Moon Daughter

by Zohreh Ghahremani

  When I start to walk back, Paul asks to join me. “I’d love to meet your mom.” I hesitate and he must know why because he adds, “I just want to congratulate her.” His understanding tone tells me he’s not about to make me feel awkward.

  We find Mom where I had left her. She looks up and I take a deep breath before speaking. “This is my friend, Paul,” I say and hope I’m not being too obvious.

  Mom gives him the once over before she extends her hand to him.

  Paul holds her hand in both of his. “It’s so nice to finally meet you, Mrs. Ameli.”

  She smiles at him. “Same here. And congratulations.”

  “Thank you. I actually came over to congratulate you for Yalda’s success.” He then apologizes for not being able to stay. “Family is waiting,” he says with a smile. As he walks away, I notice Mom’s eyes are following him.

  “Paul was a great help with my last paper,” I say, feeling the need to explain.

  She looks at me in a way that makes me think she is about to ask something, but she doesn’t.

  I see Paul again as we line up for the procession. I know Mom will be watching and am grateful for the alphabetical distance between Ameli and Warner. When the announcer calls Yawl-da Ameli, I spring out of my seat, but then freeze for a few seconds. I look over the crowd, as though expecting someone to protest that my real name is Moradi. Then realize I am Yalda Ameli and always will be. I don’t need my father here. His absence is no longer a factor in my life, his heart of stone doesn’t matter any more, and the fact that he won’t ever be a part of my life is immaterial. A loving father existed only in my imagination. I exhale and begin my march to the familiar music. There will be no drama to the mundane ritual of this day.

  After the ceremony, all hell breaks loose and it is clear that Paul will not find me before we leave. If you ask me, graduation is a tiresome, overrated show. Its only merit is that it signifies an end to a long ordeal.

  Still, I do feel lighter, relieved even.

  With bumper-to-bumper traffic on Central Street, no one is moving. Mom must be exhausted from the earlier overflow of emotion. As for me, the change I feel has nothing to do with a diploma. I stare at the small park on the north side of the street and the line of shops across from it. So hard to believe I’m the same person who passed down this street earlier today. It is as though the moment I shed that gown, I also banished the anxiety that had haunted me for years. a re all my fears self-inflicted?

  “So how does it feel to be a lady lawyer?” Mom asks, her voice ringing with pride. She turns to me with a beaming smile. “You’ve got to be a mother to know how this feels.”

  She’s been so radiant this entire day, so pleased with the world around her.

  “Thanks Mom, but I think the way you cried and cried, the entire stadium must have known how happy you were!”

  She gives me a sideways glance. “I didn’t cry that much.”

  I chuckle. “Oh yeah? Then where’s that box of Kleenex you brought along?”

  Mom stops at the red light and looks at me again. “I could swear you’re a different person now.” She nods her certainty. “Definitely different. Mature, and a lot more confident.”

  I smile back and am amazed at how well she knows me. “Or maybe you’re just taking a harder look at your ‘little girl’.”

  She sighs and looks out her side window. “My little girls grow up too fast for me to keep track of.”

  I don’t think she meant to change the subject. But this gives me a chance to ask a question that has been on my mind. “So, are you still determined to attend Vida’s wedding?”

  She thinks for a moment. “Not exactly.” She sighs. “I mean, sure, I’ll go, but there are days when I’m not too sure about my decision. I guess I’m nervous.” She continues to drive and just when I think she won’t say another word she adds, “Then again, I think it’s time.”

  I want to ask more, but we have arrived.

  She nods toward the curb. “There’s your graduation present.” Parked near her driveway is a brand new V W Beetle. The metallic yellow shimmers under the late afternoon sun. Across the wind-shield there’s a wide purple ribbon with the word ‘Congratulations’ in gold letters.

  “Oh, my God,” I whisper. “I couldn’t possibly accept such a huge gift from you.”

  She hands me the keys attached to a silver charm. “Not me. It’s from your grandpa,” she says while parking her car. “He left you the money and specified it must be used for either a wedding gift, or graduation, whichever came first.”

