Moon Daughter

by Zohreh Ghahremani

  I had heard that most men here went to work without bothering to shave, but for some reason expected the judge to be an exception. Aunt Mandy has explained that a necktie is considered a sign of being pro-west and I’ve noticed how most men don’t bother to button their shirts at the top. Still, this man in a brown cloak and black turban seems more suitable for delivering some sermon than presiding over a court of law.

  As if sensing my apathy, the cleric gives me a harsh look and turning to the files before him, he mumbles, “Bissmillahee …”

  Even I know this to be the formal opening of a session, “in the name of Allah, the kind, the merciful.” It’s hard not to think of the many death sentences this man must have given in the name of his merciful Allah.

  While discussions go back and forth in Persian, I try to figure out which way they are leaning. Our chairs are positioned in a slight curve and I can sense my father watching us. Mom is listening to the defense lawyer, ignoring everyone else in the room. I steal a look at my father and find him equally focused, but once in a while he looks at Mom, his wan smile lacking joy, giving him a vulnerable look. Does he seem affectionate toward her or is it my little girl’s eyes, still looking for an unbroken set of parents? Ashamed of such thoughts, I remind myself the reason we are here.

  Earlier, Mr. Eskandary mentioned we needed to be on best terms with the Colonel to finalize the divorce and I’m trying hard to convince myself that face-to-face, my father may cooperate.

  Then again, Mr. Eskandary also says that divorce in Iran is only possible with proof of wrongdoing. “There has to be a substantial reason, such as addiction, mental disorder, abuse, and so on. In most cases, incriminating evidence or the presence of an eyewitness is required.” As it is, our lawyer can’t come up with a valid argument. His words echo in my mind, “… it was your mom who left him and not the other way around.”

  So, despite the superficial fairness of the Iranian law, it still comes down to the husband’s consent. “Some justice!” Apparently I have whispered the words loud enough for everyone to turn and stare at me. Mom gives me a flustered look. My father’s eyes meet mine briefly, but the look is blank and I’m not sure what to read in it. In no way does he resemble the loving father that Vida has portrayed.

  Mr. Eskandary gently shakes his head and mumbles words that must be some form of apology. The defense lawyer clears his throat, but before he says a word, Mom’s hand darts up like a student who has something urgent to say.

  The judge looks at her from above his glasses. “Baleh?”

  Mom stands and begins to speak. Her voice is shaky and while talking, she points a finger in my father’s direction without looking at him. I don’t have to understand the words to sense her rage. She goes on and on and I hear my name, Vida’s, even Marjan’s, but the way she annunciates the ‘R’ and the ‘A’ is different. When finished, she sits down just as abruptly and stares ahead. Silence chills the room and I’m dying for someone to explain what just happened.

  When silence continues, Mr. Eskandary finally leans toward me. “I don’t know how much of this you understood,” he says, “ but your mother has just dropped a bomb.”

  Please don’t tell me that after all this, she has changed her mind on getting a divorce.

  Eskandary continues, “She waived all our financial demands.”

  “She what?”

  Mr. Eskandary motions for me to lower my voice. “Just before her announcement, your father’s lawyer had declared that the colonel forgives your mom’s wrongdoings and wishes to stay married.”

  “Forgives?” I mouth the word.

  “That was his exact word. He is willing and able to keep both wives, and to secure that possibility, the defense has also produced a letter of consent from the new wife.”

  I’m trying to be quick and grasp the situation. Mr. Eskandary has told me about the Iranian prenuptial agreement—Mehrieh. My mother’s comes close to a quarter-million dollars and it is payable any time she wishes, even today.

  “Your mother must have seen this coming. She obviously knows that unless he agrees to a divorce, her only way out is to give up his financial support. She came prepared.”

  For a woman who can barely make ends meet, Mom’s pride seems to have gotten the best of her. I clench my teeth and wait for more. The judge leans back, closes his fist around the prayer beads and faces Mom without looking at her. He says something in a surprisingly soothing voice.

