The Daughter Who Walked Away

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The Daughter Who Walked Away Page 29

by Kimia Eslah


  During their Saturday morning phone conversation, her mother continued, “Conflict is part of life, aziz-am, my dear, as is compromise. Come visit today and make us happy. I promise you’ll have fun, too. Nassrin has cancelled plans to be at home, and Omid is always home. I’ll make jujeh kabob, chicken kebab, on the barbeque …”

  “I don’t feel well. I will visit another time,” Taraneh excused herself again.

  “What’s the matter? Are you sick? We can come to you,” her mother negotiated. “I can bring food.”

  “Merci, Maman. I’m not sick. I’m just not up to visiting,” Taraneh shifted from one foot to another and worried about an emotional mine she might set off.

  “Not up to visiting me?” her mother asked earnestly, in a wounded tone. “I didn’t know it took so much out of you to visit your own mother.”

  “No, that’s not it,” Taraneh pleaded despite the truth in her mother’s statement.

  Mojegan wanted desperately to spend time with Taraneh. She worried that distance between Taraneh and their family would lead to her daughter’s downfall. Initially, Mojegan hoped that living on her own would educate Taraneh about the hardships of succeeding in the adult world. She hoped that working among discerning adults would convince Taraneh that her physical appearance did limit her prospects. She hoped that struggling to balance school assignments with work shifts would overwhelm Taraneh and facilitate her return home.

  After two years of living apart from her daughter, Mojegan was at a loss. More distant and resistant, eighteen-year-old Taraneh had begun to dictate the terms of their relationship. During one of her calamitous visits, Taraneh had decreed that it was no longer permissible for her parents to give their unsolicited opinions or advice about her life choices. Reza had brushed off the topic and returned to watching television. Dumbfounded by the implications of what Taraneh had said, Mojegan had changed the topic to a nearby sale on summer dresses.

  In her opinion, it was a mother’s prerogative and obligation to inform her children, especially her daughters, about their life choices. She had wanted to shake Taraneh by the shoulders and to warn her impressionable daughter that her motherly opinion and advice were the only ones to be trusted. Mojegan had become certain that Canadian society had influenced Taraneh to adopt such peculiar and dangerous notions about family relationships. From the time they immigrated to Toronto, Mojegan had tried to protect her children from appropriating the culture and lifestyles of white people. Yet, Taraneh had grown to identify dangerously and closely with Canadian culture. She could be the smartest, the prettiest, the most successful young woman, Mojegan lamented nervously. I must not give up on her.

  During their Saturday morning phone call, when she missed her daughter beyond measure and dreaded another week of not seeing her, Mojegan offered an alternative, “Do you want to meet for coffee tomorrow? Just you and me?”

  Briskly, Taraneh assented and ended their call. Mojegan shook her head with disapproval. She still doesn’t know how to end a call politely, she lamented.

  ***

  The following day, Mojegan had settled in at the Country Style nearest to her house in suburban North York. The coffee shop was packed with the post-church crowd tucking into egg salad sandwiches and chicken soup. Mojegan sat at a table for four near the front door. Before her were a plate with two honey crullers, two cups of black coffee, and several creamers and sugar packets neatly organized. She had wiped the stained Formica top with a serviette and piled crumbs at the edge of the table. She smiled briefly at the elderly pair who glanced at her from their nearby table. They ate their lunch quietly and leisurely. At once, Mojegan pitied and envied them. Their lives are so small, she thought, to be having lunch at a coffee shop. Where are their children? To tend to them. To make their lunches, or at least take them to eat somewhere special.

  Mojegan did not visit coffee shops often. She preferred her own coffee, with her own cups, and at her own home. Looking upon the couple who crumbled crackers into thin soup and stirred milk into tepid tea, Mojegan assumed they lived unhappily in a darkly lit apartment that was cluttered with debris.

