Upon arrival, Meili made a beeline toward Rose, and took her from my arms. I immediately felt the loss of her. I wanted to hold her forever. Meili cradled her grandchild in her arms and greeted her by cooing, “Hello, my little beauty.” Her whole face lit up when she looked at Rose.
But then she said something under her breath in Chinese, and Andrew sharply responded in Chinese, and quietly they argued. Now I knew how Sheila felt when Lala and I spoke Spanish in front of her. It really was awful not to understand what people were talking about. And I knew they were talking about me, because I heard my name sprinkled into the argument.
Caroline, Joy, and Kurt would always laugh about how when I spoke Persian with my parents, they would understand every tenth word. They would imitate our conversations, and Caroline would always say, “Nonsense, nonsense, nonsense, Disneyland, nonsense, nonsense.”
But now I was the one who could only understand every tenth word, and that word was Daria.
“Nonsense, nonsense, nonsense, Daria, nonsense,” Meili said angrily.
Amir approached me and put his arm around me. “I’m sorry,” he said. “They’re still arguing about the movie we saw.”
“Um, was the movie called Daria?” I asked.
Amir took Rose from Meili’s arms, then returned to my side. “Yeah,” he said with a smile. “It was a small indie about a teenage girl who goes on a search for herself, and discovers there’s no place like home.”
“So it’s the Iranian Wizard of Oz?” I joked.
“Exactly,” he said. “Which, of course, means that the ruby slippers are a pair of Chanel pumps.”
We laughed for a brief moment. Amir carried Rose back into her nursery, where he laid her on the changing table and checked her diaper. “Seriously, though,” I said. “They’re upset because they think I’m going to be a bad influence on their newborn granddaughter or something. Like she’s going to become a slut by osmosis.”
“Oh please,” he said. “If sluttiness is hereditary, then my daughter will surely inherit it from me.” I looked at him, surprised. “Someday, when you’re old enough, I’ll tell you all about my wild days. I was coming of age during the birth of Grindr, after all.”
My eyes widened in shock. “I’m old enough now,” I said. “Tell me everything.”
“Another time,” he said. “Over a drink.”
“Ew,” I said. “I’m never drinking again.”
“That’s what everyone says after their first hangover,” he said with a smile.
Amir finished changing Rose’s diaper and swaddled her again. It was nap time once more. She was in a constant cycle of eating and sleeping, that one. It seemed kind of nice. Amir held her swaddled body into his chest, rocking her. Then I realized Amir must have known all along I was adopted. He was twelve when I was born, after all.
“You knew?” I asked in a hushed whisper, and he just nodded. “Would you ever have told me?”
“Daria, it wasn’t my secret to tell,” he said. “Though, for what it’s worth, I plan on telling my daughter the truth about how she came into the world, surrogate and all.”
“And for what it’s worth,” I said, “I think that’s the right decision. You don’t want Rose ever feeling as pissed at you as I am at Sheila and Baba.”
“You know, I was pretty upset with them when I came out. All I wanted was for them to accept me, and they just couldn’t. A lot of my American friends thought I should stop speaking to them, cut them out of my life entirely. But I could never do that. I forgave them by accepting their limitations, and by understanding the time and culture they were raised in. And eventually they came around and accepted me.” I nodded, thinking about his words. Amir placed Rose down in her crib and spun her mobile until the little wooden fairies above her started swinging around to their tinny, optimistic sound track. “So, are you angry at me?” he asked. I shook my head. “You can be honest,” he said.
I wanted to tell him I resented him a little bit for being the biological son, but instead I just said, “No.” Then, to my surprise, I corrected myself. “Well . . .” And I told him exactly what I resented him for. It felt good to finally be authentic.
“You know,” he said, “I always resented you a little too.”
“Really?” I asked. “For what?”
“For getting such happy parents,” he said. “For the first twelve years of my life, Sheila and Baba were stuck in an endless cycle of hope and despair. There were weeks where Sheila wouldn’t emerge from her room. And they never even told me why. I finally had to find out from Auntie Lida. After you, that all ended. I guess I always wanted your childhood.”
