Moon Daughter

by Zohreh Ghahremani

  His words took Rana back to the scene of that horrible night and her attempt at ending her pregnancy. She saw herself tugging at the heavy dresser, saw the tilt, and the sound of that loud crash replayed in her mind. She could almost feel the sharp pain in her belly, as if the strain against that heavy weight had made an artery snap. She saw her blood running, and heard someone screaming.

  “Are you with me, Mrs. Moradi?” Dr. Fard sounded worried.

  Rana smiled apologetically. “Yes, yes. Please go on.”

  “As I was saying, the difference of three-and-a-quarter centimeters is more noticeable on a small baby, but should it stay the same, it will be far less pronounced in an adult. In addition, should it remain the same, there’s a much better chance for surgical lengthening.”

  The man spoke with such calm it was clear he had no idea how his words clawed and scratched at Rana’s heart. She imagined an operating room, a surgeon cutting her baby’s leg and stretching its flesh like an elastic band. God, that must hurt!

  “Dr. Fard?” Rana said, but wasn’t sure how to pose her question. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask, but you must promise you’ll be honest with me.”

  He nodded. His eyes reflected attention as well as concern. “Did I cause this?”

  There! She had finally said the words that had burned her for months.

  “Whatever gave you that silly idea?”

  “I didn’t exactly have an accident,” she admitted. “I actually caused it, hoping to lose the baby.” She then proceeded to tell him about how she was cautioned by other women that lifting heavy objects could cause a miscarriage and about that horrible night and how the dresser had fallen, hitting her side. Taking his nods for a confirmation, she could hardly believe his next words.

  “My dear child, if every bleeding, fall, and trauma could cause such deformities, with so many wife-beaters around, this country wouldn’t see too many normal children.” He studied her and as if sensing her uncertainty added, “Nature protects the fetus in a miraculous way. Your foolish attempt could have ended the pregnancy, but a discrepancy in the length of a limb?” He shook his head. “I can assure you it had nothing to do with you.”

  Rana grabbed his hand and was kissing it before the old doctor could stop her.

  He pulled his hand away and gave her a hug. “Welcome to true parenthood.” He said. “What we do best is take the blame each time something goes wrong with our children.”

  Rana put her painful thoughts of recent months into a sigh.

  Dr. Fard filled in a requisition for x-rays and handed it to her. “I shall follow up on my discussions with your father and plan to call your husband as soon as the radiologist gives me the report. What’s the best time to call him?”

  Rana gave him a few options. This was the first time the pediatrician had made the slightest reference to her father’s plan and Rana felt a new bond with him.

  “Doctor, if the condition is under control, I mean, if there’s no urgency, then what would make my husband consent to a trip abroad?”

  “Oh, but he doesn’t know that, does he?” A mischievous smile spread his lips. “Trust me, he doesn’t share your confidence in my knowledge. It’ll be easy to convince him of the need for a second opinion.”

  Rana smiled at him through her tears. Her father had prepared his old friend well. Still, she could not overlook the possibility that the call might raise Farhad’s suspicion.

  Chapter

  Ten

  THE IRANIAN OFFICERS’ WIVES seemed friendly enough, but their friendship remained at a social level. Kathy found it hard to be close to them. For one thing, their lifestyles seemed too flashy. She didn’t share their obsession with fashion, jewelry, or heavy makeup. Besides, when they spoke Farsi—which they did often—it left her out altogether. Just when she began to feel comfortable around them, they’d switch languages. By now Kathy had learned enough Farsi for a basic communication, but chitchat was out of the question.

  Rana was the exception. She made an effort to speak English, no matter how hard she had to try. Also, she had less of a social life, and coming from Tehran, she shared some of Kathy’s feelings in being an outsider. Their daughters Claire and Marjan had hit it off at school and by now had become best friends. This gave the two mothers ample reason to get together. Lately, Kathy had a feeling that her friend needed to talk about something, but when Rana continued to keep her usual distance, she concluded the idea must have come from hearing the recent bizarre gossips about Major Moradi. W ho knew if there was any truth to that? Some women were so jealous that they’d say anything!

