The Sometimes Daughter

by Sherri Wood Emmons

  I nodded again.

  After she had surveyed me in the mirror, she smiled and rested her hand on my shoulder. “My Sweet Judy, you are getting to be so beautiful,” she said.

  I stared at myself in the mirror, wondering what she saw that I didn’t.

  I closed my eyes as we drove on the freeway. Watching all the cars made my head ache. In his car seat beside me, Kamran slept, sighing now and then, his mouth making small sucking motions, his tiny hand wrapped around my little finger.

  We pulled into the driveway of a big stucco house with a fountain in front. I stared in silence. Navid’s family must be very rich.

  Before we could even knock, a woman opened the door and stepped onto the porch. She wore a black dress and very high heels. Her dark hair had golden highlights and was coiled around her head. Silver earrings sparkled against her neck.

  “Cassie Joon, come in. Come in. Welcome.”

  She held the door wide for us. We stepped into a two-story entryway. A huge crystal chandelier dangled above us.

  “And this is your daughter,” the woman said, smiling at me and holding out her hand. “Welcome, Judy. Welcome to our family.” She shook my hand, still smiling.

  “Judy, this is Mrs. Ghorbani,” Mama said. “She’s Navid’s mother.”

  “Hello,” I said.

  “And this is Mr. Ghorbani, Navid’s father.”

  A tall man leaned down to shake my hand. Then he smiled. “You are pretty like your mother,” he said.

  “And these are Maryam and Azad.”

  I shook hands with each of them. Maryam was a beautiful woman with full lips and long, dark hair. Her husband was older, short, and round, with a kind face.

  “And here are your new cousins,” Maryam said, pulling her children forward for me to meet. “This is Samira and that’s Farid.”

  Samira smiled shyly, but Farid simply stared and put his fingers in his mouth.

  “Come in, please. Be comfortable.” Mrs. Ghorbani waved us into a sitting room. Ornate furniture was grouped near a large marble fireplace. Beautiful cushions were scattered across a soft, intricately woven carpet.

  We sat down on the sofa and Maryam served us small, clear glasses of tea. Mrs. Ghorbani took the baby from Navid and nuzzled him with her mouth. “Aziza,” she crooned, smiling at the baby. “Kamran Joon, it’s Maman Bozorg. I’m Grandmama. And here is Baba Bozorg, your grandfather. Oh, Joonam, such a beautiful boy.” She was clearly delighted with the baby.

  Samira sat down beside me on the sofa. “I’m five,” she said, folding her hands neatly in her lap. “How old are you?”

  “Twelve,” I said, smiling at her.

  “That’s pretty old,” she proclaimed. Everyone laughed.

  “So, Judy, what grade are you in at school?” Mrs. Ghorbani asked.

  “I’m going into eighth grade.”

  “Ah.” She smiled, then resumed her nuzzling of the baby.

  “Your mother says you like history,” Mr. Ghorbani said.

  “Yes, sir,” I answered.

  “That’s good, very good,” he said. “History is important. It’s important to know about the past. I have some books about Persian history. You will like them.” He rose and walked into the next room, returning with an armful of books.

  “Don’t worry, they are in English,” he said, smiling proudly as he handed them to me. “So you can learn about your new family’s history.”

  “Thank you,” I said, eyeing the pile on my lap. I didn’t know when he thought I was going to read all those books.

  “Here.” Maryam rose. “Let me put those by the door, so you don’t forget them. Azad Joon, will you give Judy some cookies?”

  Her husband passed a silver platter to me, heaped with cookies.

  “These are very good,” he said, pointing to what looked like small brown flowers. “Nan-e Nan-Nokhochi, made with chickpea flour. You will like them.”

  I took a small bite and smiled at him. “It’s good,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “Cassie Joon, she has lovely manners, your daughter.” Mrs. Ghorbani smiled at Mama. “And she’s beautiful like her mother.”

  “Thank you, Farzaneh,” Mama said. She sat at the edge of the sofa and seemed nervous in this grand house.

  “Judy, do you like Persian food?” Maryam asked.

  “I don’t know,” I replied. “I don’t think I ever had it.”

  “Navid Joon.” His mother clucked. “What have you been feeding this girl?”

