I explained to Baba that Iman had been an incredible support, and that he would be my business manager. Iman had grown a lot as a businessman himself. He had grown beyond being just the baby of the family. Iman had developed a reputation within the community for being a sound businessman – consistent, smart, and hardworking. I told Baba I was also employing Shanna. I shared my long-term vision: to establish my own cognitive training centers all over Orange County.
Of course, I told Baba, I knew the success of my business would be measured in the lives we changed and not the money we made. I told Baba about my most amazing students, and how we were transforming their lives. I told Baba how I thought of Zain when I was at work, and how he was never the same in school after Abdollah died. How I wished somebody had helped him in the same way that I was trying help these students now.
The day my second center opened and Maman and Baba arrived with a mirror and Qur’an on a tray, there were two families waiting to talk to me outside my office, four kids waiting for my intervention, three trainers waiting for instructions, and Shanna kept reminding me of my three calls on hold. I barely had time to talk to my parents. Baba didn’t blink an eye; he was a businessman, and he understood. He leaned over to kiss my cheek, and whispered, “I know you’re busy, so I’ll get started. You run your business and I’ve got the rest.”
Within six days, Baba had two men working under his thumb. They finished a $26,000 office expansion for six grand, and it was done in half the time. Baba and I had grown very close since we had overcome the headscarf incident, but now we also had a mutual language, that of business, and I was learning to speak it well.
By 2007, I had the second highest revenue-producing brain training franchise out of seventy-three in the nation, and I knew my Baba was proud of me. By the next year, I was bankrupt.
BABA’S DREAM: THE ELAHIEH
I was not the only one in the family to open a center dedicated to serving the community. Since we had arrived in Orange County, Baba had conducted religious ceremonies first in his own living room, and later in rental community centers. With unwavering perseverance, one knock on the door after another, over the years he had managed to gather enough funds to build a community religious center, the Elahieh. Now, he was about to conduct his first ceremony in a center that he founded and built
The smell of rose water sweetened the air as Baba removed his shoes on the marble floor and placed them in the shoe rack that held over one hundred and fifty pairs. He picked up a Qur’an from the bookshelves for his prayer later and sat at a podium under the inverted dome, where dividers separated men and women in the 2000-square-foot prayer room.
The scent of turmeric and saffron floated in from the lamb stew brewing in the kitchen’s twenty-five-gallon cooking pots.
For this larger-than-life project, Baba was only an “Abdollah” – a servant of God. Here the Muslim congregation would be connecting to the higher power and the prophets through prayers, poetry, and celebrations. My father used his conviction, his contacts, and his reputation as a man of contribution and faith, to share this vision with the community.
Between the day Maman and Baba received the keys and entered with a mirror and Qur’an on a Rose Hotel tray and the grand opening, two years would pass. During that time, Baba worked fourteen-hour days as the building was gutted and rebuilt. With his broken English, Baba became an expert on permit issues, design, contractors, and plumbing. Feeding the workers Persian stews for lunch before eating himself, he was with them at every step, nail by nail, hour by hour, supervising the installation of every fixture, the laying and grouting of each tile, until the job was perfect. Iman was the only child by his side.
Maybe Baba couldn’t control Zain’s substance abuse, Hadi’s spending, my renouncing my headscarf, or Iman’s overworking. Yet, his creating the Elahieh – a charitable and religious enterprise as grand in scope as his commercial triumph in Iran – was his contribution on earth and security toward his children’s safe voyage after death. Finally, Baba would have a mosque-like center, bringing the community together, serving people, and fulfilling his purpose in a life of service.
At the Elahieh, Baba and Maman stood together with one goal, one mission. Their losses – their lost son, lost homes, lost homeland, and lost hopes – were of this earth. In the Elahieh, they found themselves again, they were with God, they were home, and they had peace.
