Baba had gone, in my view, from an unreasonable dictator to a great hero. Had Baba been born earlier, in the time when his belief was respected, he would have kept order in our family and held us together. In the chaos of a crazed war and changing times, his devout Muslim faith failed to save his son; it also misled him to make grievous errors. He alienated the very children he tried to protect. But that was then, and now he was a changed man. Life had been our best teacher.
Our relationship was transformed, and it seemed that, from now on, Baba would always show up on time for my heart.
Like him, I had failed financially in business, but, like him, I would recover and rise even higher in the future. I had not anticipated that he would be here to help me dismantle my business.
“You should be home resting, Baba.”
Baba wiped the raindrops off his lapel. “Where am I starting?” He ignored my comment. He looked around and picked up the black trashcans piled inside one another. “I’ll start here. The new ones I can return and get the money for you.”
“We can’t return them, Daddy. I’ve used them for over two years. Plus I want you to take everything you need to the Elahieh.” I grabbed the trash bag from his hand.
He paused near the packages of copy paper and smiled. “I’ll take those. I always need more copy paper.” Baba knew how to make me feel better. He didn’t need the paper, but I needed him to take it. Since his tour business had slowed down after 9/11 and his health issues increased, Baba hadn’t been using his copier to print trip itineraries and prayer time schedules.
Holding a package of paper, Baba circled the furniture now haphazardly stacked in the middle of the waiting room. “You can sell these.”
I spoke to him over my shoulder as I placed a box by the door. “No. The conference room, all the training tables, chairs, and all of the other supplies will go to the Elahieh, Baba.”
Baba ran his hand over a leather chair. “You sell it.”
“I’m delivering it all to you tomorrow. This is not a negotiation.” I began to empty my desk’s overhead compartment. “Maman and you can decide who gets which desk.” I knew Baba loved my red oak office desk and Maman had always eyed my desk at the other center. I also knew Baba would give the bigger nicer one to Maman.
Baba didn’t move as he looked for the right words to refuse. He never would take anything for himself. When we were kids and he traveled to Kuwait or Lebanon, he would buy everyone in the family three sets of gifts and never bought himself anything, not even a shirt.
“It’s my donation, Baba. It’s not for you. I’m doing it for God.” I knew my Baba too well. He wouldn’t take for himself, but he couldn’t stand in the way of me contributing.
“God bless you, dokhtaram.”
Six hours later, Baba’s limp was more pronounced. He had taken out the light bulbs from every fixture, folded and packed the lamps, unscrewed each table and chair attachment, packed the papers in boxes, took the extra unused kitchen supplies and labeled the box “Return to Costco,” and made over two dozen trips down twenty flights of stairs to throw out trash and pack the van before going home.
Two days later as he sat on the couch looking at the boxes still filling the room, he lifted his foot up and positioned a decorative pillow under it. “We’re making good progress.”
I nodded and sat next to him. Shoulder to shoulder, we sat resting our heads on the back cushion. We stared up at the ceiling, in silence.
When he stood to kiss me goodbye, he said, “I’ll see you tomorrow at 6:00 a.m. sharp! I’ll be here until it’s all done. All of it. You understand?”
It was pointless to argue with him about not coming back so I nodded.
A week later, the wind blew softly as I stood in front of the twenty-foot double glass doors of my office, the light shining on the sign, Maman and Iman standing behind me. I could feel their hearts palpitating. We had all seen something like this before, all those years ago in Iran. I closed my eyes remembering the nightingale that sat on the Rose Hotel sign when Mr. Gaffari had switched off the light. As I felt Baba’s hand on my shoulder, I thought I saw the same bird fly by.
In 2008, when the market crashed, Hadi’s world began to fall like a house of cards. Hadi had business transactions go sour, watched as one property foreclosed after another, stacks of lawsuits weighed heavily on him, and his mornings began with wake-up calls from creditors and lawyers. Of course, he told no one of his troubles. Instead, he had begun isolating himself from his family – separating from his wife, refusing invitations and phone calls for his fortieth birthday, and avoiding all meaningful contact. As the final gesture of his turmoil, one early morning, he shaved his head.
Unlike Zain, however, Hadi was never going to live in Saudi Arabia nor run back to Iran. While the rest of us worried for him, Hadi was thumbing his nose at looming bankruptcy with a spending spree that included a $90,000 Range Rover and two steadfast, fully-loaded – and very dangerous – BMW motorcycles.
Maman seemed ten years younger as she laid out her prayer rug, knelt to the ground, and placed her forehead on it. Like millions of Muslims during Muharram, Maman was wearing black for the entire month – a vow she made when Abdollah died. Even with a bad knee from arthroscopic surgery and arthritis in her other joints, when Maman kneeled to pray, she didn’t whimper and moan as she did when she slowly limped up the stairs. She didn’t complain about her joints when she talked to her God.
The thumping on the stairs indicated Baba was on the move, too. Baba’s morning routine now consisted of fumbling through fourteen bottles of pills for diabetes, prostate issues, ulcers, blood pressure, and cholesterol.
