Moon Daughter

by Zohreh Ghahremani

I smile at hearing the sweetest words I’ve ever heard and am grateful for having “our time.” Vida’s English is flawless. The way she annunciates her words gives her accent a British touch and I notice she doesn’t skip her ‘T’s or ‘D’s as I do. I suppose that may have something to do with post-revolutionary Iran and how they banished all things American. She is talking to my aunt, but her eyes are mostly on me, as if examining this new sister.

  “Rana is so anxious to see you, but she had to stay with Maman,” my aunt says. “I can’t even begin to describe how much she has missed you.”

  Vida hesitates a moment as if to absorb that, but doesn’t respond.

  “She still talks about you as ‘my little Vida’,” I add.

  Vida looks up and I’m not sure if the faint smile means she is finding this funny or the thought has made her happy.

  “What should I call her?” she asks.

  “What do you mean?” I realize it’s a stupid question.

  She looks at her hands without responding.

  “Yes, exactly,” my aunt says and she sounds angry. “What do you mean?”

  Vida looks at me, then at Mandana.

  “Well?” my aunt pushes.

  “I have another Maman, you know.”

  My aunt grunts and turns to the window, but I can see Vida’s point. Barely five when her mother left her, she grew up with this Parisa woman, even adopted her as her own mother. It must be just as hard for her to make room for Mom as it is for me to accept Colonel Moradi. What will I call him?

  I gently lay my hand on Vida’s. “You could call her Mom, like I do.”

  She looks up and smiles. “Yes,” she whispers. “That sounds really nice.” And she nods with genuine approval. “Mom.”

  A few minutes pass in silence before my aunt starts talking Persian in long streaks. I’m used to this and figure my sister must be getting a sermon. Whatever it is that my aunt has said, Vida is beaming.

  “Congratulations,” she says to me. “You must feel quite accomplished having your degree in law.”

  I laugh. “Thank you, but I’d feel a lot more accomplished if I could find a job.”

  “What do you mean, ‘if ’? There must be hundreds of jobs waiting for you.”

  “I wish. This sounds crazy, but in the US, the more you qualify, the fewer the jobs.”

  This seems to surprise her even more. “Not here,” she says. “The salaries may not be that great, but as soon as you get your degree, there are many jobs. Sometimes you actually get to choose.”

  “Even for women?”

  “Well, yes. That is, if you’re willing to comply with the Islamic dress codes.”

  My aunt laughs. “I can just picture Yalda wearing a veil to the court!”

  That gives me a chuckle, but I stop immediately for fear I might offend them.

  “Oh, go ahead,” Vida says, bumping shoulders. “We all laugh at such absurdity. Even after years of this odd dress code, one sees how crazy it is.” She shrugs. “But what can we do?”

  For the rest of the way, conversations fluctuate between Persian and English and mostly circle around the wedding. Who’s the lucky groom? How did they meet? Aunt Mandy wants to know all the details. As Vida fills in the blanks, I study her with newfound interest. Maybe it’s too late to be as close as sisters, but I’m beginning to like this bubbly Vida.

  “So what did you think of Baba?” Vida asks in such a casual tone, it could be a reference to anything in Tehran.

  I take a deep breath and think of the tall man standing there who had made my heart beat so fast. How he had maintained his dashing looks, how proud and dignified he seemed. But I have no answer for her. She doesn’t push.

  Somehow the drive back seems shorter and soon we are at Aunt Soraya’s alley. Tara’s car is already parked in front, the door to the house is open and I can picture her running inside to announce Vida’s imminent arrival. Next, Mom rushes out and is crossing the alley. In her haste, she has forgotten her shoes and her scarf. While I follow Vida out of the car, I realize this is the first time I have seen my mother run.

  “Khodaye man …” she cries out, and I don’t need a translation to know she is calling God’s name. Mom does this whenever she is overwhelmed.

  Vida stays in place, her arms down. Has she forgotten what Mom looks like? Did Moradi hide her pictures the way Mom did his? A million thoughts go through my head while Mom wraps herself around her missing child. She has her back to me, but from the way she buries her face into Vida’s shoulder, I know she must be crying. Her hand slowly reaches to feel Vida’s shoulder-length hair. A moment passes and she pulls away to take another look at her daughter’s face. I feel my own tears as Mom’s hand gently wipes away the tears from Vida’s cheek, a move that seems to awaken Vida because finally, her arms rise to hug Mom.

