53 Letters For My Lover (34 page)

October 29th, 2000

Ambush hugs. That’s what
I call them. Hugs that catch you unawares.

It’s part of Hafez’s therapy, a daily exercise in intimacy. The rules are simple. You start with one minute and work your way up. Face each other, no talking. Your bodies have to touch. No space in between and no ‘there, there’ pats on the back.

“Bye.” I say at the top of the stairs, one hand on the banister.

He comes out from the bedroom and ambush-hugs me. “Bye.”

I don’t tense up like I used to. Somewhere between the mandatory hugs, I realized that it’s possible to love two people in two completely different ways. And I can allow myself, I can allow Hafez, the simple comfort of closeness, of acceptance, and not feel like I’m cheating on Troy. I wonder what the therapist would make of my twisted mindset.

The hugging is nice, a daily disconnect from incessant thoughts and guilt and worry, a tribute to our nights up with sick kids, of raking leaves in the backyard and taking out the garbage. It’s the few seconds after that are awkward. The removing of hands, re-zipping of faces. Hafez knows something is wrong. He’s known since the day I left him standing in the driveway. But I’m too exhausted to take it on right now.

The chemo has taken
its toll on me. Brushing my teeth hurts. Long cuts extend through my gums. I rinse out toothpaste and blood. When I look at my face in the mirror, I realize how much of it I’ve taken for granted, how the bits I’ve paid only passing attention to make up such a big part of my identity. Like my eyebrows and my eyelashes. I miss them. Perhaps even more than my hair. My reflection reminds me of an egg—smooth and bland. And blank. When I’m surprised, I look blank. When I frown, I look blank. When they said I’ll lose my hair, I pictured a bald head. I didn’t think about
all
my hair.

It started nine days after my first chemo. I woke up with long, curly strands on the pillow. Then they collected in the shower drain. My hairbrush. The towel. In a perverse way, it intrigued me to tug gently on a tuft of hair and watch it come out.

Zain accompanied me to the hairdresser’s. If I was going to lose my hair, I wanted to do it on my terms. I think it was the first time the hairdresser had to shave a woman’s hair off. She had this pained expression, like I was asking her to break some professional code. She was supposed to make me look pretty, dammit.

“I want to shave mine off too,” said Zain.

There was no talking him out of it. And so the poor lady had two bald heads walk out of her salon, noggin to noggin, in shining solidarity.

The eyebrows and eyelashes came later. After vaseline-smeared chapped lips and kleenex-stuffed bloody noses. Taste went, smell increased. Taste returned, vomiting started. Some days I lay face down on the couch, too tired to turn over. Other times, I put on my Beetroot Butterfly wig, and walked to the park. The wig was mostly for other people. It put everyone at ease. I took it off when no-one was around so I could feel the sun soak into my scalp.

“Who called?” I ask
Hafez, as I put my coat on.

“Dr. Hardy’s office. They want to see you next week.”

My physician, my surgeon and my oncologist. They stay on my mind as I drive to Jayne’s. Sometimes I see them as characters in a video game. A trinity of warriors, wielding surgical steel swords, summoned to a bloody tournament to compete against evil tumors and dark, inexplicable shadowy things. Mortal Kombat.

Two cars are already in the circular driveway when I pull up to Jayne’s place. The house backs onto a lush ravine, with tall trees holding on to the last of their fall foliage.

“Perfect timing,” says Jayne as she hugs me. “You remember Matt’s mother, Charlotte.”

“Of course.” I smile at the bird-like woman with the perfectly coiffed hair.

“Dear.” She takes my hands in a motherly gesture. “Thank you so much for doing this. I’m sorry I have to rush off.” She turns to Jayne. “Take care of my grandkid.” She pats Jayne’s tummy and says goodbye.

“Come on in.” Jayne pulls me inside after she’s gone. We cross the gleaming marble floor into the formal dining room. “I’d like you to meet Gabriella. She’s the newest member of our committee. Gabriella, this is my dear friend, Shayda.”