I always knew that Amir hadn’t had an easy time coming out to our parents, but I had thought it was the most difficult thing he had to do. Now I understood where he got his strength from. “Hey,” I said. “I don’t think I’ve ever thanked you for paving the way for me.”
Amir smiled. “Paving what way?”
“The way to being yourself in an Iranian family,” I said. “I know it wasn’t easy for you.” I looked at Rose, who had now drifted off into her innocent sleep. “And for what it’s worth, I want Rose’s childhood,” I said. “She’s really lucky to have you and Andrew.”
Amir took my hand and squeezed it. “Thanks,” he said softly. And then he led me out into the living room, where the argument had ended.
To my shock, Meili placed her hand on mine. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I have been rude to you as a reaction to your parents, who were rude to me.” Andrew glared at his mother. “I apologize once more,” Meili continued. “Someone needs to break the vicious cycle, and it will be me. Please accept my apology, and tell your parents that I now understand they were not trying to get rid of me by putting me in some hotel room.”
“Um, I will,” I said.
“Another thing,” Meili said, and I shivered a little bit, afraid of what was coming next.
“Mother, please,” Andrew begged.
“Let me finish,” Meili said. She looked me square in the eyes, like she could see into my soul or something, and my whole body froze. “When I was your age, my life was simple. I never dealt with anything as complicated as your situation. And you are handling it very well. If I had a daughter, and I always wanted one, I would be proud.”
It took me a moment to let that wash over me. The thing about Meili is that she didn’t say anything she didn’t mean, so she really meant this. She was, I suddenly realized, entirely authentic.
“Thank you,” I said, in disbelief.
And then, shocking myself even more, I hugged her.
When Lala and I entered my parents’ apartment, we found them sitting on the couch, watching television. I thought that was kind of funny. They must have had so much to talk about, and yet they were escaping into some stupid comedy on the French satellite channel. To my mom’s credit, she turned the TV off as soon as she heard me enter, and gave me a strong hug. I wanted so badly to melt into her arms, to become her little girl, but something held me back. I still had so many unresolved emotions toward her. Baba just hovered behind her, giving me a look that was equal parts support and consternation. I think he wanted to stand back and allow Sheila to have her moment with me. “I was so worried,” she said. “Please don’t do that again.”
“I’m sorry,” I said as I pulled away from her. There was a long silence as we stared at each other, taking each other in.
After I felt I had waited a sufficiently long time, I said, “Okay, it’s your turn, Sheila.”
“For what?” she asked, completely oblivious.
“To say you’re sorry,” I said. “Do I really have to spell it out for you?”
My mother flinched at my tone. She looked to Baba, who gave her a slight nod, then she turned back to me and managed to eke out a halfhearted “I’m sorry, Daria.”
“Please, Sheila, sound like you mean it,” I begged, suddenly wishing my mother were as transparent in her emotions as Meili. “I need you to mean it.”
“Daria, give your mother a break,” Baba said.
“She’s not my mother.” I regretted saying those words as soon as they escaped my lips, but there was no taking them back. They hit Sheila like a slap in the face, and caused my own chest to tighten with pain.
“What should I be sorry for?” Sheila exclaimed. “Should I be sorry for wanting another child? Should I be sorry for giving you a beautiful life? You love Iranian culture and Iranian rap, Daria, but you always seem to forget that your parents lived through Iranian history. We know what it’s like to lose a home, to lose family members. And that was just the beginning. Tell her, Lala. Tell her what I went through. Tell her how much I wanted her. She’ll listen to you.”
“I told her,” Lala said. “She knows everything.”
“And I’m sorry, Sheila,” I said. “I really am.” I clenched my fists and then released them. “I don’t want to be this person,” I yelled. “I don’t want to be angry or mean or . . . It’s just . . . When Rose was born, all you and Baba would talk about is which one of you she looks like. ‘She has your lips.’ ‘She has your eyes.’ ‘She looks just like her grandfather.’ How do you think that made me feel?”
