53 Letters For My Lover (9 page)

“What happened?” Pedar’s face was the color of ash.

“The filthy bugger attacked her.” Hafez wrapped me in the torn shower curtain and carried me to the couch.

“Mind your tongue!” Pedar stepped over the glass shards in his polished Nowruz shoes.
“Jigar?”
He tried to rouse him, but Pasha Moradi wouldn’t respond.

“What are you waiting for?” Pedar yelled at Hafez. “Call an ambulance!”

“He’s gone. And I hope he rots in hell.”

“Hafez!” Ma found her voice.
“Be pedaret goosh kon!”

“Listen to him? Why should I? He never listened to me. Did you, Pedar?”

Pedar ignored him, frantically dialing the phone.

“Even now,” laughed Hafez. “Even now you don’t listen.” He swept the phone off the stand in a violent sweep of his hands. It clanged to the floor with a jarring crash.

Pedar stood still, holding the receiver in one hand, his mouth hanging open.

“I came to you. I told you. And you did nothing. Nothing!”

“It was a long time ago. You were imagining things.”

“And this?” Hafez pointed to me. “Am I imagining this too?”

“She brought this on herself.”

“You’re a coward.” Hafez’s voice was shaking. “You can bury your head in the sand. You can tell yourself whatever the hell you like, but you know he did this. Just as you knew he was abusing me.”

Some words, when spoken, are like spells that unleash demons from carefully nailed coffins.

“Hafez—” I tried to speak.

“Do you think I didn’t know?” whispered Hafez. “What a farce the two of you played all these years.”

The sound of Pedar’s palm stinging Hafez’s cheek echoed in the ensuing silence. Ma’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water.

“Here.” Hafez picked up the phone and handed it to Pedar. “Call them. Tell them your son just killed your lover.”

June 10th, 1983

Bob Worthing had a
small home office where I spent the day taking calls, booking appointments and looking after the paperwork. He offered me the job after the investigation cleared Hafez and me of Pasha Moradi’s death. The police ruled it as accidental, and our actions as self defense. Bob Worthing’s statement, about what he had witnessed of Pasha Moradi’s behavior, may have helped. Working for him was not something I did just for the pay check; it was also an expression of gratitude for his kindness. Not only did he introduce me to his answering machine, his fax and his typewriter, but also his home, his wife and daughter.

“He’s gone?” Jayne padded into the office with her sleep-ruffled hair, tank top and shorts.

“Your father’s at a lunch meeting.”

“But it’s barely—” She looked at her watch. “Oh.”

It was hard not to like Jayne. She sat across from me, legs drawn in, and rested her chin on her knees.

“Ryan’s going to be here in a few weeks.” She grinned.

“You must be excited about seeing your brother again.”

“Yes...” She hesitated, then trailed off with a sly smile.

“But...?”

“But I’m also looking forward to seeing his friend.”

“Ah. The friend.”

“I know, I know. You’re sick of hearing about him, but Shayda, he’s soooo dreamy.”

“I’ve told you before Jayne, he’s too old for you,” her mother said from the kitchen.

Jayne rolled her eyes. “He’s twenty one. How is that too old? And can you not eavesdrop?” She got up and shut the door. “Swear to god, she hears everything.”

“Not everything.” Elizabeth opened the door and peeked in. “I’m just saying. You’re in high school, he’s in college. Plus I don’t see him going for his best friend’s sixteen year old sister.”

“Seventeen!” Jayne folded her arms and looked at me. “What’s the age difference between you and Hafez, Shayda?”

Six years. But I didn’t want to get involved. “I think I’ll have my lunch now,” I said.

“Ooh, that looks good.” Jayne eyed the greek food I’d brought from Farnaz’s restaurant.

“Jayne. That’s rude,” said her mother.

“No, it’s fine. Would you like some?” I asked.

“Uh-huh.”

“Really, Jayne.” Elizabeth shook her head. “I hope you like shepherd’s pie, Shayda, because I insist you join me for lunch.”

