The Daughter Who Walked Away by Kimia Eslah

Author:Kimia Eslah
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Fernwood Publishing
Published: 2019-01-16T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 8

“SALAM, MAMAN-JAAN? Hello, mother dear?” Mojegan spoke loudly into the mouthpiece of the telephone. Mojegan tried to call her mother at least once a week. She knew her sisters called and visited every day. She tried not to think of herself as neglectful because she knew that her life was different. Akram and Azadeh lived within blocks of their mother, their children were grown, and they did not work out of the house.

“Mojeeh? Dokhtar-am, salam! My dear daughter, hello!” Batoul began with her long drawn out vowels. “Chetori? How are you? Khoubi? Are you good?”

Mojegan smiled whenever she heard the Shirazi accent, which she could not detect when she first arrived in Tehran ten years earlier. She imagined her mother, nearly seventy years old, on the phone, cozy in the sitting room with her knitting, a glass of tea and a few sweets, and she recalled the day that the technicians arrived to install the telephone in her mother’s house. They had asked Akbar where to install the unit. Akbar asked his mother about her preference, and Batoul replied jokingly for his ears only, “Put it in the outhouse. If a person’s just sitting about, they can finish two jobs in one.”

Mother and daughter spent the first twenty minutes catching up on family matters before Mojegan revealed that her family would be moving to Canada.

“Koja? Where?” Batoul was stunned. Already, Tehran felt like a world away. Another country, across an ocean seemed inconceivable.

“Why?” asked Batoul.

“I will explain everything, Maman.” Mojegan tried to remain calm, tried not to cry. “I’d like to come with the children to visit you. Would that be okay?”

“Mojegan, you don’t need to ask permission to visit your own home,” Batoul scolded her mildly. “Come as you please.”

“Mochaker-am, thank you, Maman.” Mojegan held her breath to stop the tears. Mojegan arranged to arrive in Shiraz a few days later.

***

When Batoul first embraced her daughter, the tears poured from Mojegan. A few gasps became sobs, and soon she was unable to let go of her mother. Akbar and his wife Zeena, who lived with Batoul, welcomed the three children and led them to the sitting room for cookies and fruit. Omar walked down the kooche to help Reza carry their luggage. The alleyway was too narrow for cars, and Reza had parked the Paykan at a communal lot a block away.

In the courtyard, Batoul rubbed Mojegan’s head and back with long steady strokes. Mojegan stood nearly a head taller than her mother and crouched sufficiently to press her cheek in the crook of Batoul’s neck. Her mother smelled of almond oil, a scent familiar from her childhood. To be mothered and soothed was an experience Mojegan had desired for years. She wanted to be a child again, to be cared for and protected. She was exhausted from balancing the competing priorities in her life.

Batoul and Mojegan retired to the older woman’s bedroom and closed the door. Shortly after, Akram and Azadeh arrived with a silver tray of refreshments.

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