My Name Is Mahtob

by Mahtob Mahmoody

  “Grandma, we’re coming home,” I said cheerfully. “We’ll be there soon.”

  “Well, then, I’d better start baking pies for my little Tobby. What kind do you want?”

  It was a dizzying thought. My grandma’s pies were delectable. Blueberry, banana cream, lemon meringue, raspberry, cherry, rhubarb—I loved them all. I ordered one of each and probably asked for a batch of her sour-cream sugar cookies and molasses cookies with raisins too.

  We flew to New York, where we landed late and missed our connecting flight. We spent the night in the airport with no food, no money except a quarter that fell out of a payphone, and no way to communicate with our family, who was waiting nervously for us to walk off a plane at the airport in Detroit. None of that seemed to matter at the time. We were back in America, but still we did not feel safe. We were plagued with visions of my dad disembarking from a plane in search of us.

  I don’t remember landing in Detroit. My first memory of being reunited with my family is of riding in the backseat of my aunt and uncle’s car. Beside me sat a toy baby carrier holding the Cabbage Patch doll they had brought me. She was bald save for a small tuft of yellow yarn atop her head. The lovely scent of baby powder emanated from her smooth plastic face. She wore a white nightgown with pale-blue rosebuds similar to the dress I had worn home from the hospital, except mine had sported pale pink rosebuds and white lace. Before we went to Iran, I had put the dress on my favorite doll, a Gerber Baby doll I had affectionately named Jenny J after my cousin. Is she still wearing it? I wondered as we made our way to my grandparents’ house in the middle of the state.

  I’m not sure what time of day it was, but there is no doubt that the sun was shining.

  The door opened, and before me stretched the familiar stairs I had been longing to climb for eighteen months. It was Friday, February 7, 1986. I was six years old and weighed just thirty-six pounds—the same as when I had last set foot on this landing at the age of four. A good deal of that weight had to have come from my snarled mess of curly, waist-length, auburn hair. Mom was right behind me. We were both far beyond the point of exhaustion, but at the sight of that rickety old staircase, my sleepy eyes opened wide in anticipation. I knew what was to come next. It was tradition. Surely, he would still remember.

  I climbed the first few steps and paused. Nothing. A few more steps. Silence. Gingerly I tiptoed to the top of the stairs and—“Boo!”

  I jumped with a giggle. He remembered!

  His voice was hardly more than a raspy whisper. An emaciated body laboriously appeared through the bathroom doorway on the left. Wearing a hospital gown and tethered to an IV pole, he was so weak he had to be supported by my brother John under one arm and my cousin under the other. But the mischievous glint was still bright in his eyes. There he stood—my grandpa.

  At long last, we were home!

  Grandma was waiting in the kitchen, which was filled with the mouthwatering aroma of my favorite pies. She had filled my order. I was in heaven.

  Mom was one of six children, and most of her big family showed up to celebrate our return. The exception was my older brother, Joe. We got home just two days before his twentieth birthday. He lived on his own and, as was common in rural Michigan in the mid-1980s, Joe didn’t have a home phone. Although he lived and worked within miles of my grandparents, no one had notified him of our escape, so he wasn’t there when we arrived. It was otherwise a joyous time of hugs, laughter, and food.

  That evening I was tucked snugly into my grandparents’ warm bed, layers of soft blankets pulled up to my chin. Mom sat beside me. Taking my hands in hers, she began our bedtime prayers. “Dear God,” she said, for the first time in a year and a half, not having to hide the fact that we were praying. “Thank you for bringing us back home to our family in America. Thank you for keeping us safe during our escape. Please continue to watch over us. Let nothing separate us. In Jesus’ name we pray. Amen.” Wearily she bent down and kissed me gently on the forehead. “Shab be khair,” she sighed. Good night.

  Instantly my body went rigid with anger. Every inch of my being was filled with bitter, icy hatred. “Mommy,” I spat, looking her defiantly in the eye, “I told you. I never want to hear Khomeini’s language again!”

