Rosewater and Soda Bread (10 page)

She had first noticed the power of her hands and arms as a nurse, working at the Green Acres Home for the Newly Retired. Switching intravenous tubes with the speed of a master seamstress while holding down the likes of a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound grafter turned geriatric convalescent had earned her the respect of her colleagues; the coveted title of Most Valuable Matron was hers for two years straight. In constant demand throughout the nursing home, she was most wanted in the Alzheimer's Suite, where her ability to soothe patients with the mere lock of her elbows left the burliest of male nurses speechless.

The respect of her workmates had not transferred itself into any friendships, however—a fault that Bahar now considered entirely her own. Instead of mingling with the interns and happy-go-lucky nurses at Doc Watson's Pub, she had opted to roam the streets of London's antiques district alone, dreaming of the day when her own house would be filled with dainty Victorian décor.

She had turned herself into a recluse, hidden her heart from her workmates—even from her own sisters, if she had to be honest
about it. She just hadn't been ready to share that organ, torn as it was, with anybody back then.

Bahar placed the paring knife in the empty bowl and wiped her hands on a tea towel. She paused for a moment, glancing at the kitchen doors, before reaching inside her apron pocket.

The edges of the small laminated card felt smooth and correct along her fingers, an effect that was quite soothing to her usually overwrought senses. She pulled the card out halfway and turned it so she could read its message in the dying afternoon light:

The card came from the village of Knock, not thirty miles from where she sat, here in the kitchen of the Babylon Café. Bahar had not been there herself, though it was very much a destination in her immediate future, she was sure of it.

According to Father Mahoney who had given her the prayer card, a pilgrimage to the Shrine was as necessary to the system as an annual climb up Croagh Patrick, both journeys a sign of commitment to the new life she was taking on.

It was at Knock, after all, where the Blessed Virgin had once appeared, wearing a brilliant rose crown.

“When the Blessed Virgin first graced the village,” the priest had said, “it was the English who wanted to claim her, Queen Victoria herself sending in her fancy envoy. But it was to the Shrine that the Pope made his visit in the year 1979, not to the throne of England. It was on Knock that he bestowed his Golden Rose—on the Irish!”

Bahar returned her gaze to the message, feeling a shiver of pleasure run up her spine.

She sighed. The delicate calligraphy was imprinted on her mind, words learned by a heart growing more constant with every passing hour. That muscle would soon be as strong as her slender but powerful arms.

Like she had done with the good old radishes, Bahar Amin-pour would soon carve out her own rosy little spot.

The time was just about right, she told herself. Not yet, but soon enough.

“ONE CHEESE AND HERB PLATE with
barbari
bread; two
abgushts
and a plate of angelica fava beans. Mains: chicken kebabs for two, lamb and cherry rice, and a yogurt and cucumber dip, no bread, to go. That's for Maeve Cleary She's on another diet.”

Layla swung backward into the kitchen with a tray of empty plates. She left them on the sink counter and turned to Bahar. “What's that you're reading?” She walked over to the kitchen table. “A note from your lover?”

Bahar scowled. She slipped the laminated card back into her apron pocket and pulled her hand out just as fast.

“Give me your pen,” she said, thrusting out her empty palm.

“Why?”

“I'll take over the orders. You can stay here with those instruments of torture.” She pointed to the three stockpots simmering on the green stove.

Layla shook her head. “No way. Deal was I do the front of house, you do the food. For once.”

“That was before Marjan was gone for three hours. Where is she anyway? You'd think she'd have the courtesy to call.”

Bahar moved toward her younger sister with a determined gleam in her eye. She reached for the pen behind Layla's ear, but not before Layla pulled it out.

“I don't know where she is, but I'm doing the orders,” Layla said, waving the pen above her head.

At five foot two, Bahar had little hope of reaching it without jumping, risking her dignity in the process.

She clapped her hands in frustration. “As your elder, I demand you give me that pen! Now, Layla!”

“Uh-uh. Malachy goes back tomorrow—it's the only time I get to see him all day. I won't be stuck in this kitchen just because you're afraid of a little stove.”

“Don't tell me your boyfriend's out there again. Doesn't he—”

The wall phone shrilled. Both sisters reached for it, Bahar securing the cherry red receiver with a smug smile. Her smile soon turned, a deep frown hollowing out her brow. “What do you mean you're staying? What happened?”

Layla nudged her ear into the other side of the receiver, and both listened as Marjan told them of her plans to stay the rest of the afternoon at Estelle's. By the time Bahar hung the phone back up in its cradle, her frown was a triangle strung from her temples.

She stared at the floor for a moment. “I don't like the way her voice sounded,” she finally said. “She's hiding something.”

Layla shrugged. “That's just you being paranoid. Mrs. D's hands are acting up again. That's why she wasn't at the Bonfire last night. She shouldn't be up alone in the cottage anyway.”