We shake hands across the dining table. Gabriella is stunning, with porcelain skin, silver blond hair and eyes the color of polished pewter.

“Look at you two,” remarks Jayne. “It’s like having summer and winter at my table. I don’t think two people could look more strikingly different.”

“I know.” Gabriella considers her arms. “I’m so pale I could pass for a ghost.” But her voice is warm and light, like she’s perfectly comfortable in her skin. “I would give anything for that delicious golden tan.”

“It’s not a tan. Shayda’s like this all year long,” says Jayne, scrunching up her nose. “I know.” She looks at Gabriella. “It’s disgusting.”

We laugh and chat over a selection of Jayne’s latest cravings: cheese on rye with thinly sliced zucchini pickles.

“You’re lucky you weren’t here yesterday. It was cottage cheese with BBQ sauce and ketchup chips.”

Gabriella laughs. “Remind me to keep tabs on the menu for our New Year’s Ball.”

“Hey, I’ll have you know I’m a perfectly fine hostess.” Jayne feigns indignation. “All of my events garner rave reviews.”

“I can’t argue with that,” replies Gabriella. “I’ve been over the figures for the last two events. I’m so excited to be a part of it.”

“And. AND.” Jayne pauses for effect. “We have an awesome line up of speakers this time, starting with this one.”

“What? I’m the first one on?” I ask.

“Think about it this way,” says Jayne. “Once it’s done, you get to sit back and enjoy the rest of the evening.”

I look at her dubiously.

“Here,” says Gabriella, pulling out the agenda. “Let’s go over the options.”

She walks me through the sequence of events, the timing, the presentations. Her confidence soothes my jittery nerves.

“So? What do you think?” she asks.

I think of the reclaimed dreams Troy dug up and hung for me on his bedroom wall. Perhaps there is more than one way to reach out and inspire people.

“I’ll do it,” I reply.

“Fantastic! We have a rehearsal the day before. I would love to see you there. In the meantime, if you think of anything else, here’s my card.” She gets up and collects her kelly green leather satchel. “Jayne, thanks for the pickles.” She gives her a cheeky grin. “It was lovely meeting you, Shayda.”

I glance at her card: ‘Gabriella Kensington CFA, Financial Analyst.’

“I like her.” I say when she’s gone.

“Isn’t she great?” says Jayne. “She’s smart, she’s funny and we’re incredibly lucky to have her. It was Troy’s mother who convinced her to join the charity.”

“Troy’s mother?”

“Yes. She’s also on the committee.” Jayne leans forward. “She’s been trying to set them up for months. To be honest, I think that’s part of the reason Gabriella took on the position. The girl has a massive crush on Troy. I mean massive.” Jayne holds her arms out wide. “If you thought I was sweet on him, you should see the look on Gabriella’s face when he’s around. She’s ten years younger, but can you imagine the kids the two of them would make? Ugh. But anyways, tell me how
you're
doing”

Her voice fades as realization hits me.

Gabriella.

Ella.

The same Ella that Troy’s mother mentioned when she called him at the cottage.

November 11th, 2000

Troy’s loft has become
my sanctuary. With Bob insisting I take some time off, I have whole days to myself when Hafez is away. My favorite days are like this, when I’m chasing words on the desk in his bedroom, and I hear the front door open. These chance intersections, unplanned and unscheduled, make me feel like we’re real, like the intangible between us has turned into a common space that we can walk in and out of.

I listen to the sound of his footsteps, stopping at the kitchen counter, the cushioned thud as he lowers his briefcase and lifts the plastic dome covering the plate. Steak, medium rare, mini roasted potatoes, sauteed vegetables. I know his favorites now. But he doesn’t pull up a stool and dig in. He walks over to the stove and I hear the scrape of metal as he finds the rack of brownies, still warm from the oven. I can almost hear his smile.

The tearing of a paper towel. Two, maybe three pieces of brownies. He walks down the hallway and into the bedroom, placing them on the night stand. With his back turned to me, he reaches for his cell and punches a number.

“Hey,” I answer on the first ring.

