A year had passed since I had fallen in love with Yarek under the dark blue skies of Kings River in Sequoia National Forest. Rather than live in the hell of deep secrets that surrounded my family, I had an idea. I wanted Baba to include Yarek on one of the family’s pilgrimage trips to Mecca and hoped that Baba would come to like Yarek, just as Maman had on a short day trip to Mexico. Only then would I tell Baba we were dating.
Maman, always the mediator, arranged the meeting hoping for the best. Before sitting down to tea and fresh cut watermelon, Baba kissed Yarek on each cheek and shook his hand.
At first, Baba was pleased to have a foreigner express interest in Islam and a trip to Mecca. He did not know that Yarek was a Polish atheist fourteen years my senior, or that we were secretly dating.
“So tell this nice gentleman that he is very welcome in our home. And that I am very curious about his quest – Mosalmuni – becoming a Muslim.” Baba pushed the teacup close to me as he passed me three large sugar cubes.
I translated for Yarek as my heart pounded against my chest and my ribs tightened. At twenty-one, I was still apprehensive about Baba’s reaction to discovering I had a boyfriend. But I believed I was truly in love.
Baba asked Yarek dozens of questions about his age, his parents, his upbringing, his extended family, his work, and his family’s religious beliefs. He asked how Yarek had come to America and met me. Finally, he got to the most important question of all, how did Yarek feel about God?
Baba began, not by asking, but by sermonizing. He started with Adam and Eve, then Abraham, Jesus, Abraham, Mohammad, Jerusalem, Mecca, and ended at the Ka’ba. True to his nature, Yarek was quiet so that Baba felt he’d had a captive audience.
Three and a half hours and four cups of tea later, after discussing the differences between Shi’a and Sunni and what Yarek could expect from the Mecca pilgrimage, I felt a sense of relief. Perhaps I had underestimated Baba after all. Perhaps the years in America had softened him.
Perhaps Baba would come to embrace Yarek’s tender spirit and calm soul while we traveled together on the trip to Mecca. On the trip, I, too, could feel things out and consider a more serious relationship, maybe even marriage. I had watched my parents act like newlyweds on the Mecca trips, and it had inspired me to believe in the possibility of deep, spiritual love.
At the end of his lecture, Baba asked Yarek in broken English, “You understand?”
Yarek nodded and followed with, “Yes. Your daughter did a great job translating.” Yarek looked away from Baba for the first time and smiled at me. By the time the second dimple appeared on Yarek’s face and he kept his eyes on me, Baba’s smile had left his own face. Baba saw the love in Yarek’s eyes.
“Rahimeh, what is really going on here? What is the nature of your relationship with this man?”
“I told you, Baba, I met him at the psych hospital where I work. He’s a nurse there.”
I looked over at Maman who had been coming and going from the room in her unobtrusive way with fresh tea and pastries.
“I wasn’t born yesterday, Rahimeh. I ask you again, what is the nature of your relationship with this man?” Baba pushed Yarek’s visa application out of his reach and yelled in Persian. “I am a man, and I know about the look in his eyes.”
Now Yarek’s smile was gone, too. The furrowing of his eyebrows told me how confused he was.
“Baba, we met at work. He’s a friend who’s curious about Islam.” I felt my shoulders tighten. “I thought that on the Mecca trip, I would get to know him better and see what happens.”
Yarek and I both jumped as Baba slammed his fist on the table rattling the teacups. “What do you mean ‘see what happens’? What has already happened?” Baba pressed his palms on the table and stood facing Yarek. “You tell me what his intentions are – tell me that now before I kick him out of my house!”
Yarek didn’t move and appeared both surprised and cautious.
Baba suddenly began to shout in his broken English. “Are you planning to marry my daughter?” He turned to me. “Tell him I want the truth. Right now, Rahimeh.”
Yarek’s voice was calm. He had dealt with angry patients in the hospital before.
“I’m interested in Islam, sir. I genuinely am. But I’m mostly interested in Islam because of your daughter.” Yarek’s innocence was endearing, but, as I translated his response, I realized it was a mistake.
