by Sara Jafari
Neda stalled the car. They were still outside their flat. She tightened her grip on the steering wheel. It was too thin, too flimsy. She felt like a clown in a toy car.
“Stop asking questions,” she hissed. She accelerated as she drove off, the tires screeching.
She drove, and drove, and drove. It was aimless, really. One port of call was the takeaway restaurant owned by Ziryan, a Kurdish friend of Hossein’s. It was a place where her husband liked to loiter.
As Neda waddled into the shop, rubbing her back with one hand, Ziryan looked displeased to see her.
“Salam,” he said.
“Salam. Have you seen Hossein?”
“No.” He was cutting up a kebab behind the counter before putting the strips of meat inside pita bread. His bluntness didn’t surprise her; he never gave her much time, presumably because as a married woman she was not deemed worthy of his notice. He preferred to deliberate over which of his blond cashiers he most wanted to fuck.
“When did you last see him?”
“He’s your husband, why don’t you know where he is?” asked Ziryan, still not looking up at her. He was too busy squeezing mayonnaise over the salad.
A sharp pain in Neda’s abdomen jolted her. She gritted her teeth; she didn’t have time for this.
She looked at his face, searching for answers. His dark goatee, something she hadn’t really noticed before, now irritated her. The sight of the facial hair above his lip made her want to put all the equipment in the takeaway into the sink with bleach on it too. It shouldn’t be allowed, she thought with disgust, having facial hair when you worked in a kitchen. She looked at his hands and saw him add lettuce to another wrap with his bare fingers. She wasn’t sure if it was men in general who revolted her, but decided she couldn’t look at him or his hands anymore.
Laleh was getting restless next to her, attempting to sit down on the floor despite Neda’s strong grip on her arm. As the pain in her stomach came and went she tightened her hold, until Laleh moaned, wriggling away. “Sorry, azizam,” Neda muttered, letting go.
Ziryan only then seemed to notice Laleh was with her. He flashed the child a grin. “Do you want a lollipop?” Laleh perked up. He grabbed a box from under the counter. “Which flavor do you want?”
“Strawberry!”
“Laleh, what else do you say?”
“Please. Thank you!” She snatched the lollipop from the box, as though a one-second delay would deprive her of it.
“Do you know where Hossein could be?” Neda asked. She breathed heavily, silently praying that whatever was going on in her body, be it wind, the babies moving, or even contractions, would soon pass.
He looked at her then. His eyes were cold. “No, sister. He’s probably at home now, waiting for you and wondering where his dinner is.”
Neda walked back to the car, aware the man was lying to her but also aware there was nothing she could do about it. She couldn’t force him to tell her the truth. His loyalty lay with Hossein.
In this foreign country, who did she have on her side?
Neda’s waters broke just as the Coronation Street theme tune came on. She had begun watching it to understand the colloquialisms of the English language better, but continued for the drama each episode promised. She felt the water soak through her trousers and into their sofa. She almost laughed. Now, she thought, when my husband is missing and I’ve finally been given evidence that he’s cheating on me. Now! When he’s probably in bed with her.
She called Ali, and he answered on the fourth ring.
Her second labor was both easier and harder than her first. Parvin seemed to pop out, quite suddenly, with one big push.
She came out so quickly that the midwife almost didn’t catch her.
Amir was a struggle. Neda was so spent from giving birth to her second daughter that she didn’t think it possible to pass another life through her body.
“Khar…come out,” she said between gritted teeth. Her face was wet with tears. If Hossein had been there, she would have grabbed his hand. But he wasn’t, so she balled her hands into fists instead.
“Come on, one big push,” the midwife said from between her legs.
Neda thought about how much she’d like to push Hossein off the riverside and watch him drown, before giving that one last push.
Her palms were bloodied by the time Amir came out.
And then in turn Neda was given her babies to hold. She had somehow become a single mum of three children within the space of a day.
Later, her brother Ali arrived with Laleh in tow. Ali’s skin was pale; under the hospital lighting it looked almost sickly. He was often mistaken for an Englishman. Anyone else from Neda’s family would have been elated by that, but since he’d moved to England it only angered him. Despite enjoying aspects of the Western lifestyle, such as being free to have relations with numerous English girls, he prized his Iranian roots.
Laleh stood behind his leg, looking shyly at her mum in the hospital bed. After Ali saw the new babies, gave the appropriate coos, and all the pleasantries were out of the way, he looked at Neda. It was a long, hard look. He had bright blue eyes that bored into hers. Another feature that most Iranians coveted, but he resented.
“What?” Neda hissed.
“Where’s Hossein?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know where your husband is?”
“I’m tired.” Neda sighed deeply. She hurt all over. All she wanted was to go home to her own bed and sleep. Here the artificial light shining down on her was too bright, her bed too hard, and there was a draft coming from the air-conditioning that made her skin prickle.
Ali hissed. But he didn’t raise his voice, didn’t make a scene, too mindful of Laleh over in the visitor’s seat with her Barbie. She was plaiting her doll’s long blond hair and talking quietly to herself.
