Moradi stood on the other side of the bed, holding Marjan’s hand. “Maman and Baba are here, azizam—my darling.” W hen Marjan’s expression did not change, he gently touched her cheek. “Do you hear me, baba-jan?”
The only sound in the room came from a beeping machine. Dr. Mehrzad helped Rana into the chair near the bed.
“What’s the use of staying?” Moradi said. “She doesn’t even know we’re here.”
Rana didn’t look at him. “But we know.”
Rana continued to pray, but as the clock on the wall ticked, her faith lost power. Dr. Mehrzad checked in a couple of times. On one of those quick visits, she stayed to talk. “We had to make an opening in her skull to drain the fluid.”
Rana wished she hadn’t explained. How did they make an opening? If her skull was already fractured, did they have to open the crack line? Drill it? She wanted to know all the little details, but then again, she’d rather not. Is my little girl in pain?
On her last stop, the doctor sounded despondent. “I hate to tell you, but things don’t look good. I can’t give you false hopes. She’s been in a coma too long. In such cases, most patients don’t make it, and those who do, will never be the same.”
Rana dismissed that bit of news without bothering to respond. She was beginning to hate the nice woman. What do doctors know? She sat as close to Marjan as the bed would allow her and stared at her, hoping against hope, praying hard.
Moradi was in and out of the room. Maybe to eat, have tea, or to smoke a cigarette. But he happened to be there when the machine’s beeping turned into one long, sharp note, a hushed siren that would stay with Rana for years to come. She watched him put his face in both hands and envied him for being able to weep. Moving closer, Rana kissed her little girl’s face, then put her mouth to the child’s ear and whispered the slow song she used to sing to her years ago.
“Baroon barooneh …raining, it’s raining,
the grounds are soaked
But things will soon get better,
Winter will leave, spring is behind it …”
When the machine was finally silenced, the tune of Rana’s song spilled a morbid resonance through the room.
Oh raindrops, please pour gently
You’re making the orange blossoms lose their petals …
Marjan’s face was losing more color, her hand was turning cold, and Rana sang louder.
Oh, merciful God, amid this winter,
Either take me, or don’t take her away,
Then like a broken record, she stayed on that line, either take me, or don’t take her away. Don’t take her away. Don’t …”
She finally stopped her song, patted the back of Marjan’s hand and tucked it under the covers before pulling them up to the child’s chin. She sat back in her chair, this time a little farther, and waited.
Dr. Mehrzad approached the Major. “I’m really worried about your wife.”
Moradi nodded. “This isn’t like her at all.”
“It’s a huge shock for both of you and I wish there were words of comfort to offer. But she needs to react, to let it all out.”
What did they expect? How does one react? Someone should send a message to her father in Tehran. Then again, what for?
Hours later the orderlies came to wheel her little girl away. Rana bent over the bed for one last kiss, but that icy cheek wasn’t Marjan’s. She heard Moradi’s silent tears change into sobs. Everyone in the room sobbed with him.
Everyone except Rana.
One can age years in a matter of days. Rana could feel that. With Marjan’s loss, what was left of Rana’s youth was now behind her. There was no looking back. Unable to fill the void her little girl had left behind, Rana felt old and lonely. In a way, she became conscious of how in the recent months her first born had been a source of comfort, her serenity a sign that she was her mother’s wise little friend. Rana recalled the nights when she had cried silent tears and as if knowing by instinct, Marjan had crawled into her mother’s bed, her little body offering warmth, her cuddle helping to hold the pieces together.
Rana’s grief was beyond the traditional mourning. Let him respond to people’s expressions of sympathy. Let him cry for the daughter he would have preferred to be a son. They grieved for the same child, but not in the same way, not together.
“W here’s Marjan?” little Vida would ask.