  That sounds so much like the Grandpa Ameli I know.

  “Its door opens with a push of this button,” she explains.

  All my life, we’ve gone from one used car to another. With so many mechanical problems, by now the guys at Frankie’s Car Shop are like family. True that I had hinted at needing my own car, but this? I look at the lovely curves of the car’s front and say, “He left me that much?”

  “More,” Mom says, now standing next to me. “There should be enough left for a plane ticket to Iran, if you’d agree to accompany me.” She walks away and enters the building. Her last words have an eerie ring to them. Is she afraid to go alone, or does she want to me to go back for a different reason?

  Another look at the Volkswagen and I forget all else.

  Wait till Paul sees this, my very own, brand-new car!

  I open the car door and slide onto the front seat where the strong smell of leather reminds me of shoe stores. My sweaty fingers leave a mark where I touch the gleaming dashboard. It’s hard to tear myself away, but I should join Mom and help.

  Soon our guests arrive and for the rest of the evening, we eat, drink, tell jokes and take pictures. The neighbors’ gift is a new digital camera. “These things don’t need film,” he informs me and I thank him and pretend I didn’t know.

  When everyone is enjoying dessert, I take my camera and walk to the window. There’s my little bug, now a deeper shade of yellow under the streetlight. Will you be safe there? I take the first of many pictures. I’m a kid owning her very first toy, reluctant to leave it out of sight, wondering if it’ll still be there in the morning.

  For many days Mom acts as if she has given up on me going with her on the trip and I am too busy driving my car all over town to bother with a conversation that can be unpleasant. But tonight we’re home with no plans and I have a feeling the subject is bound to come up.

  “Yalda-joon, will you take down the soup bowls?” Mom calls from her bedroom. She has just finished cooking and has gone to change her clothes.

  “No problem,” I shout back.

  The aroma of sautéed mint flakes, fried onions, and mom’s pomegranate soup fills the small apartment and I can imagine the smell wafting down the hallway and into the elevator. She has also made lamb cutlets, though I never understood why she bothers when all I care to eat is this thick soup. As I cut the lavash bread into little squares, I hear Mom’s footsteps and she walks into the kitchen carrying a shoebox.

  “What have you got there?” I ask.

  “Oh, some old pictures I thought you’d want to see.”

  I don’t know how to respond to that. Something in her expression tells me these aren’t my old photos. Just how old are they?

  “I always knew the day would come when you’d want to see these,” she says.

  With that simple statement, I am suddenly conscious of how little I know my mother. So she did mean to tell me at some point. That’s why she saved the old pictures.

  She puts the box on the counter. “But let’s first eat.”

  I jump out of my chair. “a re you kidding me?”

  And so it is that I hold a stack of black and whites and stare at faces of strangers. Mom looks so thin and so delicate in her wedding gown. And the groom? Is this handsome man really my father? For all I know these pictures could be clippings from a Holly wood movie.

  I look up and Mom is standing by the window, looking out into the street.
r />   “Won’t you come and look with me?”

  She shakes her head. “I’ve looked at them so many times, I know them all by heart.”

  An image flashes before me. Rana, alone, sitting in her room and looking at a past she will never forget. I feel guilty of neglecting something that I should have known.

  “Come and sit here any way. You can tell me who these people are.”

  “Ask away,” she says, without making a move.

  “Who’s the girl in the ruffled dress?” I ask.

  She hesitates and her next words sound as though she is saying them amid silent tears. “That’s my Marjan.”

  She has told me little about the daughter she lost. But all of a sudden, I think maybe the loss of Marjan was the main reason she left everything behind. Maybe leaving the life that reminded her of her misfortunes helped her to deny everything. The more I think this, the more sense it makes. If she immigrated so that she could file for a divorce in the free country, why then did she stay married to him? Why not move on?

  Then again, she had these pictures, didn’t she? And the way she knows them by heart tells me she has been looking at them often. I stare at my sister’s picture. Marjan’s hair is long, a bow holding it on the side. She is so beautiful standing next to the mousey little Vida with big eyes.

