by Kimia Eslah
“Hi. Can I come in?” asked Nilou.
“Yeah, sure,” replied Taraneh, somewhat surprised at the friendliness in her own tone.
Nilou opened the door halfway and smiled sweetly at her guest. Again, she crossed her arms and leaned with her shoulder against the door. Taraneh presumed that this was a common stance for Nilou in the doorways of her house.
“Ready for more water? Or, something to eat?” she asked.
Taraneh smiled faintly and nodded. A mixture of shame and self-pity pressed her to leave this woman and her house as quickly as possible. Countering her urge to flee the scene of the previous night’s aftermath was her overriding desire to be cared for, to be mothered. She reasoned that part of being a good guest was to accept the offerings of her host graciously. I’ll eat a bit and then head out, Taraneh told herself.
“Okay, when you’re ready, meet me in the kitchen,” Nilou said with a smile and a small bounce of her heels.
Once alone, Taraneh removed and folded the soiled pillowcase, then tidied the bedclothes. Shyly, she opened the bedroom door the rest of the way. Feeling somewhat exposed, she leaned out to survey the empty, narrow hallway. To her left was the end of the hall and a closed door. Across the hall were another two closed doors. To her right was the open door to the washroom. To the right of the washroom was another closed door. From behind that door, she heard folksy music that sounded like Buffy Sainte Marie.
At the other end of the hall, she spied kitchen cabinets, sliding glass doors, and a backyard. She had planned to rush the few steps to the washroom. When she stepped into the hall, she froze. Several family photographs hung along the wall; they captured happy moments of a family over a couple of decades. One school portrait garnered her undivided attention.
Sam, the new hire, dressed in a pastel green shirt and sporting a coiffed mane that matched Simon Le Bon’s. This is Sam’s house. That is Sam’s mom, Taraneh thought mortified.
At the sound of a bedroom door opening, Taraneh leaped into the washroom and shut herself in. She stood with her back to the door and listened intently. The mezzo-soprano voice of Joni Mitchell singing “Help Me” grew louder. Taraneh heard a girl beseech loudly, “Mom! Remember, no bacon.” Then, a door shut, muting the music.
To her left, Taraneh caught a glimpse of her reflection in the vanity mirror. Her complexion was slightly jaundiced except for the dark blue bruise that surrounded the blood-encrusted cut on her right brow. As she leaned in to examine her wound, memories of the previous night revealed themselves. Taraneh recalled that Avanti had bought the first round of drinks. Around the adjoined tables at the Groundhog, several people from work, as well as Danny’s roommate Harry, had poured from the two pitchers. Sam, who had come alone, had mingled easily with the regulars. The ease with which he established rapport had incensed Taraneh. She distrusted his jovial disposition and had avoided all contact with him. To distance herself from Sam, Taraneh had created a buffer of Avanti and Danny. When the couple disappeared to the washroom, Taraneh had found herself cornered by Harry. She remembered his white sports jacket and blue shirt, as well as how he curled his graying chest hair around one finger as he leaned in too close for her comfort. Multiple times, she had managed to escape his fog of Brut cologne and his wandering hands by retreating to the washroom. In addition to dodging Harry, she had been agitated by thoughts of the previous day’s assault on the subway and the upcoming visit to her parents’. To distract herself, she had spent the first hour drinking greedily.
Much later, she had wobbled out of the grimy washroom. She had steadied herself by leaning on the brass rail of the bar when she heard the bartender announce last call and the pub groan in unison. Harry had appeared by her side with four tequila shots. When Taraneh had asked if Avanti and Danny would join in, Harry said that they had already left. She remembered that she had felt very upset, even slightly teary, by the news. The last memory she recalled was of Harry and the tequila shots. He had suggested they drink up and return to his place to see her friends.
But I didn’t go to Harry’s, Taraneh confirmed the obvious. I came home with Sam. I came home with Sam and his mother.