  This is a treat for them, Mojegan thought sadly before she realized how much she wanted something similar. She and Reza rarely spent time alone together. At the end of the day, Reza drank and watched television alongside Omid while Mojegan organized and reorganized cupboards. On the weekends, he passed the days doing home repairs, and they spent the evenings hosting or attending parties. When she did have his sober, undivided attention, she lost all desire to be romantic or playful. Instead, she found him intolerable and herself angry.

  In her fantasy life, she and Reza dedicated their lives to raising three loving and successful children, and spent weekends strolling romantically through woodland trails, enjoying an intimate beach picnic or day-tripping to a small town with boutiques and a market where they could browse arm in arm. In her fantasy life, she did not begrudge Reza for being unable to remain sober into the night and he did not resent Mojegan for wanting more than he was willing to offer. In her fantasy life, she was content.

  “Taraneh, khoshkel-am, my beautiful!” her mother called out cheerily when Taraneh entered the coffee shop.

  “Hi, Maman,” Taraneh smiled in spite of her anxiety.

  She kissed her mother thrice and embraced her tightly. Taraneh loved to be in her mother’s arms, to be stroked by her mother’s hands, and to hear her mother’s voice say her name. No one else said Taraneh’s name in the same way. Her mother made her name sound beautiful, like a love song or a prayer.

  Her mother nudged forward the coffee and donuts. In English, she said, “I think you like crullers, right?”

  Before Taraneh could answer, her mother exclaimed in hushed tones, “What happened to your brow? Are you okay?”

  Taraneh recited her prepared response, “I was running up subway stairs and slipped. It’s fine now. Just healing.”

  “Running up stairs?” her mother asked doubtfully. “That’s how that happened?”

  “Yes, and it’s healing,” Taraneh tried reassuringly. “Thank you for the coffee. And the cruller.” Following that, Taraneh took a large bite of the cruller, prepared her coffee, and fortified herself to introduce her next topic. “Maman, I have a book for you,” Taraneh began as she rummaged in her canvas knapsack.

  “Taraneh, do you think you need to see a doctor? I mean, how hard did you hit your head?” her mother pressed forward to examine the cut closely.

  “I’m good, Maman, really,” Taraneh smiled, nodded, and placed a book on the table and her knapsack at her feet. With her index finger, she pushed the book closer to her mother.

  “You know it can feel okay even as it becomes something serious,” her mother continued earnestly. “I’m a nurse, koochooloo, little one. Concussions can be fatal.”

  “Really, Maman. I am okay,” Taraneh struggled to remain calm. “See this book?”

  Her mother did not see the book. She was deeply concerned about the cut on Taraneh’s brow and she seemed determined to overcome Taraneh’s refusal of help. “I wish you would take my advice for once and see a doctor,” her mother tried softly. “You can still go to our family doctor.”

  Flustered, Taraneh said gruffly, “Fine. I will see a doctor. Can you look at this book, now?”

  “Thank you, Taraneh. It means a lot to me,” she continued pleasantly and ignored Taraneh’s bad-tempered behaviour. “I can call the doctor and book you an appointment for this week.”

  “Hm,” Taraneh managed.

  “So, what is this book? A novel you’re reading?” her mother smiled and picked up the slim paperback book. “You know, it was always my hope that we would exchange books.”

  “I got it from my counsellor. I thought you might want to read it.” Taraneh looked into her coffee cup and tried to remember her reasons for bringing the book. She didn’t notice the change in her mother’s e
xpression.

  Her mother stared at the cover sternly and asked curtly, “What’s this?”

  “I’ve read it a couple of times. It’s easy to read, well, not easy exactly but it’s …” Taraneh blathered into her lap.

  “Why are you reading this? Why did you bring this to me?” her mother scowled in disgust as she laid down the book with her index finger and thumb.

  “It’s helped me a lot. It helps me understand why I have such a hard time with … things,” Taraneh looked at the book. Regretful, she wanted to return it to her bag immediately, but she didn’t dare reach out.

