Forbidden by Faith

by Negeen Papehn

  The following month, at Bita’s insistence, we had an appointment at a high-end bridal store on the west side. We’d yet to choose a wedding date, but Bita thought that taking part in the time-honored tradition of wedding-dress shopping would be a bonding experience.

  We arrived just minutes before the appointment time. Bita, Neda, and Naghmeh were patiently waiting outside. We were quickly taken in, and I was rushed into a dressing room. The next hour become a whirlwind of tulle and lace. I was put into and taken out of one dress after another, making me feel like a Barbie doll. With every new garment, I was pushed out the door to stand on display, greeted by praise, applause, and pictures for Leyla since she couldn’t be there, then pushed back in to be on display again moments later. By the time I tried on what felt like the hundredth dress, I had a headache.

  The final dress that Neda and Bita brought to the dressing room was a fitted vintage ensemble. The deepest layer was white satin that peeked out from beneath the many layers of lace. It was strapless and hugged my body down to my hips where it began to flare. The lace sat across my bare chest, traveling down my arms in fitted sleeves, as my skin peered out from beneath its pattern. The remainder ran down my body and mimicked the satin, with multiple layers at the bottom that panned out on the floor behind me.

  They helped me into it, then stood back gawking at me, Bita’s eyes brimming with tears for the first time that morning. Then, they pushed me out onto the little stage so the mothers could look at me. I was staring down at my dress trying to see what the fuss was about when I came out.

  There was a collective gasp, snapping my attention back to the mothers. Mom was crying, and Naghmeh was staring at me with a look in her eyes I’d never seen before. Without turning toward Mom, she reached out and grabbed her hand.

  “She looks beautiful,” she whispered.

  Mom placed her other hand on top of Naghmeh’s, still crying. The two women turned toward each other and smiled, now both in tears. I stood frozen along with the others, unsure of what was happening. Neither woman was paying any attention to us.

  “They’re going to be okay,” Mom said, patting Naghmeh’s hand.

  “How are you so sure?” she asked.

  “Because we aren’t going to let them be anything else,” Mom replied confidently.

  The two women were locked in a moment that we were intruders in. I wanted to look away, to give them the privacy the moment seemed to demand, but I couldn’t tear my eyes off of them. I could see the walls around Naghmeh beginning to crumble, right there in the middle of the store.

  She reached over and pulled Mom into an embrace, both of them allowing their emotions to run freely between them. When they pulled away, they were both laughing as they wiped tears off their cheeks. They turned toward our peering eyes and giggled even louder.

  Not many words had been exchanged between them, but it was evident that mountains had moved within the silence. Naghmeh turned toward me.

  “That’s the dress. You look amazing, aziz.”

  The smile on my face stretched so wide my cheeks began to hurt. I hadn’t realized it, but my cheeks were wet from tears. She stood up and walked over to me, putting her hands on my shoulders as she pushed me back to get a better look.

  “Beautiful,” she whispered, then hugged me.

  I stood locked in an embrace with a woman who, I’d thought just months ago, was my enemy. No longer could I feel her disdain or hatred, instead replaced with a kindness I hadn’t imagined I could feel, but had desperately wanted to.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  The alarm wakes me at six thirty. I reach over for it in a haze, refusing to allow the calm of sleep to leave me. I roll onto my side and curl around my pillow, welcoming just a few more minutes of darkness behind my closed lids. I can hear the rustling of the other inhabitants in the house as they, too, turn off their alarms and start readying for the day. A broad smile stretches across my face. Today is my wedding day.

  Mom shows up, gently knocking before coming in. She thinks I’m asleep and I can feel the weight of her gaze settle on me before she walks over. She gently sits down on the edge of the bed, reaches out and runs her hand across my head, a gesture that reminds me of when I was little.

  “Sara, get up, azizam. The hairdresser will be here soon,” she whispers.