My parents were late for a ceremony they were hosting at the Elahieh, but Maman’s soft weeping settled Baba back down on the recliner. Looking out into space, lost in memory, Baba closed his eyes as Maman’s tearful voice shivered in Arabic, her voice a whisper, reminding him of the pain that still bonded them. He began his prayers in the recliner, one foot propped up on a pillow. Arabic murmuring and the scent of a vanilla candle filled the room.
On this day, both of my parents had woken with an ache in their bellies, an indication that one of their children was in need.
It was logical to assume that the child in trouble was, as usual, Zain, who was now living in Tajikistan where Maman had recently supported his third, secret marriage – but kept it from the rest of us – to a woman who would soon bear their two children. With his negotiating skills and Arabic language in Dubai, Zain had been able to make a modest new life far away from us. He was, as he described it, “a big fish in a decent pond.” It was in Dubai that he had met a Tajiki woman, and had relocated because of her. Zain’s relative peace was always broken by bouts of regression into homesickness, depression, pennilessness, and long phone calls pleading for help. But he was going to have another child, and with that came a new sense of responsibility.
As Maman turned to lock the door, Baba who usually rushed to the car, crowded her, his gaze on the sky. Greeting them from the dark night was the bright moon. Together they stood frozen, their eyes watering from the need to blink, Baba’s stomach now throbbing.
Far away, on a hillside in Oregon, Hadi lay injured under the silver light of the same moon, a sharp rock puncturing his back, cracking through his ribs one by one and collapsing his lungs.
It had happened in a split second. As Hadi’s motorcycle rounded a curve at one hundred and twenty miles an hour, and insects crashed into his teeth, he reached to pull down his helmet’s visor. With that gesture, in a nanosecond, he lost control, his bike skidded, sparks rising as the metal slid across the asphalt. Time slowed, and the moments seemed to drag as if he hung frozen in space held up only by air, until the bike smacked against the only rock that separated the road from a 500–foot drop off a cliff.
The slam against the rock sucked the wind from his lungs and sent a sharp stab of pain up his spine, breaking the ocean’s quiet night breeze and ending Hadi’s momentary suspension in the air
, where he’d felt the peace that arises before death. His heavy eyelids sprung open without warning. The flush of heat ran down his legs, and everything throbbed. He couldn’t move his legs
Three weeks later, I stared at Hadi as he slowly lowered his bruised body into a seat at the restaurant and told me the story of the “wonderful peace” he had felt as he had been floating in the air. My reaction to his reckless and erratic behavior had always been anger and sadness, but now I felt a new emotion. I was curious.
“Truly, Rahimeh, when I thought I was dead, I was at the deepest calm I’ve ever felt in my life.” He moved his plate closer and took a sip of water. “I know this will worry you, but please don’t be upset. It was a gift to me. I know now that I’ll be a biker forever.” He wet his lips, avoiding my eyes.
Fear overtook me, causing my leg to shake under the table and a feeling of emptiness to settle in my stomach. I finally realized that Hadi wasn’t preparing for death, he was hoping for it. Just as Hadi had made his decision to remain a biker, I made my decision, too.
I had one brother who had been killing himself slowly, now in exile, and another hoping to die with the aid of hundreds of pounds of hurtling metal. I wouldn’t wait any longer for my family to be ready to uncover the past, and I would no longer be fine with the narrative told to me in pieces.
THE LETTER IN RED
California 2010
Maman climbed down the steps, slowly and deliberately. She let go of the railing and tightened her grip on the Kuwaiti metal cookie container. When she stood next to me, she clasped my shoulder, pulling me toward her as she hugged me tight. When she leaned in and kissed my cheek, I could smell the jasmine on her skin.
Gripping the folded letter she had taken out of the tin, she smiled and handed it to me. “Here you go, azizam.” Her head lowered a bit as she loosened her grip. “I’m glad you asked for it.” The front door of the house shook from the heavy winds outside.
“You know, he was adamant in this letter that we should protect all of you from his story. That’s part of the reason why we didn’t...” I cut her off. I wanted to help her.
“It’s all right, Mamani. I understand. I know you did what you thought was best. Nothing will make me love him or you any less.”
Maman looked up at me, kissed my other cheek, holding onto me with one hand still on my shoulder. “He really loved you. He always said you were so sensitive and strong.” Maman’s cheeks flushed and her voice broke. “I knew even then that he was right.” Her voice cracked again. “I think now he would want you to know him, to see this letter, to know the man he was.”
I hugged her, close enough to have her feel me there for her, but not long enough for me to fall apart in her arms.
I squeezed the letter tight in my hand and reached for the door. Cool air woke up my skin as I stepped out to the front yard. I felt a bizarre calm rush over me. Unconsciously, we relive our pasts every day. Now I knew I had embarked on a journey to piece together the parts of our lives from which we had all distanced ourselves, the intolerable pain we had done everything to avoid, the loss that kept tugging at us.