  “Judy likes spicy food.” He grinned. “I’ve been making curries this week.”

  Mrs. Ghorbani shook her head. “What have you been eating, then, Cassie Joon?” she asked, laughing. Apparently everyone knew that Mama did not like spicy foods.

  “Well, tonight we have the Persian food,” Mrs. Ghorbani said, turning back to me. “We have rice and yogurt and kebabs and fesenjan. You will like it, I think.”

  I nodded. If it was anything like Indian curry, I knew I would.

  We gathered around a huge table. White china plates rimmed in gold gleamed against the dark wood. On the table was a huge platter with dried fruits. Another plate held bread, feta cheese, vegetables, bunches of herbs, and a bowl of yogurt.

  “Okay, you try this,” Mr. Ghorbani said, spearing a radish and putting it on my plate. “And this is good, too.”

  He handed me a piece of flat bread, then spooned a small scoop of brown paste onto my plate. “Hummus,” he said. “Not Persian, but very good. You dip the bread, like this.” He scooped some hummus onto a piece of bread and popped it in his mouth.

  I did the same, savoring the creamy texture of the dip and the chewy bread.

  Next came platters piled with rice—some yellow with saffron, some speckled with herbs and lima beans. A silver tray held skewers of grilled lamb. And in the center of the table sat a big tureen filled with a dark, lumpy-looking sauce that smelled like heaven.

  “You try the fesenjan,” Mr. Ghorbani said, ladling the sauce over rice on my plate. “It is chicken and walnuts in pomegranate sauce. Very good.”

  It was very good. Everything was very good. Across the table from me, Farid was eating rice by the spoonful. His cheeks bulged so that he looked like a chipmunk.

  “So, tomorrow we have a wedding,” Mr. Ghorbani said.

  “Finally a wedding,” Mrs. Ghorbani said.

  Mama and Navid exchanged glances.

  “We are doing this all backwards,” she continued, smiling at me. “First the baby, then the wedding. Ah, well, better a late wedding than no wedding.”

  I nodded, unsure what to say.

  “Have you ever been to a Bahá’í wedding, Judy?” Mr. Ghorbani asked.

  “No, sir.”

  “You will like it, I think. Very simple and beautiful.”

  “And after, a wonderful party,” Mrs. Ghorbani said. “With a lot of Persian foods for you to try ... and dancing.”

  “Oh,” I said. I wondered what kind of dancing there would be. I didn’t know how to dance very well.

  “How many people are we expecting?” Mama asked.

  I was surprised by the question. It was her wedding, after all.

  “Oh, not so many,” Mrs. Ghorbani said, smiling. “Maybe two hundred.”

  Mama’s eyes widened. Navid patted her hand.

  “That’s not so many, really,” he said. “Just family and friends.”

  Mama managed a small smile and nodded.

  “We had to invite people from the Bahá’í community,” Mr. Ghorbani said. “We don’t want to insult anyone.”

  “People want to meet you, Cassie. And they want to meet your daughter. You are joining our family, our community. It’s important,” Mrs. Ghorbani said.

  I watched Mama carefully as she wrung her napkin in her hands.

  “It’s fine,” she said, smiling. But her voice didn’t sound very sure.

  After dinner, Maryam took Mama’s arm in hers and patted it. “Don’t worry, Cassie Joon,” she said, smiling. “It r
eally isn’t such a big wedding. If Maman had her way, she’d have invited all of Los Angeles.”

  It was quiet on the drive back to the apartment. Kamran had fussed before we left, but he fell asleep as soon as the car started. Mama was quiet, too.

  “So, Judy,” Navid said finally, “what do you think of Persian food?”

  “It’s good,” I said. “But I think I like Indian better.”

  Navid laughed and patted Mama’s shoulder. “You see, Cassie Joon? Judy likes my curry even better than Maman’s fesenjan.”

  Mama smiled but said nothing.

  Later, when I was in bed staring at the city lights out the window, I heard them arguing in the living room.

  “Okay, yes,” Navid said, “it’s a lot of people. But you have to understand, Cassie. This is my family, my culture. They can’t have just a small wedding.”

  “But we agreed on a small ceremony.” Mama’s voice trembled. “You promised just family and a few friends.”

