Chapter 25
As the winter holidays approached, a heaviness descended on Mitra and Shireen. Each of them saw reflected in the other’s eyes memories of past Thanksgivings when the Jahani house was filled with cousins attending boarding school or college in the States, and with their shy and homesick friends, because Shireen couldn’t bear the idea of a foreign student spending such a family holiday in an emptied-out dorm. Over the years, the number of guests and food and board games had grown to become the highlight of their year; even Mitra looked forward to it. Yusef might have objected to the throng of young people with their duffels and sleeping bags, but the kids were so deferential in their gratitude that he’d grown fond of having them around. When they gathered to watch football games or play charades, which they did until the wee hours, he simply retired to his study, where he preferred to be anyway. Having spent his childhood in a large household, he quite liked the sound of it all.
If not for Sali’s inquiries about their plans, Mitra and Shireen might have pretended that Thanksgiving didn’t exist. As far as Mitra was concerned, they were better off expunging family holidays from now on. Last year, Julian had taken her to an overpriced resort hotel in Tahoe, where they spent the holiday in bed, drunk on mulled wine, sex, and science fiction movies. But this year, the extreme El Niño weather made travel risky, especially since Sali’s due date was less than three weeks away. Mitra was about to ask Karen if Sali might tag along (and help look after Scotty and Jacob) for the holiday meal at her in-laws in Menlo Park when Shireen and Sali came back from the grocery store with a small turkey and numerous bags containing all the fixings. Shireen had relented, and Sali’s face glowed with anticipation. Though Shireen smiled and busied herself in the kitchen over the next day with Sali at her elbow, Mitra couldn’t put on this false front, and she couldn’t stand to be so near to the nostalgic aromas of poultry and cornbread and pecan pie. She stayed in her office or bedroom until her mother called her for the meal, and when she got to the table, she immediately saw what was missing: the sweet potatoes—Ana and Nina’s favorite, and the biscuits Nikku hoarded the minute they came out of the oven—and she was relieved. Still, there was enough food to last a week, and Sali had her Tanx-geeving. By Sunday, of course, she was asking about Christmas, but Mitra shut that down abruptly. “You need to be planning for something else before that,” she said.
Sali went into labor on a Tuesday afternoon when Mitra was looking at granite slabs at a wholesale house in Monterey. By the time Mitra reached the hospital back in the city, Sali’s contractions were minutes apart. She peeked into the birthing room to see the girl’s twisted face as Shireen led her competently through the pain in Farsi, and then she took a nap in the waiting room until Shireen shook her awake.
* * *
“I’m going to name him Jack,” said Sali, cradling her new son.
“Jack?” Mitra said.
Shireen softly elbowed her and whispered, “Titanic.”
Oh, no, thought Mitra, struggling to maintain the smile on her face. She hadn’t anticipated that the perils of teenage motherhood would show themselves so immediately. “Are you sure?” she ventured. “It’s an old-fashioned name.”
They were sitting by Sali’s bed in the hospital room, and she couldn’t seem to look away from her baby. “I am sure,” she said. “Look, he even has the blue eyes of Jack. And his hair is not very black.”
“He is beautiful,” said Shireen. “And so calm.”
“You can give him a Persian middle name.”
Shireen elbowed Mitra again, this time more firmly. “Later,” she whispered.
Sali ignored the suggestion anyway. She was infatuated. Mitra had seen it before. It was lovely. The infant’s eyes rolled groggily from side to side, and his fingers stretched and folded lazily. Bundled in a blue-and-pink-striped blanket—maternity ward unisex—he reminded Mitra of a Thumbelina doll Ana once had. And then she winced, remembering how she’d punctured Thumbelina’s arm with a safety pin: She needs her rubella shot. She’d just learned that word—rubella—and she liked saying it. Ana was distraught. Mitra imitated a baby howling, then handed the doll to Ana. There. You can calm her down now. If she stops crying, she can have a lollipop.
As if reading her imagination, Julian appeared at the foot of the bed. She hadn’t seen him since their breakup nearly two months ago, and her pulse quickened. She didn’t know how it would be between them. He was smiling at Sali.
“You did a great job,” he said. “I see you’re getting acquainted.”
Sali looked at Mitra. “Getting acquainted means getting to know someone,” Mitra said, translating English to English.
Sali beamed at Julian. “Jack is perfect,” she said.
“Jack?”
Mitra had to pretend to look for something in her purse so as not to burst out laughing. Shireen was again helpful. “Titanic movie,” she said.
“Ah,” Mitra heard, focusing harder on rummaging through her purse, but then she couldn’t help herself, glanced up and saw Julian struggling hard to suppress his dismay and hilarity. Their eyes met, and it was surprisingly natural: close friends trading thoughts. Not for the first time, she pushed away the thought of an amicable break-up in which Julian continued to be a part of her life; she knew how rare such a thing was.
Julian cleared his throat. “So, Sali, have you decided whether you want to do the circumcision?”