  Earlier that day, Kathy had called and asked Rana if she would like to help her bake something for the upcoming tea at the officer’s club.

  “Of course I will,” Rana said.

  Kathy smiled at the way Rana pronounced the word, “will.” That there was no ‘W’ in Persian explained why most Iranians used a ‘v’ instead. Rana, despite her impressive progress in English, was no exception.

  “Bring the girls, too,” Kathy suggested. “I’m sure Claire would love to show off the new swing Frank put together. They can play outside while we work.”

  The whiff of the apple pie she had just baked sent her back into her mother’s kitchen. The last thing she had imagined was that someday she’d use those recipes to bake for a bunch of strangers in a country she knew little about. Rana was the only Iranian friend who enjoyed baking; the rest ordered their desserts from a good bakery.

  Kathy felt guilty about regretting to be here. Thanks to the army, they lived in a large house, had a live-in maid as well as a personal driver. She wouldn’t dream of such luxuries at home and was particularly grateful for the driver. With the variety of vehicles that filled the streets of Shiraz, the low rate of accidents was a miracle. Motorcycles careened between cars while carrying four and five passengers at a time and donkeys pulled wooden carts loaded with melons. Traffic came from all directions, careless teenagers swerved their bikes between cars, and pedestrians zigzagged through it all.

  She heard the doorbell and called Claire down before rushing to open the door. There stood a smiling Rana holding Marjan’s hand.

  They greeted each other and kissed on both cheeks. Marjan handed her a bouquet of pink gladiolas. “From our garden,” she explained.

  Kathy thanked her and peeked into the alley. “No Vida?”

  “No. She has a cold,” Rana explained. “I didn’t want her to pass it to Claire.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” Kathy said, grateful for such consideration.

  As soon as Claire heard them, she ran down the stairs two at a time. Before Kathy had a chance to offer refreshments, the girls had gone outside.

  Kathy watched them through the kitchen window as Claire stood back and let Marjan have the first go on the makeshift swing. With no playgrounds nearby, her husband had attached an old tire to a rope and hung it on the branch of the big mulberry tree in the backyard.

  Kathy offered an apron to Rana. “Don’t mind this old thing, it really is clean.”

  Rana took the apron and smiled. “This is lovely.”

  “Ooh! Listen to the way you manage your “th” now,” Kathy said and gave Rana a pat on the shoulder. “I can’t believe how quickly you learn.”

  “I have a good teacher,” Rana said and chuckled. “Remember? You were the one who taught me to pronounce it as an ‘s’ the way a baby would say it!”

  They both laughed.

  It had only been a few months since Rana’s return from Tehran and her improvement in English was remarkable. Even at the club, she no longer needed Kathy to whisper in the middle of a film and translate. Also, the books she borrowed were now returned quicker. Lately, Rana could even hold conversations with Claire and everyone knew how fast that kid could talk.

  “Don’t be so modest,” Kathy said. “You have a gift for language. What does Farhad say about it?”

  Rana turned her attention to the window, as if to watch the girls.
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  Recently, the mere mention of her husband’s name put Rana in a somber mood. Kathy wondered if any of the town gossip was true. With a lovely wife like Rana, why would he have a fling? So far Kathy had managed to dismiss the talks, but the sorrow in Rana’s expression was hard to ignore.

  “Do you want to sift the flour while I separate the eggs?” she said cheerfully, hoping to get rid of the awkwardness she had just created.

  “Sure,” Rana said absentmindedly.

  Kathy took a recipe card from a box and started to line up the ingredients.

  “We’ll need three cups of flour for the banana bread,” she said, then on second thought, she pushed the items aside and took two glasses from the cupboard. “W here are my manners? We don’t have your good tea, but let’s see what kind of lemonade Claire has made.” She poured a glass for Rana and another for herself. “Beh Salamatee,” she said and clinked her glass, showing off one of the few Persian expressions she had learned.

  “Will we make pie?” Rana asked.

  Kathy shook her head. “Already baked two of those. We’re going to bake two loaves of banana bread and a batch of chocolate chip cookies.”