The alluring smell of bacon and eggs drifted into the washroom. Taraneh’s stomach growled so loudly she worried it could be heard in the hallway. Despite her reticence to eat in a stranger’s house with their family, particularly after behaving badly and humiliating herself, Taraneh was salivating at the memory of eating fried eggs and bacon. Her usual breakfast consisted of a couple of spoonsful of generic peanut butter, a few packets of saltines, and a cup of instant coffee she drank black unless she’d remembered to pocket sugar and creamers from work the night before. The first few weeks of this diet had her feeling authentically punk, as destitute as the street kids with whom she had once panhandled and dumpster dived. Having spent the last eighteen months eating poor imitations of breakfast, lunch, and dinner most of the time, she was perpetually hungry for a substantial meal. Taraneh remembered the breakfasts her mother prepared each morning before she left for work: several warmed pitas with a serving plate of eggs over-easy cooked in butter, salted, and slightly browned; she even supplied cereal, in case they were still hungry after polishing off the serving plate. At the time, breakfast had seemed simple but in retrospect Taraneh considered it extravagant, knowing the price of eggs, butter, and cereal. She stacked all the reasons why she should grab her boots and run out the door but at that moment all the reasons in her world couldn’t outweigh a home-cooked breakfast.
Swiftly, she pawed through the cupboard for gauze and a toothbrush. After administering to her cut and brushing her teeth, she washed her face gingerly, pocketed the toothbrush, tidied the hand towel, and wiped down the sink. One last time, she examined herself in the mirror. You’re as sad as you are ugly. You should go home, you piece of shit.
The familiar, weighty mass of feeling unworthy swelled within Taraneh’s core.. To steady herself, she gripped the edges of the vanity and gazed into the blackness of the drain. Desperate to recapture the conviction she had experienced moments earlier, to follow through with her plan to sit alongside a mother and be cared for, even if only briefly, she wiped away her tears and willed herself to stop crying.
When she looked in the mirror again, Taraneh felt cold and changed. She didn’t belong there, not in the welcoming house, not among its thoughtful owners, not even in their modest bathroom. She was an outcast from her own family. Her own parents didn’t think she belonged in their house, in their care, and under their protection, and she couldn’t imagine how she could ever belong anywhere else. She was undesirable, unwanted, and unworthy of compassion. Sam’s mother hasn’t realized it yet. Taraneh surmised that her vulnerable and injured state had caused Nilou to mistake Taraneh for a blameless, helpless girl, someone who deserved her mothering. Nilou didn’t recognize her for the corrupt person that she was. Taraneh grew certain that accepting Nilou’s care was tantamount to stealing. She wants to help a good girl, and I’m not that girl.
In the mirror, Taraneh eyed the frayed collar of her secondhand shirt and the dirt streaks on her right sleeve. She leaned in to see the yellowed whites of her eyes and the dark circles underneath. In an avalanche of self-loathing, she disparaged her facial hair, her acne, and even her odour. She sneered at herself in disgust. Stupid bitch. Go home!
Wiping away tears with her sleeves, Taraneh regained composure. She decided to go home immediately. I should shower. I should put on a nice dress. I should visit my parents. I should stop letting them down. I should try harder to be a good person, to be the daughter they deserve. Taraneh was tired of failing at being loved. She was willing to give up everything to be loved again, to be wanted again, by her own parents. She was willing to be a good girl and to do everything that that entailed.
When she opened the bathroom door, she no longer heard music from the next room. Instead, she heard the public radio broadcast from the direction of the ki
tchen. She walked slowly past the last closed door, and before her the hallway opened into the foyer of the bungalow. On her right, a short flight of stairs led to the front door. Among several pairs of shoes on a rack, she saw her very clean steel-toed boots, unlaced and with tongues hanging out like happy dogs. The laces lay beside them, drying.
In the large window panes of the front door, she saw her reflection again. She saw her whole form and she saw through herself. The transparency of the glass and her distance from it prevented her from seeing the physical details that had mesmerized her in the bathroom mirror. She saw a girl, a person of no greater or lesser significance than any other. Not depraved and not extraordinary. Just another person, like any other reflection that she spied while riding the streetcar or waiting in line, and like all the other reflections that seemed ordinary while they performed mundane tasks and achieved mediocre results. Her own reflection was startlingly ordinary. She struggled to see once more the repugnant creature that she had glimpsed in the bathroom mirror but she saw only the reflection of a girl, like any other.
