At five foot two, Bahar had little hope of reaching it without jumping, risking her dignity in the process.
She clapped her hands in frustration. “As your elder, I demand you give me that pen! Now, Layla!”
“Uh-uh. Malachy goes back tomorrow—it's the only time I get to see him all day. I won't be stuck in this kitchen just because you're afraid of a little stove.”
“Don't tell me your boyfriend's out there again. Doesn't he—”
The wall phone shrilled. Both sisters reached for it, Bahar securing the cherry red receiver with a smug smile. Her smile soon turned, a deep frown hollowing out her brow. “What do you mean you're staying? What happened?”
Layla nudged her ear into the other side of the receiver, and both listened as Marjan told them of her plans to stay the rest of the afternoon at Estelle's. By the time Bahar hung the phone back up in its cradle, her frown was a triangle strung from her temples.
She stared at the floor for a moment. “I don't like the way her voice sounded,” she finally said. “She's hiding something.”
Layla shrugged. “That's just you being paranoid. Mrs. D's hands are acting up again. That's why she wasn't at the Bonfire last night. She shouldn't be up alone in the cottage anyway.”
She handed the pen to her sister. “I'll look after the poor abgusht. Tell Malachy to come back and keep me company.”
Bahar took the pen and stuck it in her apron pocket. She was about to voice her opposition when her fingers brushed against the laminated card.
All at once her shoulders relaxed, her worry lifting like an eddy of dust; the card's message of love was as instantaneous as a shush, as peaceful as Gabriel's breath on a long-fevered brow.
“THE DAMAGE IS MODERATE, but I won't know more until we get her into the examination.” Dr. Parshaw peeled the latex gloves off his steady hands and shook his head. “There is a considerable infection that needs immediate care, that is certain. It is lucky her aim was not so precise.”
As both her personal physician and chief internist at Mayo General Hospital, Dr. Hewey Parshaw was the only professional Estelle could trust for medical advice. He had arrived minutes after Estelle showed Marjan into the bedroom, where the girl lay sleeping under the down duvet.
“So you think she is with a baby?”
“Your instincts were right, Mrs. Delmonico. She is in her second trimester nearly. My estimate is eleven weeks. However,” he said, turning his serious eyes on them, “the inner lacerations do indicate an attempt at termination.”
All three fell silent, taking in the gravity of the situation. Beads of sweat rose on the young woman's face. Estelle reached over and wiped them gently with a cold cloth.
The young woman's eyes twitched under her closed lids, her ragged breathing breaking the silence.
“What is the longest you have been able to keep her awake?”
Estelle shook her head. “Not much. Her eyes open three, four times, but closed again. And painful noises, nothing else. No talking at all.” Her face crumpled up. “Oh, I hope I did not do the wrong thing by not calling you yesterday.”
From across the room, Marjan could see tears springing up in the kind widow's eyes.
“You have done the honorable thing by bringing her to your home,” Dr. Parshaw assured her in a voice of smooth velveteen. “If you hadn't found her, the worst imaginable circumstance could have been a reality today.”
“That's right,” Marjan said, giving the doctor a grateful smile. “And the guards would not have been any help either. By the time you got home yesterday, they had already closed up for the Bonfire.”
“What we need to concentrate on now is the future,” said Dr. Parshaw. “We must get an ambulance up here as soon as possible. The chance of this becoming septic is there, I'm afraid.”
Estelle blew her nose on the silk handkerchief she always kept tucked in the sleeve of her blouse. “I will go make the call.”
“I've got the van,” suggested Marjan. “It'll be quicker that way.”
As Estelle packed a few essentials in a small overnight bag, Marjan and Dr. Parshaw set about creating a makeshift gurney They spread the duvet on the floor next to the bed, doubling it up to make for an easier carry. Dr. Parshaw then knelt to gently scoop the girl from under her shoulders and legs.
Her reddish brown hair hung limply as the doctor lowered her onto the duvet, her thin, angular face a frightening shade of green. Like an opal stone, thought Marjan, without the benefit of its rosy veins.