“Shepherd’s pie sounds lovely,” I replied.

I was tired of eating leftovers from the restaurant. Hafez and I worked there at night. Behram and Farnaz had been kind enough to let us use the store room after we locked up. We planned on moving out as soon as Hafez found a job.

I finished at Bob’s
and got to the restaurant by 6 p.m. Locking the restroom door behind me, I freshened up for the evening shift. Washcloth, soap, warm water. On Mondays, when the restaurant was closed, I washed my hair in the sink. I still saw Pasha Moradi every time I looked in the mirror, his twisted face staring over my shoulder. I put on my apron and took a deep breath, thankful that the restaurant was still empty. It wouldn’t be long before the Friday night crowd started coming in.

The door chimed as I was setting up the tables.

“Hi, Farnaz,” I greeted her.

Then I saw the woman standing behind her.

“Ma!”

She held out her arms.

In the three months since Hafez and I had walked out of the apartment, she’d shrunk. Her eyes were deep hollows and the lines on her face were etched deeper. I pulled out a chair and sat her down.

“I’ll be in the kitchen,” said Farnaz, disappearing behind the doors.

“I ask her...to bring me.” Ma wheezed.

“Are you all right?”

“I come to see Hafez.”

“He’ll be here soon.”

Classifieds, interviews, employment offices. It’s what he did all day.

“I wait,” she said. “How are you?”

“I’m fine.”

She must have seen through it because she slumped into the chair and closed her eyes.

Look, I wanted to tell her, my face has healed up. The bruises are gone, the cuts mended. All that’s left is a scar where my lips split open. I’m fine. Really.

But I couldn’t find the words to comfort her. What could I say to make a mother feel better about the awful truth she had learned that day?

I excused myself as a couple walked in. I had just handed them the menus when Hafez came in.

“I got it,” he said.

There should have been more excitement in his eyes, more victory in his voice, but everything was less. Pasha Moradi’s death should have freed him, but every time he looked at me, he was reminded.

“I thought you’d be safe,” he’d said as they cleaned up my wounds that night. “I thought he was into boys. Men. But it wasn’t about that. It was about power.” Hafez wore his guilt like a layer of self-loathing, even now when he should have been celebrating his new job.

“The truck driver position?” I asked.

“I need some training, but they liked the fact that I can fix cars. I start next week.”

“That’s great.” I felt a small bubble of relief.

We needed this. To feel good and worthy. To have hope for tomorrow.

“Hafez...” I pointed to the back. “Go talk to her.” I left him with Ma and went back to the customers.

When I returned, Ma was distraught.

“You make him understand,” she said. “He say no. He say no to me.”

“Ma.” Hafez took her hand. “Now is not a good time, but it won’t be long before we have our own place. I have a job now. I promise. I’ll come and get you.”

“Now. You take me now,” she cried. “I can’t live with him. I stay here. I stay. I sew. I cook. I help.” She started to cough, gasping for breath in between.

“Khaleh,
it’s time to go.” Farnaz touched her shoulder gently.

Ma looked at Hafez.

“Soon, Ma,” he promised.

She walked to the door slowly. I could only imagine how painful her bloated feet felt.

The evening passed in
a blur of food and change and loud music. When everything was locked up and we were ready for bed, I set mouse traps around the mattress. It was the only way I could fall asleep after the horror of the first night.

We lay back to back on the makeshift bed. I understood now why Hafez slept facing away from me. There was a vulnerability in sleep, those unguarded hours when you didn’t want anyone to see your face, when grotesque shadows rearranged its contours as they roamed your dreams.

The shrill ring of the phone woke us up. Hafez stumbled to the kitchen to answer it.

I looked at the time. 3:15 a.m.

When Hafez didn’t return, I went looking for him.

“It was Farnaz.” He was sitting at one of the booths in the dining room, barely discernible in the dark.

I started shaking because I knew it was bad.

“Ma...” He kept his eyes on the salt shaker, sliding it on the table, from one hand to the other. “She’s gone.”