  “Will you teach me pie?”

  “Of course. We’ll even make an extra one today, just for you to take home.”

  Rana touched her almost-flat tummy. “Oh, no, I must watch my weight.”

  Kathy chuckled. “So that’s how you maintain your perfect shape!” She shook her head and laughed. “Not me. I love food too much to diet.”

  Appearances were too important to these women, even Rana. Most ladies seemed to “vatch their veights” and considering their designer outfits, they couldn’t afford not to.

  “Marjan wants to diet, but my husband said no.”

  And there it was, that dark look had returned to Rana’s eyes and Kathy could no longer stand it. She reached across the counter and put her hand on Rana’s. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but is something the matter?”

  Rana laughed nervously. “No. Why?”

  Kathy stared at her friend. She wanted to assure her that she could talk whenever she needed to, but the way Rana looked away blocked the words. She placed the empty glasses in the sink and called out to the girls, “Come in, you two, and have some lemonade before we start working on the cookies.”

  It took the winded and giggly girls no time to burst into the kitchen.

  “That swing is unbelievable,” Marjan exclaimed as she climbed the kitchen stool. “I wish we had a big tree, too.”

  “You’re welcome to share Claire’s any time you want,” Kathy said.

  “Mom, did you see Marjan?” Claire asked. “She didn’t even need a push, she stands on the swing, pumps her legs and makes it go higher than the moon.”

  “Marjan?” Rana glared at her daughter.

  Marjan blushed and continued to drink her lemonade.

  Rana turned to Kathy. “Badri’s boys have a swing in their yard. Unfortunately, they use it like a monkey would.” She shot Marjan another angry look. “I’ve told her not to teach their dangerous tricks to Claire.”

  “Don’t worry,” Kathy said. “Claire’s pretty careful, she wouldn’t do anything silly.” She turned to Claire. “Would you?”

  Both girls pursed their lips as if trying not to laugh. They finished their lemonade and were out in a flash.

  Kathy lined up a few recipe cards. Soon they were measuring and mixing the batter and the only interruption of silence came from the girls playing outside.

  Kathy marveled at the way Claire had adapted to her new environment. Two years into their assignment to Shiraz, she now spoke Persian fluently and blended in with local kids at the American Community School. No matter what kind of food she made at home, her daughter favored Persian food and had even developed a taste for rosewater ice cream, which to Kathy tasted like perfume. There she was with her best friend, screaming, running, and from where Kathy stood the only difference between the two was in the color of their hair.

  “Your house is beautiful,” Rana said.

  “Why, thank you.”

  “I love how you decor.”

  “Decorate,” Kathy corrected her.

  “Yes, décor-rate.” Rana smiled apologetically.

  The few Iranian homes Kathy had seen flashed before her eyes: magnificent Persian rugs, marble floors and glamorous antiques. Some houses seemed cluttered with lamps, ashtrays, and candle-sticks, but they all reflected a lavish lifestyle. The most expensive item in Kathy’s was a hand-woven rug, which had cost them a good chunk. The rest they had bought second hand and mostly from the previous American occupants returning to the States.

  “I’d hardly call our modest belongings much of a decoration.”

  “But you make something simple so elegant.” Rana pointed to the carved copper colander from Esfahan, where Kathy now kept her onions and potatoes. “And I love how you put the donkey beads on your coffee table.”

  Kathy laughed. “I still can’t believe the name of those beads. Okay, so they’re not worth much, but donkey beads?” “Villagers put them around the donkey’s neck.”

  “I see,” Kathy said and sounded surprised. “Well, not real turquoise, but they sure are too good for a donkey.” She floured the greased pans and set them aside. “Speaking of turquoise, I love that new pendant you’re wearing.”

  Rana’s hand went to her neck chain. “This?” She shook her head. “It isn’t new. It was a gift from Farhad when I had Marjan.”

  “That’s so nice. All I got for having Claire was flowers.” She chuckled. “So, what did he get you this time?”

