Chapter 11: The Mistakes of the Mother

Winter existed in Mazandaran, but it existed as a season of storms over the Caspian Sea. The land would be cooled by rain, but the air would still sit heavy and wet in the valleys. In Paris, winter's dry, sharp cold found any gap it could to invade Nadir's flat – especially that January.

Izad fussed in his father's hold, squirming until he managed to free a small hand from his swaddle. Sighing, Nadir tucked the baby's arm back into the wool cocoon.

"I know," he crooned when Izad scrunched his face and whimpered. "It may be too warm in there, but you would not be any happier out here."

He had been trying in vain for an hour to settle Izad to sleep – all while preparing himself for the day's errand. At least the babe's crying stopped, at long last.

Nadir rapped a calloused knuckle against the washroom door, awaiting a response before he did anything else.

"Yes?" Erika's voice echoed from beyond.

"I'm leaving to meet the wet nurse soon, and I-."

"I cannot hear a word you're saying."

Adjusting his hold on the baby, Nadir opened the door and was met with a breath of steam. "I said, I am meeting with a wet nurse to make our arrangements. I need for you to keep an open ear and tend to Izad should he need it."

Erika sat submerged in the bright copper bathtub. "You trust me to do so?" she asked, rubbing a bar of sweet-smelling soap over her arms.

"I won't be longer than two hours," Nadir said. "I'm setting him to sleep before I leave." He opened the door a bit further, and Erika reacted by sinking neck-deep into the suds.

"Nadir, that child has forgotten what sleep is." Fatigue drooled from every word that left her mouth. "Up every hour, and not always for a reason!"

That wasn't a point to be argued. Izad had been increasingly difficult to settle each night. Six days old, and he was that much harder to calm once he'd been woken. Of course, Nadir was the only one of the pair who even tried. Just the previous night, Izad's unsootheable crying had driven Erika from the bedroom. She'd gladly spent the rest of the night on the couch in the salon.

"Just clean him with a wet cloth if need be," Nadir said. He couldn't believe he was instructing a grown woman how to tend her own child. "If he nurses, try to get the air up before setting him down. Basic care, not difficult."

"And if he becomes difficult?" Erika accented her question with a flick of her wrist, sending droplets of water to the floor.

"Try swinging his cradle."

Izad wriggled in the crook of his father's arm, a sharp whimper in his throat threatening to turn into a cry. Nadir shifted him to his shoulder, dreading another hour of battling this.

"Can I have your promise to watch over him?" he asked.

Erika didn't reply, only lathered the soap into her hair. She ignored him for a tiresome while, as he stood there in the doorway with a cranky newborn.

"A damned answer would be grand!" The exclamation punched its way through the Persian's lips.

The indignant look on Erika's face was unintended on his part, yet satisfying.

"I don't have much choice in the situation," she answered at last, eyeing him from head to toe.

Resentment festered inside Nadir's mouth like a sour tang. "Forgive me for asking you to lift a finger for a helpless infant," he said, his tolerance for Erika's attitude finally frayed.

"I'll do what I can," Erika said, picking something from under a fingernail, "but whatever happens is on your conscience."

He deepened his scowl, a vicious glint in his jade eyes. "If there is so much as a bruise on him when I return, Erika, I will not hesitate to-."

"To what?!" Erika yelled, slamming her hands into the water with a great splash. "If you expect me to hurt him, then by all means! Tell me what you will do! Say what will happen after your wise decision to leave him with me!"

Nadir backed into the hallway, covering Izad's ears with his fingers. He was too late, and the babe was already in hysterics as well.

With that, Nadir lost his will to fight.

"Forget everything. I'm taking him with me." He shut the bathroom door before he could hear an answer. "Such a damned child," Nadir spat under his breath, returning to the bedroom.

Like paper in water, he watched his secret fantasy dissolve. He wanted to bloody the nose of the Nadir who invited that woman into his bed, the one that was a madman for wanting her to somehow grow into a mother hen. That Nadir knew in the end he would be hurt, but didn't listen to himself.

Uttering a deep sigh, he – once again – tried shushing the wailing infant. It occurred to him in the same instant that he had yet to buy a pram. His only option would be to walk to the address listed in the paper; walk in the freezing cold with a baby that had little more than a swaddle for warmth. No, no, an argument wasn't worth taking that risk. He debated locking the bedroom door, but a thousand worst-case scenarios crossed his mind and he decided that would be unwise.

He had no other choice than to trust Erika, and trust Allah to watch over them.

Izad calmed much sooner than before, though it took several minutes. Nadir lowered him into the cradle, hoping a gentle rock would send him to sleep. "Please, my little one, I beg you," he whispered while the cradle swung. "Don't be like your mother."

