Rosewater and Soda Bread by Marsha Mehran Page B

with the strange hands and pale skin? Where had she come from? And why had she chosen to do what she had done in the Bay?
    There were a lot of questions and, it seemed, only one person who could answer them.
    Dr. Parshaw's examination had at least shed some light on the situation. After an hour's wait in Mayo General, the doctor had appeared with his verdict: “There is slight tearing of the lower cervix,” he explained, his face ashen from lack of sleep, “but no damage to the uterus itself. She is going to keep the baby—for the moment. Of course, things may change entirely once she is discharged.”
    The meaning behind his words was clear: although to do so was not legal in the Irish Republic, the girl could terminate her pregnancy elsewhere in Europe.
    Marjan asked her name.
    “She was awake for most of the diagnosis but refused to answer any of my questions,” Dr. Parshaw replied. “I'm afraid I do not know any more than you both about her origins.”
    He paused, choosing his words carefully. “Most likely she is in shock. Trauma of these kinds, even if self-inflicted, has the effect of leaving some numb. There will be more time for questions later.”
    “Yes, yes.” Estelle nodded, following the doctor's words attentively.
    “I have not told any of the staff about the circumstances that brought her here. Just that she was suffering from an infection and would rather not talk about it. I am keeping most of her records in my office.”
    “Thank you, Doctor,” Marjan said. “I know that's asking a lot.” She put her arm around Estelle, who had begun to sniffle again.
    “I am not sure if what I am doing falls under the Hippocratic oath or not, but I do not believe in handing her over to the guards,” continued Dr. Parshaw gently. “The infection shouldbe cleared up in the next fortnight. There were some serious cuts to her cervix. Had Mrs. Delmonico not found her when she did, she might have lost her baby.”
    Estelle dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief and nodded. “You are a good man, Doctor.”
    “There is nothing good or bad about what I do, Mrs. Delmonico. It is merely my job.”
    “Yes, but you know, good or bad, her body is fighting her heart. It knows she tried to erase pain, so it is still fighting. You must please tell her she is not alone. Please tell her there are people here to help,” insisted Estelle.
    Marjan could see that the topic had struck a deep chord with her friend. Barren during what should have been her fertile years, Estelle Delmonico was never able to have her own children. Something in this mysterious girl, it seemed, had triggered her latent regrets.
    It had set off Marjan's own memories, too. There was no denying it, she had been here once before, they all had; the young woman's inner wounds were too similar to another set of inflictions, the marks of a baton that had caused Bahar so much pain. But unlike here, in the quietude of Mayo General Hospital, with its staff of whispering nurses, Bahar had not been properly treated for the assault that had left her so battered. Instead, she had cooled her wounds with a paste of grated potato and mint leaves, a recipe from their grandmother Firoozeh. She had treated herself and kept her secret for four months, never calling Marjan for help.
    A shudder ran through Marjan. She glanced once more at Bahar, thankful that she was still asleep.
    Maybe she should wait a while before telling her sisters about the girl. She had weighed the thought on her drive down from Estelle's but had still not decided whether it would be right totell them about the girl and her attempted abortion. The more she thought about it, the more it seemed like a bad idea.
    It would only cause panic, she told herself, especially since no one knew who the girl was, or even where she had come from. There would be no point in worrying them as well, at least not until she knew more about the situation.
    Yes, she told herself, she would wait—for answers and a new