53 Letters For My Lover (3 page)

June 19th, 1995

It’s past midnight by
the time I get to Maamaan’s.

“They’re fast asleep,” she says as we check on the kids.

I stroke their hair. They smell of innocence and trust and fluffy teddy bears.

“Why don’t you just stay over?” asks Maamaan.

The thought of sleeping next to my mother, sandwiched between tightly tucked floral sheets, fills me with dread.

“I’ll pick them up in the morning. Do you think you could have them ready for school?”

Maamaan shrugs. She’s never been one to worry about details. Things always fall into place, people always do her bidding. Including Baba. Until she divorced him.

“I don’t have to put up with it here,” she said, a year after they moved from Tehran.

Of course, she had been counting on Hossein. He would stay with her, he would look after her.

Maamaan pours me a cup of coffee, regal, even in her curlers and ankle-length night gown. The orchid centerpiece sits unacknowledged on the counter. It’s more Maamaan than me. I feel like November around her, dull and colorless.

We sit in silence as the grandfather clock ticks the seconds by. The lamp over the table casts a pool of yellow light around us. The rest of the house creaks in weary darkness.

“You should find yourself a boyfriend,” says Maamaan, snipping a coupon. “You need chicken? It’s on sale.”

I choke on my coffee. “What?”

She taps the paper. “Chicken. Boneless, skinless.”

“Not that.”

“The boyfriend? Why not?” She puts her scissors down and looks at me. “They do it to us all the time. Every man I’ve known. My father, your father, your brother.”

“And look what happened.” I push my chair away from the table. “Hafez is nothing like them.”

“And you think that will keep you safe?” The bitter laugh of a woman whose face is lined with disappointment. “Your father and I, we were something, you know. We burned so bright, the stars grew jealous. But maybe you know something I didn’t. Maybe if you don’t allow yourself to shine, you never burn out.”

“I didn’t really have a choice, did I, Maamaan?”

“Well, you have it now.”

I know she’s trying to shake off some sense of remorse, for using me to secure the family’s move, to leave behind the life she couldn’t live anymore. Had I not married Hafez, we would still be in Iran. But she hadn’t done it alone. I had played along. There were so many things I had kept from her. What was the point in sharing dark, ugly secrets best left in the past?

“I have exactly what I want, Maamaan. Hafez makes me happy.”

“Hmph. Of course he makes you happy. You’d be happy with practically anyone. You’ve never believed anyone owes you anything.”

I sigh wearily. “What do you
want
from me, Maamaan?”

“Nothing.” She goes back to her coupons. “I don’t want anything from you.”

I look at my aging mother across the stark wooden table. She’s right. She’s never wanted anything from me. Not me. She always looked surprised when the nanny took a day off, like she’d forgotten I was there.

“Well.” I get up. “I’m all you’ve got.” I walk to the sink and start washing my cup. The water goes from icy cold to blistering hot in seconds.

“Would you just leave it?” Maamaan grabs the sponge and pushes me out of the way. “It drives me nuts. You can’t even have a cup of coffee without cleaning up after yourself.”

I push down the familiar prick of pain and wipe my hands. “Thanks for having the kids over this weekend.”

“Wait.” She gives me a yellow envelope stuck to the fridge with pink daisy magnets. “They made this for you.”

Inside is a lined sheet of paper, folded in half to make a card.

‘Happy Birthday Mum!’ it says. Four stick figures with giant heads hold hands in front of a crooked house. They’re standing on green spikes of grass under a crayon yellow sun.

‘We love you.’ Natasha’s careful print, the kind she reserves for important projects, scrolls across the sky.

“What is it?” asks Maamaan.

“Nothing.” I smile, folding the waxy paper back into the envelope. “Did Hafez call?”

“No. Were you expecting him to?”

“I thought that maybe—never mind.” I head for the door. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Come early,” she says. “I want you to call Hossein.”

My brother, her baby boy.

I am the secretary between two VIPs.

“Hossein, Maamaan wants to
speak to you.” That’s how it goes.

I can always feel his misery, picture him squaring his shoulders for the guilt trip that’s about to hit him.

Maamaan had chosen the prettiest girl for him, the flower of Tehran.

“Give me lots of grandchildren,” she said.

But things fell apart. Hossein fell in love with someone he wasn’t supposed to. He left his wife, said goodbye and moved to Montreal. He has three kids now. He sent us a picture of his first born five years ago. We are like shadows from another life to him.

“Maamaan, he loves you,” I say in the moments her heart is breaking.

“What good is love if you don’t show it?”

June 21st, 1995

“Troy Heathgate, Line 3
.” Susan buzzes me.

I stare at the flashing red light.

Don’t pick up. Don’t pick up. Don’t pick up.

“Good morning, Shayda Hijazi,” I say in my most professional voice.

“Shaydahhh.” So lazy, so raspy, so I-just-woke-up that I can almost see him in bed. “I’m looking for a place. A condo or loft. Downtown. I’d like you to help me find it.”

“Sorry, Troy.” I press down hard on my pen. “My client list is pretty full right now.”

A long pause.

“Let me get this straight...” His voice turns steely. “You’re refusing to work with me?”

“I...uh...” I wind the telephone cord around my fingers, wishing I could throttle the connection.

“I see.”

The line goes dead.

I unclench the phone from my hand.

That was easy. I look at the line again.

Too easy.

An hour later, he strides into my office and shuts the door behind him. V-neck t-shirt, worn-in jeans, silver belt buckle—looking like he’s walked straight out of a Levis ad.