“To the right, please,” Dr. Parshaw directed Marjan as she backed out of the cottage door.
They took their time descending the gravelly path, the corners of the duvet clenched in their hands. The girl made no indication that she knew she was being moved and remained deep in fevered sleep. Although not nearly as heavy as her long and lanky frame would suggest, she would surely have been a weight for one short old woman. Marjan simply couldn't imagine how Estelle had ever managed to climb this drive with the girl hanging off her shoulders. Where had she gotten the strength?
“I know a shortcut to the hospital,” Marjan said after the girl was safely laid on the van's carpeted floor. “We'll have to go through Ballinacroagh.” Dr. Parshaw slid into the back with his new patient, and she closed the double doors.
“Okay. We go.” Estelle locked her front door and began to slide down the gravel walkway. Marjan rushed up and took the basket of chickpea cookies and gormeh sabzi, as well as the overnight bag packed with a spare toothbrush and Luigi's pajama tops.
“I don't know where you find your strength,” Marjan said in awe.
“Pfft! This is nothing!” Estelle exclaimed. “You should have seen me when I was young. Who do you think carry that kitchen island into the bakery, eh? My Luigi call me his Herculeana Neapolitana,” she said proudly.
She turned to the rosebush flourishing at the end of the drive. With a loving smile, the old widow threw its flushed petals a kiss, bidding her husband's resting place a temporary good-bye.
THAT NIGHT, Marjan dreamt of Mehregan.
The original day of thanksgiving, the holiday is celebrated during the autumn equinox in Iran.
A fabulous excuse for a dinner party, something that Persians the world over have a penchant for, Mehregan is also a challenge to the forces of darkness, which if left unheeded will encroach even on the brightest of flames.
Bonfires and sparklers glitter in the evening skies on this night, and in homes across the country, everyone is reminded of their blessings by the smell of roasting ajil, a mixture of dried fruit, salty pumpkin seeds, and roasted nuts. Handfuls are showered on the poor and needy on Mehregan, with a prayer that the coming year will find them fed and showered with the love of friends and family.
In Iran, it was Marjan's favorite holiday. She even preferred it to the bigger and brasher New Year's celebrations in March, anticipating the festivities months in advance. The preparations would begin as early as July, when she and the family gardener, Baba Pirooz, gathered fruit from the plum, apricot, and pear trees behind their house. Along with the queen pomegranate bush, the fruit trees ran the length of the half-acre garden.
Four trees deep and rustling with green and burgundy canopies, the fattened orchard always reminded Marjan of the be-jeweled bushes in the story of Aladdin, the boy with the magic lamp. It was sometimes hard to believe that their home was in the middle of a teeming city and not closer to the Alborz mountains, which looked down on Tehran from loftier heights.
After the fruit had been plucked and washed, it would be laid out to dry in the sun. Over the years, Marjan had paid close attention to her mother's drying technique, noting how the fruit was sliced in perfect halves and dipped in a light sugar water to help speed up the wrinkling. Once dried, it would be stored in terra-cotta canisters so vast that they could easily have hidden both young Marjan and Bahar. And indeed, when empty the canisters had served this purpose during their hide-and-seek games.
Only twice while growing up did
the Aminpour sisters not celebrate Mehregan: in 1971, after their mother had died giving birth to Layla, and then again in October 1978, when the three sisters had been sequestered in Pakistan, taking refuge from a revolution and a man with a face full of terrible pockmarks.
Hossein Jaferi's face propelled Marjan out of sleep.
She sat up in bed, blinking quickly. It took a few deep breaths before she could orient herself, remind her mind and body that she was safe in her bed. The crackling bonfires of Mehregan must have somehow morphed into the shadowy image of Bahar's estranged husband during the course of her dream, the sweet, woodsy smell of kindling flitting away to another, more primal scent.
It wasn't often that her dreams turned to darkness.
She swallowed hard and looked to her left. Bahar was still wrapped in her customary two duvets. A quilted eye mask covered most of her small face, rising to the rhythm of her soft snoring.