  I try to pinch back the tears that spring to my eyes as I realize this will be the last morning I’ll be in the same house as her, the last time she’ll wake me up. The relevance of the day causes a wave of panic to invade my happiness. I’ve been an adult for many years now, but for the first time I feel like a grownup.

  I roll over and look at my mom, her hand still resting on my head. She meets me with that special smile that only she possesses, the one with the ability to heal any wound, calm any fear, make any moment more spectacular. It reaches deep inside me. Tears escape my eyes then, landing in a wet puddle on the pillow. She laughs through her own tears, leaning in to kiss my forehead.

  “None of that, eshgham. Today is a happy day. Now get up or you’ll be late to your own wedding!” she teases, as she lifts herself off the bed and leaves the room.

  I stare at the spot she stood just moments ago, trying to breathe through the pain that is starting to fill my heart. I spent the past few weeks daydreaming about the life I was about to begin, so I forgot to realize there was a life I was also leaving behind. I have the urge to throw the blankets over my head, going back to the safety of my dreams. Instead, I force myself up on my elbows and swing my feet over the edge. Today was meant to be a good day.

  The next few hours are a rush of bodies through the house. The men headed out earlier this morning, suits in tow. They were meeting Maziar, his father, and the groomsmen for breakfast and then drinks and lounging at the apartment until wedding time.

  The vibe I imagine at the apartment is far from the chaos buzzing around me. I am ringed by frantic women trying to put themselves together. We have two hairdressers, one working on me while the other cranks out the bridesmaids. We have multiple makeup artists working furiously as they try to get all twenty women primed and primped for the event.

  I sit back, armed with a venti latte, watching the scene unfolding before me, and I smile. “I’m getting married today,” is the thought that keeps playing on repeat in my mind. Maziar’s mother looks at me and winks as she and Mom flutter around filling teacups and handing out pastries in between their own mission to get ready.

  I wear my hair up in a loose bohemian bun to accentuate the open back and lace details of my dress. As soon as it’s finished, I’m shuffled over to the corner of the room designated for makeup to spend another hour under the aesthetician’s hot lights and expert hands. By the time I’m ready to get into my dress, I’m exhausted.

  “Shake it off,” Mom says. “No time for sleep.”

  “Give me that,” Layla orders, grabbing my empty cup and replacing it with a new one. She’s taking her maid-of-honor duties very seriously.

  Before I know it, they push me into the bedroom, flapping around me like butterflies as I step into my dress.

  “He’s here!” Leyla squeals, just as Mom fastens the last button.

  I experience an unexpected rush in my stomach. I reach out and grab the edge of the chair, suddenly lightheaded and dizzy. A fog settles over my thoughts. I’m nervous.

  I hear the door open from the other end of the house, feel the chatter of the men vibrating off the walls. I try to remind myself to keep breathing, the simple task suddenly becoming difficult. I haven’t seen Maziar for three days, wedding details taking up most of my time. I’m dying to see him.

  My veil is placed on my head as a light knock comes from the door. Dad peeks in. Once Mom gives him the okay to enter, he squeezes through the space, trying to minimize any visibility from the other side. He walks up to me and immediately begins to cry.

  Silence surrounds us, everyone trying to hold back their own tears at the sudden show of emotion from the man standing before
me. I look up into the light, rapidly blinking for fear of ruining my makeup.

  “Don’t cry, Dad. You’re going to make me cry,” I say as I reach out for him. He throws his arms around me and pulls me into his chest.

  “I can’t help it. I’ve dreamed of this day since you were a baby, and now that it’s here, I don’t know how I’m going to let you go.”

  He starts to sway with me, dancing to the music of our heartbeats like we used to do when I was a little girl. I give in to my emotions then, and cry on his shoulder, unable to focus on anything but him. How did I fail to realize how difficult this day was going to be? How did I not recognize that, in a way, I’d be leaving them? Mom comes to the rescue, separating us.

  “Abbas, go. The photographers are waiting for her to come out and I don’t want her pictures to be of red, puffy eyes!”