She handed the pen to her sister. “I'll look after the poor
abgusht
. Tell Malachy to come back and keep me company.”

Bahar took the pen and stuck it in her apron pocket. She was about to voice her opposition when her fingers brushed against the laminated card.

All at once her shoulders relaxed, her worry lifting like an eddy of dust; the card's message of love was as instantaneous as a shush, as peaceful as Gabriel's breath on a long-fevered brow.

“THE DAMAGE IS MODERATE, but I won't know more until we get her into the examination.” Dr. Parshaw peeled the latex gloves off his steady hands and shook his head. “There is a considerable infection that needs immediate care, that is certain. It is lucky her aim was not so precise.”

As both her personal physician and chief internist at Mayo General Hospital, Dr. Hewey Parshaw was the only professional Estelle could trust for medical advice. He had arrived minutes after Estelle showed Marjan into the bedroom, where the girl lay sleeping under the down duvet.

“So you think she is with a baby?”

“Your instincts were right, Mrs. Delmonico. She is in her second trimester nearly. My estimate is eleven weeks. However,” he said, turning his serious eyes on them, “the inner lacerations do indicate an attempt at termination.”

All three fell silent, taking in the gravity of the situation. Beads of sweat rose on the young woman's face. Estelle reached over and wiped them gently with a cold cloth.

The young woman's eyes twitched under her closed lids, her ragged breathing breaking the silence.

“What is the longest you have been able to keep her awake?”

Estelle shook her head. “Not much. Her eyes open three, four times, but closed again. And painful noises, nothing else. No
talking at all.” Her face crumpled up. “Oh, I hope I did not do the wrong thing by not calling you yesterday.”

From across the room, Marjan could see tears springing up in the kind widow's eyes.

“You have done the honorable thing by bringing her to your home,” Dr. Parshaw assured her in a voice of smooth velveteen. “If you hadn't found her, the worst imaginable circumstance could have been a reality today.”

“That's right,” Marjan said, giving the doctor a grateful smile. “And the guards would not have been any help either. By the time you got home yesterday, they had already closed up for the Bonfire.”

“What we need to concentrate on now is the future,” said Dr. Parshaw. “We must get an ambulance up here as soon as possible. The chance of this becoming septic is there, I'm afraid.”

Estelle blew her nose on the silk handkerchief she always kept tucked in the sleeve of her blouse. “I will go make the call.”

“I've got the van,” suggested Marjan. “It'll be quicker that way.”

As Estelle packed a few essentials in a small overnight bag, Marjan and Dr. Parshaw set about creating a makeshift gurney They spread the duvet on the floor next to the bed, doubling it up to make for an easier carry. Dr. Parshaw then knelt to gently scoop the girl from under her shoulders and legs.

Her reddish brown hair hung limply as the doctor lowered her onto the duvet, her thin, angular face a frightening shade of green. Like an opal stone, thought Marjan, without the benefit of its rosy veins.

“To the right, please,” Dr. Parshaw directed Marjan as she backed out of the cottage door.

They took their time descending the gravelly path, the corners of the duvet clenched in their hands. The girl made no indication
that she knew she was being moved and remained deep in fevered sleep. Although not nearly as heavy as her long and lanky frame would suggest, she would surely have been a weight for one short old woman. Marjan simply couldn't imagine how Estelle had ever managed to climb this drive with the girl hanging off her shoulders. Where had she gotten the strength?

“I know a shortcut to the hospital,” Marjan said after the girl was safely laid on the van's carpeted floor. “We'll have to go through Ballinacroagh.” Dr. Parshaw slid into the back with his new patient, and she closed the double doors.

“Okay. We go.” Estelle locked her front door and began to slide down the gravel walkway. Marjan rushed up and took the basket of chickpea cookies and
gormeh sabzi
, as well as the overnight bag packed with a spare toothbrush and Luigi's pajama tops.

“I don't know where you find your strength,” Marjan said in awe.

“Pfft! This is nothing!” Estelle exclaimed. “You should have seen me when I was young. Who do you think carry that kitchen island into the bakery, eh? My Luigi call me his Herculeana Neapolitana,” she said proudly.

She turned to the rosebush flourishing at the end of the drive. With a loving smile, the old widow threw its flushed petals a kiss, bidding her husband's resting place a temporary good-bye.

THAT NIGHT, Marjan dreamt of Mehregan.

The original day of thanksgiving, the holiday is celebrated during the autumn equinox in Iran.

A fabulous excuse for a dinner party, something that Persians the world over have a penchant for, Mehregan is also a challenge
to the forces of darkness, which if left unheeded will encroach even on the brightest of flames.

Bonfires and sparklers glitter in the evening skies on this night, and in homes across the country, everyone is reminded of their blessings by the smell of roasting
ajil
, a mixture of dried fruit, salty pumpkin seeds, and roasted nuts. Handfuls are showered on the poor and needy on Mehregan, with a prayer that the coming year will find them fed and showered with the love of friends and family.