Saturday tea must have been especially busy, thought Marjan, enough that it had tired even Bahar's neurotic tendencies.
Normally her sister would have remained awake and waiting at the kitchen table until Marjan was home safe and in one piece. Bahar would never have fallen asleep had she known what—or rather who—Estelle had found beneath the dunes of Clew Bay Beach.
Drawing her legs up to her chest, Marjan laid her chin on her knees and let her mind roam the day's strange events. She still had a hard time believing what she had seen at Estelle's. It all seemed like a fantastical dream, something from one of Layla's Shakespearean plays.
Who was she, this girl with the strange hands and pale skin? Where had she come from? And why had she chosen to do what she had done in the Bay?
There were a lot of questions and, it seemed, only one person who could answer them.
Dr. Parshaw's examination had at least shed some light on the situation. After an hour's wait in Mayo General, the doctor had appeared with his verdict: “There is slight tearing of the lower cervix,” he explained, his face ashen from lack of sleep, “but no damage to the uterus itself. She is going to keep the baby—for the moment. Of course, things may change entirely once she is discharged.”
The meaning behind his words was clear: although to do so was not legal in the Irish Republic, the girl could terminate her pregnancy elsewhere in Europe.
Marjan asked her name.
“She was awake for most of the diagnosis but refused to answer any of my questions,” Dr. Parshaw replied. “I'm afraid I do not know any more than you both about her origins.”
He paused, choosing his words carefully. “Most likely she is in shock. Trauma of these kinds, even if self-inflicted, has the effect of leaving some numb. There will be more time for questions later.”
“Yes, yes.” Estelle nodded, following the doctor's words attentively.
“I have not told any of the staff about the circumstances that brought her here. Just that she was suffering from an infection and would rather not talk about it. I am keeping most of her records in my office.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Marjan said. “I know that's asking a lot.” She put her arm around Estelle, who had begun to sniffle again.
“I am not sure if what I am doing falls under the Hippocratic oath or not, but I do not believe in handing her over to the guards,” continued Dr. Parshaw gently. “The infection should be cleared up in the next fortnight. There were some serious cuts to her cervix. Had Mrs. Delmonico not found her when she did, she might have lost her baby.”
Estelle dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief and nodded. “You are a good man, Doctor.”
“There is nothing good or bad about what I do, Mrs. Delmonico. It is merely my job.”
“Yes, but you know, good or bad, her body is fighting her heart. It knows she tried to erase pain, so it is still fighting. You must please tell her she is not alone. Please tell her there are people here to help,” insisted Estelle.
Marjan could see that the topic had struck a deep chord with her friend. Barren during what should have been her fertile years, Estelle Delmonico was never able to have her own children. Something in this mysterious girl, it seemed, had triggered her latent regrets.
It had set off Marjan's own memories, too. There was no denying it, she had been here once before, they all had; the young woman's inner wounds were too similar to another set of inflictions, the marks of a baton that had caused Bahar so much pain. But unlike here, in the quietude of Mayo General Hospital, with its staff of whispering nurses, Bahar had not been properly treated for the assault that had left her so battered. Instead, she had cooled her wounds with a paste of grated potato and mint leaves, a recipe from their grandmother Firoozeh. She had treated herself and kept her secret for four months, never calling Marjan for help.
A shudder ran through Marjan. She glanced once more at Bahar, thankful that she was still asleep.
Maybe she should wait a while before telling her sisters about the girl. She had weighed the thought on her drive down from Estelle's but had still not decided whether it would be right to tell them about the girl and her attempted abortion. The more she thought about it, the more it seemed like a bad idea.
It would only cause panic, she told herself, especially since no one knew who the girl was, or even where she had come from. There would be no point in worrying them as well, at least not until she knew more about the situation.
Yes, she told herself, she would wait—for answers and a new day. Marjan took a deep breath and rubbed her arms. She couldn't seem to stop the shivers running up her spine.
