parviz responded casually and continued to cut his chicken.

  Infuriated by the nonplused response, the young boy smacked Parviz’s hand and knocked the knife to the carpet, causing rice to scatter in every direction. Instinctively, Taraneh shut the door behind her and placed her plate on their dresser. The two younger girls drew up their legs and moved further back on Nassrin’s bed to avoid involvement. Parviz stared up at Omid with an expression of disgust and used one hand to brush rice off his pants.

  Taraneh stepped in between the two boys and faced Omid. Her brother’s jaw and fists were clenched, his lips were pale, and he breathed hard through his nostrils. Taraneh placed a hand on his shoulder and he shook it off. She leaned forward to make eye contact, but Omid only glared at Parviz.

  “What’s a Sittler, Omid?” Taraneh spoke softly to create the illusion of privacy between them.

  “He knows!” Omid pointed at Parviz, his index finger nearly touching the teenager’s face.

  “You think Parviz took something of yours?” Taraneh tried hard to make headway.

  Glaring at Parviz and speaking with dramatic pauses between words, Omid said, “He took my 1979 Darryl Sittler hockey card.”

  Taraneh looked behind her to Parviz, who still appeared merely embarrassed by Omid’s outburst. In an effort to de-escalate the fierceness radiating from Omid, Taraneh leaned forward and spoke in his ear.

  “Is it possible the card is somewhere in your room?” She pleaded with Omid to reconsider his approach.

  Omid turned to look into his sister’s face. Along with anger, Taraneh could see tears in Omid’s eyes.

  “Tar, I keep the Sittler on my desk. Always. I have a special stand for it,” Omid whispered in a desperate tone.

  “Do you think maybe Ali or Majid took it?” Taraneh continued to speak quietly.

  “No!” Omid snapped with a slight tone of uncertainty. “I don’t leave them alone in my room. Parviz was the only one alone in there. When I came out for dinner, he was alone in my room.”

  “Hockey cards are for boors,” Parviz spoke loudly but directed himself to Pegah. “I don’t care for them.”

  This insult enraged Omid who threw himself at Parviz and knocked over the plate of food. Pegah screamed in bursts and Nassrin pressed her palms over the girl’s mouth to quiet her. Taraneh wrapped her arms around Omid’s waist and pulled to untangle the two boys.

  When she came to check on the noise, Mojegan was shocked to find her son and daughter struggling on top of Parviz. Like scavengers, Ali and Majid stood behind her legs and assessed the scene, their eyes wide with excitement and disbelief. Hossein and Homa Talebi appeared quickly, and the three adults settled the frenzy in the bedroom. Homa stepped out with Pegah and Nassrin, Hossein escorted Parviz to the washroom to clean his clothes, and Mojegan remained in the room with Omid and Taraneh. She gazed at the two children, who were covered with food stains, and then at the bedroom, which was littered with bits of chicken and rice. Mojegan took a few deep breaths.

  “You will clean up this mess and then apologize to Parviz and Pegah,” Mojegan spoke methodically.

  “But Maman, Parviz …” Omid began but Mojegan cut him off with a sharp look.

  “Change your clothes,” Mojegan said as she shook her head disapprovingly. “Taraneh, your dress is torn.”

  Mojegan walked out of the room gingerly to avoid stepping on the strewn bits of food. She headed to Homa and Hossein to apologize for her children’s behaviour. Moments after their mother left the room, their father stepped in. He saw Taraneh and Omid bent over her bed placing lint-covered chunks of food onto the empty plate. Taraneh saw him first. She was not sure whether to continue cleaning. She decided to start the conversation, in the hopes that it would end well.

  “We’re cleaning it up, Baba,” Taraneh smiled brightly. “It’ll be all clean in a few minutes.”

  “You children,” their father said loathsomely in a low voice, “you have no respect for us.”

  Lethargically, he walked toward them, oblivious to the food scattered about. Intuiting the need to defend themselves, Omid and Taraneh rose simultaneously. They stood side by side between the two beds with their backs to the wall. He came close to them, then leaned forward unsteadily and took each child’s jaw in one of
his hands. He swayed slightly as if he was on a boat but his gaze remained focused on them. Taraneh and Omid stood fixed to the spot. Their father’s grip on their faces was exceedingly painful as his large thick fingers pressed their flesh into their bones and teeth.

  “We do it all for you,” slurred their father, his breath more foul than an hour earlier, “and you ruin everything good.”

  Taraneh could hear Omid crying, scared by their father’s fury and strength. She felt only the pain in her face as he squeezed her mercilessly.

  Their mother reappeared in the doorway with a sombre expression. “Reza, Teymour is asking for you,” she said in an uninterested tone.

