53 Letters For My Lover (32 page)

Her outlook is refreshingly empowering. I like her right away.

She ushers us into the private fitting room. Jayne stays with me, but I keep my back to her, not wanting her see my chest full on. It’s not long though, before Kelly nudges my body around, taking measurements at strategic points on my chest and around the rib cage.

Jayne holds a wobbly smile, keeping her eyes on my face, although there’s no way to avoid the angry lines slashed across my front, screaming, ‘Look at me, look at me!’

With the bra fitting done, Kelly notes the shape and drape of my chest, and has me try on me a variety of prostheses. In the end, I opt for silicone forms with a self-shaping inner layer. We pick a nude seamless bra with molded cups and breathable mesh pockets to insert the breast forms. The straps are softly padded and the extra support makes me feel more held-in and secure.

“I think that looks just right,” says Kelly. “But you need some fun, sexy bras, maybe a matching set? I’ll be right back.”

With the new bra and breast forms in place, I button up my blouse and look in the mirror, feeling like I can finally walk into a room without feeling self-conscious.

“Look, Jayne. No more Frankenboobs.”

My smile freezes when I see the tears pooling in her eyes.

“Oh, Shayda,” she cries, giving me a big hug.

We stand in front of the full-length mirror, me consoling her, as she sobs uncontrollably into my shoulder.

“It’s okay,” I say.

“I’m pregnant,” she announces and clings on tighter.

“What?” I step back and look at her.

“I’m finally pregnant!”

We start laughing. And crying. And laughing.

When Kelly returns, we’re holding on to each other’s shoulders, hopping up and down.

“Well, that’s one way to test your prostheses,” she says.

I leave with new bras, panties, a padded swimsuit, vitamin E for my scars and a wedge cushion which Kelly says will help me sleep better.

“You don’t have to go home yet, do you?” asks Jayne.

I look at my watch. I have an hour before I meet Troy. “Let’s go into that café.”

We cross the road and find a cozy table by the window.

“So when’s the big day?” I ask.

Jayne rubs her belly. “It’s going to be a spring baby. Late March, early April. And of course, you are going to be the godmother.”

“I’d be honored. But you do know I could be called on to check out at any time.”

“And so can anyone else,” she chides. “So? Tell me.”

I do my best, leaving out the husks, the tough, tasteless bits that stick in your mouth, begging to be spit out. Like lying under bright surgical lights, feeling like a still-alive frog about to be dissected. The phantom pains that fool you into thinking you still have your breasts, until you reach for them. Wishing you could keep the thick, white gauze on forever so you don’t have to face the deformity below. Crying in the bathroom because your scars are puckered and bruised, and not at all like the nice, clean lines you imagined. How ‘okay’ becomes your personal mantra. ‘Okay, okay, okay,’ while you’re waiting for them to tell you if they got it all. ‘Okay, okay, okay,’ when you notice skin folds on the side of your body because the tissue under your arms is now just hanging. ‘Okay, okay, okay,’ when your backside is gaping through thin, paper gowns and you would give anything for a blanket.

I don’t tell Jayne any of that. It doesn’t pair well with the strawberry and spinach salad or the grilled chicken or anything else on the menu.

“You didn’t opt for reconstruction?” she asks.

“It’s a possibility I may consider down the road.” I reply. “It would mean more surgeries. Tissue expanders, permanent implants, nipple reconstruction. For now, I just want to give my body the chance to heal.”

Jayne nods. “I’m planning a New Year’s Charity Ball with Matt’s mum. It would be wonderful if you spoke about your experience. You know, raise awareness.”

“You know me and public speaking. I don’t know if I can share something like this with a room full of strangers.”

“No pressure. Just something to think about.”

“Sure,” I reply as we say our goodbyes. “And we definitely have to talk about a baby shower.”

“I’m glad you’re back,” she says before driving off.

I glance at my watch.

On my way
, I text Troy.

