While I search for Mom’s special glass and the dried fruits she takes with her tea, I steal glances at her. She is leaning forward, her elbows on the table, her chin resting on two fists. After a couple of minutes, she picks up a few crumpled tissues, throws them in the basket under the table and straightens her back, sitting taller. Always a proud woman. I should know her better than to expect defeat now. When I put her tea on the table, Mom thanks me and wraps her fingers around the hot glass, as if in need of its warmth.
“I’m glad you came back,” she says.
Where did she think I might go?
“Why, Mom?” I sound hoarse and the words come out like a soft cry. She must know what I’m asking her.
“Aw,” she says, and that simple sound reflects a million inexplicable reasons. She wipes a teardrop with the tip of her fingers. “I could talk all night, but what I have to say won’t make much sense to you.” She takes a sip of her hot tea and glances over at the refrigerator door, where a magnet holds a faded picture of me on my fourth birthday. “If God can hear me, I pray that you will never have to live through anything close to what I have.”
I stare at her hands, the bulging veins and tiny dry wrinkles. I have not looked at my mother this closely for some time. When did she start to age?
“For so many years, you had more than enough to cope with. The last thing you needed on top of all the surgery and rehab was to deal with the ugly truth.” She takes a sip of her tea then continues to stare at my picture as if to make that a focal point for her thoughts. “Maybe the reason why mothers can’t stop protecting their children is because they never accept the fact that their little ones grow up.” A smile spreads over her lips, but her sad eyes remain unchanged. “To me, you will forever be that tiny thing, the one who detested anyone with a stethoscope around their neck.”
“I still do,” I say, and try a smile. I think of the stories my mother used to invent, the rewards she promised just to make me see the doctors. And see them. And see them again.
She drinks her tea and the distant look in her eyes tells me she is not going to say more. Give Mom a choice and she’d love to end the discussion here and now.
“I have a lot of questions.”
She nods.
“Why not start with telling me a few facts about your life with … him?” I don’t know how to address the man. That he is a living and breathing person makes it harder to talk about him. Who is he? “There must have been some good days, maybe even some form of love. After all, you’re still married to him, aren’t you?”
She puts down the glass. “Now there’s an interesting subject, no?” She attempts to clear the mess she has made, picking up more pieces of tissue, smoothing the wrinkles on her skirt, and centering her tea glass in its saucer. I am not about to take my inquisitive eyes off her. I want to give her the chance to speak at her own pace, but my patience is wearing thin.
“Love is one thing to you and quite another to someone with my background—not to mention my age.” She smiles again and for a split second I can see a younger woman. “Impossible as it may be, you need to put yourself in my place—a teenager in a glass jar.” She closes her eyes for a few seconds and I know there must be a million visions behind her eyelids, but all I picture is the huge glass jar with a folded body inside it. She is now talking with the same voice that once told me fairy tales.
“I went to school, and I came home. That was my life. Not that the other girls had a whole lot more, but being the youngest of four girls, too many eyes were on me. I would do anything to gain some independence. So I got married.”
“Is that why you married your cousin Moradi, or whatever it is?”
She turns to me and her face is flushed. “I didn’t marry my cousin.”
Now I’m really confused.
“The man I married was an army officer from Shiraz. Major Farhad Moradi.” She looks at me hard. “Your father.”
Moradi? No matter how many times I repeat the name, it still sounds ridiculous. More-odd-ee. How appropriate! Indeed it’s odder than the name I have. I don’t want to be a More-odd-ee! What did she do? Dump him? I wonder what would make a woman take her child away, give her a new identity and live a hard and lonely life?
She adopted me! The mere possibility of that makes me want to laugh, but the best I can do is not to cry. “Did you love him?”
