53 Letters For My Lover (35 page)

“You have to stop running from the things that scare you, Shayda.” He fixes those dreamy eyes on me. “The only way to feel truly alive is to start living fearlessly.”

December 31st, 2000

Natasha adjusts my wig
and steps back.

“Perfect!” she declares.

“It seems so undone.” I look in the mirror, twisting my head from side to side.

She rolls her eyes. “It’s supposed to look like that. All sexy and tousled and just thrown together.”

“Sexy, huh?”

“Yes, mum. I can say the word, you know.” She laughs. “Trust me, the hair balances your gown perfectly. Not too casual, not too formal. You look amazing!”

“Thanks to my fabulous hair and make-up artist.” I give her a hug.

“Careful, careful.” She air-kisses my cheeks instead. “We don’t want to smudge anything.”

“I think you’ve done enough smudging.”

“It’s a smoky eye and it makes you look like one of those glamorous movie stars, like Anouk Aimee. Big hair and dark eyes.”

“Anouk Aimee?” I ask. “How do you know about her?”

“You know grandma is a big fan of those old Fellini movies,” she replies, handing me my earrings. “She borrows them from the library and we have movie marathons.”

“Hmmm...I’m not sure they’re entirely suitable.”

“Oh, mum!” Natasha shakes her head. “Okay, turn. Let me see.”

I do a little pirouette for her.

“Shayda, we need to get going—” Hafez walks in, sees me and halts in his tracks.

“You look...beautiful.” He says it haltingly, like a long forgotten poem that’s coming back.

“Doesn’t she?” says Natasha, fixing the delicately draped fabric of my gown.

Sheer overlays float around me, and the diagonal ruching plays up its asymmetrical style. The soft shade of pink is a perfect guise for the harsh reality of twin scars across my chest.

“I feel like I should have brought you flowers.” Hafez hovers by the door.

“Aww, you guys,” says Natasha. “It’s like you’re going to prom. So cute.”

The doorbell rings.

Natasha turns red.

Like mother like daughter.

“He’s early.” She makes a face to cover it up.

“Do you think it’s wise?” asks Hafez as we watch her bounce down the stairs to greet her date.

“She’s sixteen, it’s New Year’s eve, and Nathan’s a good kid,” I reply. “Besides, Zain will be here. We couldn’t ask for a better chaperone.”

“You’re hoping he’ll snitch.”

“Not really, but it doesn’t hurt for Natasha to think so.” I laugh.

“You really do look...really lovely.”

I feel a surge of tenderness for Hafez, looking so out of his element in a sharply pressed suit and tie. His nails are clean, like he’s spent hours scrubbing the grime out from under them, and his hair is slicked back like that first time we met.

“And you look very handsome.” I smile. It doesn’t quite reach my eyes, not because I don’t mean it, but because I want to protect him. From myself. “Thanks for coming. I know it’s really not your thing.”

“Well, speaking in front of a crowd isn’t your thing either. But you’re still doing it.” He looks at me with a mix of pride and reserved affection. “Are you ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Downstairs, we find Zain firmly entrenched between Natasha and Nathan on the couch.

Hafez can’t help but smile when he catches my eye. “We’re off, kids. Be good.”

Three heads turn around.

“Hi, Mr. Hijazi, Mrs. Hijazi.” Nathan gets up.

He’s much taller than Natasha, although they’re in the same class. Green eyes, hair that’s too long, a black t-shirt with ‘LINKIN PARK’ printed across the front.

“Hello, Nathan,” I reply. I can see why Natasha likes him. There’s a soft confidence about him that’s rare in boys his age.

“You look nice,” says Zain.

All I can see are his round eyes staring at me over the back of the sofa.

“Wait.” Natasha jumps up. She gets the camera and huddles Hafez and me into a corner.

We smile, as much for the camera as the absurdity of having her fuss over us. The strained tension of the last few months dissipates under Natasha’s directions.

“Dad, closer. No, no. Your hand here. Mum, look up. Now look at dad. Now smile. Look here. Both of you. No teeth. Okay, teeth.”

Click, click, click.

