Moon Daughter

by Zohreh Ghahremani

  “Did I ever give you the impression that you were a burden?”

  She smiles. “Of course not. But someday I will be.”

  She speaks matter-of-factly and I can’t believe how calm she is about everything. My anguish has done nothing to diminish the subtle joy in her smile or the ray of hope in her dreamy eyes. This can’t be her only reason. All of a sudden a brand new discovery hits me. The image that pops into my head becomes clearer with each passing second. This is even harder to absorb, but I can think of no other explanation for the glow in Rana’s face.

  Is my mother still in love?

  I study her more intently. Little wrinkles radiate from the corners of her sparkling eyes and her soft complexion shows a night cream shine. I notice she is wearing her favorite green eye shadow and I think there’s even a touch of mascara. As far as I know she has no social plans today. It’s a crazy notion, but I can’t help wondering if Moradi stopped by earlier.

  Is mom now “ the other woman?” And why not? Maybe a role reversal is precisely what Parisa deserves. The vision is so perfect that I smile inwardly.

  Mom gets up. “I sure could use some tea. How about you?”

  I don’t respond, but follow her into the kitchen.

  “It’s different for you,” she goes on while turning up the dial on the electric samovar. A pot of tea sits on top of the samovar all day, ready to be served if someone drops in. And someone usually does.

  Mom finds a towel and starts drying the tea glasses that are sitting on the dish rack. “The hardest part was to let you go. It isn’t easy for me to accept America as your true home, or to admit that you need to go back to your normal life.”

  Normal life. America. The words take me back to Paul, to law school and to the job search ahead. I’ve enjoyed my vacation, but this chaotic lifestyle and the constant attention we receive overwhelms me. Somewhere deep inside I miss my carefree Sundays, when I wear a t-shirt and curl up on the couch with a good book. I long for a day when no one’s watching me.

  Poor Paul is so left behind that I have hardly had a chance to think about him. But I miss him. He would understand how confused I am. I can just see him making his special coffee and offering support as I try to untangle the complicated knot of my dual life. I still haven’t talked to Mom about him and who knows if it will ever come to that. I’ve called Paul a couple of times, but somehow this place makes it harder to picture him.

  Mom lines up her reasons for staying and leaves them there for me to see, like pieces of washed laundry on a clothesline. Of all people, I should be able to understand what it means to be “out of place.” Whenever I’ve had enough of Islamic this and Islamic that, I draw comfort from knowing that soon I’ll be back home and it will be over. I can hardly wait to return to my familiar habitat. Is that how Mom felt for all those years?

  “I will be fine,” she says. Maybe she will. But “fine” doesn’t mean having freedom. I’ve seen the shrouded women who are not even allowed the simplest joys of life. Mom is letting go of her liberty just so she’ll be near Vida. I can understand her need to do something for the child she has neglected, but isn’t Vida all grown up, too? Does she even need her?

  “Have you talked to Vida about this?”

  Mom’s eyes darken. “She never asked for any of this, if that’s what you mean. I think Parisa has raised her to be too polite to express resentments, but I can feel it. I know that given a choice, she would have had Parisa at the aghd. It was Parisa’s voice that should have given her permission to say ‘I do.’ Any fool can see who Vida’s real mother is and I have come to terms with that. She can live without me. I’m only doing this so I can live with myself.”

  “What about me being alone, Mom?” I say and know how selfish I sound.

  “You won’t be alone,” she says and gives me a knowing look. My heart skips a beat. She knows. But then she changes the subject in her tactful way. “Has your father spoken to you since that day at the courthouse?”

  I shake my head.

  “Oh.” She places the dried dishes in a cabinet, leaving out two large tea glasses in their gold-rimmed saucers. “So just what did he say to you at the wedding?”

  There it is at last. Of course she knew. I recall how she looked at me when I returned to the room. How calm she seemed around Parisa. She acted so friendly that those who didn’t know could never guess this was the same woman who had robbed her of a family. For all I know, Mom was behind my encounter with Moradi.