  A window across the street opens and an old woman cranes her neck, watching as if enjoying a show from her special box. My aunts have joined the rest of the family in a group, weeping. I’m ashamed of my own dry eyes.

  After a slight hesitation, as if energized by Mom’s warm embrace, Vida opens her arms, first with a slow move, but then they tighten into a firm embrace. Mom is saying something amid tears, but it comes across as wailing. Vida is too quiet and now gently peels Mom’s arms from around her. She closes her eyes and her face is covered in tears. Even Dayeh has come out to watch. She leans on her walking cane with one arm and is hitting her chest with the other, yelling out something that makes Vida look up. No sooner has Vida seen the old nanny than she runs to her and nearly knocks her over with a fierce embrace. Now it’s Vida who cries loudly and this finally brings tears even to my eyes.

  The commotion brings out a few more neighbors and Uncle Ardeshir encourages us to go inside the house. Everyone is talking at once and a few voices rise higher. Now it is all in Persian and in such a cacophony, I wouldn’t understand a word even if I spoke the language.

  As they all push their way into the living room, I stay back in the hallway. I plop into the single chair by the phone and listen to the affectionate voices coming from the living room. Love sounds the same in all languages.

  A young maid takes a tray of tea inside and as she leaves the door open, I can see Mom sitting on the couch next to Vida. The way she eyes her lost daughter is like a young lover looking at the beloved.

  I want to remind myself that my time will come. But it won’t be the same. He wasn’t thrilled to see me, was he? I have no patience for self-pity and need to remind myself that I’m here for my mother. This isn’t about you.

  Chapter

  Twenty-Three

  WEDDING PREPARATIONS ARE A LOT MORE FUN here compared to the States. I remember a couple of years ago, when I was a bridesmaid at my friend Jennifer’s wedding. All I had to do was show up for a fitting, pay for my gown, and be at the rehearsal. Here the entire family is involved. Vida has no bridesmaids and there’s nothing to rehearse, but we have all been involved in some way and it feels so much more personal.

  Mom has been busy with many responsibilities, since Vida has graciously put her in charge of details for the ceremony. She is constantly in and out of the bazaar, buying laces, little silk flowers, ribbons and such. Sometimes I think she’s a whole new person, but that may be because I’ve never seen her this happy before. I wonder if this is the reason she wants me to marry an Iranian, so she could take care of a ceremony she knows best. Maybe now that she is getting it out of her system, she might accept my choice. I had secretly feared that between Moradi and his other wife, there would be no room for Mom in any of this. Thankfully there’s more substance to Vida’s character than any of us had presumed. I still don’t know her well, but if we have anything in common, it has to be our habit of building compartments in our heart. Just as I have separated Mom from Paul, Vida seems to have little trouble separating her two mothers. One mother is back in Shiraz, taking care of invitations and the general plans for the reception while the other’s artistic touch is essential in ga
thering whatever’s needed for the aghd ceremony. And the father of the bride is still at large.

  Analyzing the airport encounter over and over in my mind, I’ve tried to find the reason why Moradi would not want to speak to me there. I rerun the scene, analyze his expression and read more into it than I should, but no matter how I resent him for leaving so abruptly, it’s hard to picture him doing anything else. Maybe it’s only my imagination, but there are times when I convince myself that I saw affection in his eyes. Then again, given a chance, he might have preferred to slip away without being seen. Was he caught off-guard? Maybe he feels as awkward about this whole reunion as I do. I don’t know and I’m doing my best not to condemn him before I have enough evidence. Still, the longer he waits, the less I like him.

  Over the past couple of weeks, once or twice we’ve had suspicious calls at Aunt Mandy’s. The first time she was too far from the phone and asked me to pick up. She has taught me to say, “Gooshi,” so the caller will hold until she gets to the phone. I look forward to such moments and feel very Persian saying the word. That day when I said the word whoever it was just listened until I hung up. Half an hour later, it happened again. There have been two other such incidents since. I sometimes tell myself that any of these could have been my father, hearing my voice, maybe even wanting to talk to me. I don’t know why I do this. Maybe the thought soothes my bruised ego, makes me feel less unwanted. Twice, Aunt Mandy picked up and the line went dead. Both times I let myself believe it was him. He doesn’t know my voice, but my accent has to be a dead giveaway. I would never share such notions with anyone, but at night I lie awake and wonder.