“Where?” I thought of her trapped in that tiny apartment, staring at the empty spot that had been her glass cabinet.

“She’s dead, Shayda. The doctors say her heart finally caught up with her. What do they know?” Hafez laughed. It was a bitter, hollow sound. “It was me. I’m the one that failed her.”

“Don’t do this to yourself,” I said.

Across the street, the traffic lights changed. Red, amber, green, each one casting an eerie glow on our faces. The streets were empty and still they continued, flashing to a pre-set pattern.

“When’s the funeral?” I asked, after a long stretch of silence.

“Pedar doesn’t want us there.”

“She’s your mother. He can’t stop you.”

“Maybe it’s for the best. If I see him, I’ll kill him.”

“Hafez—” I reached for him, but he flinched.

“The day we first met, I just wanted to get Ma off my back. I thought I’d say, ‘There. I met her. I don’t like her.’ I’d done it before. I couldn’t tell her that I was damaged, that no girl deserved that.” He stopped playing with the glass shaker.

“But I liked you,” he said. “You were sweet. And innocent. I thought that if I could hang around you long enough, I’d become less...dirty. So I put you on a pedestal, like those figurines that Ma loved. I wanted to keep you pure and safe. Instead I dragged you into the mud. I let you down, Shayda, just like I let Ma down today.”

I watched him lay his head on the table. He was surrendering, letting waves of guilt and shame toss him around. The painting of Poseidon, hanging across the restaurant, mocked me. I saw Pasha Moradi, rising from the depths, ready to spear Hafez with his trident.

No.

He had taken the boy. He was not going to get the man.

I held Hafez. I rocked him. I brushed the hair away from his face. I gathered the drifting pieces and stuck them back on. When he finally looked at me, I kissed him. When he turned away, I kissed him. I kissed away the layers of stuck-on grime so he could feel clean again. I gave him all the things I wanted for myself. Love and tenderness and a place to belong. And slowly, he turned to me in the dark, resting his forehead on mine.

I slipped the straps of my nightgown off my shoulders and let him look at me. Red, amber, green, my skin glowed. I took his hand and placed it on my soft, warm flesh. He gasped, finally allowing himself to breath.

“Shayda...” He wrapped his arms around me and lifted me off the table.

We made love for selfish reasons, clutching at other. He needed to claw his way out of the pain and I wanted to be needed. We shared a bond beyond our gold bands. A common predator haunted us, and I knew, even as Hafez shut out my face when he took me, that we were always going to be.

November 11th, 1995

I reach for the
crimson coat that Hafez gave me that first winter. It’s frayed around the edges now, but it reminds me of hot pizza and new dreams.

I head to the community centre with the kids. Zain has just switched from swimming to guitar.

“I hate it!” he said of the beginner’s aqua class.

“It’s an important life skill. You have to learn.”

“Next semester. Pleaaase?” He pulled puppy dog eyes. We caved and bought him a guitar.

Between his music, Natasha’s art classes, and my open houses, weekends are a blur of activities. I head to the grocery store after seeing the children off.

“$84.56, please.”

I hand my card to the cashier.

“Shayda?”

I look at her for the first time.

“Marjaneh.” Hossein’s ex. My one time sister-in-law.

She seems embarrassed as she hands my card back. “I just started here.”

“How are you?”

“Good.” Her eyes move to the line forming behind me. “How is Maamaan?”

She still calls my mother ‘Maamaan’, but I know she’s asking, ‘How is Hossein?’

“Fine,” I reply.

The man behind me coughs, not too discretely.

“Good seeing you.” I pick up my bags.

“You too.”

I walk out of
the store, thinking about her.

Marjaneh, the girl whose fate I may have stolen.

Our fathers had been business partners in Tehran. The plan was to send Marjaneh and me abroad. Every month, they put aside money for airfare. When there was enough to send one of us, they held a big picnic to celebrate. All of our extended family joined in.

We ate and played games, and then it was time to decide which one of us would go.