Rana listened to Dayeh’s sad voice explaining to the child that her big sister had flown into the sky and was now above the clouds, with God. Dayeh knew nothing. There was no God. Marjan’s soul had left her body and entered her mother’s heart. She would forever feel her daughter within her, she would draw comfort from having absorbed her. She’s back inside me. Rana was convinced of that.
Throughout the following days, even when that small casket was lowered into the cold earth, Rana remained dry-eyed. No one would know why she now carried a much bigger purse. No one would see Marjan’s favorite doll tucked at the bottom of her baggy purse, nor would they find it in Rana’s bed every night. Others could cry all they wanted, but not Rana, not as long as she could hang on to a piece of Marjan. Tears would only confirm her loss. They were an invitation to others to share her grief. But how? No one could understand, no one, except Marjan herself. She would have known what went on in her mother’s heart. Her old soul would have shared the depth of her sorrow. Like an invisible fairy, Marjan’s spirit hung around Rana. Curling up to Emily-the-doll, she denied the pain of separation, the agony of being torn apart. Rana would forever be near her wise child, her oldest, and the one who now made her feel so old.
Dr. Ameli and Mandana came for the funeral, but they could only stay for two days. Her mother was taken ill, perhaps due to grief. Dr. Ameli said he didn’t think she could handle the burial. After going back, Dr. Ameli called several times a day and if the call was from home, his wife also came to the phone. Rana didn’t talk much. What was left to say? She took the pills her father had prescribed as they helped her to sleep and reduced the need to talk.
Moradi insisted Vida stay at Badri’s again. This time Rana didn’t mind. The two girls had been so attached that the name Vida-Marjan sounded like that of one child, not two. It would take a long time to separate them. Rana wanted both of them there, or neither.
Moradi was happy to take Vida away. He wanted her close by and no longer pretended he wanted to stay at home. Did he really blame Rana or was that his way of justifying his absence? Dayeh was reminded of her own father and how each time he wanted to stay away, he picked on something.
Regardless of how quiet Marjan had been, the house was empty without her, a dark abyss that nothing and no one could fill.
Dayeh took care of Yalda, though Rana seemed to find a semblance of comfort in cuddling the baby. Sometimes the only way for her to sleep peacefully was to have the baby next to her. Rana wasn’t sure how much time had elapsed. Then one evening when her husband was home, her father’s call from Tehran reminded her of their abandoned plan. All these weeks later, Dr. Ameli still spoke to her as he had done on the day they lost Marjan, his voice a near whisper, as if fearing to awaken her. “How is my precious daughter?”
“Fine, Papa,” she said, trying to sound casual and relaxed. “How are you and Maman?”
Moradi sat at the dining table, balancing his checkbooks or something. He looked up, but didn’t seem curious and soon went back to his work.
“I know it’s hard for you to give this matter a thought, but we need to work on your trip. Have you and Farhad discussed it at all?”
Rana wasn’t sure if Moradi was listening.
“Yalda is fine, too,” she said out loud. “We had a healthy check up, but her doctor has spoken to Farhad and they both think we need to see a specialist abroad.”
“That’s my girl,” Dr. Ameli said. “I knew I could count on you. Is he sitting there?”
“Yes, Papa. But unfortunately, Farhad’s work won’t allow him to go on such a trip.”
Major Moradi gla
nced at her again.
“Good girl, Rana-jan,” her father said softly.
“I wanted to talk to you about this, but it’s hard to fall back into my usual routine.” She stopped. How matter-of-factly she sounded, how calm, as though they were talking about someone else. She paused before adding, “I can’t do this alone, Papa, and I hope you realize I’m begging for your help.”
“Well done…” Dr. Ameli said. “Has he suspected anything?”
“No. In fact it’s the opposite. Farhad thinks with you being a doctor and all, that would be a huge favor to him.” She glanced over at her husband, who was at full attention and nodding his approval. Encouraged, Rana added, “He would have called you himself, but considers such a request too much to ask.”
“Ha! I’m touched.”
“Papa, please, if not for me, do it for Yalda.”