With a sharp pop the cork released, and the smell of aged chardonnay wafted from the open bottle. Erika served herself a generous glass and didn't hesitate to down a quarter of it in one gulp. She felt the heat of the alcohol warm her chest. It was the first drink she'd had in almost a year, and it was well-deserved.

With a tired groan, Erika rested her upper half on the kitchen countertop. Her body was robed in a richly patterned banyan – a gift from the Shah himself, for his little Angel pet. It was tailored for a man, and that typically wasn't an issue; but today she wore it loose as possible. The slack was less irritating on her swollen, aching body. Her damp hair dripped water across her shoulders.

The apartment was blissfully quiet, besides the lashing of the wind outside.

Then, a muffled – almost apologetic – whine came from inside the bedroom. Had it not been so silent, Erika may not have heard it at all.

She stared at the closed door in disbelief, realizing with horror that Nadir lied to her. At first, she hoped the baby was only making noises in his sleep. There was a long pause, and with a satisfied nod Erika brought the wine back to her lips. No sooner had she swallowed another sip, Izad whined again – insistent this time.

Erika woefully set her glass on the counter, massaging her temples. "That son of a bitch," she whispered to herself.

Nadir was going to pay very dearly for this. She wasn't sure how, but he would.

Erika padded barefoot through the bedroom, her eyes hardly noticing the dark. Most of the afternoon daylight was absent from the window, replaced by edges of frost. A gale whistled cold breath into the room through cracks in the wood. It clung to Erika's wet hair and trailed a blade of ice down her back. Damn that draft.

"Can you not lay quiet?" she groaned, holding the banyan closed as she approached the cradle. "I only ask for a bit of quiet."

She came close enough to spot the little bundle in the wicker basket. Somehow, Izad had managed to wiggle his arms out from his swaddle. The babe seemed to sense her approach, and waved his fists in the air with a repetitive whine of: "Heh. Heh. Heh."

Stopping beside the cradle, Erika folded her arms and frowned into it. "Haven't you caused me enough pain?"

Izad started to cry.

"I suppose not."

Erika gave the cradle a light nudge. It barely sung, so she nudged it a bit harder. This time it swung for a few seconds, but Izad didn't seem to notice. He only seemed to reach further out to nothing, his pink face turning ruddy with unhappiness.

The book on childcare that Nadir often re-read sat on the bookshelf outside, but Erika didn't feel the need to reference it. He never thought she paid attention to what he was doing – she knew he didn't – but he was mistaken. Oh, she feigned disinterest; but all that week, Erika had watched from the corner of her sight while Nadir tended to his son. It was a rare sweetness, seeing a child loved so much; but Nadir didn't need to think any less of her, so she pretended not to watch.

She left the room for a moment and returned with a clean rag – a corner of it knotted and soaked in water. Nadir had used this fascinating trick several times already.

"Here," Erika said, holding the wet knot to Izad's mouth.

The babe turned his face away from her offering, only pausing his noise to take a breath. Erika touched the cloth to his mouth again.

"I know you like this, child," she said flatly. "For God's sake, take it."

Izad weakly bumped her hand away with his small fist, grumbling as if frustrated. For a millisecond anger flashed in Erika's vision, but only for that long. Gently, she took Izad's hand between her thumb and forefinger. It felt like ice.

"Oh...you're cold, aren't you?"

As if to answer her, another gust of cold air leaked through the cracks around the window. Erika attempted to put the newborn's arms into the swaddle, but the bundle was already loose and she hadn't the faintest idea how to redo it.

Sighing, she leaned over and slipped her hands under his wiggly body. "Come, I'll light the hearth for us." She took her time, making sure she was holding him correctly before exiting the dark bedroom with him in the bend of her arm. While she walked to the salon, she was unaware that she'd moved her free hand to cover the cold hands of the baby, warming them both with her palm.

Erika adjusted the book against her knees, catching it before it could slip off. Reading by the light of the hearth was easier without a newborn suckling from her breast, but so long as the apartment was quiet, she was content.

Yes, yes, she knew Nadir was currently out in the frozen city hiring a wet nurse; but Izad had started fussing in the nest of blankets and pillows Erika had made for him on the couch. So, why not tend to him while continuing to read Madame Bovary get her comeuppance?

She spared a mournful thought to her abandoned glass of wine in the kitchen. Could alcohol be passed through breast milk? And if it was...could she be faulted for wanting to finish the glass?

Erika looked up from the pages, a far-off look in her eyes.

"When was I born?" Erika could vaguely remember asking the question. It had been on a good day, one where she hadn't driven her mother to the bottle. There had been a string of those good days, she could recall.

Charlotte sat across the dining table, cutting the roasted lamb she'd managed to prepare for them. "Winter."

"But when in winter?" Erika poked at her plate, hungry yet unable to eat. A new mask of burlap squeezed the contours of her face, too tight to be lifted at the mouth. She would often scratch at the back of her neck, where the twine was knotted so hard it bruised. It could have been removed without struggle; but being bare-faced in the same room as her mother was the worst crime she could commit. No, she would wait until she was alone at the table to eat.