There was a long silence. I felt so vulnerable and small, like I was physically shrinking. Sheila and Baba looked at each other, and now Sheila did look truly sorry. “I didn’t mean . . . ,” she said. “I didn’t think . . . well, I didn’t think you knew.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said, struggling to control my trembling voice. “The point is you love me less, and now I know it.”
“No,” Sheila said desperately. “That’s not true.”
I took a deep breath, and finally asked the question that had been on my mind. “Do you sometimes wish . . . Do you sometimes wish I were her?”
“Who?” Sheila asked.
I couldn’t even look at her as I said, “You know, the daughter you lost. The stillbirth.”
I felt awful for saying those words to her, for bringing up a memory she had worked so hard to put behind her. I thought she might slap me, but instead she grabbed me by the shoulders. “Oh, Daria. My girl. You are the only daughter I ever wanted, and I never loved you less. If anything, I loved you more because I worked so hard to have you. And if you want to know the truth, I always believed you were my biological child. Sometimes I would turn to your father and I would say, ‘Look, she has your eyes,’ and he would agree. We both believed it, because that’s how we felt. That you were ours.”
“It’s true,” Baba said. “And you do have my eyes.”
Now my eyes, which apparently were a version of Baba’s eyes, started pouring out thick tears. I swallowed hard, trying to hold them back, but there was no controlling them anymore.
“There were so many times we wanted to tell you,” Sheila said. “We knew we should. But we never did. Maybe because we didn’t want to believe it.”
“Or maybe because we were cowards,” Baba added.
“And the more time passed,” Sheila continued, “the harder it became to tell the truth.”
Baba put an arm around me, and my head found his chest. I felt safe in his arms. Secure. His arms gave me that, and I let myself dissolve into them. I let myself be taken care of. “This will take time,” Baba said, “but we will deal with it together. As a family.”
Sheila nodded. “Yes,” she said. “But our family is bigger now, isn’t it?” I looked at her, confused. “Lida always accuses me of running away from Iran, running away from my country, from my problems. Well, I’m not running away from this. I called your birth mother, and I told her the situation. I asked her if she would like to meet us.”
“And?” I said, anxious.
“We are expected at her home in thirty minutes,” Sheila said. She stopped and took a long breath. She straightened her posture and composed herself, and then, finally, she added, “I’m truly sorry, Daria. I hope you will forgive us.”
Chapter Fifteen
SHEILA, BABA, AND I SAT parked outside Encarnación Vargas’s house for at least twenty minutes, the two of them immobilized just as I was the first time I drove up to the home. From the backseat, I could only imagine the thoughts running through the minds of my silent parents. Baba was biting his lip, and every few seconds he would swing his eyes toward Sheila. As for my mother’s eyes, they were glued to the house as if it were a six-car pileup on the freeway. This did feel like a car wreck. Our lives and the life of Encarnación and her family had just crashed into one another, and now we had to pick up the pieces.
I tried to imagine what was happening inside the house. Were Encarnación, Fabio, and Iglesias immobilized like we were? Were they covertly watching us in the car, wondering what was taking us so long? Were they deciding what to wear, conscious of making a good impression? Were they excited, afraid, angry, annoyed?
Finally, Baba said, “Shab shod,” which means, it’s night. Of course, it wasn’t night, not yet, but “shab shod” is one of those difficult-to-translate Persian expressions that basically means, time’s ticking.
Baba gently placed a hand on Sheila’s shoulder. She snapped out of her reverie and turned to me. “Shab shod,” Sheila said, as if I were the one holding us up.
Baba knocked on the door, his free arm thrown protectively around my shoulder. When the door opened, Sheila took an anticipatory breath, only to be faced with Fabio, who smiled nervously.