“Wha...what are you doing here?”

“I get to you, don’t I?” He leans back against the door and folds his arms, unnerving me with point blank scrutiny.

“What are you talking about?”

“The only reason you didn’t take me on is because you’re afraid.” He takes two steps towards me.

“That’s ridiculous.” I give thanks to whoever thought of putting wheels on a chair.

“Bullshit!” His palms slam down on my desk.

I grip the edges of the folder I’m holding.

“Kiss me, Shayda.” His voice is thick, like slow-pouring molasses. “It can’t possibly be as good as it is in my head. I’ll walk out of here and we’ll both be free.”

He leans in, his hands spanning the width of the table. I notice twin tattoos circling his biceps. The blue-black barbed wire reminds me of a crown of thorns. I bet he hasn’t had to sacrifice a thing in his life. In spite of the cross dangling around his neck. I scoff and meet his eyes.

Big mistake.

This is what it must feel like, being sucked into the dizzying spiral of a deadly tornado. One moment I’m spinning in the absurdly dark rings around his electric blue irises, and the next, everything fades into the smoldering sensuality of his mouth.

How many heartbeats does it take to cross ten inches? To close the buzzing, zinging, charged up field between us?

He waits, not moving, not breathing.

I move, not thinking, not caring.

Anything to break free of this absurd, intense connection between us.

That first brush of our lips—I think it’s going to be like a white-hot current zapping through me, but it’s not. It’s soft and still and very, very quiet.

Ha! I rejoice. I can do this. I can break this spell.

My smugness lasts for all of two seconds. Until his arms come around, cradling my face. And he kisses me back.

All of that dancing, cheating, lying-in-wait energy explodes between us. It swirls through my blood and surges inside me. I reel back, but he doesn’t let go, holding me immobile as his mouth devours me. A hot, awful joy bubbles in my veins as he drags me through a twisting-turning tempest. My fingers start to loosen their grip on the folder, greedy for the texture of his hair.

And just as I begin to melt, he backs off.

My eyes bolt open.

“Thank you. That’s all I needed.” He turns and walks out the door.

A few minutes later, I hear him in Bob’s office, cool as ice, asking him to show him some properties.

God. I twist my wedding band until the skin beneath turns white. How could I? How could I, knowing he kissed Jayne with those lips? And Heather. And Felicia.

My eyes sting with tears.

What is it about Troy Heathgate that just won’t let me be?

July 23rd, 1995

“Welcome back.” I hug
Jayne. “You look amazing.”

“Like my tan?” She holds out her arms. “Greece was fabulous!”

“This place isn’t too bad either.” I look around.

A sprawling log cottage, tucked away in a secluded cove on Lake Of Bays. The water sparkles through the majestic pines lining the shoreline.

“It’s been in Matt’s family for three generations. I’m going to love spending the summer here.”

“And then what?” I ask.

“And then there’s so much to do! We have to find a place of our own. Then I’ll be busy decorating. Oh, and Matt’s mum wants me to help with her charity. Can you imagine? Me, a sophisticated socialite?”

“You’re going to do great.”

It’s true. There may be just four years between us, but Jayne and I are worlds apart. She loves the glamour and glitter, the dinners with influential people. I prefer quiet nights at home, the simple rituals of tucking the kids in, of putting away a freshly washed load of laundry; the smell of homemade soup.

We turn at the sound of rubber on hot gravel. A car pulls into the driveway. It’s impossible to mistake the driver’s silhouette, the narrow waist, the long muscular thighs.

I suck in a lungful of air. It’s been a few weeks. His skin is darker, like he’s been playing in the sun. He starts walking towards us, with that lazy gunslinger stride, a power keg dressed in snug jeans and a black t-shirt.

“Troy, you made it!” Jayne abandons the lunch we’re setting and runs to greet him.

“Friends?” She kisses him on the cheek.

“Friends,” he replies.

His eyes skim the long table under the oak tree and fix on me.

“Nice,” he says, but he’s not looking at the rustic lanterns on the table, or the mason jars filled with bright sunflowers.

He takes me in, from the red bandana holding my hair back, to the white summer dress, to the bamboo sandals on my feet.

“Hello, Shayda.”

“Troy.” I nod and busy myself with the table.

“Oh good!” says Jayne as a van arrives. “Ryan’s here. Troy, would you mind rounding everyone up? Mum, dad and Matt are in the kitchen with Shayda’s kids.”

His eyes swing my way.

Yes, Troy. Kids. I had another one after the girl.

“I can’t believe you invited him!” I say as soon as he’s out of earshot.

“Troy?” Jayne looks puzzled. “Why?”

“Really? The man who had the audacity to kiss you on your wedding day?”

“Oh that. Well...” She smiles. “He didn’t kiss me. I kissed him.”

“What?”

“Don’t look so shocked, Shayda. You know I’ve always had a killer crush on him. He came in to congratulate me and I figured it was my last chance. Ever. So I kissed him.”

“And?”

“And nothing.” Jayne shrugs as she arranges the cutlery. “He gave me cold, dead lips. It was rather awkward, to say the least.”

“Then why did you slap him?”

“Because!” She puts her hands on her hips. “He said, ‘You want me to get the ice again, squirt?’ He still thinks of me as Ryan’s little sister from that summer. Squirt. Who calls the bride a squirt? Really!”

I laugh. Jayne has always managed to get exactly what she wants. Her pick of the best clothes, the best schools, her choice of men. Her exasperation is understandable.