He bent low over his sister, hands on his narrow hips, willing Neda to snap out of her mood. “Sister, what’s going on?”
“Ali, I’m tired. Do you understand? I just gave birth—”
“Yes,” he talked over her. “And your husband should be here. He should have been here for you then. But you don’t even know where he is. Is he OK?”
Neda laughed humorlessly and, in the process, wet herself a little. “He’s fine, don’t worry about him.”
“Neda, what does that mean? You’re not making sense.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Eh?”
“Please take Laleh home. I need to rest.”
“Sister…”
“Brother, he’s with another woman and I don’t know where. I don’t know if he plans on coming back. I know nothing.” Her insides clenched; she felt ever more aware of her battered physical state. Her breathing was ragged and she felt light-headed. This must have become obvious even to Ali because he handed her the small carton of apple juice he’d brought with him. He knew it was her favorite; it reminded her of the fresh apple juice Maman used to make.
Her eyes burnt, memories of home threatening to resurface, and she couldn’t reminisce about the past, not right now. Slowly, she sipped the drink through the narrow straw.
“OK. We need to find him,” Ali said.
“Thanks for your input, Einstein. I just told you, I don’t know where the bastard is.”
“He’s your husband, Neda.”
“And? He’s fucking other women.”
“Sister, don’t talk like that.” He shook his head, as though he were virginal himself.
“He is! Everyone seems to know.” Neda’s voice hitched on the last word, a sob caught in her throat. She sipped the juice and concentrated her gaze on the foot of her bed.
“I need to have a word with him.” Even without looking at him Neda could imagine what her brother was doing, clenching his fists. She almost wante
d to laugh. Almost.
“I’m stuck.”
Her insides felt empty, disconnected. Ali looked frightened, toes tapping anxiously against the floor.
“Mummy,” Laleh said from the visitor’s chair. “Doesn’t Daddy want to see”—she paused—“Parvin”—another pause—“and…and…”
“Amir,” Ali finished for her.
“Amir,” Laleh said slowly, testing the name out loud.
Neda sighed. “No, I don’t think he does.”
Ali paled, mouth agape at his sister’s truthfulness.
“Why?” Laleh asked.
Again, Ali looked from his niece to his sister, wondering if this was a normal exchange for them. Neda knew what he was thinking. He thought she was a bad mother. Even she thought she was a bad mother. How could she care for three children alone? She hadn’t signed up for this. They were meant to be a family, a team. Not like this. She had thought the children would bond them, not push them further apart. She pinched her hand with her nails, to stop herself from sobbing.
“Your mum is being silly,” Ali said, his gaze on Neda. “Of course your dad wants to see your brother and sister. He’s just busy at work.”
“When will he be back?”
Ali’s mouth was forming a reply when Laleh interrupted him, crying: “Daddy!”
Neda’s head whipped around to face the door. Hossein walked into the room with a grin on his face and a large bouquet of flowers in one hand. Laleh ran over to him and he lifted her up with the other arm, playfully throwing her over his shoulder and spinning her around. Her giggles filled the silence.
When he put her down, he messed up her hair and gave her the bouquet. “Go give these to Mummy,” he stage-whispered in her ear.
Laleh complied and Neda gave her a tight-lipped smile as she took the flowers. She noticed the price had been left on.
All she wanted was to be left alone.
“Everything went OK?” Hossein asked, walking over to the bed. Tension filled the air, threatening to stifle everyone.
Ali and Hossein stood next to each other. Hossein seemed to tower over the younger man and in that moment Neda felt sorry for her brother. He looked weak in comparison to Hossein. But what he lacked in physique he made up for in youth. At nineteen years old he couldn’t yet know enough about the world. Or perhaps he knew more than she gave him credit for—about the new Iran, different from the home she had left, and the way it had adapted to suit men better than it suited women.
“Where were you?” Ali hissed at Hossein.
“At work,” he replied, his face reddening.
“Don’t lie, we know about you and the whore.” All of their conversations were in Farsi, meaning the hospital staff had no idea what was being said. Had they known, perhaps they would have asked the two men to leave, to give Neda the space she needed.
“What did you say?” Hossein was in Ali’s face now. Neda could feel herself shaking. She looked over to Laleh and her heart broke further.
“Stop it,” Neda said quietly. But she was ignored. She wondered why she was so quiet. Did she want what happened next? Perhaps not consciously, but subconsciously it was entirely possible.
“You’re embarrassing my family, laughing at us. She’s my sister, have some respect. She just gave birth to two of your children. She’s too good for you. You’re a loser, Hossein, a fucking loser!”
“Respect? You need to show me some respect.” And then Hossein’s fist connected with Ali’s nose. Blood came pouring out, dripping onto the floor and soaking Ali’s T-shirt. He held his nose while drawing back his other hand in a fist and punching the side of Hossein’s face. He was so quick, he caught his brother-in-law by surprise. Then they seemed to jump onto each other, with no regard for where they were or who would see. They were like wild cats scrapping, the kind Neda had often seen in their garden in Tehran while she was growing up, and she hated it. It was something she didn’t want to see: their hands held in front of them, flailing and scrabbling to land a further pathetic blow.