  “You can’t drop a bomb and change the subject, Mom. We’re not done talking about your decision.”

  “Don’t make this more difficult, Yalda. My mind’s made up.” “Wow, Mom! How quickly this dictatorship has rubbed off on you.”

  She glares at me. “You think I’m the dictator? You’re a fine one to talk. First you orchestrate my divorce and now you’re telling me to go back to America and live in a place where I’ll forever be nobody. You must have inherited the knack for ordering people around from your father!”

  She mentions my father with no resentment and seems to expect me to be proud of the traits from his side of the family.

  “It’s got nothing to do with ordering you around and what is this ‘nobody’ business I hear? Things are different back home, Mom. Over there, everybody is somebody.”

  “That’s not what I mean.” She takes the glasses and starts pouring tea. “I receive plenty of support here, a true understanding. This is something that I rarely received outside of our little apartment in Wilmette. People here touch my heart, I have a role in their lives, that’s what I mean by being somebody.”

  “That’s beautiful, Mom, but affection is universal. Maybe you just didn’t look hard enough for it.” To say this, brings tears to my eyes.

  “I did, but there was a difference I couldn’t explain. I look back at my years in the US and wonder what happened to all the people I met along the way? W here are those college classmates, coworkers, or old neighbors? Then I come here decades later and everyone is there to greet me. Take Dayeh, for Heaven’s sake! The woman can’t even walk, but that didn’t stop her from traveling a long distance just to see us.” She looks into my eyes. “See what I mean?”

  The problem is, I do see. But I say, “No, Mom. All I see is the impossibility of a life without you. What good is Chicago with-out Mom’s place and our Friday nights?” This makes me cry even harder.

  She throws her hands in the air. “I can’t deal with you!”

  Her tone reminds me of the universal mothers’threat of wait-till-your-father-gets-home and suddenly a question pops into my head.

  “Did you put him up to that?”

  “Up to what?”

  “You know. The talk. How else would your Colonel know where to find me alone?” I am now so certain of it that I don’t care how accusing I sound. Mom must have planned the whole thing. Did he even want to see me?

  “Me?” Mom’s laughter is pure anger. “Since when does Farhad Moradi do anything I ask of him?” She stops and lowers her voice. “I would never do such a thing, not without you knowing. We’ve had no discussions, whatsoever.”

  I don’t know why this comes as a surprise. The fact that I’m staying across town from her, or that she has not shared much since our arrival, has allowed my imagination to create what it wants. Back home, such a talk would be no big deal.

  I swallow hard and ask the question that has been brewing inside me. “Do you still love him?”

  She gives me a fierce look. “Why are you doing this, Yalda?”

  She is dodging my question and even though I worry that pushing it may fray the cord that connects us, I can’t stop myself. “Isn’t that the real reason you’re staying?”

  Her long silence tells me more than any words could. Finally she responds in her evasive way. “Spoken like a true American.”

  I’m not sure if that’s an insult or a compliment. “Mom, I am an American!”

  She sighs. “I know.” We sit in silence for a minute. “H
e has his woman,” she says this like a closing argument and there is enough hurt in her voice to convince me. I realize how her dignity would guard her against whatever it is that she feels for the man. “I owe it to Vida to give her what she’s been denied.”

  I let the change of subject linger there for a while before going back to more of what I need to hear. “There are some facts I don’t know. My questions are bound to revive some bad memories, but if you stay here, I may never have this chance again.”

  She just nods.

  “What happened between the two of you?” I ask, and when she doesn’t respond I add, “I mean, when did things start to go wrong?”

  Mom exhales hard. “Some facts are buried so deeply that even I don’t remember the details.”

  “Come on, Mom. He was the only man in your life. What went wrong?”

  “Ah,” she says nonchalantly and waves a hand in the air. “A forgotten love is as good as none.”