“Dinner’s in the oven.” I remind her as I slip into my coat. “Don’t forget to watch the countdown.”

“See you next year,” says Hafez as he locks the door behind us.

It’s a sharp, chilly
evening. The crunch of snow echoes in the stillness as we back out of the driveway.

“I’ve been thinking,” says Hafez when we’re on the highway. “It’s been ages since we went on a family vacation. We should plan something for March break.”

I stare ahead. Three months into the future. “Is that what your therapist recommended?”

“No, I just thought it would be nice for the kids.” He takes my gloved hand. “And for us.”

We take the downtown exit. Brightly lit skyscrapers tower around us.

“Has Dr. Harper said anything about how long she expects you’ll be in therapy?”

“There’s no definite time frame.” Hafez signals, turning into an underground parking lot. He presses the button and takes a ticket.

No definite time frame. I watch the neon yellow gate rise slowly. No easy entry or exit point.

“So? What do you think?” Hafez parks and turns the engine off. “Any place particular you’d like to go? You’ve always had a thing for the South Pacific...”

No. Not the South Pacific. The South Pacific is four square frames on Troy’s wall.

“...but it’s too far,” he continues. “Maybe when the kids are older. I’m thinking the Caribbean this time? Or even—”

“Hafez.” I hold my hand up. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

I can’t bear to look at his face. I focus on the stark brick wall ahead. “I can’t do this anymore.”

The headlights of another car pass us by.

Hafez traces the steering wheel with his fingers. “I’m making progress, Shayda.” He leans back into his seat. “It’s tough, but you know what keeps me going?”

I look at him, the planes of his face blue from the fluorescent cast of underground lights.

“That feeling when you came into my life. Like for the first time, I was worth something. The way your face lit up when I walked through the door, like you’d been waiting all day for me. It was like coming home, even though home was a pull-out couch in my parents’ apartment.” He lets out a ragged sigh. “Being with you healed me, Shayda.”

I feel my throat seize.

“And then Pasha Moradi came and took that away. And even though he’s gone, I’ve been letting him take all the things that are important to me. My childhood, Ma, my self-esteem. I won’t give him any more, Shayda. I won’t let him have you. I should have done this a long time ago. But I’m doing it now, Shayda. I can do this. All my life I’ve fixed things. Stalled engines, flat tires, broken wind shields...Don’t give up on us, not when we’re so close.”

I reach for his clenched fist. “I know you want to hold on to this, Hafez, but you need to know the truth. You’re not the only one with issues. I’ve been seeing—”

“Shayda,” he cuts me off. “We don’t need to make decisions right now. It’s a big night. We can talk about it later. Let’s get you inside, okay?”

I put aside my
prepared speech and bare my soul to a room full of elegantly clad strangers. It feels cathartic, this uncensored confession, this facing of my fears, like opening up my heart and letting some blood out so it doesn’t choke on itself.

My voice touches the twenty foot ceilings, the magnificent domes and pillars, the iron-laced balconies, and bounces back to me. My eyes settle on random faces. On this table, Bob, Elizabeth, Susan, Marjaneh, Hafez. On that, Jayne, Matt, Charlotte, Gabriella and other function representatives.

At the ten minute mark, I get the signal to start winding it down. As I end with a note of gratitude to all the people, organizations and resources that helped me make it, the door opens. A man in a rumpled suit walks in, and I forget what I’m saying.

Troy is back.

And he looks like he’s come straight off the sixteen hour flight from Hong Kong. His eyes are tired, but they’re glowing, like the sight of me is food for a hungry heart.

“...and all the people I can’t even begin to name. You know who you are. Thank you.” I conclude, my heart pounding, breathless at the sight of one guest, where three hundred left me nervous, but unmoved.

He claps like I just won an Oscar, and I barely notice the standing ovation as I walk off the stage. The evening changes, like a spark has ignited the room. I glide back to my table, trying to keep him in sight.

“You were wonderful,” says Hafez.

When I look up again, Troy has disappeared.