  Mom responds with equal calm while clutching her purse. She says something of which I understand only one word, “Merci.”

  Forms and papers are passed around, first to Moradi to sign, then to Mom, and finally the judge. The clerk keeps on typing for another minute before he wraps it up, stacks his pages and follows the judge out a back door. My mother has done it.

  Moradi’s flustered face tells me he cares as little about money as Mom does. He stands and I notice a slight bend in his back. Has it been there all along? I want to think not. I want it to be a sign of his wounded ego, that he is a soldier defeated at war. The defense lawyer shakes hands with him and judging by his rush he must have another appointment to go to. Moradi picks up his briefcase.

  Mom stands. “Guess we’re done,” she says to me.

  “Not quite,” I say and am surprised at how authoritative I sound. “I believe we need to talk.”

  My mother looks up, first at me, then at Moradi. In her eyes, I see apprehension. It’s clear she did not expect this. Maybe for her, the divorce is the end. What more could there be to talk about?

  I glance at Mr. Eskandary and he quickly stands. “I’ll be waiting outside,” he says.

  When the door has closed behind the lawyer, I motion to the chairs and my parents obediently take their seats. I face my father. “It’s about time you offered your ex-wife a formal apology, Colonel, don’t you agree?”

  “Yalda!” Mom glares at me.

  Moradi’s face is flushed. He clears his throat, but no words come out.

  Mom is looking down at her clasped hands and she too, seems flustered. A few awkward seconds pass. I would do anything to know what is going through their minds. Come on, army man, I am offering you a chance to redeem yourself.

  Moradi’s lips are pressed together, forming a thin line.

  Mom finally looks up at where the judge had sat minutes ago and says to no one in particular, “It’s too late for such formalities.” She shakes her head in sorrow and a lock of her brown hair escapes from under her headscarf. “As I see it, no amount of regret is going to change anything. My life is mine and I have come to terms with it.”

  I wonder how small Moradi feels at this moment and when he doesn’t say a word, I respond, “I know that, Mom. But for once, it would be good to hear your ex-husband ask for your forgiveness.”

  She looks ahead, beyond the room, perhaps into a day in her distant past.

  Moradi exhales hard before speaking. “Parisa has been saying the same for months, that an apology is in order. But how does one apologize for something that spans over decades?” He tries to clear his throat, but the next words still come out scratchy. “I don’t need to tell either of you how sorry I am.” He sounds desperate, making me think he needs this talk more than anyone else. “I’ve spent two decades thinking about the pain I have caused you.” He is looking at my mother, but the distant look on her face indicates that her mind is far away.

  Moradi continues, “I feel shame for the way I dealt with the loss of our Marjan.” His voice breaks and he stops a few seconds to swallow hard. “I let you grieve alone.”

  Mom’s expression does not change. She seems unmoved and shows no sign of personal involvement.

  “Look at me, Rana,” he pleads.

  Mom turns to him and blinks hard, then looks away again. “I didn’t grieve,” she finally says. “At least, not for years. And yes, I did deal with all my losses alone. I still do. One could say I buried my lost daughter just last week and I chose to do that alone, too.” She stares back a
t him. “As for you, I buried you way back then.”

  Her words give me a shudder. I can’t help thinking that in fact she is burying him at this very moment. Does he feel the chill? Just when I think Mom may say more, she picks up her purse, stands and turns to me. “We mustn’t keep poor Mr. Eskandary waiting.” She walks to the door, but stops just short of it and looks back at him. I have a feeling she wants to express some form of forgiveness, but she changes her mind and leaves.

  Moradi doesn’t move. He stays seated, facing the wall to his left. His expression bleeds the deep sorrow of a stabbed ego and I’m surprised at how sorry I feel for him. I follow my mother to the car.

  On the long ride home no one speaks. Mom is deep in thought and I wonder if she can ever forgive the only man she has ever loved.

  Chapter

  Twenty-Five

  ITHINK IT’S TIME TO CALL THE AIRLINE,” Mom says without looking up from her sewing.