  For two weeks, she had read and reread the book. Her counsellor had lent her many similar books but Taraneh could most relate to this one — Marty Mann Answers your Questions about Drinking and Alcoholism. Initially, Taraneh had been startled and upset by the book’s relevance to her life. It seemed that the book had been written about her family and her troubles. While the accounts in the book validated her experiences as a child of an alcoholic, they also stripped her experiences of their singularity. Taraneh was enraged to realize that alcoholism is not uncommon, that her father’s alcoholism had probably been evident to family friends, and that no one had bothered to help. No one had bothered to do something as simple as find a book. No one had bothered to reassure her that she wasn’t to blame for his tears or his tirades. Anger and grief followed the startling revelation that she was an innocent bystander who came into existence while a tsunami was in progress.

  When Taraneh read that alcoholism was a disease, she tried to accept that her father suffered from an illness. She worried that the concept of disease precluded her from holding him accountable for his cruelty and carelessness as her parent. Her counsellor assured her that treating alcoholism didn’t absolve the alcoholic’s responsibility for their actions. Taraneh accepted this claim at face value because she wanted desperately to get on with the work of treating her father, fixing her family, and ridding herself of her pain. She brought the book to her mother in the hopes that they could create a plan together.

  Switching to Farsi to increase their privacy, her mother crossed her arms and said, “I don’t understand. What does this have to do with you?”

  “Well, living with …” Taraneh stumbled in thought as she tried to think of the Farsi term for alcoholic. Acutely aware that she had never learned that word, she resorted to English. “Living with an alcoholic made it difficult …” Taraneh continued.

  “Who’s the alcoholic?”” her mother interrupted her and frowned angrily.

  “Baba,” Taraneh eked out, perplexed. “Baba is an alcoholic. The book explains …”

  Once again, her mother cut her off, “Your father is not an alcoholic. If your counsellor is telling you this, then you need …”

  “Wait, no one is telling me this,” Taraneh snapped in her own defence. “I realized it.”

  Her mother shot back, “Did this counsellor say anything about you? About the problems you’ve caused? About your arrogance and your stubbornness?”

  Triggered by her mother’s familiar accusation that Taraneh was the origin of their familial dysfunction, she jumped to her feet and barked with eyes shut tightly, “There is nothing wrong with me!”

  The table wobbled, the two cups spilled, and the pool of coffee spread quickly. Her mother pushed back her chair promptly, and then she reached under the table to rescue Taraneh’s knapsack from the stream of coffee running over the edges. Taraneh stood motionless and stared at her distracted mother. A friendly server arrived with several rags and moved around Taraneh to clean up the mess. Her mother apologized to the server and offered to help with the clean-up.

  “No worries. Happens all the time,” the server smiled sympathetically. “Unfortunately, your book got the worst of it.”

  Exhausted, Taraneh turned mechanically to stare at her book. The server held the thoroughly soaked paperback, which was dripping coffee, away from herself and over a waste bin.

  “Do you wanna salvage it?” the server looked back and forth from mother and daughter.

  “No,” they replied in unison.

  EPILOGUE

  “TARANEH, ARE YOU HUNGRY?” Haseem propped up the edge of the duvet to look at his wife.

  After joining him and their boys for breakfast, she had seemed energetic and sociable. Haseem thought that she might come along to the park but she returned to bed in her sweater and jeans. When they returned from the playground, he found her in bed still.

  “It’s lunchtime and I have some tuna melts waiting for us downstairs.” Haseem examined Taraneh’s face for any signs of interest.

  Taraneh opened her eyes and looked at Haseem sadly. She had one foot in the present but her mind was preoccupied with the past. Haseem recognized her distant, dejected expression and understood that Taraneh had spent the previous hours pondering whether to see her parents following their sixteen-year estrangement.

  For days before and after the yearly visit their boys made to their grandparents, Taraneh was anxious and depressed about her disconnection from her parents. Ultimately, she uttered the phrase that triggered Haseem to ask the most significant question.

  “Maybe, I should visit my parents,” Taraneh deliberated aloud.