Chapter
Nineteen
GRADUATION COULDN’T HAVE BEEN TIMELIER since it has provided the distraction Mom and I desperately need. I somehow manage to maintain a calm face for her sake, but calm I am not. Mom calls every day, though we both avoid the subject of my father. The fact that we need to talk about that is a mutual understanding, but I’ve spent most of the past few days at school and with Paul. I haven’t been able to tell him what I now know. It’s too confusing as it is and I can’t share something that still doesn’t make sense. If it weren’t for Paul, I’m not sure how I would cope with these final days of school and my unfinished work. He has helped me with the final touches on my paper. His peaceful presence and undemanding affection give me a chance to sort my thoughts and to come to terms with my new findings. As changed as I feel, life seems the same. I don’t know what I feel. I wouldn’t call it sad, yet can’t think of another name for it, either. I have never been so puzzled about anything, which may explain my sudden interest in memories that were tucked away.
For a week after that talk with Mom, the last thing I could focus on was law, any law. What a useless subject I’ve devoted my life to! Law knows nothing about emotions, it does nothing to protect a helpless infant in Iran, and it sure as hell could never make a father love his unwanted child.
During the past few days, I’ve been busy with my own investigation into baby Yalda’s life. I didn’t think my medical history would reveal anything new, still, that’s where I began my research. Multiple visits to the hospital and contacting the office of the pediatrician who is still practicing revealed nothing significant. Old files and x-rays meant little to my untrained eyes and the young intern helping me had to explain some of the images. I saw pins and screws where they had broken the bone to do the elongation of my leg and all of a sudden the old pain was back with full force. That was the first time, but I continued to feel it on and off over the next week. One night, I had a nightmare about my leg being drilled and woke up in fright. I stared into the darkness, and although the fear had vanished, the pain was there. I’m sure that’s a psychosomatic thing because I have no pain when I’m happy, my minor limp is unnoticeable and all that anyone else can see is a negligible scar on my calf.
While checking my medical records I paid close attention to family history. There was no mention of my father’s name any where in those files. The only name I saw besides Mom’s, was Grandpa’s when he took care of a few bills that were not covered by Mom’s insurance. What was I looking for?
I am at my small apartment downtown and Paul is here to help me finish the dreaded paper. He knows so much more about Intellectual Property, a topic that seems to constantly change, and I swear I’ll never have anything to do with it. A few minutes ago, as I was organizing some documents and explaining my non-existent progress, he asked, “What is going on with you, Yalda?”
The question came out of the blue, but his voice echoed a concern that must have been brewing for days. I knew that was my chance to talk. Maybe that’s precisely what I need, to let it all out, to confide in someone outside the family. Instead, I shook my head and said, “Nothing. Why?”
He stared at me with those blue eyes for a few seconds, then diverted his attention back to the stack of papers on the table.
I stood behind him and gave him a tight hug, but he only patted the back of my hand.
Paul understands me enough to know something is wrong. We have lived in the same building for three years, and over the past year, we seem to be living together as he spends all his time here. I love having him around, and if I thought Mom could handle it, I would ask him
to move in. Mom pretends she doesn’t know about him and I know that’s only because she’s hoping someday I’ll find a nice Iranian-American. I love Paul and don’t normally keep secrets from him. But these new discoveries are too bizarre and I’d hate for him to judge my family. Maybe in the dark ages an innocent newborn could be rejected based on gender or it was no big deal for a man to take multiple wives, but not in this day and age. What kind of a man is my father?
When a few minutes pass in utter silence, Paul turns around and puts his arm around me. “You would tell me if there was a problem, wouldn’t you?” He waits a few seconds then slaps the stack of notes with his free hand. “Damn it, Yalda! Your happiness is far more important than this silly project.”
I chuckle. “Well, then, we better finish the silly project because right now that would make me really happy.”
He looks at me, his kind eyes urging me to change my mind. When I don’t say more, he finds a pen and pulls a file from the stack.