  It was in Khomeini’s language that I had first learned to hate. I hated my dad for hurting my mom. I hated his family for letting it happen. I hated the school in Iran for making me curse my country. I hated Khomeini for killing people who didn’t believe his lies. I hated the Pasdar who roamed the streets of Tehran with their machine guns, looking for wardrobe offenses. I hated Iraq’s bombs.

  I hated.

  CHAPTER 11

  The next day my Aunt Carolyn, a Mary Kay independent beauty consultant, came back—this time with her boxy pink makeup case in hand. She set up shop at the dining room table and lived the Mary Kay mission of “enriching women’s lives.” By the time she was done, I had been given my mom back—the vibrant and beautiful woman who had vanished the day my dad turned us into prisoners. My brother John had been conned into doing a facial along with Mom. It hadn’t seemed like such a bad idea to him until someone pulled out a camera. He ran for cover, but Mom caught him rounding the kitchen table. When the picture was snapped, he was snickering as he tried to wriggle free of her grasp. Mom had his arms pinned behind his back. Her head was thrown back in jubilant laughter. It was good to be home.

  Later that evening, Mom took John and me to meet our friends Doug and Karen for dinner. I didn’t know it then, but the framework for my double life was already being put into place. Hearing the particulars of our ordeal, Karen told Mom she had to write a book. Mom had brazenly told people in Iran that we would escape and that someday they would read about this. People needed to know this type of danger existed in our world. First, though, we had to put our lives back together. Karen asked if she could share our story with her brother, who worked in the publishing industry. Mom said yes. The ball was rolling.

  On Sunday Mom and Grandma spent the day preparing for Joe’s birthday celebration. As they cooked, Grandpa’s condition worsened. Against all odds, he had managed to stave off death awaiting our return—a feat his doctors said was nothing short of a miracle. When Mom and I came home, he was nothing more than an eighty-pound bag of skin and bones, though his jolly gruffness hadn’t suffered an ounce’s loss. He was confined to a hospital bed in his living room, where he passed his time enjoying the birds at the feeder and dreaming of hunting and fishing. Always a lighthearted and jovial soul, now he begged us not to make him laugh because it was just too painful. His doctor still made house calls, but even that didn’t keep the ambulance away. Before Joe’s birthday meal was ready, Grandpa had to be rushed to the hospital.

  That week brought with it one implausible scenario after another. Mom received an unlikely call from an agent at the William Morris Agency in New York. He was eager for her to write a book. She was exhausted from being up all night with Grandpa on top of the trauma of our escape, the pressure of not knowing how to rebuild our lives, and the fear of my father’s retribution. She told him she would definitely write a book someday, but now was not the time.

  The next day he called back, this time offering rebuttals to all Mom’s objections. He could arrange for an advance on royalties. That meant writing could be Mom’s job. The advance would allow her to get a house and work from home. She could spend all her time with me, ensuring my safety. How could she possibly say no?

  By midweek the media had become aware of our story. One afternoon Uncle Jim drove Grandma home from the hospital for some rest. She, like much of the family, had been keeping a constant vigil at Grandpa’s side. The emotional and physical strain was taking its toll on everyone.

  The phone rang, and Grandma answered, expecting it to be a nurse calling her back to the hospital or a concerned loved one calling to check in. Instead it was Barbara Walters, asking to speak with Mom. Grandma gave her the number for the hospital. You can imagine the stir a call from the mo
st famous female journalist in America, the coanchor of the renowned news program 20/20, caused in rural Carson City, Michigan, a town with a population of around a thousand. Ms. Walters explained to Mom that she would like very much to interview us. It was clear, even then, that simply stepping into the routine of our past lives would not be an option.

  From an extremely young age, the minutiae of the world had intrigued me. Soaking in a tub filled with toys, I would focus instead on the water dripping from the faucet—the drip that swelled and stretched into a tear shape before falling into the pool of water, the drop that leapt from the surface, bringing with it some of the liquid from below, only to fall once more and dissolve into ripples. Springy doorstops held a similar enchantment—the blur brought on by the spring oscillating faster than my eyes could focus, the boing reverberating in time with the movement, the magical moment when the fuzziness of the coil gave way to crispness as it slowed. These were just some of my earliest fascinations.

