When I woke up, the sun had risen, and the pain in my head was like no pain I’d ever known before. It was like Baba had decided to build his latest condo development inside me, and a team of his construction workers was working inside my head, hammering away at the outer edges of my skull. I guess this is what a hangover feels like, I thought to myself as I willed my eyes shut. My eyes. My poor eyes.
But before I could attempt more sleep, there was a light knock on the door and then a grand entrance from Sheila, who, let’s be honest, only made grand entrances. She placed a plate of fried eggs on my bed, and a cup of coffee on my bedside table.
“I figured you would be hurting after that bender,” she said. “Eggs have some kind of enzyme in them that helps with hangovers. And coffee will wake you up.”
I wanted to tell her that I had no interest in waking up. That my deepest desire in that moment was to go back to bed for a very long time, and maybe to wake up in a different body. But I just nodded. It struck me that this was the first time Sheila had cooked for me. For all my life, it was Lala who had cooked for me. My days and nights were full of the love of her rice, the warmth of her stews, the sweetness of her tres leches cake. Now that she was gone, Sheila had finally flared up the stove for me. But this meal, the first she’d cooked for me, was not made from love. No, these were eggs of disappointment.
“I called your school,” Sheila said. “I said you got food poisoning from raw tuna. One should always be specific when one lies.”
I didn’t say a word to my mom. I simply nodded, and then she left. And, ever the dutiful daughter, I took a bite of the eggs, and a sip of the coffee. Within minutes, my head and my eyes and my stomach responded positively, and so I took another bite, and another sip, until I started to feel human again.
When I was almost done, there was a light knock on the door again. I sighed, expecting Sheila’s grand reentrance. But nobody came in, which meant it must be Baba on the other side of the door. Unlike Sheila, Baba always waited for my okay to enter my room.
“I’m awake, Baba,” I said.
He entered the room with a half smile, his face betraying the trials of the day. “I’m just checking on you,” he said. “Are you sure you’re okay?” I shrugged. “Do you need anything?” he asked. Again, I shrugged. “Do you want to talk?” I shook my head from side to side. “I understand,” he said gently. And instead of leaving, he sat down on the edge of my bed. “I’ll just sit here a little while. In case you decide you do want to talk. But you don’t have to. I don’t mind the quiet.” He gave me a supportive smile, and then, as if he couldn’t stand the seriousness of the moment, he added, “Truthfully, after having Meili and Fang in the house, I welcome a little silence.” I guess he wanted a smile from me, or maybe even a laugh, but he didn’t get it. I couldn’t even look at him. I was too ashamed and hurt.
We sat in silence for almost an hour. Baba and I had sat in silence before. Sometimes we would sit in the living room for hours, Baba reading the newspaper, me reading a schoolbook, not saying a word. We would look up at each other and smile, acknowledging how nice it was to sit side by side without needing to speak. Those silences were weightless. They felt free. This silence was different. It felt heavy. It was full of every tender moment between us, now being reassessed in light of new revelations.
Finally, I broke the silence with a question I already knew the answer to. “Baba,” I said. “Are you my biological father? My DNA test said I was half–Middle Eastern. Did you, I don’t know, have an affair with her . . .”
Baba put a hand on my leg and squeezed it, and then placed his hands on my cheeks. He looked me sadly in the eyes and shook his head no. I closed my eyes and tried hard to feel safe, the way I used to when my face was cradled in his steady hands. But his little trick didn’t work anymore.
When he left, I let out a quick sob. Tears filled my eyes, and I grabbed my pillow and held it tight in front of me, pushing my face into it as I screamed. I knew it wouldn’t work, but it felt good nevertheless. As I unleashed my ire into my poor pillow, I thought of how I had alienated just about everyone in my life, from my parents to Iglesias to Kurt, Caroline, and Joy. I knew where I needed to go.
Sheila had said I was grounded, so I tiptoed out of my room. Luckily, Sheila and Baba had the TV on superloud, so I managed to sneak past them without being overheard.