  “Bale, yes, darling,” he said lovingly as his anger released quickly in response to new stimuli. He disengaged his grip on the children and swayed to the doorway. With a puckered mouth and drooping eyelids, he leaned forward to kiss his wife on her lips. She turned her face and received his kiss on her cheek. In response, he laughed boisterously. On his way out, he smacked their mother’s buttock, and leaned close to mumble, “I love you, Mojegan.” He returned to the living room and turned up the volume of the music.

  Mojegan remained in the doorway looking at Taraneh and Omid. “Stop crying. Nothing’s happened and you’re just fine,” their mother said sternly to Omid. “Finish cleaning up.”

  ***

  After Taraneh and Omid cleaned the room and changed their clothes, they apologized to Parviz and Pegah within hearing distance of both mothers. Omid returned to his room, evicted Ali and Majid, and shut his door. Taraneh took her dinner plate and novel to her parents’ walk-in closet. Nassrin entertained Pegah in her room, and in the dining room Parviz tried vainly to teach backgammon to Ali and Majid.

  The party wrapped up early, at midnight. Taraneh, Nassrin, and Omid made sure to be present for farewells, as well as the necessary clean-up. When their father returned from walking the last guests to the elevator, he turned on the stereo and continued to drink. After a half hour of helping their mother tidy, Taraneh and her siblings were instructed to retire to bed. Nassrin was the first to kiss her father goodnight, then Omid, and lastly Taraneh. Her father smiled contentedly in his seat and extended his cheek to receive their kisses.

  When Taraneh approached, he took her wrist and rubbed her open palm on his stubbly chin to tickle her. Taraneh smiled for appearances. She was weary and on the cusp of crying from frustration. She sensed that there was no space in her relationship with her parents for her feelings. At best, her attempts to convey her displeasure would remain unheard. The most likely outcome, as well as the worst-case scenario, would be them perceiving her feelings as insults intended to undermine their efforts as parents. Either way, Taraneh was too tired to advocate for herself.

  Her father looked at her pitiably and implored, “You have a good father, hm?”

  Imperceptibly, Taraneh’s shoulders slumped under the weight of everything her parents needed from her. “Bale, yes, Baba,” she replied sweetly with a hasty kiss and a prompt exit.

  CHAPTER 10

  TWO WEEKS LATER, the phone rang at ten o’clock on a Saturday morning after another party. Reza was asleep and Mojegan was busy with housework. For the girls’ sake, she had held off until nine before beginning to vacuum the entire apartment. Omid had been awake since seven, propped up steps away from the TV set, watching Saturday morning cartoons and eating copious amounts of Cap’n Crunch from a large salad bowl. When the vacuum started, Omid turned up the volume in a futile attempt to hear the wicked Gargamel describe to his jaded cat Azrael his plan to capture the Smurfs. When he found his ear pressed against the speakers and still unable to hear, Omid capitulated to the vacuum’s supremacy, drank the remaining milk from the bowl, and headed to his room to read comic books.

  The girls tried to block out the noise with pillows and blankets. They relented when Mojegan arrived in their room to vacuum their carpet. Nassrin emerged first from the bedroom and occupied the washroom, while Taraneh headed to the kitchen for a glass of water. It was Taraneh who she spotted the red light flickering on the phone display, the ringer rendered inaudible by the din.

  “Hello?” Taraneh yelled into the receiver.

  The noise of the vacuum cut out at that moment.

  “Mojegan? Salam, Akbar ast-em. Hello, it’s Akbar.” The male caller spoke in Farsi and sounded very far away.

  “Uh, Salam, hello,” Taraneh began. “This is Taraneh. I mean, Taraneh ast-em.”

  “Taraneh-jaan, salam.” The man sounded very pleased to hear her voice. “Man, Daaee Akbar-et ast-em. I am your Uncle Akbar.”

  “Salam, Daaee,” said Taraneh loudly to overcome the inferior connection. She was relieved to see Mojegan appear in the living room with a quizzical expression, her vacuum still in hand. With her palm over the mouthpiece, Taraneh explained that it was Uncle Akbar calling from Iran.

  “Daaee-jaan, Maman inja ast. Uncle, here is Maman,” said Taraneh before she held out the phone to her mother.

  With a disapproving expression, Mojegan indicated to Taraneh that she had ended the conversation abruptly, impolitely.

  Taraneh spoke again to her uncle, “Ruze-e khubi dasht-e basheed. Khodah hafez. Have a nice day. Goodbye.”

  “Here,” Taraneh handed Mojegan the phone and headed to the unoccupied bathroom. Mojegan cringed in reaction to Taraneh’s abrupt farewell but she was too excited to speak to her brother to corral her daughter into a repeat performance.