  Rana didn’t respond and from the way she became absorbed in her sifting, Kathy knew she wasn’t mistaken about the source of her sorrow. She switched on the mixer and hoped the noise would drown her friend’s sad thoughts. The next few minutes passed without a word and soon the batter was ready. She let Rana spoon it into the pans.

  Only after the pans were in the oven and she had set the timer did Kathy study Rana again. Her calm expression seemed to have returned. “How about some coffee?” Kathy said.

  “Good. Let me make it.”

  Kathy mixed the cookie batter and placed it in the fridge while Rana brewed fresh coffee. They took a break and sat at the table.

  As if reading her mind, Rana said. “Don’t worry about me, Kathy joon. I’m really okay. It’s just that three kids are a lot of work.”

  Kathy put a hand on her shoulder. “Should you ever need to talk, you know where to find me.”

  Rana nodded.

  Kathy had just started to pour the coffee when they both heard a sudden crash followed by a scream. There was nothing playful about that scream and it stopped too abruptly. Kathy turned so fast that her hand knocked against a jar, sending sugar all over the place. She looked out the window, but couldn’t see either of the children. She also saw how the rope no longer made a loop; now only one end was attached to the branch while the other coiled on the ground under the tire that now hung vertically. She dashed out to the backyard, where she found Claire kneeling in the fresh dirt where Frank had planted lawn seeds and Marjan now lay flat on her back.

  The kitchen door slammed as Rana followed and each mother ran to her own child. Seeing Claire as she sat up to rub her scraped knee, Kathy rushed to Marjan. “Are you okay?”

  Marjan’s face had lost all color and she did not open her eyes.

  Rana dropped down beside her, but instead of helping, she started to cry hysterically, screaming words in her own language.

  Kathy didn’t understand what she was saying, but the wild expression on Rana’s face told her that something far deeper bothered her, that Rana had lost it and wouldn’t be of much help. She’d have to attend to Marjan herself. Kathy pushed the lock of hair away from the child’s forehead to reveal a cut. She rushed back to the kitchen and returned with her first aid kit and a bag of ice.

  This time Marjan’s eyes were open, but she didn’t talk or cry. Kathy tried to check her
pupils, but they were hard to see in those deep brown eyes.

  Rana dropped down beside her and kept on repeating the same phrase, of which Kathy only understood khoda to mean God.

  “Claire, what’s she saying?”

  “Not sure, Mom. I think it means ‘not this one, too’.”

  “She’ll be okay,” Kathy said to Rana, trying to sound convincing. She moved swiftly and felt grateful for her brief volunteer job at the Red Cross. She wrapped the ice in a towel and gently pressed it to Marjan’s forehead.

  “We both got on,” Claire spoke amid sobs. “She pumped us higher and higher, and that’s when it snapped.”

  Rana was holding onto Marjan’s shoes and seemed to be trembling. Marjan’s pale lips parted and she said something that must have been, “Maman,” but Kathy wasn’t sure Rana heard that.

  “She’s here, honey,” Kathy said and started to wipe the girl’s forehead with an alcohol sponge. The cut didn’t look too bad, but the area had already started to bruise. She took a piece of gauze from the box and taped it over the cut before placing the ice bag on it.

  Marjan acted extremely calm and once she even seemed to force a faint smile.

  “You’re such a brave girl,” Kathy said. “If I did this to Claire, she’d have a fit.”

  But Marjan’s eyes looked to the side. Kathy followed the direction of her gaze and found Rana, bending over and still sobbing.

  “She’s okay, Rana,” she called out to her friend. “The cut seems to be only skin-deep. I don’t think it needs any stitches or anything.”

  Rana continued crying and mumbling the same words. Kathy had never seen her so out of control and realized she’d never heard anyone sob that way, either. She thought of the words Claire had translated. Could her friend have lost another child to a previous accident?

  After attending to Marjan, Kathy placed a Band Aid over Claire’s knee and then went to Rana. “Come on, dear. Let’s get her inside.” But before Rana had stood, Kathy picked up Marjan and carried her into the family room. How little she weighed compared to Claire. She put the child on the couch. Rana and Claire followed.