  “And that’s what it will be,” he said. “For Persians, two hundred is a small wedding.”

  “I won’t even know anyone,” Mama said.

  “You will know me,” Navid said softly. “And you will have Judy with you, and your sister. That’s all that matters ... right?”

  “I guess so,” she said. “It’s just a lot more than I wanted.”

  “It’s our marriage,” he said. “Don’t you want to celebrate that with the people who love us?”

  “Who love you,” she said. “They don’t even know me.”

  “That’s why they’re coming, Cassie. They want to know you. You are going to be my wife. They want to know who you are.”

  I heard her sigh, then say softly, “It’s okay, Navid. If it’s what you want, then it’s okay.”

  They were quiet after that and I fell asleep to the sounds of traffic far below.

  23

  Saturday dawned hot and clear. Navid drove to the airport to pick up Karen while Mama bustled around the apartment, worrying over her dress and mine. I sat on the couch holding Kamran on my lap, watching her. She seemed very nervous.

  “Now, part of the service will be in Farsi,” she said. “That’s the Persian language. But mostly it will be in English. It’s pretty simple, really. And you will sit with Karen, is that okay?”

  I nodded.

  “And don’t worry about the dancing,” she said, smiling at me. “It’s Persian dancing, and it’s really easy. Here, I’ll show you.”

  She took Kamran from me and put him in his pumpkin seat on the table. Then she turned on the tape player. Exotic music filled the apartment.

  “See, you take your hands like this and move them back and forth. Good, that’s good.”

  I tried to copy her movements, but it wasn’t easy. They didn’t exactly match the music. Mama really had no rhythm.

  “And then you move your feet like this.”

  I watched her, copying the movement of her feet, trying not to laugh. She looked kind of ridiculous.

  “Good, honey. That’s good. You’ve got it!”

  We were both dancing and laughing when the apartment door opened. Navid grinned at the two of us, then stepped into the apartment. Behind him was Mama’s sister, Karen. She took one look at us and burst into laughter.

  “Oh Lord, Cassie,” she said. “You dance just like you did in high school.”

  Mama ran to hug her.

  “Oh, Karen, I’m so glad you’re here!”

  Navid put his hand on my shoulder and smiled at me. “You’ve picked up our dance very well, Judy Joon. You’re a natural.”

  I felt my cheeks redden and shook my head.

  After Karen had cooed over Kamran and admired his dark hair and eyes, his tiny fingers and toes, Navid wrapped the baby in a blanket and bundled him into his car seat.

  “I am taking Kamran Joon to my parents’ house,” he said. “I will dress for the wedding there, and Maman will watch the baby for us.”

  He kissed Mama on the forehead. “I will see you at the wedding,” he said, smiling down at her.

  “Okay,” she said. “Drive carefully.”

  Navid left with the baby, and Mama made coffee for Karen. I sat and watched the two of them in the kitchen. They looked so much alike, but they were so different. Karen was dressed stylishly, with short spiky hair and very high heels. Mama looked just like she always had. Her blond hair hung long and straight down her back. She was wearing a white gauzy dressing gown and her feet were bare.

  “Okay,” Karen said when she’d finished her coffee. “What are we doing with your hair?”

  “Well, I thought I’d brush it,” Mama said, smiling.

  “Oh, God.” Karen sighed. “It’s a good thing I’m here.”

  She sat Mama in a chair and began brushing her hair. “We’ll French braid it and twist it up around your head,” she said, demonstrating. “What kind of veil are you wearing?”

  “No veil.” Mama laughed. “This isn’t the middle ages.”

  Karen frowned. “Then what are you wearing?”

  Mama rose and pulled a beautiful, pale pink silk gown from the closet. Karen inspected it, then smiled. “It’s beautiful, Cassie. It looks just like you. But what are you wearing in your hair?”

  “Nothing,” Mama said.

  Karen stared at her for a long minute, then shook her head. “No,” she said firmly. “You need something in your hair. The dress demands it.”

  “Well, it’s a little late now,” Mama said. “We have to be at the hotel by four.”

  “That’s plenty of time,” Karen said. “Where’s the nearest flower shop?”