  To say I was observant is an understatement. Things others overlooked were glaringly obvious to me. Whether a blessing or a curse, this quiet attentiveness quickly became a mandatory safety precaution. Every sound, movement, unspoken word meant something, and even as a very small child I sensed the vital importance of noticing all that happened around me.

  Whenever the phone rang in those days following our escape, I saw the panic in the eyes of my aunts and uncles, my grandparents, and my mom. No one had to explain the fear to me. I felt it too. A knock on the door or a car turning in to the driveway, expected or not, had the same momentarily paralyzing effect.

  One might expect that our reunion with our family would mark the end of our struggles and the beginning of a new, peace-filled existence. That simply wasn’t the case. Even though Mom and I were home, there was no finality to the previous chapter of our lives. My dad’s vow to find us—to kill Mom and take me back to Iran—hung over us and our loved ones.

  Returning to America, Mom quickly learned that, while we were in Iran, my dad had sent his nephew Mammal back to the States to liquidate our assets. He had transferred all my parents’ money into Swiss bank accounts. Mom and I were penniless. Without hesitation, however, my grandparents welcomed us into their home.

  The St. Patrick’s Day Parade was in full swing the day Mom, John, and I met Barbara Walters at the Mayflower Hotel in New York City. Feeling very grown-up to be wearing a pair of Mom’s pearl earrings, I sat beside her on the couch, surrounded by lights, cameras, booms, makeup artists, producers, and sound technicians. In the midst of the chaos, calm as could be, sat Barbara Walters. Elegant and poised, she was a beacon of refinement. She leaned in as she softly asked her questions, creating a sense of intimacy. As usual I said nothing, only observed. She tried her best to engage me in conversation, and although I felt an instant affinity toward her, I was too shy to utter a word. She respected my silence, and her approving smile assured me that there was no shame in remaining mum.

  It was a question about school that finally elicited a response. Mom got as far as describing our morning chant, “Maag barg Amrika,” before I could take no more and gently reached up to cover her mouth with my hand. Words aren’t always necessary for communicating the heaviness of our hearts. Acknowledging that she had touched on a topic that was still too painful, Ms. Walters artfully moved on.

  When the interview was finished, she treated us to a night on the town. We ate at Benihana, a Japanese restaurant where the food was prepared at the table. Although I was no stranger to the theater, that evening I had my first Broadway experience with front-row tickets to the musical Cats. Everything about it was sensational—the music, the dancing, the costumes. Then we took a ride in a horse-drawn carriage through Central Park, and I felt like a princess listening to the hypnotic clippityclop of the horse’s hooves.

  For John’s sixteenth birthday, 20/20 sent a production team to capture additional footage of our family. Joe wanted nothing to do with the interview process, and Mom didn’t force the issue. Others in the family were only slightly less reluctant, with the exception of Grandpa. He was his usual to-the-point self. A member of “the greatest generation,” he showed himself to be both stoic and a true optimist, asserting that he’d never doubted Mom would find a way to escape. Grandma was overcome by emotion and struggled to get the words out. John, perhaps most articulately, gave voice to our family’s shared pain when he frankly described the anguish of going to bed each night not knowing if Mom and I were dead or alive. It was our loved ones, waiting helplessly for our return, who bore the brunt of the hurt caused by my dad’s actions. I had Mom at my side fighting for me. My brothers suffered this brutal injustice on their own.

  That interview was the only time we as an extended family discussed our experiences. Even then, we didn’t speak about it with each other, only with Barbara Walters and her producers. Mom had grown up in a culture of avoidance, where painful issues weren’t discussed and problems weren’t dealt with. But starting with me, she broke the cycle of silent suffering.

  My life was destined to be lived in extremes. Swirling in a sea of turmoil and upheaval, I was nevertheless, in many ways, experiencing an idyllic childhood. At my grandparents’ house I was surrounded by an extended family who doted on me. They lived along a rural highway in the middle of Michigan’s mitten. The sprawling front yard was densely packed with trees Grandpa had planted years earlier. My cousins and I inundated Grandma with bouquets of wild flowers—light-purple clover blossoms, deep yellow dandelions, velvety cattails, and snowy Queen Anne’s lace.