  “Akbar-jaan, it is so lovely to hear your voice,” Mojegan said with genuine interest. “Tell me, how is Zeena and the children?”

  Mojegan was overjoyed to speak with Akbar, who she considered to be her surrogate father. Once a week, she chatted with her mother and sisters, but she spoke to Akbar and Omar infrequently. Both men were busy balancing their obligations at work and at home. In addition, Akbar was Batoul’s primary caregiver. He accompanied her to doctors’ appointments, made sure she took her heart medication, went on morning walks with her, and discouraged her from strenuous chores. His siblings were beholden to Akbar for his dedication to their mother’s wellness. More than any of the others, Mojegan felt indebted to Akbar. When they lived in Tehran, she had imagined returning to Shiraz, building a new home, and having Batoul move into a space suited to her needs. Mojegan envisioned taking her mother on day trips to the city gardens, to the lake, and to the mountains. In the afternoons, she had planned to massage Batoul’s hands, legs, and feet in sweet almond oil before she took rest. Mojegan had even considered the best diet for her seventy-year-old mother, who had few remaining molars, high blood pressure, and heart disease. She never mentioned this plan to her mother or her siblings, for fear of sounding ungrateful or arrogant. When Mojegan realized her family would not return to Iran anytime soon, she grieved the loss of her dream to care for Batoul in her last decades. To ease her misery, she sent more money to Akbar to help pay for Batoul’s increasingly long list of heart medications. Her efforts seemed insufficient in comparison to the day-to-day caregiving her brother performed willingly and lovingly.

  “Zeena and the children are well, Mojegan.” Akbar spoke slowly, loudly, and articulated each word.

  “Khoub, khoub. Good, good.” Mojegan smiled to hear the familiar Shirazi accent, exaggerated by his concerted effort to enunciate. “And, Maman? Is she good? Did she start the ACE inhibitors?”

  “Mojegan-jaan, Maman is not well,” said Akbar with considerable emotion.

  “Chi shode-e? What’s happened? Does she have chest pain? She should go to the hospital immediately.” Mojegan could hear herself rambling and knew that Akbar would not be able to understand the jumble over the bad connection.

  “Nah, Mojegan. Foath kardeh. She has passed away. Last night. A hemorrhagic stroke.”

  Akbar’s voice sounded like a faint whisper drowned out by someone screaming and wailing. She wanted the noises to stop, to clear her mind, and to ask Akbar to
repeat himself. She was sure she misheard him. Batoul was taking the right steps to control her heart disease. Mojegan had researched the prescriptions herself. She squeezed her eyes shut to filter out the horrid screaming. When she opened her eyes again, she was lying on the living room floor. Initially, she thought the floor was swaying but she noticed Taraneh sitting by her feet, motionless. Reza stood in his boxer shorts turned away from her with the phone at his ear, listening more than speaking. In the hallway, Nassrin and Omid stood side by side with pensive expressions, uncertain whether to approach their mother.

  Mojegan wanted to demand answers from Akbar, to correct this mistake. The lump in her throat made it difficult to breathe and impossible to speak. Her jaw felt slack and in her right ear, pressed into the carpet, she heard the hollow sounds of a cave. The moment at hand was the only moment that ever existed. Mojegan could not think of a past or a future, and she felt she would never need to eat or drink again.

  “Maman?” Taraneh knelt onto her knees and elbows to make eye contact. “Let’s go to the bed.”

  Mojegan had no answer. She saw Taraneh’s youthful complexion, her hair chaotic and her eyes still puffy from sleep. She is worried about me, Mojegan thought. She worries too much, just like me. Mojegan brushed a few strands off of Taraneh’s forehead and tried to smile reassuringly. This is a mistake, Mojegan wanted to say. I misheard.

  For a moment, Mojegan felt that she was liquefying and the rug was absorbing her body. Her head and torso were too heavy to lift. Besides, I can’t feel my legs, she realized. She assessed how she might stand and whether there was any need to stand. Then, that dreadful screaming returned, and it kept her from sorting out her thoughts. The wail reminded her of the unsettling yowls of distraught relatives who clung to stretchers that were rushed into the emergency room. She pressed her eyes shut and clamped her palms over her ears to drive out the screaming. From under her arms, she felt herself being lifted. Mojegan smelt Reza’s musky scent and felt his warm skin, and she rested her face on his shirtless chest. He tucked her under one arm and walked her to their bedroom. Taraneh walked a few steps behind them, and her two younger children stepped aside for the procession. Taraneh stood at the doorway to her parents’ bedroom and watched uneasily. Reza guided Mojegan to their bed and under the blankets. He closed her eyes with his palm. Mojegan was glad that the screaming had stopped, and she was comforted by the familiar scents of their bedclothes. Reza is here, Mojegan thought, and he will figure it out.