  So we drove to a shop and Karen told the florist exactly what she wanted, choosing pink roses with dark greenery and white baby’s breath. Then she watched while the florist wove the flowers into a beaded tiara, making suggestions now and then. When the piece was done, she set the tiara on Mama’s head and pronounced her fit to be seen. Mama just laughed.

  We returned to the apartment and dressed for the wedding. Then Karen braided Mama’s hair and wound it around her head, topping it with the flowered tiara. Really, it was perfect.

  “Oh, Cassie.” Karen smiled. “You’re beautiful.”

  Mama examined herself in the mirror.

  “It doesn’t look like me,” she said softly. “What do you think, Judy?” She turned to look at me.

  “I think you’re beautiful, too.” I was telling the truth. She really did look beautiful.

  “And now for some makeup.” Karen reached for a cosmetic bag she’d brought.

  “Oh no, Karen, absolutely not! I am not wearing makeup.” Mama shook her head fiercely.

  “Come on, Cassie. It’s your wedding. You need something. Just a little lipstick and blush, maybe some eyeliner.”

  But Mama would not be moved. Sighing, Karen turned to me.

  “How about you, Judy? Can I put some lipstick on you?”

  “Absolutely not!” Mama said again. “Sweet Judy is beautiful just the way she is.”

  She pulled me to stand beside her in front of the mirror. “Just look how beautiful she is,” she said so softly I could hardly hear her.

  I looked at the two of us in the mirror, Mama in her pale pink gown and tiara, me in my green and gold silk. I wondered yet again why she thought I was beautiful.

  Finally, Karen gave up arguing and went to make up her own face, emerging from the bathroom looking polished and chic.

  “Are we ready?” she asked.

  Navid had sent a car to pick us up, a long white limousine. Karen gave a low whistle when she saw it. “Now, this is the way to travel,” she said as we settled into the car. “Look,” she said, opening a tray. “Refreshments!”

  She poured a glass of champagne and held it out to Mama. Mama smiled and shook her head.

  “I can’t,” she said. “It’s a Bahá’í wedding. Bahá’ís don’t drink.”

  “Well, you’re not a Bahá’í,” Karen said, holding the glass out to her again.
>
  “No, but I can’t show up with alcohol on my breath, Karen. Navid’s mother would just die. Besides, I’m nursing.”

  “Oh well,” Karen said, smiling. “More for me.”

  She poured a soda for me, and I sipped it carefully. I didn’t want to spill anything on my beautiful dress.

  We pulled up in front of a huge pink hotel in Beverly Hills. Peacocks strutted across the lawn. A man wearing a dark uniform and white gloves opened the car door and ushered us inside.

  “Ah, Cassie Joon, here you are at last! We were beginning to worry.” Mrs. Ghorbani enveloped Mama in a hug, kissing both her cheeks.

  “Judy Joon, you look so beautiful,” she said, kissing my cheeks.

  “Farzeneh, this is my sister, Karen,” Mama said, pulling Karen forward.

  Mrs. Ghorbani took a long look at Karen, taking in the stylish haircut, elegant gown, and stiletto heels. She nodded approval and kissed Karen, too. “Welcome, Karen. Welcome to Los Angeles. Welcome to our family.

  “Now,” she said, taking Mama’s arm. “We go upstairs for some pictures. Karen, you take Judy just down there.” She pointed down a long hallway. “At the end on the left.” With that, she pulled Mama away, talking the entire time. Mama looked over her shoulder and smiled at us. She looked scared.

  “Okay, kiddo,” Karen said. “Let’s check this place out.”

  We wandered through the lobby into a lounge where several people sat drinking from fancy glasses. Karen ordered a martini for herself and another soda for me. “We’ve got plenty of time before the service,” she said, sitting down in a plush chair.

  We watched people come and go, Karen commenting from time to time on someone’s clothes or hair.

  “Look at that suit,” she said, pointing to a man in black. “That’s an Armani. Probably worth more than my car.”

  I nodded.

  “So,” she said, turning her gaze to me, “what do you think of Navid?”

  “He’s nice.”

  “Yeah, my dad liked him, too,” she said. “But you know he’s Persian. And those Middle Eastern men, they can be pretty old-fashioned.”