He swings around.

Winner of the biggest, sexiest grin ever.

“Hey,” he says into the phone before turning it off. “I didn’t see your car.”

“Visitor’s parking. I thought I’d surprise you,” I reply, surprised by my own reaction at the sight of him, the way his jacket hugs his shoulders, his undone collar, his face rough after a long day.

His phone rings. He glances at the number before picking up.

“Sam? Yes. Got them. The initial figures look good. I’ll go over them tonight.” He taps long fingers on the night stand. “I need that confirmed. Okay. Call when you have it.”

“Hong Kong?” I ask when he hangs up.

“Uh-huh.” He downs a brownie in one bite.

“When?”

“Mid-December.” He stretches out on the bed and props himself up on his elbow. “Why so far?”

“I’m writing.”

“What about?”

“A prince.”

“So it’s a fairy tale?”

“Kind of.”

“Can I read it?”

“No! It’s not ready yet.” I flip the cover down on the laptop.

“How do you know I haven’t read it already?”

“Because it’s triple password protected,” I reply smugly.

“You forget I know a thing or two about security.”

“You would hack into my computer?”

“I could.” He throws me a wicked smile. “But you keep distracting me.” He swings his legs over the side of the bed and rolls my chair over to him.

“Still too far.” He lifts me off the seat and onto his lap.

“Hello, Beetroot Butterfly.” His fingers slide into my hair.

“Hello, Scary Cherry.”

We fall back on the bed, kissing softly.

“Still tired?” he asks.

“On and off.”

“No more cooking and baking. You’re supposed to be resting,” he says.

“It gives me something to do.”

“I think you know what you
really
have to do.”

“And I will, as soon as I’m done with the chemo.”

“You're just putting off the inevitable, Shayda.”

“I know, but Hafez is just starting to get the help he needs. I don’t want to throw him a curve ball, not when he’s making progress every day. This next little while could be crucial to his therapy. I owe him that much, at least until I’m done with the chemo.”

Troy sighs and slips off my wig. “How much longer?”

“A few more rounds.”

He nods and kisses my bald head. “So can you stay?”

“Ten, fifteen more minutes.”

We lie side to side, studying each other’s faces.

“I met Gabriella.” I don’t know why I didn’t bring it up before.

“Gabriella?”

“Ella. Gabriella.”

He gives me a blank stare.

“The girl your mum’s been trying to fix you up with.”

“Ah. Gabriella,” he replies. “We went out a couple of times.”

My heart does a jealous hop. I think of the two of them sharing popcorn in a dark movie theatre. “What happened?”

“Well...” He runs his hand over the curve of my hip. “I was somewhat preoccupied.”

“But we weren’t...together.”

“Yeah, I don’t get that either. She was hot. Man, when I think back—ow!” He tears me away from his neck and rubs the teeth marks. “Marking your territory?”

“You bet.”

“So where did you meet Gabriella?” he asks.

“At Jayne’s,” I reply. “She asked me to speak at the New Year’s Ball, and Gabriella’s on the committee.”

“Ah.” He rubs his chin.

“What?”

“I just figured out why my mother wants me back in time for New Year’s. She told me she has tickets to some fancy bash. They’ll be in town for a few weeks over the holidays. Which reminds me, I told them they could use the guest bedroom.”

I slip my hand under his collar and feel the rosary around his neck. “I never thought about your parents’ reaction.”

“When I tell them about us?”

I nod.

He flips me on my side. “You just look after your end of things. I’ll take care of the rest. How are things at home?”

“Okay.” I lie.

Hafez’s therapist said we should list ten qualities we like about each other. I wanted to tear up his list. He likes how loyal I am, how trustworthy and unselfish and giving. How much I value family.

Sometimes I feel like I should just tell him. Everything. Other times I want to protect him, just a little longer, from the upheaval that will undoubtedly follow.

“So are you going to do it?” asks Troy.

“Do what?”

“Speak. At the New Year’s event.”

“I said yes, but I get so anxious every time I think about it.”