“You don’t have to beg, Rana. It’s the least I could do for you.”
“Really?” Rana’s voice rose with emotion.
Moradi looked at her with a new twinkle in his eyes and Rana thought she even saw a faint smile.
“Oh, but don’t tell Farhad, yet,” her father said. “Just let him know that I’m going to think about it.”
Two long days went by without any calls from Tehran. Moradi came by both evenings and Rana knew he wanted to be there in case her father called. They didn’t talk much. The only time her husband made a hint was when he paid the radiology bill. “The way these doctors charge for a single picture …” He did not finish his sentence. He had used the same tone when the emergency room bill had arrived. “What the hell am I paying for? You’d think they’d saved my child’s life!” His grief for Marjan was all anger.
When Dr. Ameli finally called, Rana was not surprised to see her husband rush to pick up the phone.
“Hello? Yes, this is Farhad,” he said and sounded sheepish.
The exchange of greetings was brief and then all Rana could hear was her father’s muffled voice while her husband scratched behind his ear and listened. W hen he finally spoke, it sounded as though he were cutting in. “But what about her school?”
Rana’s father spoke another minute or so in response.
Looking even more pensive, Moradi turned his back to Rana. “I understand, but …”
More muffled words came from the other side, to which Moradi only nodded. “Of course. I wouldn’t possibly question that.” His face was flushed and Rana knew that whatever her father was saying had caused him deep embarrassment. “As you wish,” he said, and Rana thought he even bent his head a little, giving a bow. “She’s right here.”
Rana grabbed the receiver and hoped her apprehension wouldn’t show. Moradi stood there for a minute, staring at her, but then walked back to the dining table.
“Sorry for taking so long to call back, honey,” her father said. “I wanted to do this when your mother wasn’t around. She gets too excited about such matters.”
Dr. Ameli’s word choice indicated he thought Farhad may still be on the line.
“I know,” Rana said.
“I’ve just had a long chat with your good husband. I’d be willing to go on this trip, but have suggested Vida should also go. I had meant to do this before … “ His voice broke and Rana braced herself against the pain of remembering how Marjan had been part of this trip.
For a few seconds, neither of them could talk and when her father spoke again, he sounded resigned. “A trip will be good for Vida. Especially now.” He tried a chuckle. “It’ll give her a chance to practice her other language, too.”
Marjan never had the chance to visit a place where people only spoke her “other language.” Rana’s father spoke of tomorrows while Rana continued to struggle amid her yesterdays.
“I’ve also told him this’ll be Grandpa’s treat,” he said, “a belated birthday present.”
There will never be another birthday for Marjan.
Rana cleared her throat. “No, Papa, that’s too big a gift.”
“Oh, don’t be too quick to disagree with your old father. I’ve made up my mind. I really want to do this for my granddaughter.”
Rana closed her eyes and instead of Vida, she pictured Marjan visiting a museum, carrying the book Grandpa would buy, listening to him explain things with patience.
“Vida’s lucky to have such a generous grandpa,” she said.
Moradi’s eyes were on his paper again, but his expression told Rana that he had heard every word she said. There was no doubt left in her. She needed to pack her daughters and go as far away as she could, away from this place, from him, and from every corner that was empty of Marjan’s presence.
The thought helped Rana to notice the trembling inside her. She hoped her voice did not betray her as she mentioned the aunt in New York. “Oh, you’re right. Aunt Malak is there. I’d forgotten all about her.”
Moradi bunched his newspaper and looked up in surprise.
Under any other circumstance, Rana would have felt horrible about being so deceitful, but not now. Not if that was what it took to save her and her daughters from an imminent public humiliation. “I wonder if it wouldn’t be best for me to move out of this house,” Moradi had said. Just like that. Treating her like his property, maintaining her.