  The tiny little Vida is about to be married! I begin to understand how Mom feels about the news.

  “Who are these two in a boat?” I ask, staring at the woman with dark lipstick and curly hair who is holding on to her wide rimmed hat. There’s also a man with rolled up sweater sleeves, rowing the boat on a small lake.

  “Maman and Papa,” she says and turns to me with a smile. “They took that one in London’s Hyde Park.”

  If I squint, I can almost recognize Grandpa, but old Grandma? This is unbelievable. She looks like a movie star of her era.

  Mom walks over and sits by me. She finds a picture of my aunts at younger ages. I have seen their pictures on her dresser and know all their names, but this one is from when Mom was a teen, long before she became a mother. As she talks about where the picture was taken, her voice reflects deep nostalgia. She points to an old woman in a photograph. This one I almost know. She is the only other woman who loved me unconditionally. Before Mom has said it, I whisper, “Dayeh,” and I bring the picture to my lips for a kiss. Mom squeezes my hand and when I look up, her cheeks glisten with tears.

  I flip through many more pictures, unsure of what I expect to find. I’ve seen such photographs around the antique mall. These aren’t all that different, they could have been taken any where in the world. The houses look a bit atypical, but they have a certain familiarity about them. The people may be strangers, yet loving them seems so plausible. My mother is in a few snapshots, too, though she’s so young that I need her to tell me which one she is. I’ve seen other pictures of my mom, but this is the first time I see Rana for who she really is. She saved these for me! I try to imagine how they made her feel as she secretly viewed them over the years. How could I be so blind? Why did I consider her selfish when all she did was devote her life only to me?

  The handsome man standing next to the young Mom could have been a loving father, but that’s not who he turned out to be. Searching for his own happiness, he discarded me. Did he find it? I hope not! He stands tall in his army uniform, yet to me he is but a small man. I hate him for what he has done to my mother. And to me. If there’s one thing I want to do, it is make sure he is sorry.

  I notice Mom is holding a small picture in her hand. I take it from her. It’s a typical ID photo, obviously taken in a studio. Marjan’s expressive eyes stare at me and there’s a faint smile on her lips. This could have been a school picture because she’s wearing a uniform with a starched, white collar. The corners of the photograph are cracked and I have a feeling this isn’t the first time Mom has held it.

  “I still feel responsible,” Mom says. The sorrow in her voice tells me a mother is never done with her grief. Like a vital organ severed from her body, Marjan’s loss has left irreparable damage. There will never be a full recovery. She proceeds to tell me more and the deep sorrow I have always seen in her eyes begins to make sense. “I killed her!” she says. “If only I hadn’t taken her to Kathy’s that day …” she says, then stops. She is not crying. As the details of how Marjan died pour out, I see myself standing next to her at the hospital. “I held on to her little hand, sure that if I let go she’d leave me. Your father took breaks to make phone calls, smoke, even to eat. I still hear the machine, still see the green light making its line up and down, reminding me of the fine line that separates life and death.”

  I wish I had been there for her, that I could have held Rana’s hand, tell her she’s not alone. Hard to believe she has lived all these years with such deep pain, not to mention an unfounded guilt.

  “Listen to me, Mom, you’re not God. You are no more responsible for what happened to Marjan than you are about my leg’s deformity. Such is life. Things happen, Mom!”

  But I know she won’t hear me. My mother is the type who welcomes guilt. Maybe this has to do with being the youngest of four, or maybe it’s the outcome of living with that horrible man. I don’t know. But all of a sudden I feel awful about having blamed her for my isolation.

  Neither of us cares about dinner as we willingly dive into another world. Each time we see a picture of Vida or Marjan, I notice Mom holds it a little longer, and as we reach images of my father, she looks away and lets me have my time with them.

  With each viewing, I’m one step closer to a true identity, to having a family. I don’t know how to feel and wonder if I will ever be ready to share this heavy load with Paul. At this moment I’m not ready to even think about that.