Coming around the table, Baba reached behind him and, without looking, picked up a crystal bowl and raised it above Yarek’s head. “Get him out of my house before I kill him!” The veins in Baba’s neck were now pulsing. I could almost hear his heart drumming as he yelled at Yarek in Persian. “You’re fourteen years older than my daughter – you child predator, you atheist!”
I stopped translating.
Baba raised the crystal bowl higher; his birthmark was the color of beets. “How dare you come to my home under false pretenses? Get out of my house!”
Swinging my purse over my shoulder, I headed for the door.
“If he’s leaving, so am I.” I grabbed my shoes and Yarek followed behind me.
“If you go, don’t come back.” Baba was holding the bowl above his head as if it were his Qur’an.
I yanked the door shut with a slam.
At Maman’s request, my cousin had managed to get Baba dressed in a suit, but on their way to my wedding ceremony, Baba reversed his acquiescence.
“Turn the car around.”
Since the crystal bowl incident over a year earlier, Baba would leave every family function as soon as I showed up. He threatened other family members who spoke to me, and refused to have a relationship with me. This continued even on my wedding day. He went home to fume.
I was crestfallen that Baba did not come to my wedding. Despite Baba’s attempts to prevent her, Maman not only attended, she officiated over our wedding vows. Yarek and I sat together circled by Maman and my brothers. I was hopeful we could break the cycle of misfortune that had befallen our family.
Neither of my brothers was doing well with their wives. Even though Hadi and his wife came to the wedding together, signs of their depression didn’t leave their faces; their impending divorce was taking its toll. Zain appeared to be happier with Shanna than I had ever seen him but, as usual, his happiness was cause for alarm.
When Zain got up for a toast, he raised his glass of sparkling apple cider and, looking in Yarek’s direction, and said, “If you hurt my sister, I’ll kill you.” He laughed aloud, and followed with, “But seriously, I know you’re a great guy. That’s why my sister loves you…I think anyway!” He shrugged his shoulders at the audience and, despite the palpable discomfort, he continued, “Actually, I’m not sure what she sees in you,” he laughed again, but the room was quiet and tense. “I’m kidding, come on. I know you’re a good man. And I want to welcome you to the family.” Zain’s eyes darted around the room and his words became more slurred and his movements rocky. How did I miss it? Somehow, Zain had managed to sneak alcohol into my alcohol-free wedding.
As we all raised our glasses in celebration, Zain continued to mumble parts of a impromptu speech that seemed to mock Martin Luther King Jr. by saying, “I have a dream that someday my sister and Yarek...” My heart sank and I could feel the flush of embarrassment on my face. Except for the final cheers of the audience when he finished speaking, I tuned him out. I knew others wondered where they, too, could find some alcohol.
After watching Zain’s drunken speech, I realized I had been foolish to imagine this could be a happier time for my family.
Months later, Shanna came running into my parents’ bedroom, her hair uncombed, wearing only a thin robe that flapped loosely around her nightgown. Outside a thunderstorm was shaking the trees in the yard, and Zahra’s pet rabbit had to be brought inside because he was thumping at his cage in fright. Shanna was trembling as Maman wrapped her arms around her and called me into the room to translate. I had just arrived to visit Maman and was telling Baba through his
closed office door that I loved him and missed him. Even ten months after my wedding, he still refused to speak to or see me.
“What’s happened?” Maman tucked a strand of Shanna’s hair behind one ear.
“Zain is screaming that I’ve cheated on him. He’s so angry that I’m afraid of him.” Shanna buried her head in Maman’s shoulder.
In unison, our heads swiveled toward Shanna’s room. Zain usually slept in the living room with the television blasting through the door to what used to be my bedroom.
Shanna’s hands were shaking, as she accepted a tissue from Maman. “It’s okay. He’s gone. Zahra’s fine. But he’s never yelled like this before with Zahra in the room. I’m afraid for both of us.”