The only good that had come out of this darkness, was that once again, Rana had her thoughts in order. With memories of Marjan safely stored in a separate compartment, she now had to think of her other daughters. To live so far away would be lonely, but she had to break out of the prison that her life had become.
Chapter
Thirteen
ON HIS WAY BACK FROM THE OFFICE, Dr. Ameli stopped by Eskandary’s to pick up the documents that had just arrived. As he drove, he found himself reminiscing about some of his trips abroad and regretted the fact that on this trip his wife would not be with him. She loved going to foreign countries, and although he did not exactly share the feeling, some of her enthusiasm rubbed off on him. They took sightseeing tours during the day, tried different restaurants at night and he didn’t even mind sitting on a bench at department stores, waiting for her to show up with multiple shopping bags in all colors. “Oh, wait till you see what great bargains I found,” she would say in breathless exhilaration.
This time was different. To begin with, she seemed to be in complete denial of the loss of their granddaughter. She often spoke about Marjan as if she were still alive and sometimes he wondered if she had not forgotten the entire matter. Besides, the whole idea of accompanying Rana had been a last minute agreement. W hen he mentioned that most of his time would be spent on medical appointments and consultations, his wife gladly agreed to stay behind.
Stuck in traffic, he recalled the busy streets in America. They had traveled there only once on a tour, organized by the Association of Iranian Physicians. At the time, they had only their first child, Soraya, who stayed with Dayeh in Tehran. On that trip they met a couple from Shiraz, a pediatrician and his wife, whose friendship had lasted to this day. How ironic that the same friend would now help him to banish his youngest daughter back to that country. Then again, that was no more ironic than having his best friend, an honest lawyer, show him ways to get around the law.
Eskandari greeted him with a warm embrace. Had the old lawyer been a psychiatrist, he would have been just as great at his job. He understood, sympathized, and always went that extra mile, but this time Dr. Ameli knew that the lawyer had gone out of his way to help him.
“I have the documents,” Eskandary said, pulling a few items out of a manila envelope. “But please make sure you hide the actual birth certificate somewhere safe.” He looked into his friend’s eyes and continued, “For you, I would do ten times more, but should this fall into the wrong hands, it will end my career.” He tapped on the small burgundy booklet with the golden emblem of lion and sun on its cover.
Dr. Ameli took it and looked inside. A photograph of the baby was attached. His heart raced as he read on.
Name: Yalda Last nam
e: Ameli Date of …
He skipped a line.
Father’s name: Mehdi Ameli
That had been the name of a distant relative, a young man whom Dr. Ameli barely knew. He had heard the sad news when the young man was killed in a bus accident shortly after Yalda’s birth. To obtain the man’s birth certificate had been the easy part. The fact that Moradi had not cared enough to register the baby’s birth helped. But this was Eskandary’s ultimate gift to his friend. Somehow the lawyer had managed to produce a birth certificate for the baby that showed no trace of Moradi.
The two other booklets were the passports. Vida’s showed a picture of her alone, and it was under Moradi’s name. That would also be what her exit permit would indicate. Rana’s had two photos attached and it said Rana Ameli and baby Yalda. How clever that was. Iran’s law for women to use their maiden name had come to their rescue. If Moradi ever saw the documents, he wouldn’t suspect a thing. But seeing Yalda’s birth certificate would be the end.
“Don’t worry,” he assured his old friend. “I will guard it with my life.”
Eskandary handed him another envelope. “Oh, and here is…” he said and stopped, as if to search for the right words. It took him a minute to finish his sentence. “… the other passport.”
Ameli knew exactly what was in that envelope. He would not - could not - open it. He didn’t have the heart to look at Marjan’s soulful eyes in that photograph, how serious she had looked, how grownup. He could feel the tears pushing behind his eyes, the pain building up in his rib cage. He blinked hard and pushed the envelope back. “Would you mind hanging on to that for now?”
The lawyer nodded without a word, put the envelope in his drawer, and he rang for tea.
Moon Daughter Page 16