I took the bus toward Amir’s house, and sat next to a group of friends on their way to a hike. I had a sudden regret that I wasn’t raised near nature. My parents’ idea of nature was spending time in the communal yard of our apartment complex, picking a lemon from its potted lemon trees, and posing for selfies with the hot-pink bougainvillea when it bloomed. These bright flowers were Sheila’s favorite, and Baba, in his role as president of our homeowner’s association, had them planted in her honor. She said they reminded her of the South of France, and Baba did his best to give her the illusion of living in France.
When the bus stopped at Griffith Park, I decided to get out with the hikers. I wanted to disappear, to be surrounded by trees. I walked toward the observatory, past the bust of James Dean, the patron saint of alienated teenagers. I remembered seeing Rebel Without a Cause when I was thirteen and thinking, Why is every teenager in this movie so angry? Now I got it. I gave James a silent nod and then began to hike.
There were a few hikers around me—some hipsters, some couples, and two nuns—and they all followed the trail. But I was done following the path that had been laid out for me. I was my own woman now, and I wanted to forge my own path. So I veered away from the trail, the ground crackling beneath my feet. I walked until I couldn’t hear any more footsteps that weren’t my own. When I was confident that I was far enough away from any other human, I lay down on the scorched earth and stared up at the sky peeking through the trees and smog.
I imagined a world in which there was only me. No one could betray me. No one could hurt me. No one could make me feel anything. I reveled in the silence. I breathed in the quiet. I let the stillness fortify me. And I asked the calm to give me strength for what came next, because the truth was that I didn’t want to live in a world without other people.
By the time I made it to Amir’s house, I was starving. The fried eggs had apparently been digested, and my rumbling stomach demanded more food. Lala opened the door for me, and immediately took me in her arms. “You worried us all sick,” she said in Spanish.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Where have you been?” she asked.
“Hiking.”
Lala walked back into the home and went straight to the phone. I knew she was going to call my parents.
“Wait,” I pleaded. “Tell them I’ll be home in an hour. I want to talk to someone who isn’t mad at me, someone who’s on my side, someone I can trust. I want to talk to you.”
She held the phone in her hand, weighing her decision. And then she called my parents, and she told them I was safe, and that I would be home in an hour.
“Thank you,” I said as Lala put the phone back down. And then, struck by the lack of chaos, I asked, “Are you alone?”
“Rose is sleeping,” she said. “Amir, Andrew, and his parents went out to lunch.”
“They’re staying here?” I asked.
Lala nodded. “They’re sleeping on an air mattress Andrew bought for them. I don’t know what they have against hotels. I would love it if someone would pay for me to stay in a hotel.”
“Don’t talk to me about hotels right now,” I said.
“Right,” she said. “Or perhaps we should talk about hotels.”
“I’m hungry,” I said. Without missing a beat, Lala opened the fridge, which was full of food, just like ours once was. She took out two Tupperware containers and prepared me a plate of rice and ghormeh sabzi, then placed it in the microwave. “So, how much do you know?” I asked.
“Your parents called when they realized you weren’t in your room,” she said. “They told me everything. Well, everything they
knew. I’m sure there’s a lot they still don’t know.” The microwave dinged. She placed a spoonful of yogurt on the side of my plate, just how I liked it. “Eat,” she said.
I took a bite of the delicious stew, and then another. “I knew,” she said as I reveled in the flavors.
“Knew what?” I asked, my mouth full.
“Daria, I knew everything. I’ve always known everything.” I looked up at her, seeing her as if for the first time. “I know you’re angry with your parents for lying to you, and maybe you came here because you think I’m the one person who didn’t lie to you, but I did. I knew all along.” I realized that in my shock, I had held a lump of rice in my mouth, and I swallowed it deliberately. “I’m sorry for it. And I’m not sorry for it too. At the time, it seemed like the right decision. We all thought you never had to know. Maybe it was stupid. Maybe it was naive. But it’s what we thought. Me. Your father. Your mother. All of us.”