  Dad chuckles and kisses my cheek, then Mom’s. “You all look beautiful, ladies,” he says, as he heads out the door.

  Mom hands me a tissue and I dab my cheeks to rid myself of any residual makeup that may have smudged from my tears. Leyla ruffles my veil, then makes sure the lace of my dress sits perfectly on my bare shoulders. She smiles up at me from under smoky eyelids.

  “You ready?” she asks.

  “Yes,” I say, my heart rapidly fluttering inside my chest.

  The bridesmaids position themselves around me as per the photographer’s request, and we head out the door for our “first look” pictures. The lights from the flashing cameras blind me and it takes my eyes a few moments to adjust. When they do, I see him.

  Standing before me, in his fitted black suit, is the man I’ve spent my life dreaming of. As he looks back at me, the bodies in the room disappear and the world fades. No one else matters.

  I vaguely hear the snapping of photos and the murmur of talking, but I see nothing. I glide toward him on the clouds beneath my feet. He looks down at me, silence enveloping us in its embrace. My heart swells with so much love that I fear it will explode right here in the living room, turning me into a puddle on the floor.

  He reaches out and gently runs his thumb down my cheek, a gesture so gentle I feel the tears choking me.

  “You look beautiful,” he whispers.

  “You look beautiful too,” I say, and smile.

  We are locked in a tender moment that no one can invade, the bodies hovering around us faded into oblivion.

  “You ready?” he asks, then adds, “I can’t wait to make you my wife.”

  “I’ve been waiting for you all my life,” I say in response.

  He leans down and places a soft kiss lightly on my lips. I feel the surge of electricity his touch always brings. I smile up against him, eyes still closed, filled with a longing I can’t describe.

  He pulls back, and just like that, our dream fades. I’m suddenly aware of the crowd around me, the flashing lights of the cameras. Mom stands next to Naghmeh, hand in hand with her, smiles on their faces, bright like the sun shining through the window. Nima informs us the limo has arrived. We turn and head out the door, with our entourage of bridesmaids, groomsmen, and siblings trailing us.

  Once at the venue, we stand side by side, taking in the beauty of the ceremonial room. Directly in front of us is the platform with the sofreh aghd, the traditional Muslim wedding ceremony spread. There is a plethora of items on the table, each with its own meaning. A plush white bench is placed in front of the platform where Maziar and I will be seated as we stare into the mirror set directly in front of us.

  Traditionally, the couple looks into the mirror together, representing the light and brightness of their future reflecting back at them. The designer has taken time putting great detail into the various aspects of the sofreh, giving it the vintage, classy feel I’d requested. The bread has been designed to resemble flowers, the eggs are dressed in pearls. She’s worked deep purple flowers into various locations, pulling in the color scheme of the event. They pop against the pearl and white backgrounds of the platform.

  To the left of the sofreh is the chuppah, the traditional Jewish wedding canopy, symbolizing the home the new couple will build together. All four legs are hidden by the elaborate design of purples and greens from the various flowers being used in the centerpieces. A platform sits in the center as well, with a small table holding the silver chalice of wine and the glass that Maziar will break once the marriage ritual is complete.

  The wedding coordinator asks me if everything is as it should be.

  “It’s perfect,” I say, in awe of my very own fairytale.

  We’d been adamant that both ceremonies take place in the same room, as a silent declaration to our guests that we place no difference between the two. Both are set up as we’d hoped, and both look beautiful. We are shuffled back into the bridal suite to prepare for the start of the first ceremony.

  I stand before Maziar, staring into his eyes as he whirls me around on the dance floor. The crowd moving around us has faded into the periphery, my husband the only one I can see. That still sounds foreign dancing around in my head. I wonder when it will roll off of my tongue as easily as his name.

  Suddenly, from the corner of my eye, I pick up some movement. Maziar has noticed as well. I can see he’s distracted as we dance. I have the haze of intoxication playing on the edges of my attention, so I fail to pick up the cautious vibe that is emanating off of him. I nonchalantly turn. I notice bodies rushing out of the big double doors into the foyer at a speed that feels unusual. We stop and stare at the commotion.