We start to work and I’m suddenly conscious of the fact that with all the craziness around me, Paul may be my only hope for happiness. In the beginning, I thought our physical attraction had a lot to do with being so different. He’s tall, fair and casual, while I’m small, dark and too fussy about my clothes. I had seen how other girls eyed him and thought I’d never have a chance. So when I bumped into him at a sports bar, where I’d gone to watch the Bears’ game and he offered to buy me a drink, I was speechless. We are both serious with our studies and share a geeky neatness. Whatever it was that attracted us to each other, soon we were a couple.
“Would you like some coffee?” Paul asks a while later.
“Sounds great,” I say and feel ready for a break.
Paul makes a good coffee, but what I enjoy the most is his eagerness to do things for me. I can just picture an easy life with him around.
I hear him from the kitchen. “My dad asked again why we don’t all go to graduation dinner together. He says the restaurant will be happy to add two more to our table.”
I smile to myself. Why don’t we just give Mom a heart attack? This morning, she asked me, “Would any of your friends like to join us for graduation dinner?” Ignoring the American tradition of having dinner out, she has been cooking up a storm. I imagine she has invited a few Iranian friends and her upstairs neighbor, who has forever wanted to match me with her nephew. When I said my friends already have plans with their own families, she seemed rather relieved.
I raise my voice for Paul to hear, “That’s really sweet, but my mother has invited friends over.”
These days, something else about Mom is weird; she has been acting rather secretive. I once walked into her apartment and as soon as she heard my voice there was a loud thud, like a door being slammed shut. When I asked her about it she denied having heard anything. I don’t know what’s on her mind, but the calm won’t last and I do sense the approaching storm.
“You didn’t review this brief?” Paul asks, waving the pages he’s holding.
I shake my head absentmindedly.
“Maybe this isn’t the best day to work.” He stands near me and holds my face in both hands. “Whatever is on your mind, I’m sure it’s important and I want you to know I’ll be all ears when you’re ready to talk.” He kisses me lightly and holds me for a few seconds. I fight my tears and savor the way his voice is soothing my nerves. “Graduation is going to happen with or without these final polishes. Plenty of time to turn your paper in.” He starts gathering the papers from the table and neatly stacks them. “The remaining work will be the best excuse for us to spend the day after graduation here.”
If I only knew how, this would be the perfect moment to share my problem with him. But I first need to sort my own feelings, learn a few more facts, and know where exactly I stand emotionally.
Mom puts the roses she has bought on the dinner table and everything seems ready for our return from the commencement ceremony. Mom is still fussing, rearranging the stuffed grape leaves, adding a garnish of mint leaves and sliced lemon that resembles a rose bud. She finally puts the platter on a side table, ready to be served with cocktails.
“Okay Mom,” I say to her back. “I’ll be in my room if you need me.”
“Yes, honey, go make yourself beautiful. I want lots of pictures today.”
What a relief it will be to get this day over with. I’ve just finished the paper, my cap and gown is back from the cleaners, and Mom has bought the town’s supply of film for her camera. Still, deep down I fear something is going to ruin this.
I’ll have to spend a little time with Paul’s parents, and by now the Warners must be ready to meet Mom. The mere thought makes my heart sink. They have no clue that my mother is still in denial about this entire relationship. I can just see a chitty-chatty Mrs. Warner approaching Mom to say how pleased she is to meet the mother of Paul’s girlfriend and can’t even begin to imagine what my mother would have to say to that.
As far as my mother is concerned, there’s only one kind of suitable husband for me: an Iranian one. Though considering her own experience, now I’m wondering why.
Back in my room, I dry my long hair and reach for the hot rollers. There has to be a hairstyle that the graduation cap can’t mess up. As I prepare for this biggest event—as Mom puts it—my entire life flashes before me.
Paul claims he has been in love with me since day one, and I know I love him, too. Not the giddy kind of love, but a stronger, more secure feeling, the kind that would make it easy to imagine having him around for the rest of my life.