I take a deep breath and check my face in the rear view mirror. I’m filled with anticipation and dread.
Okay, okay, okay
. I start the car, wincing a little as I turn the wheel.

He buzzes me into
the garage. I reach for the door to the elevator when it swings open. We stop at the same time.

He moves first, pulling me inside. The door shuts behind us. He scans me from head to foot, like a parent checking a newborn for ten fingers and toes.

“God, I’ve missed you.” He envelopes me in a tender embrace.

We step into the elevator, still locked together. The afternoon sun glints off the dark wood in his living room. He seats me on the couch, takes my boots off and places my feet on his lap. His fingers knead them with a strong, steady pressure.

I smile.

“What?” he asks.

“You did that the first time I met you in that hotel room.”

“I remember.”

“I always wondered why you insisted on meeting there.”

“Because I was selfish,” he replies. “I figured we’d have a wild, passionate fling. Get it out of our systems, get on with our lives.” He strokes the top of my foot. “I didn’t want reminders of you here, in my bed, in the kitchen, on the couch. But it didn’t matter. My place. Or the hotel. You were in my head. I couldn’t stop thinking about you.” He pauses. “That reminds me—I got you something while I was in Mexico.”

He walks into the bedroom and comes out with a gorgeous shawl.

“It’s a rebozo.” He places it around my shoulders.

“It’s beautiful.”

The rich, crimson fabric feels like a soft blend of cotton and raw silk.

“You must have read my mind,” I say. “I was wishing I had something like this when I was in the hospital.” I pull the ends and wrap it around myself.

Something jingles on its hand-knotted fringes.

“What’s this?” A set of keys are tied at the edge.

“The keys to my place.”

I stare at them quietly.

“I don’t want you to have to buzz in,” he says. “Walk in, walk out. Anytime you like. And while you’re at it, feel free to make whatever changes you like. I want the place ready for when you and the kids move in.”

“About that...” I weigh the keys in my hand. “There’s something you should know.” I take a deep breath. “Hafez has been amazing. Beyond amazing. Through all of this. And the kids...I need time to ease out of it.”

“How much time?”

“I know Hafez won’t fight me for the kids. He’s away so often. But I can’t just uproot them and move in here with you.”

“Fine. We’ll find a place close to their school. Keep them in a familiar environment. This place was never permanent, anyways. I’ve always wanted kids, Shayda. Always. I would love them like my own.”

“That’s not it, Troy. I need to do it alone for a while. Without Hafez, without you. The divorce will be difficult enough. I want to introduce the kids to the idea of having you around slowly. One thing at a time. What I’m saying is...we need to hold off a little longer.”

Silence.

I hold his scalding gaze for as long as I can.

“Troy—”

“Unacceptable.”

“But—”

“It’s not up for debate, Shayda. I refuse to wait any longer. I almost lost you, dammit! I am not wasting any more time, and I’m not going to let you do it either. I will have you by my side, in my house, in my bed, so help me god!” His eyes flash with steely determination.

“And if I don’t agree?”

“Are you waiting for a ring, Shayda? Is that it? Are you afraid of creating a bad impression on the kids?”

“I just want to do the right thing.”

“Well, it’s a little too late for that, don’t you think?”

I flinch like he just slapped me in the face. This is not how I anticipated our first meeting after my surgery.

“I deserved that.” I start pulling my boots back on.

“Shayda—”

“No! I get it. You didn’t sign up for this.” I gesture to my chest. “If you’re looking for a way out, there’s no need to be cruel. Have the balls to say it. Tell me I’m not woman enough for you anymore.”

Troy clamps his jaw tight. “If that what’s you think, then you might as well leave. Don’t expect me to indulge you so you can feel fucking sorry for yourself.”

The way he says it sends cold chills to the centre of my soul. He’s right, of course. I want to be coddled and reassured. I want to be told I’m still beautiful, still desirable. Instead, he’s holding out my discarded self-esteem, insisting I dust it off and put it back on.