MAMAN’S DREAM: SAVING HER SONS
Maman had her own mission: saving the lives of her endangered sons, Hadi and Zain. Both young men had spun out of control – Hadi financially, emotionally, and literally – still driving over one hundred miles per hour toward an inevitable collision. Zain was in desperate need, too – as he staggered forth, drunk and drugged, his blood alcohol hovering at toxic levels, it was only a matter of time before a fatal overdose.
The question: Which son was in more immediate danger and whom should we try to save first?
“Koja rafti? Can you hear me?” Maman tapped her finger on the back of my hand. I noticed that her fingernails had gotten long. She started to tap her other hand on the table until my eyes met hers.
“I know you’ve been out of touch with Zain for a while now. I know you don’t want to interfere or enable him anymore.” Maman looked out toward the yard. “I’ve respected your wishes the last year and haven’t pressured you to talk to him.” Maman brought her eyes back to the table, staring at the empty plate she’d pushed in front of me. “I know I’ve made a lot of mistakes and helped him when I shouldn’t have. Baba and I didn’t listen to you years ago, but now I understand the mistakes we made. This time it’s different. We need help. We really do.” Maman continued without blinking or taking a break. “I called an Iranian substance abuse counselor today.”
“What?” I looked at her with my eyebrows raised. I had given up long ago. I had told my parents if they were not willing to face Zain’s addictions and mood disorder, I would not support them in any way.
“An Iranian counselor?” This was hard to fathom - Maman with a substance abuse counselor?
“Yes. I’ve talked to them. I even talked to Zain about going. He refused, but your father is willing to go now. We are going to the group on Friday night.” Maman paused. “It’s called Ala-noon or Alnoon.”
I almost laughed at her Iranian inflection. But this was no laughing matter. It was life and death, and I had been more than half expecting that any night my phone would ring with the dire news: another brother was dead.
“A group? You mean Al-Anon?”
Maman nodded. “It’s an Iranian substance abuse group.”
“You’re going to an Al-Anon group? Iranian-style?”
“Yes. I found them by talking to a friend. I promise you this time I’ll do exactly as you say. He’s in real danger. I can feel it. Please, azizam, we need your help.” Maman clasped her hands on the table, clutching them tight, gazing at the plate. “This time will be different. I promise.”
I walked to the garbage can and threw out my uneaten soup. I began to rinse the bowl and watched as the water spilled out and filled the sink. Maman was in the daydream of her own, biting her lips and locking eyes with her memories as she stared out the window. It had been raining for a few days. The dark clouds obscured the sun again, but streams of light were making their way through the window and into the living room, cutting through to illuminate Maman.
Suddenly, Maman lifted her hands to the ceiling. “Khoda, this time, you either help my son, heal him, or take him from me. I would rather he die than live a dead man’s life.” A single tear rolled slowly down the side of her face, sliding into her ear. “Are you listening, God? I would rather die myself or grieve another son than watch him like this. I can’t take this desperation anymore. I simply can’t!”
Maman grabbed my purse. “Whatever you think is best, do it. Call the police, take him away, do whatever you have to. Please, honey, help me. I understand what this disease is now. I wasted so much time doing wrong things.”
Maman met my eyes. “Go. Take him to a hospital, whatever you must do. At least that way I know he’s being watched.” Maman took a deep breath. Her drooping shoulders and fully-grayed hair were surprising. I hadn’t really “seen” Maman in so long.
Maybe this time would be the end. Maybe this was the bottom of rock bottom?
Maman put the strap of my purse over my shoulder. As I reached the door, she kissed my cheek, whispering in my ear, “I’m afraid he’ll kill himself.”
I planned a rescue strategy for Zain with my other endangered brother, Hadi. It was an ongoing irony that other people’s crises brought out the best in Hadi.
“I’ll go in with the cops, Hadi. You meet me at the door when you get there.” The sky seemed clearer now even though it was still overcast, and arguably darker. From the time I had left Maman’s until I arrived at the apartment of Zain’s girlfriend, I had made over forty calls, recruited the cops, enlisted a bipolar specialist and a Psychiatric Emergency Team ready to take Zain against his will in case I was not successful at taking him in voluntarily, and I updated the family on the plan.