For the first time since my wedding, Baba didn’t leave the room when I entered. He did not look at me and expect me to translate; instead, he spoke in English. “I will fix, Shanna.” He looked angry. “I will fix. You go sleep. Okay, Zahra. I will fix.”
Trembling as Maman rubbed her back, Shanna dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose. “He was drunk. I didn’t want to tell you. He told you he stopped drinking, but he hasn’t. I stopped going places with him because he gets drunk. I’m sorry to tell you, but I have to now.”
When Maman returned from walking Shanna back to her room, Baba stood waiting for her. He pointed a finger at Maman. “You encouraged these two to get married. Look at this mess now.” The window shook in its frame. “He ignores his wife and child and doesn’t come home at night.” Baba began to wave his arms in circles, speaking more loudly. “He promised that if I took him to Mecca, he would stop putting that poison in his body. He’s broken his promise again.” Baba looked at the empty rabbit cage. “He’s missing work, he’s staying out, and now he’s out of control, his wife afraid of him? I will not tolerate this in my house.” The veins in his neck throbbed as he headed toward the door. “I will not.”
Maman followed. “Where’re you going, Haji? Please calm down before you do anything foolish.”
“I’m going to find him and set this straight. Of all the things that I’ve been forced to endure in this country, this will not be one of them. I would rather see him dead than drunk.” The door slammed behind him.
Looking at Maman, I knew we would need more than sugar crystals or even Valium to calm her. Maman sat on the edge of the bed, one leg half stretched out, the other at an angle, her face red and wet; she wadded the tissues in her hand and began tearing them up. She pounded her chest and cried like an injured animal.
“Maman?” I reached for her hand.
She was screaming over and over, “Ey Khoda – O dear God! What’s happening to us?” Even the pounding rain against the window couldn’t muffle the sounds of Maman’s cries. Soon her breathing became shallow and her eyes rolled back in their sockets. I knew the signals. She was back in Mashhad.
“Breathe, Mamani, breathe with me.” When she began to gasp, I was now the one screaming. “Maman – breathe!”
“I can’t.” One arm went limp, her fist opening, while with her other hand she tried to rub her chest before the hand slid to the bed. I could hardly hear her whimper.
“Maman, can you hear me?”
When the ambulance arrived, Maman didn’t argue; she didn’t even motion for her scarf. She was mumbling nonsense.
When the paramedic told me it could be her heart, but it was too early to tell, I was glad she couldn’t understand English. I put her scarf on her and helped the paramedic move her to the door. I heard the microwave alarm signal the cup of hot water and sugar crystals were ready. This was more than an emotional attack. It looked like Maman was having a heart attack.
I held her hand and sat by her gurney in the hospital emergency room, as she spoke in jumbled words to people who were now dead: her father, Abodollah. The only words I recognized were “Ey Khoda,”“Why?” and “My sons!”
I whispered, “You’re going to be okay, Maman.”
I answered her cellphone when I saw that it was Baba. Maybe Baba hadn’t spoken to me since I had left him holding the crystal bowl, but now he had no choice.
“I’ll meet you at the hospital,” Baba tried to say as Zain’s screams broke through the background.
“Shanna’s crazy. I hate her. She’s imprisoning me. You’re imprisoning me. This is not the life I want.” I heard sounds in the background, “Let me out.” Then there was fumbling and static and Zain was on the phone. “She’s cheating on me, Maman. She’s cheating on me.”
I didn’t respond.
“Maman, where are you? I need you.” Zain began weeping. “Mamani?”
“It’s me, Rahimeh. You need to stay away from Maman. For a few hours at least – until she’s better.”
“Let me talk to her! What’s happened?”
I hung up on Zain and turned to Maman. Her face was swollen and red like bruised tomatoes. The injections had left her numb and semi-conscious.
An hour later from the window of Maman’s hospital room, I could see Zain and Baba pacing in the parking lot below. Zain pounded his fist on the hood of our car. Baba had his hands out as if trying to contain a charging animal.