  Colonel Moradi and his Parisa have kept a safe distance. The woman has enough class to send Mom a basket of flowers along with a card that my aunt translated as, “Welcome home. I look forward to knowing Vida’s real mother.” I was not there when the flowers arrived, but the basket with the card still attached still sits in Aunt Soraya’s hallway. Mom hasn’t said a word about it.

  Today I met the groom. His name is Bijan, and I was happy to hear him speak English as fluently as Vida does. He has just dropped us off at the dressmaker’s, where Vida will have the last fitting before her gown is delivered to the salon.

  “You should go with her,” Mom advised, and her tone indicated it’s another tradition.

  On the way here, Bijan pointed out a few buildings and explained their history. I’m surprised that the information is as new to Vida as it is to me. When I asked him about a few skyscrapers near the northern hills, he said, “We don’t seem to have enough palaces for the clergy, so they’re building their own version of castles there.” We all laugh at the absurdity of their high rise castles. At first glance, this balding young man with a mustache and silver-rimmed glasses hadn’t impressed me, but he seems every bit as nice as Vida herself. If anything, he has more wit and I enjoy his humor.

  Vida asks Bijan to come back for us in a few hours. When he drives away, I ask her, “Why hours? I thought the dress was ready.”

  “It is, but I’d love to have a proper visit with you.” She smiles warmly. “There’s a nice tea place next door and we can enjoy our afternoon tea and have a sisterly chat before everything becomes too crazy.”

  I smile back and think, why not? I should sample the joys of sisterhood. Half an hour later, we are at a most charming teahouse, sitting on wooden platforms under the trees. Vida orders our tea and takes a pack of cigarettes out of her purse.

  “Don’t tell anyone,” she says and offers me one.

  I shake my head. “I don’t smoke.”

  This seems to surprise her. Most people here smoke and in fact, tea and cigarettes seem to go hand in hand. So I’m curious why Vida keeps hers a secret.

  “Bijan wants me to quit,” she says and giggles.

  “How did you two meet?”

  “We didn’t. His Mom just showed up at our door. Khostegar, you know?”

  “Does that really happen in this day and age?”

  She shrugs. “How else is a girl supposed to find a husband in this suffocated society?” She lights her cigarette. “Of course, I wouldn’t marry someone I didn’t like.” She takes a puff from her cigarette. “Maman and Baba approved of him and they invited the family over for dinner. I liked him right from the start and as I saw him more, I began to love him.”

  I smile at the irony. Love has been far less complicated for her in this closed society compared to mine in the free world. I ask, “Does everybody marry a suitor?”

  “No. Some girls take a chance, sneak around, or fall in love. Not me. I guess you could say I’m chicken.”

  The sun reaches me through the branches and I enjoy its warmth. The aroma of food and tobacco fills the air and a parrot in a cage hanging from the willow tree repeats a Farsi word I don’t know. As Vida continues to smoke, her expression turns more serious and I have a feeling she really wants to talk. It takes her a while before she is ready to plunge into the past, but when she does, it’s with ease.

  “I never kept anything to myself,” she says and I know she is referring to her childhood. “That’s how I came to terms with what happened and was able to forgive Mom.” She takes another drag from her cigarette and the air between us fills with smoke. “Baba Ameli was always watching out for me. I spent summer holidays with them in Tehran and he took me for long walks in the park, where I could talk to him about how I felt. We kept it our secret.”

  That sounds like my grandfather, making sure his little ones passed safely through hard times.

  “What a grandpa we had,” I say and it feels good to share him.

  She sighs. “What a grandpa.”

  “How come you never called Mom from his house?”