  Leyla and Sandra are on me within seconds, trying to turn me around, away from the doors and back into the beat of the song. Maziar kisses the top of my head, and before I know what’s happening, he rushes out the double doors with half of the guests.

  I panic, the anxiety mingling with the alcohol as I try to comprehend the scene unfolding before me. I turn to follow but am blocked by Sandra. She tries to distract me back into dancing. Realizing I’m not going to get past them, I turn and begin to dance, waiting.

  The moment I feel their guard falter, I turn and run.

  I stand in the center of the foyer, tears streaming down my face, watching my beautiful wedding fall to pieces around me. There’s commotion everywhere.

  The group surrounding my cousin has now dissipated. I assume they’ve ushered him home. I’ve lost sight of Thomas, now vanished along with Maziar. I see Dad yelling in the corner, frustrated and angry, Mom trying desperately to calm him down. Some guests have retired back to their tables; others are saying their goodbyes. I find myself suddenly worrying that someone may step on the broken glass and hurt themselves, or worse yet, get spilled wine on their expensive dresses. And the flower petals. They are still strewn all over the floor, now crushed beneath designer shoes, leaving purplish red smudges on the marble tiles. It looks like blood. I find the resemblance nauseating.

  Suddenly, Leyla materializes before me, the sight of her an angel in the darkness.

  The weight of the panic is crushing, my chest burning with it. She wraps her arms around me and pulls me close, protectively. I close my eyes and breathe, on the verge of hyperventilating.

  “My wedding,” I say through desperate tears.

  “Was beautiful,” she responds.

  “But look, it’s ruined.”

  She gently laughs. “No it isn’t. It’s been a fantastic night. This isn’t changing anything. Just think of what an awesome story we can tell in ten years.”

  I can’t help myself, I laugh through the tears. She always has a way of doing that, making me smile in the most morbid of situation. For a moment, she’s successfully taken me out of the chaos I’ve found myself in.

  My grandmother stands in the far corner whispering to my aunt. Our eyes lock for just a moment, but I can feel her disappointment cross the distance. I can hear her voice rumbling in my head.

  I told you so, I imagine her saying, and for a brief second, I wonder if she was right.

  I brush it aside, scanning the room looking for Maziar
. I can’t find him anywhere. The panic returns. I turn and find Bita standing beside me.

  “Where’s your brother?” I desperately plead. She looks as shocked and exhausted as I feel.

  “He’s outside with Nima.”

  I don’t wait for any further information, just pick up my dress and head out the door, leaving her and Leyla behind. I step out onto the balcony. He stands a few feet away from me, laughing with my brother and Neda. I experience a wave of relief at the sight of him. But then I notice Nima holding an ice pack against his knuckles and I become confused.

  The tapping of my heels announces my arrival as they turn to look at me. My brother’s expression seems apologetic, and slightly scared. I’m further confused by his reaction.

  “What happened to your hand? Are you okay?” I ask him.

  “I’m fine,” he says, as I walk up to him to examine it closer.

  “What?” I ask. They are all looking at me with strange expressions. I find it frustrating.

  “Oh, God, she doesn’t know,” Neda whimpers.

  I feel like I’ve walked into an inside joke and I’ve just missed the punch line.

  “What don’t I know?” I say, eyeing her.

  She bounces back and forth on her toes with nervousness. Maziar jumps in to rescue her.

  “So our Nima here was apparently protecting Neda’s honor this evening,” he says with a grin.

  It takes me a minute, but I finally put the pieces together.

  “Wait, you started this entire thing?” I ask.

  I begin to lose hold on my anger and he slightly cowers away from my gaze.

  “He didn’t start anything. Your cousin Ardeshir did. Nima just came to Neda’s rescue,” Maziar says, walking toward me, hands out like he’s approaching a rabid animal.