We each live downtown close to the law school. We spend so much time together that if it weren’t for fear of Mom’s reaction, we’d be better off living together. I convince myself that the reason I don’t tell Mom is because I know the Persian in her will consider such a lifestyle a dishonor. True that she’ll never be able to forgive me for losing my virginity, but isn’t it possible that I’m also unsure where this is going? Maybe I’m just buying time and want to avoid an unnecessary conflict. Over the past three years, I’ve put the thoughts of Mom and Paul in separate compartments and I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready to change that.
I glance at her picture on my dresser. In it, a much younger Rana in blue jeans and tee shirt is sitting in a park somewhere, holding baby Yalda on her lap. W ho knew we’d be this close and yet so far apart?
That ’s fine, mother. You have your secrets and I’ll have mine.
Satisfied with my hair and makeup, I slip into the canary-yellow suit. Its lightweight cotton and short sleeves make it suitable to wear under the gown. I grab my gown, my cap with its shiny purple tassel, and go downstairs.
Mom is wearing a lovely polka-dot dress and looks so elegant with her hair pinned up. She walks over and puts her arm around my shoulders. “Ah, just look at you!” She kisses my cheek. “I’m proud of you, honey.”
Weeks earlier, those words would have meant the world to me. I force a smile. I haven’t forgiven her. Not yet, any way. Night after night I lay in my bed and try to be fair by telling myself that maybe it has been our joint effort to keep me in the dark. Maybe if I had really wanted a way out of this maze, I could have found one. But I also remember how each time I attempted to reach beyond my mother’s halo of mystery she somehow managed to pull away. Did I let the information slip for fear the truth would destroy the only pillar I knew? Had I welcomed the ambiguity all these years?
Deep down, there’s another irrational fear I don’t want to admit. For the past week, I have thought of it enough times that by now it has become a distinct possibility. What if out of nowhere, Major Moradi shows up at my graduation? If I close my eyes I can clearly see the shock on Mom’s face. I even go as far as picturing Paul making an attempt to approach him. But I blink hard and the image dissolves.
There, in the darkness of my mother’s past lay a monster that for years the little Yalda would not dare awaken. Have I grown up enough and gathered enough courage to face it now?
Chapter
Twenty
THE THEATER IS SO CROWDED THAT, for a while, I can’t even find Paul. This is a more private graduation ceremony, yet the crowd is bigger than I had pictured. Conversations and cheerful greetings create a loud buzz and camera flashes and cellophane-wrapped flowers are all over the place.
“I should have brought you flowers,” Mom says.
I smile at how she always finds something to blame herself for. I put my arm around her. “I saw the roses you put on the table, Mom. It’s good you didn’t bring any or we wouldn’t know what to do with them here.”
She smiles back before reaching into her purse for her camera. “Let me take your picture with the crowd in the back.”
Someone I don’t know spots us and asks Mom if she’d like to be in the picture. As he takes her camera and I stand next to my mother, I wonder if I’m the only graduate here who doesn’t have an extended family attending.
I stand on tiptoe and look over the groups around us. Paul is nowhere in sight and in fact, neither are any of our friends. Mom takes a few more pictures and then puts her camera back in her purse. “I’ll save the rest for the ceremony.” She looks around. “Why don’t you go find your friends? I can wait here.”
“I don’t want to leave you here by yourself.”
“Don’t be silly. This is your day, honey. Do you want the camera?”
I take it from her and give her shoulder a squeeze. “Thanks, Mom. Be right back!”
I finally spot a few friends near the concession stand and ask if they’ve seen Paul. When I finally find him, he is in a circle of family and friends and insists on introducing me to each one of them. “This is my uncle from Wisconsin,” he says. The balding man next to him offers me a warm handshake. Paul holds my arm and says, “Come meet my cousins.”
It’s the first time I see my Paul as he must have been as a small boy and it makes me love him more. “Let me take a picture of you two,” his mom says and she takes several. We also pose for a few with his family. It feels wonderful to be here and for a second I wish Mom knew them.
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