  Her eyes darken. “I hated her!” And she turns her face away. “I hated her because I thought she hated me. When Marjan died, I saw how she wished it had been me instead. Marjan was the perfect child, the one who got the good grades, her room was neater, and she never whined. The list went on and on. I was nothing to be proud of.”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. How could Vida be so mistaken? Was she brainwashed into believing such nonsense? Over the next hour, my sister tells me how after Marjan’s loss, our grieving mother withdrew from everyone. Vida’s care was left to Dayeh, or worse, to Aunt Badri.

  “Dayeh said Mom needed time to herself, that she needed to grieve. Aunt Badri believed Mom never loved me. But I knew better.” Tears fill her lovely eyes. “I watched Mom. She just sat in her room for hours on end, clutching at Marjan’s old rag doll, smelling it. She never cried and always seemed to be mad at me. Sometimes she didn’t even see me there, or just asked Dayeh to take me away.”

  My sister wipes her tears. I wipe mine.

  “The worst part is, I’m still convinced that if it had been me who died, Mom would have come back for Marjan. That losing her was her reason for leaving me.” She buries her face in her napkin and when she lifts her head, black mascara is all over her cheeks.

  How alike our lives have been!

  My big sister proceeds to tell me how her father gave her double the love, how she slept in Parisa’s arms after awakening from nightmares. The more she speaks, the more Moradi begins to sound like a real father. But I still can’t talk about him the way Vida speaks of Mom. The fact that she has forgiven Mom makes her words more understandable. I can’t forgive Moradi that way.

  A man approaches and sets a brass tray on the rug for us. There’s an old teapot with a repaired crack on its side, two hourglass shaped tea glasses in floral saucers and a bowl of cumin candies. When he leaves, Vida pours our tea.

  “So, what made you forgive her?”

  “Maman Parisa’s talks.”

  “Parisa?”

  Vida nods. “Some nights, she told me stories about mothers and daughters and when it came to the part where the mother loved her daughter, she added, ‘ just like your real mom.’ And when she told me how much she loved me, she made sure to add, ‘but I’ll bet Rana loves
you even more.’”

  Hearing this makes it hard to hate the woman.

  For a few minutes, we drink our tea in silence. I know it’s my turn to talk. Unable to share my resentment of Moradi, I tell her about my childhood operations and how much I suffered before I could take normal steps. “I’m still not normal. In fact, my right leg is about half an inch shorter, but I’ve learned how to balance my steps.”

  “I had no idea it was that bad.”

  “It’s okay now.” I pull up the leg of my pants and show her the scar. “This is all that’s left of those horrible days.”

  She gently runs her fingertip over the scar, as if to smooth out the deep hurt.

  I take us out of that subject by mentioning Paul. She seems fascinated by our freedom to practically live together.

  “Well, I’m not really free to do that. Mom is still in denial and Paul understands my limits.” I suddenly miss Paul more than I thought possible. In a perfect world, he would be my date to this wedding and we could be free-spirited tourists sharing the fun of visiting a new place. He needs a vacation as much as I do. Instead, I imagine him eating take-out and watching football.

  “So when are you going to tell Mom?” Vida asks.

  “No idea.”

  It’s a hot afternoon, but sitting under the tree shade and sipping this simple tea is fast turning into a highlight of my visit. By the time Bijan shows up, Vida and I are ready to return to our crowded family. I am miles away from Chicago’s lonely days and it feels great to be going to a house full of relatives. Deep down I wish Moradi would show up and get this awkwardness over with. Still, with the wedding just a day away, it looks as though that’s going to be when both Mom and I will finally face him. Maybe he could be a nice father to Vida, but I hate him for being so cold toward me.

  I have not been sitting idly. Never losing sight of what brought me here, I have asked Mom’s permission to look into the Iranian divorce law and plan her next move. She seems to have finally come to terms with her separation and for the first time is willing to claim her freedom. Aunt Mandy helped me in contacting a good friend of grandpa’s—the same old lawyer, who Mom says was instrumental in what she continues to call her “escape.” This is my third visit to Eskandary & Eskandary law firm. Mr. Eskandary senior no longer practices, but his son has taken over and he has been most helpful. He must be in his fifties and says his biggest dream is to visit the United States. My aunt thinks he is extra nice because I’ll be able to send him an invitation to facilitate his visa. Whatever the reason may be, he is doing more than I could have imagined.