  So there was love. I am hoping this will be the time when she remembers the love and tells me all about it, but instead, she calmly sips her tea and is pulled into another silence.

  It’s time for direct approach. “What made him find himself another woman?” I ask.

  She looks at me and puts her tea glass on the counter. “I don’t know,” she says and the honesty in her tone tells me that has remained a question for her, as well. Her voice is calm as she adds, “I can only guess how painful this entire experience has been for you. How it must hurt to know you have a father, to meet him, yet not know him.”

  I’m not going to allow Rana to change the subject again. Nobody could understand how I feel, especially not someone who had a father like Grandpa Ameli. If I weren’t so outraged, this would be a perfect time to bring up Moradi’s note. Then again, maybe Mom already knows about that, too. Let her bring it up. “That’s not an answer,” I say.

  “W ho said I had an answer?” She thinks for a while. “If I had known what went wrong—or when—I might have done something about it. The problem was that I only learned of his second marriage when his wife was already expecting.”

  I stare at her, wide eyed. “She had a child?”

  “No. A miscarriage. But it made no difference. He was finished for me. My love for him went out the window the minute he walked out of the door to be with another woman.”

  I open my mouth, but she raises a hand and says, “And if you don’t mind, I’d like to see the end of such talk.”

  The pain is back in her lovely eyes and I hate myself for having caused it.

  In her brief explanation, Rana has painted a clear picture of her past. How would I react if Paul left my apartment one day and I knew he was on his way to see another woman? The fact that Mom has kept her silence for over twenty-five years is beyond my comprehension. Maybe it’s cultural, or maybe motherhood dictated such strength. But I’m amazed at how broken she was and yet managed to keep the pieces of herself together for me.

  Mom’s voice is back to normal as she says, “See what you lawyers do to a simple question?” She chuckles. “All I asked was what happened between you and your father.”

  I want to tell her how it feels to have lost a father twice. It was easier to deal with the fact that he didn’t want me. All I needed for that was deep hatred. But this time it hurts more because I’m faced with a father I can’t entirely hate. “Nothing happened,” I say and immediately regret my harsh tone. A few minutes go by in silence. “I’m sorry, Mom. There’s really nothing to tell.”

  “What did you say to him?”

  I don’t want to make too much of that brief encounter. “We just said hello.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Yes. Figuratively speaking.”

  She nods with understanding. “Some people just can’t change. The man is obviously as aloof as ever.”

  I study her in disbelief. We’re speaking of Colonel Moradi’s failure to express his emotions, his inability to apologize for his transgressions, and all she has to offer is a generous excuse? I take a good hard look at Rana and all I can see is her vulnerability. It will be hard enough to leave her here, but even harder to know she will be near Parisa or worse, that Moradi may hurt her again.

  For days to come, I keep Moradi’s note in my pocket. He wants to see me, and I don’t know what to decide. Every time I’m in public, I wonder how many of the men I see have multiple wives? “It’s now legal,” the lawyer has said. Legal? Why don’t they just make murder legal? I have seen how bigamy can kill a woman from the inside.

  Chapter

  Twenty-Six

  HE CAN’T MAKE A SCENE IN PUBLIC.” I don’t remember where I’ve heard the phrase, but it’s good advice. I have agreed to meet my father in a popular café, but now that the taxi has dropped me off, I feel ridiculous. Could it be that I feared I might be the one making the alleged scene?

  Earlier today, my father called—God, no matter how hard I try, the word ‘father’ still sounds strange in reference to Colonel Moradi.

  My aunt picked up the phone.

  “Allo?” she said and soon passed the receiver to me without another word. The look she gave me was enough to know who the caller was.

  “When can I see you?” the mesmerizing voice said, not bothering with a greeting. He sounded self-assured.

  Aunt Mandy gave me an inquisitive look. She was about to go to somebody’s memorial service and I’d have nothing to do until dinnertime.