“Hello,” he said. “Welcome.” Off Sheila’s confusion, he said, “I’m Fabio. Encarnación’s husband.”
“Oh,” Baba said. “It’s a pleasure. It’s a pleasure.”
Baba always repeated himself when he was nervous, which was almost never. It had happened when Amir first came out of the closet, and it had happened when he first introduced them to Andrew. When Andrew said he was Chinese, Baba had said, “We love Chinese food. We love Chinese food.” This had become a joke between Amir and me. Any time one of us wanted a laugh, we simply said, “We love Chinese food,” twice, and it usually worked.
As Fabio led us into the home, Baba said, “Lovely home. Lovely home.” Sheila said nothing.
Fabio led us into the living room and said, “Encarnación is cooking. She’ll be right out.” And then, as if he had been waiting since he opened the door to say this, he added, “I just want you to know that I am not Daria’s father.”
This forthright admission clearly shocked Sheila, because she broke out of her trance and emitted a hushed “Oh.”
“Of course not,” Baba said. “Of course not.” And then, as if needing to explain himself, he added, “I am her father.” And then he forced a smile in my direction.
“What I meant is,” Fabio said, “I am not her biological father. Or birth father. Oh, I don’t know what the right word is.” Fabio sighed. “I think you already knew that, Daria, but in case your parents didn’t, I thought they should know.”
“Do you know who the, um, birth father is?” Sheila asked. “What I mean is . . . does she know who the father is?”
I cringed a little bit at the question, wishing my mother had asked anything but that. I tried hard to focus on the delicious smell of home-cooked food coming from the kitchen. How could a house smell so good and feel so tense?
From across the room came the sound of Encarnación’s voice. “Of course I know who her father is. I’m not sure what you’re implying.” We all turned over, and there she was, holding a tray of homemade enchiladas.
“She wasn’t implying anything,” Baba said.
“Oh, don’t answer for me, Pasha,” Sheila said. “Obviously, I was.”
“You could have asked me who her birth father was sixteen years ago,” Encarnación said. “You could have asked me many things. But you barely said a word to me.”
“I didn’t want to know,” Sheila said. “The more I knew about you, the more real you became, and the more I would remember you. And I wanted to forget you. To pretend you were just an illusion.”
Encarnación nodded solemnly, and then she led
us to her sofas and placed the tray of enchiladas on the coffee table. Plates, cutlery, and napkins had already been laid out. “I wasn’t sure what the proper protocol was for meeting your daughter’s adoptive family,” she said.
Before she could continue, Sheila interrupted with, “She is our daughter.”
“I know that,” Encarnación said. “I just meant . . .” She trailed off for a moment and then caught herself and said, “Well, in any case, I didn’t think it was right not to offer you something, so I made enchiladas. If any of you are vegetarians, the ones on the right are just cheese.”
“Oh, we all eat meat,” Baba said. “We all eat meat.” I wished for a moment that Amir were with us, because surely we would have laughed, and that would have felt nice.
“Where’s Iglesias?” I asked. “I mean, Enrique.”
“Under the circumstances,” Encarnación said, “I thought it best that he not be here.” I imagined Iglesias banished from the house, perhaps on some deserted street with Stuey, spray-painting his heart out. Then Encarnación added, “He’s in his room.”
“Oh,” I said with a small laugh. “Well, then he’s probably listening.”
“He can’t hear us,” Encarnación said. “He always has his headphones on anyway.”
My phone dinged. It was a text from Iglesias: Of course I’m listening. I recognized this for what it was: a small peace offering.
“Is that from him?” Encarnación asked.
“It’s from a friend,” I said, which was, after all, the truth.
Encarnación took a breath and said, “I want this to be about us, Daria. Not about Enrique.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m sorry for lying to you when we met. For letting you think I was his girlfriend.”
“But you are his girlfriend,” she said. “Aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I said as I watched Baba’s fingers curl and tense, his knuckles betraying his anger. “No,” I corrected myself. And then, finally, I said, “I don’t know.”
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