Charlotte forked the first morsel down. "Why must you know?" she inquired, cheeks full of food and eyes never leaving her plate.

"I want to know how old I am."

"You're seven, Erika."

"Seven?" Erika perked up, silently counting on her fingers. It had seemed such a large number, almost to ten! "How do you know, Maman?"

Charlotte's lip pulled into a sardonic sneer. "Oh, the day is hard to forget." She took a gulp from a wine glass; filled with water, for a change. Perhaps the feel of thin, smooth glass against her lips made the water taste like wine?

Erika sawed a knife into her share of the lamb. Her mouth watered at the sight of orange, liquid fat squeezing from the meat. "What happened? On the day I was born?" She had asked to keep that drooling mouth busy.

The sneer on her mother's face fell into a hard line. "You played dead for the midwife. She thought you had died in the womb days before, when you came out looking the way you do." Charlotte paused to wipe her lips with a napkin. Rouge was left smeared at the corner of her mouth. "I'm convinced she was right. You did not cry, did not move, until you spasmed to life atop the sheets. Damn near frightened the old woman into an attack."

Unable to bear staring at her untouchable meal, Erika looked up at her mother with inquisitive dark eyes. "Was Papa there?"

Charlotte met her daughter's gaze with a small gasp. Erika flinched, lowering her chin to the tabletop like a scolded dog.

"You..." Charlotte swallowed hard and turned her utensils over in her fingers. "You shouldn't ask about him, Erika."

"I...only wanted to know if he was there."

There was a set of sepia photographs on the parlor wall, just around the corner from where Erika had sat. In her mind's eye, she could still walk right to where they hung. They stuck in her memory clear as beacons. She had looked up at them so often as a child she could recite every detail: Two oval portraits. One, of her mother looking more beautiful than Erika could put into words – dressed in a white, bell-shaped gown and haloed by a veil so long it touched the carpet. The other, of a man with a face she somehow knew – looking quite dapper in his tailored suit and top hat, dark sideburns, and thin, well-groomed mustache.

Her mother had said nothing for an unbearably long time. Erika remained tense, expecting to be struck at any moment. At last, Charlotte took a long drink from her glass and set it calmly down again.

"Yes...yes, he was there. Now, please, child...never ask about him again."

Erika obeyed, she never asked again. She never was told who that man in the photograph was; but as she grew older, she'd been able to assemble the clues. Besides, her mother – once drunk enough – would soon be all too eager to say why he only existed in a frame.

Erika wet her lips, tracing what she had of them until her tongue ran over exposed, dry gums. That unfinished glass would be going down the plumbing.

After all, this was the last time she'd be doing this odd maternal habit. She was packed and prepared to leave the following afternoon. Her work in that flat was nearly complete. Her next drink could wait a while longer.

Izad turned away from her breast with what sounded like a pleased squeak. Erika left the banyan open, knowing even the cotton would irritate the raw skin. She laid Izad on the open book across her lap, both hands cradling his head.

"You are more fortunate than you understand," she told the baby. "You...you are so loved. Your father has enough love to be three parents, let alone two."

Izad sucked on the knotted cloth as she placed it in his mouth, now more than happy to soothe himself with it.

"My father abandoned me, you know," she told the baby. "I don't remember him. I only remember what I was told, and I was told he ran off because of me." Erika scoffed. "I'm sure the mistress he was caught with had nothing to do with it."

Izad blinked his big, dark eyes. He didn't understand a word.

"My mother...well...I suppose your grandmother," Erika shivered at the word, disgusted by the truth she'd given that horrible woman a lineage. "She was once all I had...but I would have been better with nothing. I promise...it won't be like that for you."

Izad squeaked in reply, his blanketed toes pressing against her belly when he stretched his legs.

"No, it won't be," Erika said with a nod, not registering how her voice had ever-so-slightly raised in pitch. "Do you know what your Baba did? He saved your life little one, several times over." She paused to blink away tears, but smiled nonetheless. "He braved Hell itself and dragged out a demon to get you here. So..." she chuckled, "...you better damn well be worth it."

"P-few!" Izad sneezed.

"Agreed."

Erika brought him closer to her face and took in his scent again. "Yes...yes, you'll be alright without me." Her chest tightened. "You will."

Her monstrous lips brushed Izad's forehead, and softly pressed a kiss into his skin.

"There," she whispered to him. "I've just given you more than my mother gave me." She was grinning, but a few tears soaked her newborn's hair.

Unseen, Nadir watched from the darkness of the hallway. He crept back towards the front door on cat-like feet, deciding he would take one last walk around the block before returning home. When he stepped out into the January air, the wet lines on his face stung.