I don’t understand. Why do they blame me for their misery? How do they know it’s my fault? It could be their fault, couldn’t it? They probably had problems before I was born, right? Besides, they’re the grownups. Aren’t they supposed to make things better? What makes them think I can fix anything?
“Hey,” said a girl gently. She was similar in age to Taraneh. “It’s over here.”
Startled by the sudden appearance of another person, Taraneh stuttered, “Okay.”
The girl turned in to the cluttered family room on Taraneh’s left and weaved between two couches, a large ottoman, and a coffee table to reach a breakfast nook that faced the backyard. Closely resembling a young Joan Baez, she wore a short paisley granny dress and moved effortlessly as might a pixie. This is Sam’s younger sister, Taraneh connected the dots. The space shuttle room belongs to Sam’s older sister.
From the foyer, Taraneh regarded the sunlit breakfast nook and the table settings. In the sunbeams that bounced off the table, she saw prisms of light in the water glasses and steam rising from the plates of hot food. The girl nestled herself on the end of the rounded bench and tucked her bare legs under her. She looked puzzled to see Taraneh still standing there.
“Do you hear this fool on the radio?” Nilou asked lightheartedly as she stepped into the breakfast nook and into Taraneh’s view. Nilou was speaking to the girl, who was looking expectedly at Taraneh. Nilou also turned to look at Taraneh standing in the foyer looking lost.
“Oh, Terry. Come. Brunch is ready,” Nilou prompted in an easy-going manner as she laid down a plate heaped with bacon. “Do you eat bacon? Goldie is vegetarian this week, so …”
“Mom!” the young girl whined in protest. “I’ve been a vegetarian for three weeks now,” she countered and rolled her eyes dramatically at her mother.
“Right, sorry. Three weeks,” Nilou corrected herself and smiled mischievously at Taraneh.
Taraneh’s gaze darted between the mother and daughter. You’re already a reject. You want to be a beggar, too? She remembered her earlier decision to bolt. I should go home. I should shower and dress and visit my parents and be a better daughter and try harder. She tried to excuse herself. Her jaw and tongue moved but her lips remained closed. The tormenting mass in her core reasserted itself, and she felt her eyes sting as she tried to avoid shedding tears. She agonized, How can I possibly try harder? Why am I never good enough?
Taraneh recalled the attackers on the westbound train and her thumb ached at the memory. She tried to identify all the ways she could have avoided their attention and their aggression. If she’d had long hair and a demure smile, if she had worn a skirt and a bra, or if she’d had a boyfriend at her side, then maybe they might not have seen her, singled her out, and surmised that in the event of an attack she’d be left to defend herself. Was that true? Taraneh questioned her reasoning. Am I naively making myself a target? Am I endangering myself, making life harder for myself, just to prove I’m a rebel, some badass punk? She cringed at the thought that her self-expression was childish and dispensable. Despite her brusque demeanour, Taraneh considered herself to be informed and aware. Contrary to her stubbornness in the face of opposition, she analyzed her ideas privately to verify their ongoing viability. Like her peers, she sensed that she was also self-absorbed at times but she reviled the possibility that she lacked substance. Her identity and her self-expression felt natural and comfortable. Indeed, she felt like she was blossoming with self-discoveries, and in spite of her overwhelming loneliness, she felt more authentic than ever before. Taraneh writhed angrily within herself. Why would I choose to be cast out, to be hated by my own parents?
Taraneh remembered her proximity to being raped by Harry on the previous night and her averting assault on the subway the day before that. How could she could be responsible for the actions of these men? In the reflection of the window pane, Taraneh had seen an ordinary girl, neither a villain nor an adversary. Across the room, she saw a woman who cared for this girl, this stranger, enough to rescue her from violence, provide her with shelter, tend to her wounds, and offer a place at her table. She wondered how Nilou could extend such affection and generosity for the girl who roused violence and hate in others and elicited contempt from her own parents.
“Goldie, you start,” Nilou said to her daughter, who had already begun eating. By the time Nilou reached Taraneh, the young woman had unravelled to the floor. She gathered her knees into herself and began sobbing into her lap. When she felt Nilou rubbing her back, the remaining strands of composure snapped and she spun out of control.