I would work in tandem with Hadi. “You stay by the front door, and, if he becomes belligerent and wants to run out, the two of us can talk him down. I want to avoid the PET team. It will traumatize him.” I explained that there was also a county therapist coming to evaluate Zain and place him on an involuntary 5150: a three-day psychiatric hold.
For the first time in the last thirteen years since I had dragged Zain’s body out of a boiling hot bathtub and felt helpless, I now felt a faint hope that we could change him.
I called Hadi again. “No matter what he says, we have to tell the cops what he told Maman, that he threatened to hurt himself. He’ll deny it, but if he’s not a danger to himself or others, they won’t take him to the hospital. There are requirements for an involuntary hold. You understand, yes?”
Hadi’s voice was hoarse. “Can we make sure he will go to the hospital and not jail? I can’t see him in handcuffs.”
“He’s not being arrested, Hadi; they won’t cuff him.” My heart started to pound faster. “Unless he becomes belligerent, but I don’t think he will. But if he does and it goes south, just leave. I’ve got this.” I had no idea if I could really pull it off, but Hadi couldn’t see any weakness in me or he would back out. “Zain might die of an overdose if we don’t do this. We don’t have much time. I don’t want him to run away. This is it. This may be our last chance. You with me?”
Two squad cars screeched up to Zain’s apartment building. I watched the cops step out of the squad cars, the outline of their Kevlar vests visible through their crisply-pressed street blues.
“Listen Hadi, the cops are here. I have to go. Don’t worry. He’s not in trouble with the law, but he’s in trouble. Text me when you’re here. Stand by the door. If you can’t do it, don’t come.”
“I’ll be right behind you,” Hadi said before I flipped my phone shut and hung up.
It had taken over fifteen minutes to get Zain’s girlfriend to open the door. Now in the living room, police officers stood guard over Zain who had sunk deep into the couch cushions. He was at least fifty pounds heavier than I had remembered him, his bald spot more pronounced. He was clean-shaven but his face was unusually pink and its shape was lost in fat rolls. The small Hawaiian shirt had crept up above his belly button, the curly hair on his stomach visible. I hardly recognized him as the brother I knew. I couldn’t look into his eyes.
“There is nothing wrong, officers,” he said. My family just really worries about me. You can see that I’m fine. Really. Thank you for coming. I’m not hurt and I’m not hurting anyone, right, honey?” He gestured for his girlfriend and tapped the couch cushion next to him. She began to take a step toward him, but met the palm of the tall and stocky officer who motioned for her to stay back.
“Please, officers, can’t she just sit next to me?” He wrung his hands. “It’s scary having the two of you there with guns.”
I was aware of Hadi listening near the hall’s entrance. But Zain didn’t know he was there.
The blond officer moved two feet closer to Zain, his arm by his side over the pistol. “Sir, the only reason we are here is because your sister and brother are worried about you.”
“My brother?” Zain gasped. “Iman’s here?” He tugged at his shirt, covering his hairy belly.
I took a step closer. “Honey, Iman isn’t here. It’s Hadi. He’s by the door. We’re here because we want to help and we want you to come with me to a hospital. We want to get you better.”
When Zain’s bloodshot eyes finally met mine, I realized something was different. He wasn’t drunk. He pushed his back further into the couch. “Officer, my sister is a doctor, and my brother over there is now rich and he thinks he can boss me around. He would be a nobody if it wasn’t for me, you know?” He looked over at the other cop to his left.
“I just want you to know that I drink sometimes. They think it’s too much. I don’t ever drink and drive, and today, I haven’t even had a drink; I’m just relaxing at home.” The uncontrollable shaking of his leg began to move the coffee table. Suddenly, he stood and began to yell as he pointed his index finger at me and toward the wall that hid Hadi. “I said I was fine. You can take them out with you when you leave.”