  The comment hits me hard. It has been nearly a week since that day in court. I realize how, deep inside, I have given up hope that this trip will ever end. It’s hard to believe how one phone call and a simple reservation could send us back to normal life. Something about this country makes one forget there’s a wider world out there.

  “We’re not quite done here,” I respond, finding it too demeaning to mention the final divorce papers she needs in order to leave the country without Moradi’s consent. Lately it has been hard for us to communicate simple facts.

  She continues to sew the loose button on her blouse and for a while I’m not sure she has heard me.

  We are alone at Aunt Soraya’s. My aunt and uncle are out. When Mom called and asked me to join her for lunch, I welcomed the chance and thought maybe I could persuade her to take me to the cemetery where Grandpa is laid to rest. The first time I asked, she said, “I refuse to visit any of their cemeteries and forbid you, too.” And I knew that by ‘their’ she meant the new regime’s. “My loved ones will forever live in my heart. As for a grave, I see this whole country as the burial of many beautiful people.”

  She has stood by her word and never showed interest in going to Shiraz to visit Marjan’s grave. Having read her note from the plane, and especially after her reference at the courthouse, I picture her finding closure as she buries Emily—the doll—in some secluded garden in Tehran. Then again, such thoughts may be an indication that I, too, need a closure for Marjan’s story.

  I’m still angry about Mom’s sudden decision to forgo the money that was coming to her, too angry to even bring it up. We haven’t had much time to talk, but like it or not, there are a few issues to discuss. Most of all, I need to tell her about Colonel Moradi’s recent letter.

  It has been three days since Mr. Eskandary gave me the small envelope. “From your father,” he said. The four-line letter is dry and formal. In it, Moradi has asked me to meet him in private before I leave for the States. “Please do me this favor and in return, I will do anything you ask me to, anything at all.”

  I have read his note enough times that by now it is memorized. Still, no one else knows about it. I haven’t responded and am not sure what to do. So the crumpled piece of paper sits in my pocket and stays on my mind.

  Knowing my Mom, soon it may be too late to bring up the matter without causing some hurt feelings. On the way here, I had no trouble rehearsing what I wanted to say. Now, sitting across from her, I’m once again tongue-tied.

  “I haven’t heard from Mr. Eskandary,” Mom says. “Has he contacted you?”

  “No, and I’m worried. We need the documents to get your exit permit.”

  She puts the blouse on her lap and crosses her hands over it. “I won’t be needing any,” she says before pinning me down with a firm stare. “I’m not going any where.”

  My laughter sounds as nervous as I feel. “That’s not funny!”

  “I’m not trying to be funny.” She gives her attention back to her blouse.

  “I don’t get it.”

  “I intend to stay here,” she says in her most serious tone. “I’m finally home, Yalda. This is where I’d like to live for my remaining years.”

  My gasp surprises even me. Stay here and do what?

  Mom cuts a piece of thread with her teeth, wets one end in her mouth and holds the needle against the light coming through the window. I study her profile as the thread finds the needle’s eye. I want to adjust to this new surprise, but am filled with too much disappointment. It’s as though I have just received the result of a bad exam, one that all along I had expected to fail, yet had hoped for a miracle.

  I should have seen this coming! She seems so changed that I can no longer guess what she’s thinking. Sitting there with crossed legs on the couch, she even looks different. I’ve denied the obvious for some time, but now that it’s out in the open, I wonder if I could have done something to stop it. Like a seed waiting for a good rain, Mom’s old sentiments have flourished through this reunion. How could I even think of interfering when for the first time in a long time my mother seems so utterly happy? Then again, is she happy enough to forsake her American life? Me?

  “W here did I go wrong, Mom?”

  She stops her sewing and looks at me, wide-eyed. “My decision has nothing to do with you, honey. And don’t you go thinking it was an easy one to make.” She sighs. “I liked my life in the States. But it took me less than a day to realize this is where I really belong.”