  Taraneh used the term should when she wanted to overrule her aversion to the idea with a rigid sense of moral obligation. It required an immense amount of optimism and forgetfulness for Taraneh to envision a happy reunion. At best, she imagined a brief initial period when she would be wrapped in her mother’s arms and contained in motherly love. Then, one of her parents would lament the lost years and disregard the reasons for their estrangement, thereby shattering the delicate moment. Shrapnel would embed in Taraneh’s tender understanding of her journey, only to cause confusion and diminish her ability to persevere. She used the term should to override her intuition and to embolden her faith in second chances. Otherwise, the idea repulsed her.

  “Do you want to see your parents?” Haseem invariably probed.

  Often, Taraneh rejected the idea quickly and emphatically. Other years, she lingered on the question for hours and days before deciding against a visit. Haseem couldn’t predict whether she would answer immediately or not. That seemed dependent on her mood and her ability to think dispassionately.

  He knew that her parents would not refuse her. During Haseem’s visit to her parents’ home on the previous day, Reza had expressed his deep sadness for his estrangement from Taraneh. Haseem had been sitting alone at the patio table watching the boys run around the vast grass-covered yard with new neon water guns. As the heat from the afternoon sun had intensified, Haseem had grown increasingly certain that it was time to withdraw indoors and prepare for their departure. Just as he had resolved to beckon Zaeem and Ziyad, Reza appeared at his side.

  The older man, who had been watching the football game and drinking whiskey for the length of their visit, took a seat across the patio table from Haseem. Reza faced out to the length of the yard and to the expansive blue of Lake Ontario.

  “Game finished?” Haseem asked amicably in an effort to avoid seeming distant.

  The annual visits to his in-laws had prepared him to chat about many topics while sharing very little information about himself. Politely, Mojegan and Reza inquired about Haseem’s father and siblings, his work, and their life in the city. Mostly, the three adults discussed the boys. Mojegan reflected on their physical resemblance to their uncle and her son, Omid. Reza announced their strengths and predicted their professions. Haseem smiled and listened to their commentary.

  The lack of familiarity between him and his in-laws created a buffer that allowed him to hear their words without the noisy emotional feedback that accompanies familial intimacy. In practical terms, the boys were still very young and required continuous supervision; parenting readily provided Haseem with a reasonable excuse to curtail any conversation that skirted sensitive topics.<
br />
  “This game has ended,” Reza answered without looking away from the lake. “The next one starts in twenty minutes.”

  “I was about to call the boys in, to get ready to head out,” Haseem informed him.

  Reza did not respond. Instead, he sipped his drink and Haseem returned to monitoring the boys. They had been at the far corner of the yard where the green grass ended and the sand and pebbles of the shore began. Driftwood and algae littered the wet beach. The gentle waves of the lake were nearly a hundred metres from the edge of the lawn where Zaeem and Ziyad played, but Haseem kept a close eye on his sons.

  “You know, Haseem, we love Taraneh very much,” Reza started.

  Briefly, Haseem glanced at Reza to calculate his response. Reza continued to sit facing the lake with his thick, tanned arms crossed over his paunch. From his grave expression and slight mumbling, Haseem realized that his father-in-law was inebriated.

  “Yes, I know,” Haseem managed. He hadn’t been able to think of another response that did not invite a conversation about Taraneh.

  “We want what is best for her,” Reza declared matter-of-factly as he turned to face Haseem and place his drink and large forearms on the patio table.

  Haseem had glanced at Reza briefly, to show respect for his elder, but he continued to watch the boys as they knelt in the sand and examined the debris.

  “Her mother and I are not young. You understand?” Reza asked.

  “Yes, I understand,” Haseem replied.

  “Her mother is very sad,” Reza said, shaking his head unapprovingly. “It’s not fair to punish her like this.”

  Haseem bit into his lower lip to avoid lengthening the conversation with clarifications. He nodded slowly and continued to watch his sons.

  “Yes, and I am not one to complain, you understand?” Reza continued. “It’s just that it breaks my heart to see her mother crying like she does.”

 

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