Somewhere between Iran and America the women on the plane had slid their headscarves off and unbuttoned their roopoosh. Just before they landed in New York City, compact cases emerged from handbags and powder puffs were pressed against tired skin, mascara was dragged across already-black lashes, and gobs of goo in small round tubs were pressed to lips.
Darya had spent most of the plane ride thinking. She marveled at how Mina slept so soundly next to her. She felt again the overwhelming sense of responsibility that she’d gotten accustomed to ever since the birth of her first child: the stunning knowledge that where her kids were going was due in large part to where she, as mother, led them. This duty felt at times as if it could drown her.
Parviz had told her early in the morning, before the kids came into the kitchen for breakfast. Darya had been pouring boiling water into the teapot, thinking how much her mother had taught her about brewing things correctly, when she saw the look on Parviz’s face. She wanted to stop pouring but couldn’t. Even before he said it, she knew he had big news. He’d been talking about leaving for some time.
“America . . .” he started.
“We can try,” she said finally. She felt herself sink. In order to live in a normal way, they had to leave their home. She wanted to scream at the top of her lungs.
Parviz talked about schools and education in America. All Darya could do was stare at the bottle of dishwashing liquid on the kitchen sink. The green liquid glinted in the sunshine streaming through the window. The bottle was half full. Parviz discussed Hooman’s future, the possibility of his becoming a doctor. Darya noticed a few bubbles floating inside the bottle of the dishwashing liquid, at the very top. Parviz moved on to Kayvon, discussing his talent with people. When would it end? Darya thought. Parviz talked about how such a talent should not go to waste. Would the dishwashing liquid be used up before they left? How many more sinkfuls of dishes would she wash with the remaining detergent? How many weeks did they have left?
“And Mina,” Parviz continued. “Think of her spirit, her shadi, her joy. She lives in color. Here, she’s been drained to black and white . . .”
The dishwashing liquid would outlast their stay in Iran, Darya realized. She had mentally calculated how many sinkfuls of dishes the remaining liquid would wash, and it was more than the number of sinkfuls that she estimated they’d dirty before they took off. She had solved the math problem. It was strangely fascinating to think that the leftover dishwashing liquid would stay in Iran longer than she would.
Now the plane soared in the night air. Who knew if it was right or wrong? They had uprooted their lives. The children. She knew by heart Parviz’s speech about freedom and possibility and the future. But she was taking them away from the safety of the extended family. Plucking them out of the life and the world they knew and dropping them somewhere else. Even if their country had turned crazy, it was still their country. But this new place, the Land of the Teacups as Mina liked to call it, what on earth did they really know about it? Darya saw teacups spinning before her eyes and rested her head on the tiny airplane pillow and tried to sleep. She wished she could line up all her relatives, line them up one by one and stand in front of each one, just for a few minutes. Tell them that she didn’t want to go, that it wasn’t right that she should go and they should stay, how if she could she would jump into the sky and catch each and every bomb Saddam was dropping on them, leap into the air and catch it and stop it—THUNK—the bomb would land in her hand and go nowhere and they, those loved ones with whom she shared her days, would not have to die.
In her head, she mentally said good-bye to each of the relatives. To Soghra too, and the greengrocer Hassan. But when she opened her eyes, the gaping truth remained. There was no mother. Even in make-believe, she could not envision standing in front of her mother’s frame and saying good-bye. Darya reached for Mina’s hand as Mina slept. To a mother, there was never a good-bye. Eleven seventeen a.m. Greengrocer’s. Pomegranates. A bomb. She sighed and turned her attention to her daughter and her peaceful face. Mothers did not die.
“WELCOME TO AMERICA,” DARYA WHISPERED.
Mina put her hand on her head, dazed. She looked over at her father. He was writing on the customs and immigration forms. He held on to the forms tightly, careful not to crease or bend the paper, treating with great care the tiny manifestos that held a key to their future.
“Look, Mina,” Darya said, pointing out the window as the plane began to land. “Look at all the lights.”
Outside the window, Mina saw what looked like a velvet cloth with gems of silver and gold crushed deep within its folds. The new city. She thought she saw a structure that might be the Statue of Liberty that Kayvon had showed her in books, she wasn’t sure. But what she knew for sure was that she could see countless lights everywhere, endless lights, even the tiniest ones made more visible the closer they got to American soil. “They can keep their lights on at night here,” she muttered in wonder.
“They can keep their lights on whenever they want,” Darya said.
As the plane descended, Mina was filled with an inexplicable rush, a dizziness even, and as she pressed her forehead against the pane of the window and gazed down at the lights below, she felt as if she could reach down and swallow that world up. For one brief moment, she felt as if anything could be hers if she wanted it, anything at all. She wanted to jump out of the seat and run, run anywhere fast, it didn’t matter where, but she wanted to move, to shout, to announce to everyone that she loved those lights. She wanted to pick them up one by one and put them in her free hair, press them over her body, lightly place them on her tongue and then slowly have them melt inside her, until all of New York was there, giving her warmth and light and actually becoming a part of her, until the lights of that city were stored so safely inside that no one could ever take them away. To have that freedom inside her and have it shine from her eyes for the rest of her life. Forever.
They moved their bags down and waited in line to exit the plane. People coughed. The murmurs, the hiccups, the sneezes—would they all begin to sound different now? Mina pushed a strand of hair back from her face and looked ahead. Darya was right in front of her, her back concealing Mina’s view. Mina tightened her grip on her carry-on bag and felt her heart pounding. They were about to enter the lights. If she could draw those lights, she would. If she could draw them for the rest of her life, she would.