  “Belong?” I don’t mean to raise my voice. “What about your life back home?”

  She stares at me. Hard. “This is home.”

  I laugh in anger. “And your daughter? Your friends? Don’t any of us matter to you?” Her eyes are shaming me for thinking such thoughts, but I am on a roll now. “You’re giving up twenty-four years of accomplishment—not to mention freedom—just so you can live here? I thought you had moved on.”

  Mom puts her sewing on the sofa and stands. “Almost twenty-five years,” she corrects me, “ but no, we Iranians don’t move on. We may move, but we keep our country, our people, and a heavy baggage with us.” She smiles sadly. “I was in the US, but all these years, I’ve secretly lived here. Isn’t it amazing to find out that my sisters never stopped seeing my ‘empty place’this entire time?”

  This must be another one of her translated expressions, but I’m too outraged for trivial questions. I throw a hand in the air. “And that makes it okay to dump me?” I know I’m using guilt as my last weapon. “What am I supposed to do with your empty place back home, Mom?”

  She sits next to me and gently holds my face in both hands. “I’m not dumping anybody, sweetheart. You’re an adult and no longer need me to take care of you.”

  The warmth of her fingertips feels good on my wet cheeks. What has happened to the strong Yalda?

  As Mom goes on to explain the reasons that led to this decision, her soothing tone brings back old memories. It was always the warmth of her body and the tenderness in her voice that soothed my pain more than any medicine could.

  “America is a wonderful place to live, to pursue a dream, and to grow,” she says. “It’s like a greenhouse that nurtures its flourishing plants. But look at me.” She motions to her body all the way down to her toes. “I’m a cactus, not a greenhouse plant. The cactus needs this harsh sun, the dry desert air. At this age, I can only find happiness in my natural habitat, among my own kind.” And she recites a line of a Persian poem,

  “Pigeon with pigeon, dove with a dove,

  birds of a kind, fly in harmony above”

  I look at Rana as if for the first time. Here she is, across the globe from Chicago and sounding more Persian than ever. The way she now pronounces “Amreekah” makes me want to smile. The change is evident even in the way she gathers her slim legs up on the sofa. Maybe I have denied my mother’s Irnanian-ness long enough.

  I press my eyelids shut, hoping to open them to a whole different scene. I envision life the way it used to be. Back home Mom’s accent was diluted, negligible, but i
t was always there, wasn’t it? I had admired her difference, her exotic looks, her otherness. When she showed up at my school wearing hand-knit sweaters, wool slacks and high-heeled shoes, she stood out among other mothers in their blue jeans, sweat shirts and sneakers. She even walked differently, was seldom in a rush, never running. Aware of her differences as I may have been, I never saw this coming.

  Mom goes on down a list she must have prepared and concludes, “Besides, with a dual citizenship, I will keep my other passport and can visit you any time I want.”

  Visit? What would it be like to live far away from the only person I have known as family? W here would she live here? How will she survive without an income in this male-dominated society? And worse, I can’t imagine the day when she may actually need Moradi’s support. It’s no comfort to realize that no matter how much I have learned about this country’s divorce law, I know little about their social rules. In a place, where a single woman isn’t allowed to stay at a hotel, could she find work?

  Mom’s calm expression couldn’t be further from the storm within me. She seems so relaxed that, for a moment, I wonder if she even cares.

  “My life is right here, among my family,” she says and I want to think there’s a hint of desolation in her voice. “It always has been.”

  “Not with me? a re you telling me that you’ve picked your sisters over your daughter?”

  “No.” She shakes her head. “I won’t be living with my sisters. You’re forgetting I also have another daughter to think of.” She looks at me sideways. “Vida and Bijan will move to Tehran, but if necessary, I’d even move to Shiraz to be near them.” She pats the back of my hand. “I couldn’t be more proud of who you’ve turned out to be, Yalda–jan. But my job is done. You don’t need Mom to see to your needs any more. I promise I’ll come to you any time you should need me. As I get older, I’d rather be among family, and not be a burden to you.”