The waves of the aquamarine water crashed against my feet, causing my toes to sink further into the saturated sand. As I read Abdollah’s letter, his handwriting in red ink, I was surprised I didn’t struggle with the Persian, given my fourth-grade reading skill. Instead, it felt natural to me, as if I had read it many times before. I paged through the letter and felt his turmoil in my body, as if I were sitting by his side on his bunk, watching him write in that small jail cell in Mashhad.
Mashhad 1979
Bismillah-e-Rahman-e-Rahim
– In the name of Allah, the Beneficent, the Merciful –
It’s just before midnight, I was asleep in the cell. A few guards came to take me so I asked why? “Karet tamoomeh” they yelled again – “you are finished.” I explained what had happened, I argued with them. I told them I was not a criminal, that I had been used, exploited, set up – eghfal shodam – that this was a mistake. I told them the verdict had to be reviewed, I was not sentenced yet, but it was too late. I begged for some time to shower and pray. I sang the call to prayer – the Azan – as loudly as I could before I took to namaz.
I will not forgive them, Maman. I will not. But I know Baba, I know what he can do, I know he will want to fight them. Please don’t engage with this government after I am gone. They have their eyes on us. They have neither conscience nor soul. Please don’t get entangled with them.
Maman, I beg you to listen to me and move on. I know it’ll be very hard for you to find out this has happened to me but please know in your heart that I did not know of this crime, I did not know their plans. This punishment is not just, not mine to bear. I should have listened to Baba and never talked to them. For that fateful decision, I am forever sorry.
No matter what people tell you, please promise me these commitments:
Don’t battle with the government on my behalf. There will be no resolving this or bringing me back. You will just endanger yourselves more. I will be gone then, I will meet them all on judgment day – and there in Mahshar, I will hold them accountable. I will take my revenge with them there for the agony they imposed on us.
Don’t worry for me, please I beg you not to worry yourself. Khoda is compassionate – God knows what I did, what my wrongs were and what justifiable consequences should have been. I learned many lessons from this, Maman. I’m sorry I will not be there to show you what they are.
Maman, I beg you please – take real sacred care of my brothers and my only sister. Watch over them, I want their destiny to be better than mine. Please make sure this event will not ever be told to them so they are not burdened by it, I love them so much, I don’t want them to be hurt by it.
Maman, please forgive me for what this has done to you and our family, our aberoo, your reputation. I’m sorry for the pain, for all the sleepless nights that will come.
Maman, my sister requires a lot of affection and love. I kept asking you for a sister, but now I am not going to be here to take care of her. She doesn’t have a sister, she’s going to need you. Maman, please forgive me.
Your son,
Abdollah
My teardrops spread the old red ink on the page. The mist of the salt water landed on my skin.
It had taken way too many years to learn of this letter, and with it now it my hands, thirty years of family pain and suffering resurfaced. With another deep breath, I tasted the salt from my tears. I prepared for what we no longer were able to avoid, our trauma, and after Hadi’s near-death accident, this was the time to go back home to Iran, to Mashhad, to Abdollah. It was with this mission of discovering the complete truth, all the many stories, and creating a full picture that we would be released from the prison of the past. We needed to be freed.
THE EMPTY CHAIRS
Thanksgiving 2010
Hadi was driving slower, weaving in between cars less frequently than the last time we drove to San Diego for therapy. This time, the seat belt light was no longer blinking and the alarm was silent. Hadi had been resistant to therapy since the intervention session with Zain years ago. And although I had encouraged him, even pushed him to come with me for years, I had only managed to get him there a couple of times. But the last session, something changed.
Dr. John, Iman, and I had helped Hadi see that his reckless driving was related to reckless living, his guilt, and his trauma; he had been living for the moment – careless of consequences. Hadi had finally come to trust the process, a little. At least he had made me a promise to buckle up his seatbelt, and had kept it.
When I had asked Iman for his help to intervene with Hadi, given his near-death experience on the motorcycle, Iman shared his concerns about Hadi’s overspending and together, we made a plan. To our surprise, when we asked Hadi to join us for therapy, this time he agreed immediately.
In the therapy office, Hadi sat on a chair next to Dr. John, facing Iman and me on the couch. A wooden ch
air sat empty, the chair on which Zain would have been seated if he had been here; his absence was noted by all of us, reminding us of the other missing part of ourselves – Abdollah.
We spoke politely and casually with one another until the formalities were usurped by a fifteen-minute argument over whether to record our therapy session or not. I was convinced that this was the key to saving Hadi’s life and his resistance and denial were going to be futile. The power struggle between us then continued for forty-five minutes into our two-hour session, with Hadi refusing to talk about the past and me refusing to ignore it anymore. The recorder stayed on as the doctor jumped in.
“I think one result of not talking about things is that you feel powerless. There is a sense of helplessness about not being able to put the past to rest or put it behind you even though, obviously, each of you in your own way has to some extent done that.”
Hadi was outnumbered, and finally, he looked me in the eye, “What do you want from me?”
“I want to know what you know, what you remember. I want to know how you feel. I want to talk about the past just as memories, not as if it’s happening to us all over again right now, everyday, ripping us in half. ”
The Rose Hotel Page 26