The officer walked a step closer to him, bending toward Zain. “You need to calm down, sir. Just take a deep breath. Okay?” He softened his voice as he watched Zain’s eyes. “I’m told you have threatened to hurt yourself, even end your life. Is that true, sir?” The officer put his hand down as Zain fell back into the couch. Hadi stepped into the room, one hand in his pocket, still wearing his sunglasses.
“No! No! No! I never said I wanted to do that, officer!” Zain took a breath before lowering his voice. “I told my mom I was unhappy. I never told her I was going to kill myself.” He began tapping his leg with his hand. “I really want to be left alone, sir. Please. I don’t want to be disrespectful. Please, please, please, leave.” His hands were waving in the air, his voice quivering, and just as quickly as he went from calm to yelling, he now started to whimper. His face turned the color of beets, his eyes flooded with tears, and he began sobbing uncontrollably.
I kept telling myself that he was a grown man but he looked like the little boy back in Iran who refused to go to school after Abdollah was gone. In Mashhad, after we fought, he would bring me Kit Kats and refused to take one of the chocolate wafers when I would offer. “It’s your favorite, Rahimeh, and it’s all yours.” Then he would say a funny joke and laugh, whether I laughed or not. We would go back to playing, offering each other our toys. I missed that brother.
“I just don’t know what to do anymore,” Zain reached out a hand to me. “Please help me, sister. Please get them out of here. I’ll be fine. I promise. Please. I beg you.” He kept his eyes locked on mine. He grabbed my hand hard. “Please, sister, help me.”
The sunlight was chasing down the evening. For the next hour, I tried to convince him to enroll in the hospital voluntarily, but it was no use. The room was getting dark. Zain was now struggling for air, weeping, his body lightly convulsing. The little light that was left in the living room faded as he got on his knees, begging me to let him stay home.
Hadi’s attempts to convince him were also unsuccessful.
“Hadi, please go wait for us outside.” This was going to be ugly.
I released my hand from Zain’s. “I’m taking you to a hospital. I won’t ask you again, Zain. I won’t argue with you, I won’t fight with you, and I certainly won’t negotiate with you.”
“But why?”
“Your mood is spiraling up and down. I don’t know what’s in your system, and you told Maman you want to die.” I passed him a tissue and broke eye contact.
I looked over at the officers. “Let’s do this.” I almost tripped on the carpet as I made my way out of the room.
When the psychologist walked in, Zain tucked into a ball and started to shake
. At first, he answered her questions, but soon his words were mumbled and jammed in together, fruit salad answers, nothing making sense. He then went back to bargaining, and, when she didn’t ease up, he fell into weeping again.
By the time we left the apartment, it had been five hours, and finally, the psychologist said he could be admitted on the involuntary hold. Driving him to the psychiatric hospital, I had no idea if this would help. In fact, I knew it was likely not to work. I had worked in a psych hospital for years. I knew how to get him there and that he needed to be safe, but I also knew he was a sharp guy, a smart negotiator, and within twenty-four hours he would have the system figured out and convince the staff he was good to go home. The fact that he didn’t have private insurance would support the psychiatrist’s probable decision to let him loose.
Maybe I was putting us through hell for nothing. But I was trying to plant a seed for his health, and for the family’s. Losing one brother had tormented us. Watching another one die was not an option. This was better than nothing. And, at the very least, he would dry out for a few days until we figured out something else.
Two days and five visits later, Zain was power walking barefoot on the hospital’s cold tile floor, his gown half-open as he bummed cigarettes off other patients. He laughed and cried seconds apart; he had made some new friends there. He loved it. He hated it. He was refusing the medications offered. When I left, I wept.
The next day, Shanna drove to the hospital with Zahra and picked up Zain as he stood, wearing his hospital gown, in the street.
When Maman didn’t call me for twenty-four hours after Zain was discharged, I knew we were back to playing Russian roulette. When Maman did finally phone me, she reported the ordeal had been a success. “He has quit drinking, honey. Nothing since you hospitalized him.” Maman was excited.
The Rose Hotel Page 24