  “How about this afternoon?” I blurted before I could stop.

  I turned my back to my aunt and waited for Moradi’s response. There was a pause for a few seconds. “Good. Four-o-clock?”

  Simple as that. We had put an end to my days of inner conflict. So here I am, this time forewarned, rehearsed even.

  Despite the early afternoon hour, the café is crowded and dimly lit. The air is filled with cigarette smoke. As soon as my eyes adjust to semi darkness, I look around for him. Almost everyone here is young and from the books scattered on most tables I assume Iranian students have also moved their work from their desks and libraries to local coffee shops.

  “Yalda,” Moradi’s voice makes me turn around. With a few long strides he reaches me, gently holds my elbow and points to a set of stairs. “This way, dear.”

  “Hello,” I say, not knowing what else to add.

  We go up the stairs and into what seems to be a more private extension of the café. Except for a young couple in the corner, the place is empty, and judging by the way they lean into each other, I gather they must have sneaked in on a secret date. No sooner do we arrive than they each say something to Moradi and leave.

  My father points to a round table that has two bistro type chairs on either side and I take one before my shaking knees give up on me.

  “Thank you for coming,” he says formally as he picks up a folded sign from the table and puts it face down. “The owner of this café is an old friend. He reserved this room for us. Feel free to loosen your scarf and relax, we’ll have ample privacy.” When I don’t move he adds, “Hope you like iced coffee. I took the liberty of ordering for both of us.”

  How terribly typical of him to assume, order, and take charge. “That’s fine,” I say and know I’m already being judgmental. I do like iced coffee. Had it been Mom ordering ahead, I’d appreciate her thoughtfulness, her knowing and providing what I needed. Despite his warm voice and benevolent tone, resentment is rising within me. I picture him in this “ample privacy” meeting his Parisa. W here was Mom while they sipped iced coffee? How long did that go on before my poor mother found out? I look at the man sitting across from me and once again he is just Colonel Moradi, not my father, not the one I had prepared a speech for, not the one I dared to imagine being embraced by.

  “How does the kommiteh know we are …” I say and hesitate. “… related?” He must know about my birth certificate and last name.

  He taps his breast pocket. “I brought enough cash to send them away.”

  I am disgusted at ho
w easily their law can be broken, but remind myself that the only reason I’ve agreed to meet him is because I want something.

  “So you’re an attorney,” he says with a broad smile, taking some credit for it.

  “Why the sudden interest, Colonel?” I ask and know I’m being rude.

  “The interest is not ‘sudden’, as you put it.” He looks down. “You’ll never know the number of times I have wanted to do this.” He sounds affectionate and I hate him for being so damned likeable. It was much easier to dislike him before we met. What a great actor he’d make. I look to the door and am grateful to see a waiter, carrying a tray. He places two tall glasses of iced coffee before us and adds a platter of dainty pastries. He asks Colonel Moradi something to which he shakes his head and says, “Nah, merci.”

  Moradi waits for the man to leave before he speaks again. “Regret will serve me no purpose. I need to get past all that. But as I age, I feel compelled to do something for you, something that may help me to forgive myself.”

  Amazing how everything is about him.

  “I don’t need anything. Your concerns should be for Mom.”

  He nods. “Unfortunately, she doesn’t seem to need me.” It’s clear how much he resents that. Something in his tone also tells me he has come to such a conclusion after having talked to Mom, though she has denied such a talk.

  “Neither do I.” The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them.

  He smiles a sad smile. “I deserved that.”

  “It wasn’t intended as an insult,” I say almost apologetically. But then realize I have nothing to apologize for. “Years earlier I might have answered differently, but now I’m finally at a stage in life where I don’t need your help.”

  He gives me a wan smile. “God only knows the depth of my regret.” His words sound like inner thoughts. “True that I can only blame myself, but by the time I came to my senses and realized what I had done, Rana had vanished with no forwarding address.”