Sali looked up sharply from the baby. “I don’t know,” she said, looking at Mitra and Shireen, who both looked at Julian.
Shireen said, “The teacher in the birthing class, she was very against it. She said it was barba . . . barbie . . . for savages.”
Julian shoved his hands into his lab coat. “I wouldn’t go that far. It’s very quick. Medically, there are pros and cons to each choice. I’m sure your teacher went over them with you. As a pediatrician, I recommend whatever the Dad—”
“Oops,” Mitra said, narrowing her eyes at him. “Wrong speech.” He blushed and scratched his forehead, and Mitra turned to Sali. “I think he should be circumcised, Sali; it’s the Moslem way.”
“Yes, okay,” she said, but she held the infant tighter to her body.
Julian came around the bed and leaned over to take him from her. “I promise to be gentle. It takes literally a second. I’ll have him back to you in a few minutes.” And he lifted the baby like a pro, held him in the crook of his arm, and whispered, “Hey there, kiddo. Hey there, Jackie boy. Shall we go for a little stroll?”
They all watched as he left the room, and they remained tensely silent waiting for his return. But it was a nurse who brought the baby back, and a nurse who told them visiting hours were over and that Sali was in good hands for the night, that (pointing at Shireen) “grandma” needed to go home and get some sleep. They kissed Sali good night, and Mitra linked her arm around Shireen’s as they worked their way around medicine carts and helium balloons toward the elevator. Julian was nowhere to be seen. Mitra had scanned every room and hallway along the way.
* * *
The next morning, after receiving a call from the doctor that Sali would be discharged by late afternoon, Mitra dropped Shireen off at the hospital entrance before parking her car in the lot. When she walked into the lobby, Julian was waiting for her, sitting at the end of a bank of chairs, brows furrowed and eyes a stony navy blue. It was one of those rare moments when she saw the Persian in him, the dark and chiseled.
He stood. “Can we talk?”
He led her to an elevator and down several corridors, greeting people curtly as his sneakers squeaked and her boots clacked on the linoleum. They entered a small, windowless office where he gestured for her to sit in one of two chairs across from a dark wooden desk. He sat down behind it, and she realized how odd it was that she’d never been to his office, which she knew he shared with another junior doctor. Had it hurt his feelings? Probably. She’d shown almost no interest in his career.
“Would you like a coffee?” He gestured toward an electric kettle and a jar of Folgers.
He knew she didn’t drink the stuff, but she said, “No thanks. I’m fine.” If he wanted to wound her with small slights, she would let him.
He leaned back and crossed his legs, did not look at her. Behind him was a massive bookcase containing rows of fat medical books. The shelves must’ve had a centimeter of dust on them. Finally, he exhaled and spoke. “I’ve a few things to say to you, M. I hope you’ll hear me out until I’m done.”
“Okay.”
His belt buckle sagged; he’d lost weight. He took a deep breath, fixed his eyes in a thousand-yard stare, and said, “I know it’s best for the both of us if we let time pass until we build new routines and our feelings fade, but when I ran into Sali at the Women’s Care Center, going for classes with your mum—” He noticed her head tilt. “They didn’t tell you?”
“Not a peep,” she said. So Shireen knew about Julian and had said nothing. Mitra was relieved. She didn’t want to explain, to go back over the last year and possibly have to deal with her mother’s attempts at rekindling the relationship. Then again, maybe this was an indication that the “new” Shireen understood what had happened or just accepted that her daughter knew what was best for herself. Finally.
“I like your mum. She’s not what I expected after hearing you talk about her. Not brooding or passive. I mean, she’s definitely traditional, but nothing like Akram.”
“Yikes! Of course not,” Mitra exclaimed. It came out as a put-down of Julian’s judgment. “I guess I misrepresented her,” she added quickly.
He grabbed a rubber stress ball imprinted with the Pfizer logo and held it in his lap, squeezing gently. “You know by now that Sali wants me to be her pediatrician. I want to be in Sali’s life, and in the life of that little one.” He put his hand up to forestall her from saying anything. “I’m not talking about us, M. I understand that we’re over. I still believe her mum needs to play a role in her life, or at least given a chance to redeem herself.”
“Jules—” She’d moved to the edge of her seat.
“I don’t want to discuss it, Mitra.”
She scooted back and tried to will her mouth shut.
“Look,” he continued, his voice lower. “I’d like nothing more than to sod off and get back to my life as it was before we met, but I can’t. No: I don’t want to. Don’t worry, I’m not making a case for us to get back together. I realize that I fell for this idea of us—a fantasy. When we met, I think we recognized something similar in one another, a melancholia, a yearning to shape a family of our own. Maybe we mistook it for romance, or maybe that was the only way we knew how to express it. At any rate, it happened. You’re a part of my life I can’t erase. We may not have a future together as a couple, but I don’t want us to have no contact at all. You and Sali, even your mum, I don’t want to lose the connection. I’m not saying it’ll be easy, but I’d like to try.” He smiled bashfully. “Besides, I miss Jezebel.”