“Stop! Stop! Stop!” she yelled, to no avail. She threw her empty apple juice carton at them, but they took no notice.
She heard a tearing sound, saw Hossein had ripped Ali’s T-shirt, which caused her brother to knee him in the balls in retaliation. Hossein yelled out in pain, louder than Neda had when she had given birth to not one but two babies.
Laleh watched from the corner of the room, her Barbie doll clutched in one hand. Her expression was blank, though she backed away as far as she could from everyone.
A nurse came in, saw the scene in front of her, and called for help.
“Excuse me,” she said sternly to Hossein and Ali. “Stop this right now.”
Neda’s midwife entered together with a male nurse. Hossein and Ali finally stopped fighting and stood up straight, as though they had done nothing. Their appearance betrayed them, their ripped, bloodied clothing an embarrassment.
Neda sank deeper into her bed at the sight.
The male nurse stood between them and called over to her, “Which one is the father?”
Something about the look on his face gave her the impression he thought they were fighting because they were both potential fathers, like this was a soap opera, not real life.
She pointed a shaky finger towards Hossein.
The nurse put his hand on Ali’s shoulder. “OK, mate, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. Immediate family only.”
“I’m her brother!”
“She needs her rest, love,” the other nurse said.
Hossein smirked, let out a small laugh.
“You laugh at me?” Ali said, trying to step around the nurse.
“Ali, please,” Neda said, quietly. He glanced at her then, a look of mingled hurt and understanding on his face.
“Fine, I will call you later.”
He was escorted out.
The atmosphere inside the room was tense, with the remaining nurse and midwife talking between themselves and Hossein trying to catch Neda’s eye.
“Are you OK?” the midwife asked her.
“Yes, thank you. I’d like to be alone, if possible, to get some rest.” She gazed into the midwife’s blue eyes, hoping she’d understand.
“Of course.” She turned to Hossein. “Dad, Mum needs her rest, so unfortunately visiting time is over.”
“Oh,” Hossein said. “I barely got to see them—”
“I know, I’m sorry, but with it being a double birth, Mum is very tired.”
Hossein grumbled something in response and began to move towards Laleh. Neda’s heart broke for her daughter. She wished she could have covered her child’s eyes, stopped her from seeing what a mess her family was.
“Laleh can stay,” Neda said quickly. “I want her here with me.”
Hossein surprised her by nodding before leaving the room, head bowed. She got the distinct impression this was all for show, for the nurse and midwife, so he didn’t seem like the guilty party but Ali did. She knew Hossein well enough to understand he was an excellent actor when he wanted to be.
When her dad had left, Laleh went to her mum. Neda helped her up onto the bed and cuddled her.
“Are you sure you’re OK?” the nurse asked. The midwife stood next to her with a look of concern etched across her face.
“Yes, thank you. They’re not normally like that,” Neda lied.
The nurse pursed her thin lips, looking at her for a moment before saying slowly, “There are services, you know, that can help women in your position.”
Neda could feel her own expression harden. “I’m not in need of help.”
The nurse nodded and both women left in silence.
“I’m scared,” Laleh said, distracting Neda from her worries, her problems. She had a child—and now children—she needed to put before herself.
“It’s OK,” she whispered into Laleh’s hair. “It’s OK. It’s OK.” She repeated the words over and over, trying to convince herself, until they both fell asleep.
In Neda’s dreams she was a little girl again, in her family’s back garden in just her underwear, joyful as she played tag with her siblings. She heaved with laughter, from deep within her belly. Worry wasn’t a word in her vocabulary; she hadn’t yet experienced it.
She dreamt of a country long gone, and a time long past.
And she willed herself never to wake up.
At twenty-one years old Soraya experienced heartbreak for the first time. All the music she had listened to forlornly while getting over a crush she had never even spoken to seemed crucially relevant now. There were many stages to her grief.
Denial came first. She went back to her flat, dry-eyed, found Oliver in the living room in his pajamas reading a fashion magazine. It was only midnight, but it felt so much later. She asked him about his day and made them both cups of tea.
“Magnus and I broke up, by the way,” she said casually, between sips of overly milky Yorkshire Tea. Her hands had been curiously shaky when she poured it out. She made a mental note to buy a new kind of tea the next day, to remove any reminders of him.
Oliver had the cup raised to his lips. He held it there, squinting at her. “Huh?”
“Yeah, we broke up.” Something about saying the words out loud brought their meaning home to her, but she shrugged this off.
Oliver put his cup down. “You seem very casual about it all.”
His intent gaze, forcing her to meet it, produced tears. She’d always been a crier.
“He…” She didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to explain all that had happened.
Oliver got up without saying anything and returned moments later with a toilet paper roll, which he handed to her wordlessly. She blew her nose, wiped her eyes, and looked down at the tissue to find it covered in black stains. Her mascara had run, creating theatrical lines down the sides of her face.
“God, I look a mess. This is embarrassing,” she said.
“I’ve seen worse. I don’t really understand. I thought you were good now?”