The speeches continue, with Jayne introducing each guest. She looks adorable in a slinky black maxi dress, accentuating her baby bump. By the time desserts roll in, the presentations are over and the room is humming with conversation. Glittering chandeliers are dialed back up and the band starts to play.

“Elizabeth!” A silver haired woman with sassy pixie hair stops by our table. Her dress is simple but immaculately cut, a portrait of regal style in tones of silver and mint. She looks vaguely familiar.

“Grace, my god, it’s been ages.” Elizabeth gets up to greet her.

Bob follows, gallantly planting a kiss on her hand. “Did you bring Henry or has he been too much of a nuisance lately?”

“Henry’s at the table. He’ll be thrilled to see you,” she replies. “And you, my dear...” She fixes brilliant blue eyes on me. “What a marvelous speech.”

“Grace, this is Shayda, and her husband, Hafez,” says Elizabeth.

“Would you mind very much if I borrow your wife for a moment?” Grace asks Hafez. “I know Henry would love to meet her.”

“Not at all.” Hafez stands as I get up.

“You have a well-mannered fellow,” she remarks, leading Bob, Elizabeth and me through the maze of tables. “It’s important, you know, no matter what young people think today. Ah, here we are.”

A distinguished looking gentleman in an impeccably tailored suit and thick-rimmed glasses smiles as we approach.

“Bob, Elizabeth! How wonderful to see you. And I see you’ve rounded up my favorite person of the evening,” he says to his wife. “How do you do? I’m Grace’s husband, Henry.” He shakes my hand. “Please, sit.” He gestures around the empty table.

“We sent the kids off on an assignment.” Grace winks at Elizabeth.

“And how’s that going?” she asks.

“We’re hopeful, aren’t we, dear?” Grace turns to her husband.

“We’re meddling,” he replies. “We’ve been very patient, but—”

“Here they are.” Grace shushes him, her eyes on someone behind me.

I’m about to turn around when I hear Troy’s voice.

“Your donations have been made, courtesy of the Heathgate Group.” That rich, velvet-edged baritone.

My eyes fly to Grace and Henry. The photo in his living room. Grace, only with longer hair. Henry, minus the glasses. I’ve been making small talk with his parents.

Troy has obviously seen me because he stops directly behind me, resting his hands casually on the back of my chair. His thumb strokes the back of my neck, slowly, imperceptibly.

I suck in my breath.

“Shayda! I’ve been looking all over for you.” It’s Gabriella, her arm linked daintily around his. Dressed in a ravishing gown that tapers to a seductive V in the small of her back, she looks absolutely spectacular. The black lace plays peek-a-boo with her pale skin, making her silver-blond locks look luminous.

“Troy, this is Shayda,” she says.

He hasn’t shaved all day. A lock of jet-black hair is tumbling over his forehead. No tie, a wrinkled shirt. And he’s still the best looking man in the room.

“We’ve met.” He doesn’t shake my hand. Or smile. It’s like he’s hanging on to the frayed ends of his patience with the distractions, the people, the noise.

“You know each other?” asks Grace.

“They do,” replies Bob. “Shayda works with me. Troy purchased his loft through her.”

“Small world.” Henry smiles. “Please don’t mind my son. He’s a little grumpy today.”

“Troy, why don’t you and Ella go dance?” Grace pipes in. “The band is really fantastic. It’ll cheer you up.”

“No, thanks.” He pulls up a chair for Gabriella and takes the one next to me. “I’d like to sit for a while. If it’s all the same to you.” He looks pointedly at his parents.

“I think I’ll get back to my table now,” I say.

He seizes my wrist under the table, keeping me rooted.

Don’t go.

“But you just got here,” says Henry. “I’ve been meaning to ask you...” He launches into a discussion about my experience with health care system, what I liked, what I’d change.

I listen, but all my senses are focused on Troy’s fingers, making zig-zag swirls on my palm. He stares into his drink, nodding now and then as Ella carries on a conversation with him.

“It’s a far cry from Sweeney’s, eh?” A man slaps Troy on the back.

I freeze.

Troy squeezes my hand, steadying me.

His friend, the one we met on our weekend away, takes a seat across from me.