She managed to smile and resist a sudden urge to cry. Ugh, all these tears . . . of heartache and also of joy. “I’m glad,” she managed to say.
What had he called it? A melancholia that they’d recognized in each other. It was true. He from his fatherlessness and his mother’s absences, and she from her family estrangements. In a phrase, loneliness had drawn them together. And hadn’t he been a good companion to her? She hadn’t grown bored with his conversation, his smart and yet vulnerable way of expressing himself, nor had she become irritated by his peccadilloes—the nervous sniffing, the brown ring his shaving lotion container left in the shower, his penchant for potato chips in bed, the holey T-shirts he wouldn’t get rid of. Most of all, he’d fit into every part of her quotidian life, which she was very proprietary about. It was his lack of intrusion—his acceptance—that had made her forget to attend to the boundary that separated their intentions for the future.
“Well,” she said, wiping damp palms on her jeans and rising from the chair. “I should get back to my mom, take her home. She probably needs a nap after all that birthing stuff.”
“She was a trouper,” Julian said, rising too and coming around the desk.
They hugged awkwardly. Then Mitra smiled and said, “You’ll come for dinner once Sali and the baby settle in?”
“I’ll come and make dinner,” he said.
“Good luck with that. My mom’s here now.”
And they laughed.
Walking the hallways back to Sali’s room, Mitra realized how much Julian had given her, more than he knew. Not all men were like those she’d known and battled and run away from. Some had humility instead of outsized pride, were gentle and thoughtful and kind. It was harder to be like that. It took practice, experience, self-respect, and love. Julian was going to make a wonderful father when the time came. Unlike his own father, who’d disappeared. Unlike her own father, who’d been spared having to face and cope with the horrific truths that came with raising children. She stopped moving and leaned against the wall. Yes, her father had been spared the knowledge of Kareem’s sins, but did he deserve that protection? Perhaps the only person who deserved it was Ana, and that was only because she’d felt such shame about it. And that shame was concocted and preserved by those who stuck fast to the old traditions or those who benefited from the silence of their victims.
She pushed away from the wall and walked to the elevator. Her legs felt rubbery and her hands and neck hot. She managed to hide her agitation from Sali and her mother. After a bit, Shireen said there was no need for Mitra to stay, that she should go on and tend to her work until the late afternoon when Sali would be discharged. Relieved, she went home and stood, edgy and indecisive, in the foyer. She climbed the stairs. There was a vanity in her bedroom that she never used. She’d found it in an antique shop, sanded it, painted it white. It reminded her of old Hollywood movies, its vintage mirror scratched and smudged. On it was a crystal lamp with a fringed cream-colored shade, a thin glass vase that she used to put fresh flowers in every week, and a pad of off-white stationery with a pen on top. It was for show, for ambience: when night fell, it was this lamp she turned on; it cast a warm glow throughout the room. The low chair that matched the vanity was a repository for clothes she’d been too lazy to put away. She removed these and put them on the bed. She sat down and picked up the pen. Her pulse quickened. She realized she’d never sat here. Her face in the mirror looked flushed. She pressed the nib of the pen to the paper and wrote, Dear, Baba. She hesitated, looked at her reflection, closed her eyes. What did she want? Perhaps solace; simply to share the burden and pain of knowing. No, she wasn’t that benevolent or forgiving. She wanted revenge and—this stung—she wanted him to know that she’d fulfilled, at least partially, a duty he’d shirked. He hadn’t been the exceptional father he believed. He’d clung so dearly to his authoritative image that he’d failed to protect and nurture his own children. She opened her eyes, moved the pen to the next line, and began.
The story of Ana and Kareem in the basement. Every detail. It wasn’t easy. She’d never spoken to her father about sex. Seeing certain words in ink made her cringe. Grinding. Erection. Several times, she moved her hand onto the page to crumple it and throw it in the garbage. But she resisted. If she could feel the shame of telling, imagine the depth of Ana’s shame. It had been ingrained in them to carry this burden of the family’s honor, an honor that was constantly threatened by the very gender that created its self-serving rules of oppression and possession. She tightened her lips and soldiered on.
She would not spare him, as she had spared Shireen and Olga. He would know how long his sweet daughter had suffered at his nephew’s hands. But Mitra wouldn’t betray Aden. That was none of her father’s business. If, without evidence of how she’d learned the facts, he didn’t believe Mitra, she didn’t care. She knew it was likely. Too painful. Underneath it all, he was too weak to face the truth. This, Mitra realized, was why abusers rarely admitted the crime, and why their victims continued to feel shame and guilt—no one believed. The scars lasted for life, showing themselves in myriad ways—anxiety, depression, indecision, confusion, self-loathing. All of this she wrote to her father. Let him learn. Let him know. Let it hurt.
When the writing was done, she felt no emotional relief. Her anger and sadness were not alleviated. After all, she wasn’t the victim. But the telling of Ana’s story had given her a sense of justice done, and for what other use was the act of breaking silence?