  By the time we reach the bottom of the box, I am determined to accompany my mom as she returns to her past. This isn’t my journey of choice, but now it’s my turn to be there for her.

  Mom wants to put the box away, but on second thought turns to me and says, “Do you want to keep any of these?”

  Yes, I would love to keep them all, but to me they are but ashes in an urn, while to her they are the remnants of a life filled with love.

  I shake my head. “Thanks, but you should keep them. We can always share.”

  She seems relieved. “They’ll be on the top shelf of my closet.”

  Before going to bed I stop by her room again. “I’m glad we’ve decided to do this, Mom. It’ll be good to reconnect with the people you love.”

  “Reconnect?” She gives out a deep sigh and as always recites what must be her own translation of a Persian poem:

  “If a cord is severed, you may tie it together again.

  But the knot in the middle, shall forever remain.”

  Over the coming days, there is so much to do that we don’t have time for another good chat. Mom has helped me to apply for Iranian travel documents, shop for souvenirs, and prepare for our journey. In some strange way, the decision has brought me closer to her. There’s plenty to think about. Going to an Islamic country is an adventure I don’t know how to prepare for. I can’t begin to imagine how Mom feels about the changes she will find twenty-four years later. She has to be anxious about what and whom she may see, or how her loved ones may view her. The country has gone through a lot in the past decade and Mom has stated on more than one occasion that it’s no longer the place she remembers. With the new regime, we are expected to observe the Islamic hejab. Luckily Mom knows what that entails. She has explained how I’ll have to wear long-sleeve shirts, pants, and no makeup. A woman can’t show hair, or wear an outfit that may show her natural body curves. I don’t really care because it’ll only be for three weeks. I feel more sorry for Vida having to dress like that her whole life. I wonder if the recent hardships have changed people’s attitude. a re they going to be as nice as Mom remembers?

  As we get closer to our departure date, my anxiety grows. I keep reminding myself that since I have no expectations, it’ll be ea
sy to meet these new people. With the exception of Grandma, they are all strangers to me and in her state of mind even she won’t know who I am. So what if I don’t like anyone? This trip isn’t exactly for fun. I have an agenda. I’m going to make damn sure that my mother’s pride is restored, that she gains her independence. But more than anything, I want to see that man suffer.

  I still haven’t told Paul about my father and hope to do that after I get back because by then I should have plenty more to share. All he knows is that Mom and I are going to Iran on a vacation. Paul follows the news and can say Khomeini’s name better than I can. He doesn’t approve of a trip at this time and is genuinely concerned for my safety. But I’ve assured him that over there I’m still seen as a native and should be fine.

  Mom and I don’t talk about such concerns, but we both sense the other’s apprehension. We are comrades going to the same war, each with our own set of duties, each with fears concealed under a brave mask. What if he wants to keep her there? Lately, I’ve learned enough about the Iranian laws to know that a husband holds all rights to his wife’s travels. Will he deny her permission to exit the country? I can’t let such silly worries stop me from this mission, and indeed it has turned into a mission.

  I dread unpleasant surprises and sometimes am not sure if it’s wise to take my mother back to a place where a real threat lurks over her head—if not both our heads. It isn’t as though I’m eager to be reunited with a father I wish I didn’t have.

  The highlight of this trip for me will be meeting Vida. I do care about her and although we don’t know each other, I feel awful about her having missed out on such a great mom. Then again, doesn’t that mean I’ll have to share Mom? I’m not going to fool myself. Mom is the real reason I’m going on this trip. My mission is clear and no part of it includes giving her up.

  Our Iranian passports finally arrive. I open the manila envelope and stare at the burgundy cover. It is in Farsi, with English translations so page one is at the end. There I am with my hair covered under a silly scarf, not smiling, not communicating. Yalda Ameli now has an Islamic passport, but this little document is a lot more than that. This is the key that will finally open the door to whatever is left of Mom’s secrets, and if my training is ever going to benefit her, it better be now. I take a deep breath and give my passport and the birth certificate back to Mom for safekeeping.