“But it was her idea, wasn’t it?” I asked.
“Why do you want your mother to be the enemy?” she asked.
“I don’t,” I said unconvincingly. “I just . . .” I didn’t know what to say. I guess I wanted someone to be the enemy. Having someone to blame would’ve been easier than this horrible feeling of emptiness, and my mother had always been my easy target.
Lala sat down next to me. Placed a hand on my knee. “Remember how you always used to ask how come Amir was so much older than you? You would say how all your friends had brothers and sisters they could play with.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“Well, your parents tried to have another baby after Amir. But it never worked.” I looked at Lala, waiting for more. “Do you understand what a miscarriage is?” Lala asked.
“I’m fifteen, Lala,” I said. “Not six.”
“I know,” Lala said. “You might understand what a miscarriage is technically, or scientifically, but I don’t know if you understand what it is emotionally. When a woman carries life inside her, she begins a relationship with that life, with that child. She talks to that child. She sings to that child. She builds hopes, dreams, and expectations. When a woman miscarries, she doesn’t just lose a pregnancy, she loses all of those hopes, all of those dreams, and all of those expectations. And, perhaps worst of all, she blames herself.”
We were talking about Sheila, but the way Lala was talking, I knew she had gone through this heartbreak as well, so all I could think of to say was, “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” Lala asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I just thought . . .”
“Mi amor,” Lala said. “Miscarriages are very common, especially in the first trimester. Most women who miscarry never even know they were pregnant. I miscarried once. Two months into the pregnancy. And I mourned that child.”
“I understand,” I said. “I think I do.”
“Then understand this,” she said. “Your mother had nine miscarriages.” Her words hung in the air, the number nine hovering between us. Nine losses. Nine periods of mourning. “The last one was a stillbirth,” Lala said. “Do you know what a stillbirth is?”
“I think so,” I said. “It’s when the baby is born, but it’s dead.”
“Yes,” Lala said. “A stillbirth is when the baby dies in the uterus. It usually happens when a pregnancy is full-term. By the last trimester, a mother thinks she has passed that period of risk. That’s what your mother thought when she met me.”
“Wait,” I said. “So you met my mother before I was born?”
“I met your mother almost a year before you were born,” she said. “I was supposed to be the nanny to your older sister.” I gulped down hard. “Everything was prepared. The nursery was painted. The crib was built. I was supposed to start work on the day she was born. When she came, your mother could hardly bear the pain. She was inconsolable. You have never seen your mother that way because she has shielded you from all her pain.”
I suddenly felt sick to my stomach. I felt like everything I had ever thought about Sheila had been wrong. Her whole air of perfection wasn’t just a way to keep up appearances, it was a way to cover up pain. And maybe she had shielded me from that pain for fifteen years, but now it hit me hard. “I wish she hadn’t,” I said. “I wish I had known all along. It’s just all so dishonest.”
“I know you like to think life is all about being authentic,” Lala said. “But sometimes authenticity is a trap. Sometimes it just holds you captive, so you can’t move on.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “She can justify it however she wants, but she still should’ve told me.”
“You’re right. But if you want to blame someone, blame me,” she said. “It was all my idea.” She took a deep breath and then continued. “After the stillbirth, your mother told me she was done. She said she had tried too many times, and the universe had told her she wasn’t meant to have another child. It was always her dream to have at least two children, and especially to have a girl, but some dreams had to be abandoned. What broke my heart most of all was how concerned she was about me. She knew I had given up another job to work for her. She assured me she would pay me my salary until I found another job. That’s the kind of woman your mother is. Honorable. Generous. Maybe she made a big mistake in not telling you the truth, but you don’t spend enough time appreciating all the things she did do right.”
I gulped down hard again. I knew she was right about that.