Slipping quietly out of the bed, she tiptoed across the small room to the door. She knew one surefire way of dashing the nightmare: a big cup of warm milk and honey, with just a pinch of powdered cinnamon.
Maybe a piece of barbari bread as well, to dip into the frothy surface. Comfort, Baba Pirooz used to say, comes easily from such simple pleasures.
In the living room, Marjan found Layla sprawled where she usually slept, on the opened futon sofa before the television. Her youngest sibling was also in a deep sleep, a smile on her dreaming face.
From the latticed skylight, the moon was sending a series of hushed beams into the small parlor. The light was just strong enough to reveal the mottled cover of Much Ado About Nothing tucked in the girl's long and slender arms.
CHAPTER V
MARJAN HELD THE CASSEROLE DISH close to her chest as she climbed the stairs to the convalescent unit. She followed the arrows on the polished floor, making her way to the room as she had done the day before.
She spotted Dr. Hewey Parshaw as she turned a corner. He was talking to a plump nurse near the check-in station but nodded at her as she approached.
“Good afternoon, Miss Aminpour.” He smiled, sniffing the air. “My, whatever you have hidden in that dish, it smells delicious. Makes me wish I were a patient, if only for this lunch hour.”
Marjan smiled. “It's bagali polo. Dill and lima bean rice,” she said, holding out the casserole.
Dr. Parshaw sniffed again. “Mmm … takes me back to my mother's kitchen in Pakistan. What years they were!”
“How long have you been away?”
“Nearly five years. Too long, too long for any son.”
“I'm sorry to hear that,” Marjan replied. She had wondered about the doctor's story. Estelle had told her a little about his background, how he had escaped a civil war for Germany and then residencies in hospitals around the Emerald Isle. He looked much older than she had expected after hearing Estelle's description.
Loneliness had a way of aging people, Marjan thought. “I know how hard it is to leave everything behind,” she said gently.
Dr. Parshaw nodded sadly. “Indeed. I sometime wonder if it is all worth it. Not sharing this prosperity with my loved ones.” He looked at her. “But you are lucky. You have your sisters, Mrs. Delmonico was telling me.”
Marjan nodded. “I am very lucky. I don't think I could have survived the move from Iran without them.”
“Indeed.”
“Do you have any family in Ireland?”
Dr. Parshaw shook his head. “None, I'm afraid. Some cousins in Frankfurt, that is all.” He paused, attempting a cheerful tone. “But I have hope of bringing them here, and in the end, that is everything. Hope.”
“I agree,” said Marjan. Courage and faith, she reminded herself. She lifted the casserole dish. “Can I leave some of the rice for you? It might help with the memories.”
“Well…” Dr. Parshaw paused, sniffing the buttery dill again. “Normally I would not intrude on a patient's dinner, but I am willing to make an exception this time.”
Marjan smiled. “Good. I'll put aside a dish every day if you like. It's the least I can do,” she said, when the doctor tried to protest, “for all the help you gave yesterday.”
“Well, then … there's nothing to say in argument. Much obliged.”
Marjan glanced toward the room opposite the check-in station.She lowered her voice. “How is she doing? Estelle said she's been awake for most of the day.”
Dr. Parshaw's expression became sober. “The antibiotics are taking effect. One must be careful with any treatment, but especially in the condition she is in.”
“So there is still a baby? Definitely?”
“For now, this is certain. It is, of course, important to monitor her recovery.”
Marjan sighed with relief, surprising herself. “Does she know? About her condition, I mean?”
He paused and looked around, making sure he was out of the nurse's earshot. “I have informed her of her pregnancy,” he said, in a low voice. “I explained to her that she will need to rest and heal. She has yet to make any comments.”
“Estelle said she was keeping quiet.”
“Yes, and we still have no name. I have taken the liberty of naming her for the records. Otherwise, the rest of the staff, and I daresay the guards, would have to be notified,” he said. “From now on she will be known as Bella Rosa. That was Mrs. Del-monico's suggestion.”
Marjan's eyes widened. “Can that be done?”
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