  In the evenings, the grown-ups played euchre or pinochle on the dining room table while my cousins and I tried our hands at crazy eights or go fish at the kids’ table. When we tired of playing cards, we raided the coffee table in the living room for coloring books and crayons. Sometimes Uncle Jim, the jokester of the family and a big kid at heart, would usher the children outside for a game of Wiffle ball.

  My cousin Jenny, two weeks my senior and the namesake of my favorite doll, liked to stay over at my grandparents’ house. We slept together in our matching Rainbow Brite nighties. Happy to have me home, the grownups tended to indulge me, but Jenny, being a child, wasn’t burdened by the need for tact.

  One afternoon, I was trying to tell her that something tasted bitter. Even though I had sworn off Khomeini’s language, some words still eluded me in English. Desperate to find a way to communicate, I resorted to mixing languages. “It was talkh.” Jenny gave me a sideways glance that clearly meant she didn’t understand what I was saying. So I said it again. “Talkh.”

  “Huh?” She tilted her head and scrunched her nose.

  “Talkh. It was talkh,” I repeated, frustrated with her for not understanding.

  “Where’d you learn to talk anyway?” she asked, then ran away giggling at the absurdity of my frustration.

  I sought comfort and felt most rooted in the familiar. One of the first things I spotted at my grandparents’ house after our return was the purple vase I had painted with Patty. Grandma had it on the shelf reserved for special treasures that were too precious to risk being broken by curious little fingers. She saw me looking at it and asked if I wanted it back. I pondered for a moment, then answered cheerfully, “No, you keep it, but when you die, can I have it?”

  I was not yet seven, but I had been on this earth long enough to know that Grandma thought she was dying. She was one of those people who just seemed to always have one foot in the grave. In reality, it was my grandpa who was inching toward the grave. Many of our early days of freedom were spent at his bedside at Carson City Hospital. It was the hospital where both of my brothers had been born, the hospital where my parents had met, and the hospital where my grandpa now fought for his life.

  Sometimes, while Grandpa slept, we went to the local diner for lunch. Joe liked to treat me to songs on the diner’s old-fashioned jukebox. He would pull a chair over so I could climb up and watch as he dropped in the coins and pushed the buttons to select the songs. My
favorite was Ronnie Milsap singing “Happy, Happy Birthday Baby.” It was not a cool song by big-brother standards, but he always played it for me without complaint because that was the one I liked.

  On the surface we seemed like a normal family, but our collective distress could easily become apparent. Everyone was constantly on high alert. The men in my family, feeling the burden of the responsibility to keep us safe, huddled together furiously whispering about what they would do to “that worthless SOB” if he ever came after us. The children were given strict orders not to touch the loaded shotgun that stood behind my grandparents’ bedroom door. Someone always had a protective eye on me, and on the rare occasions when they realized no one was pulling guard duty, panic ensued.

  On one such afternoon the adults in the house suddenly realized that no one knew where I was, and a frantic search commenced. I was discovered huddled in a corner in the fetal position. I had heard an airplane and taken cover. That was what life in a war zone had trained me to do. How was I to know that in America planes didn’t drop bombs?

  Another day I was riding in the car with Aunt Carolyn when sirens sounded behind us. Trembling and shrieking in terror, I clung to her. My experience with authorities included machine guns and death threats. I was certain they would kill us on the spot, send me back to my dad, or imprison Aunt Carolyn. But to my surprise, when the officer approached the car, he spoke gently and sent us on our way, telling us to have a nice day. There was a lot I had to relearn about life in America.

  That August Grandpa’s battle came to an end. He died in peace, knowing that Mom and I were back home where we belonged. His death marked a perplexing milestone in my life. I was old enough to miss him instantly and yet young enough to wholeheartedly rejoice in the fact that he was in heaven where he suffered no more. I didn’t understand the tears that accompanied Mom’s grief. One evening during a visitation at the funeral home, after watching Mom cry for days, I finally had to ask. “Mommy, Grandpa’s with Jesus. Why are you crying?”