“In any case,” Lala continued, “I told her she shouldn’t give up. I told her there were so many other options. And that’s when I suggested adoption. I knew girls from my church who’d gotten pregnant and couldn’t keep the babies. Your mother resisted the idea at first. And she paid my salary for weeks. And then after a few weeks, she called me one day. She said she had asked her lawyer to look into it, and that she would adopt a child. And she made me promise that when that child came into the world, I would be there to help raise her. And I promised. And less than a year later, you arrived.” Lala took a tres leches cake out of the fridge, cut off a slice, and placed it in front of me. “Are you okay? Do you need a moment?”
I inhaled a mouthful of the cake, swallowed, and then said, “I don’t know.”
“What don’t you know?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I whispered. I could’ve repeated it a hundred times, because in that moment, I felt like I didn’t know anything anymore.
“Look,” Lala said. “I know how hard this is, but I want you to listen to your mother’s side of the story. No story is a straight line. Stories have sides and angles. And if you try hard enough, you’ll see that they usually fit together to create some kind of beautiful shape.”
“Well, what about my side?” I asked. “What about all the times you all lied to me? What about the fact that you let me believe I was their daughter?”
“You are their daughter,” she said.
“What about the fact that I’m not completely Iranian? You knew how important that was to me. I mean, what if you found out tomorrow that you weren’t even Mexican? What if you found out you were, like, Afghani? How would you feel?”
“I would feel confused,” she said. “But I would still be Mexican.”
“Wouldn’t you want to know your biological mother, though?” I asked.
“Of course I would,” she said. “And I hope your biological mother will be open to knowing you. But that doesn’t make her your mother. If you’re so obsessed with authenticity, Daria, then you should know that your authentic mother is the one who raised you.”
“You raised me,” I cracked.
“No, my love,” she said. “I supported your mother in raising you. You just can’t see that yet.”
“Did you know her?” I asked.
“Who?”
“Encarnación,” I said. “You know, my biological mother.”
Lala shook her head. “No,” she said. “I never met her. I never even knew her name. I thought that was best, in case I knew her from church or something
like that.”
Suddenly, a screeching sound came from Rose’s room. “Rose is awake,” Lala said.
“Does she always wake up screaming like that?” I asked.
“That’s normal,” Lala said. “Babies go from zero to a hundred in a heartbeat. They can be laughing one second, crying the next, and laughing again one moment later. It’s one of the most magical things about them. They haven’t yet learned to control their emotions.”
“So they have no secrets,” I said.
Lala took my hand and led me toward Rose’s room. “Exactly,” she said. Once we reached Rose’s room, Lala opened the curtain. Rose was in her crib, on her back. She had broken out of her swaddle, and she was violently shaking her arms and legs in the air. “Pick her up,” Lala said.
I reached into the crib, cupped Rose’s head under my right hand, rested her body on my right arm, and then gently raised her up into my chest. She looked up at me with her innocent baby eyes, those eyes that had no secrets yet, and within seconds her tears dried and her screams subsided. “She stopped crying,” I said, proud of myself.
“See, you’re an expert,” Lala said. “You’ll make a wonderful mother someday. And when you’re a mother, you will start to understand your own mother. And as you understand her, you will probably forgive her too.” Rose squealed in my arms, and for the first time since my hotel break-in, I laughed.
“But personally,” Lala continued, “I think it would be sad if you waited that long to understand and forgive your mother. She deserves your forgiveness now.”
I called home and told my parents I would be back as soon as Amir returned from lunch. They tried to act calm, but I could hear the concern in their voices.
For the next hour and a half, Lala led me through her routine with Rose. There was something mercifully absorbing about taking care of a baby. By the time Amir, Andrew, Meili, and Fang got home, I had changed a diaper, wiped a baby butt, learned how to use a Diaper Genie, swaddled, washed, rinsed, and bathed. It was hard, and it was bliss, and I felt so grateful to be an aunt.
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