“My parents threw me out,” Taraneh blurted between gasps and moans, from behind her shielded face. “I smoke. I do drugs. I’m not a virgin anymore. I stay out late, at bars, with men.” She glanced briefly at Nilou to see her reaction. Confident that her disclosure would compel Nilou to withdraw her goodwill, Taraneh teetered on the precipice of relief as she anticipated hearing a polite request to leave. To leave at Nilou’s request felt considerably easier than to leave of her own will.
Nilou’s eyes met her own with an expression of concern and kindness. She smiled a small smile with the corners of her mouth, and said, “Me, too. I mean, just acetaminophen, but it’s extra strength.”
Caught off guard by Nilou’s joke, Taraneh gagged on her phlegm and coughed vigorously to clear her airways. Nilou fetched a glass of water and a box of tissues, and promptly returned to her side. After taking a few sips and blowing her nose, Taraneh inhaled deeply and Nilou resumed rubbing her back. Having anticipated an immediate and emphatic dismissal, she was left confused and embarrassed by the anticlimactic reaction to her dramatic outburst. She felt unanchored in an unfamiliar way. It was not the anguish that accompanied being disregarded and abandoned. Instead, she felt released from something weighty and burdensome. These were unchartered waters. She didn’t know how to proceed but she knew she didn’t want to look back.
“It’s just me and Goldie here.” Nilou reassured her. “You don’t have to talk. Just come and eat. Hm?”
***
During the meal, sixteen-year-old Goldie chattered nonstop about her weekend plans. Taraneh rested her gaze on her plate, spoke once to thank Nilou for the meal, and deliberated her own plans. When Goldie leaped out of her seat and exclaimed that she was expected at a friend’s house shortly, Taraneh offered to help Nilou wash dishes.
“Wanna watch a movie?” Nilou had asked as she dried and shelved plates. “I rented Terms of Endearment with Shirley MacLaine. Hm?”
Uncertain about the courteous response, Taraneh had hesitated. She had wondered, Is this my cue to leave?
Interpreting Taraneh’s pause as an aversion to the movie, Nilou had added, “I also have Trading Places. Eddie Murphy is cool, right? Oh, and Jaws 3! Sharks are still cool, no?”
Despite her sombre disposition, Taraneh had laughed out
loud and replied, “Yes, I think sharks are still cool.”
Encouraged by Taraneh’s smiling face, Nilou had continued, “Okay, then. We can put on Jaws. I just need to get some laundry going first. How about you? Did you want to call your folks?”
In less than five minutes of talking with her mother, Taraneh had snarled into the receiver, “How can I make another good first impression on my dad? I’m already eighteen.”
“I can teach you!” her mother had replied enthusiastically, switching gears and seemingly ignorant of Taraneh’s rhetorical tone.
“You are such a beautiful girl. Why don’t you grow out your hair? We can go to the parlour. It doesn’t have to be an Iranian stylist. You can find someone Canadian.” Her mother offered a transcultural olive branch to demonstrate her goodwill. “Then we could get our nails done, or get some nice dresses for you. You have such a beautiful body. We could get you a nice bra, something really soft. They even have ones with padding, and Taraneh-jaan, no one can tell. It’s all very normal. Breasts come in many shapes.”
“Maman!” Taraneh protested.
As part of a recent counselling exercise, Taraneh had been introduced to boundary setting. Distinguishing her needs and aspirations from those of her parents was an alien concept that demanded a great deal of faith on Taraneh’s part. As much as respect for differences and personal choices appealed to her, Taraneh considered boundary setting to be foreign and possibly incompatible with her family. The shift in paradigm required of her parents before they could accept Taraneh as an independent person, who didn’t owe them anything, who wasn’t responsible for their feelings, and who wouldn’t tolerate abuse, was monumental. Haphazardly, Taraneh practised setting her boundaries with her parents. Defensive and uncertain, her attempts lacked diplomacy and tact. Her parents perceived her as a melodramatic, knife-wielding savage who lacked all the civility required to discuss matters amicably.