“You know the one thing I regretted when the anesthesiologist told me to start counting back?” I say.

He keeps his face turned away.

“I thought, ‘What if I don’t wake up from this? I never told Troy I love him. I never really said the words’.”

His breath escapes in a long exhale.

I frame his face in my hands. “I love you, Troy.”

I say the words to him, but a dam breaks loose inside, releasing gallons of soothing salve that heal my wounds from within.

He puts his arm around me and draws me in.

“We both want the same thing, Shayda. Let’s not fight.” He presses his lips into my forehead.

I sigh and settle into the warmth of his chest. “I’m scared, Troy. I’m scared I’ll do all this, turn everything upside down, only to have the cancer return. And then what? It will all have been in vain.”

“If we base our decisions on all the things we’re afraid of, we would be paralyzed with fear. We’d never have the guts to love, or hope or dream, or have kids, or swim in the ocean. And that’s what makes us human, isn’t it? What carries us through it all?”

“But it’s not right to be selfish about it either. I don’t want to ruin their lives, or yours, Troy.”

“There you go again, hogging all the responsibility, deciding everyone’s going to fall apart before giving us the chance to react. You didn’t get here alone, you know. There were inherent problems in your marriage right from the start.”

There are no more secrets. I’ve told Troy everything, including the whole, dark truth about Pasha Moradi.

“Yes, but it wasn’t Hafez’s fault.”

“It wasn’t your fault either,” he replies. “You tried to make the best of a difficult situation, and so did he. Maybe it’s time you put some faith in Hafez. Maybe you’ll find out that as much as you want him to be happy, he wants the same for you. So quit with the long face. It’s not like the fate of the entire universe is resting on your shoulders.”

“Ouch. Talk about deflating a woman’s ego.” I laugh.

“I’m just saying. You’ve been through enough. Give yourself a break, Beetroot.” He smiles. “You want something to eat?”

“No. I had lunch with Jayne. I got fitted for breast prostheses today.”

“Is that what you’re wearing?” He traces the edge of my collar.

I tense, not ready for him to see.

He pulls away, just a fraction, enough so I can breathe again.

“What’s it like?”

“These? They’re are made of silicone—”

“That’s not what I mean.”

What’s it like to face your own mortality?

“It makes you think,” I reply. “The big things, the small things. The dreams, the regrets.”

“Like?”

“Well, big things like wondering if you’ll ever see your kids graduate. Small things that you never get around to, like a trip to the South Pacific. Falling asleep in an overwater bungalow to the sound of swaying palm trees. Snorkeling unexplored reefs, dipping your feet into waterfalls that cascade over volcanic cliffs. You revisit your dreams, the ones you lose along the way. At one time, I wanted to be a writer, to touch someone with words, to inspire.”

He listens to me quietly. “And the regrets?”

“I have none now.” I say, kissing him softly.

October 9th, 2000

It’s the Monday of
Thanksgiving weekend. I lie in bed, wondering what Natasha and Zain are doing up so early.

“I’ll go take a look,” says Hafez, after a particularly loud clang from downstairs.

He doesn’t come back, but the tinkering stops. I close my eyes and doze off.

“Breakfast!” yells Natasha.

I shuffle out of bed and head down.

The table is set with scrambled eggs and french toast and fresh strawberries.

“Looks great.” I sit down to still faces. “What’s wrong?” I look around the table.

“Surprise!” Zain jumps up with a cardboard sign that says ‘HAPPY’.

Natasha grins and gets up, holding ‘ANNIVERSARY!’

Then Hafez. ‘# 18’.

Zain puts his arms around me. “Happy Anniversary, mum.”

“I was sure you were going to come down before we were ready!” Natasha laughs, kissing me on both cheeks. “I’m glad dad did though. I was going to boil some eggs and Zain had microwave oatmeal ready to go.”

“All that noise for boiled eggs and oatmeal?”

“We had to make the signs too!” says Zain.