When I phoned Baba to say, “Get him out of here,” Zain was screaming in the background. “This isn’t fair. This can’t be my life. You did this to me. I didn’t want to be married. I would be rich now if it wasn’t for her. Where’s my Maman?”
“Baba, take him home. I made sure Shanna and Zahra are gone. Half the things he says don’t make sense. He’s losing his mind. Take him home, Baba.”
“I’ll wait until he calms down, I can’t drive with him like this.” Baba’s voice was surprisingly relaxed until Zain came charging toward him, screaming so loudly that I pulled the phone away from my ear.
“She’s trying to trap me for the rest of my life. She’s after my money – my wealth. You hear me?” He kicked the car door, denting it, and pounded his shoulder against the side of the car.
“My life is crap. I’m crap.” He began to wail and slam his head against the windshield.
“Baba, I’m calling the police,” I yelled into the phone.
“No police. You hear me? No police, Rahimeh.” Baba yelled. He would never call the police on one of his sons again. “He’ll stop. Just no police.” Baba had a point. This wasn’t the first time we had seen Zain cycle back and forth from infantile sobbing to uncontrollable rage to remorse and back again.
The phone went dead as Baba finally pushed Zain’s tired and bruised body into the car. Yarek was right that we should have gotten Zain into a psychiatric hospital. But my parents weren’t ready for any of that yet. In their minds, Zain’s issues were only marital problems.
For the next nine hours, until Maman woke up, I had no news of Zain. He, no doubt, was in a drugged sleep, too.
When the doctors couldn’t find anything physically wrong with Maman, they offered her a bottle of Xanax. They didn’t understand that what they were dealing with was untreatable. She was a Dagh Dideha, a burnt mother, who had lost one son and was in the midst of losing another. None of them could see the depth of her pain or the physical danger it posed.
She returned from the hospital counting on God and Baba to save Zain. But without understanding Zain’s mood issues, the severity of the alcoholism, and the demons that tortured Zain, Baba focused on what he did recognize: irresponsible and lazy behavior inspired by Western decadence. After each round of fighting with Baba, Zain would float from job to job, sometimes even leaving the state, drinking, seeing other women, and leaving the responsibility for his wife and child to his parents and siblings before he returned broke, hung over, and demoralized. This would lead to confrontations with Baba, hugging Zahra, sleeping on the couch, and eventually repenting and making up with Shanna for a night. Then the whole cycle would start all over again. I wondered, Wasn’t this rock bottom?
Of course Zain wasn’t the only one failing at love. Hadi was still depressed about his recent divorce, and I was struggling in my relationship with
Yarek. I felt helpless, and although I hadn’t spoken to him in a long while, I also sought comfort and advice from my lost brother, Abdollah.
August 1999
Dear Dadashi,
I started therapy with Dr. John in San Diego a few weeks ago when I was contemplating ending my marriage. I drive from L.A. to go see him. It’s more than a three-hour drive one way - but it’s worth it. He is an intergenerational family therapist, expert really. I’m studying to do what he does, to help other families who are going through the kind of muck we are going through. Immigrant families who have so much to deal with, so much trauma, drama, and such amazing spirits and hearts. I decided to get my psychology doctorate one night when Zain was home drunk. When there is so much fighting and pain in our family, I just can’t bear the thought of other families struggling like this, too. You know I started with multigenerational family trees and I’m learning about patterns and relationship dynamics in graduate school, but putting the insights into action and changing myself has been the hard part. Dr. John has been amazing though. He gets the root of our issues, he knows how far back they go, all the way to our parents’ grandparents. He’s an expert at helping a family system change. That’s what I hope to do someday soon. The therapy has been the best part of getting my doctorate.
After everything I went through with Baba to get him to accept my marriage to Yarek – two years of Baba not talking to me – now I can’t imagine staying in this marriage any longer. I guess we didn’t stand a chance from the start. Every time I try to talk about leaving Yarek in therapy, the conversation circles back to you and Baba.
The Rose Hotel Page 22
