An Illusion of Trust (Sequel to The Brevity of Roses) (9 page)

Diane's in luck today. When she and Aza come back from shopping, Adam and I are in the pool and Jalal's reading in the shade beside it with six-month-old Mia Grace curled like a kitten on his chest. Diane doesn't even ask if he minds before she pulls up a chair and plops herself down beside him. "Azadeh says you're building a writing studio out here."

"I might."

"Yeah," I say, "because a fourteen-room house just doesn't have enough space to write in."

Diane lifts her chin, so she's literally looking down her nose at me. "It's probably hard for you to understand, Renee, but a proper environment is crucial to inspiration."

What a pretentious bitch. I round my eyes and deadpan, "I had no idea." Jalal's mouth draws up so tight it looks like he's about to whistle, but he keeps it together by not meeting my eyes. Diane ignores me and asks Jalal a question about some book. Her blather doesn't interest me, and I go back to playing with Adam. I'm not usually the one in the pool with him. He and Jalal take to water like fish. I'm more content to sit beside it, though a pool offers a sorry substitute for the serenity of the ocean.

Now, though I think Jalal was just being polite at first, all three of them are debating the merits of some poet I've never heard of. I might as well be on the moon. He would deny it, but Jalal thinks I'm stupid. I hear the difference in the language he uses when he speaks to others about the topics he never discusses with me. And now here's dear Diane talking poetry all over the place. So what if I never went to college? I know about hard living. I know about independence. I know about reality. Concepts he has only an acquaintance with.

"Renee," Jalal says, "what are you daydreaming about?"

"Nothing," I say, absently. Then I look up and see Adam out of the pool, standing beside Jalal. Oh, God; he could have drowned! I'm beside Adam in seconds, wrapping him in a towel, or trying to. I'm shaking so hard I can barely hold on to it. But I'm not crying. Jalal shifts the baby to his shoulder and stands.

"Excuse us, ladies. We need to put these two down for their naps."

I lose it as soon as the door closes behind us. "Oh, God. I took my eyes off him. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Jalal reaches for me and pulls me close.

"Shhh. Take a deep breath." He waits until my shaking has almost stopped and then he says, "Look at me. Adam went directly to the steps and got out. He had on his water wings. He knows not to go past—or even near—the rope floats. And there were four adults within twenty feet of him. This was not even close to a tragedy. All right?"

I nod, but I'm not all right. It's not all right that I let my mind wander when I was supposed to be watching my toddler in the pool. That's never all right.

"I stuck," says Adam, who's been trapped between our legs this whole time. Jalal laughs and lets me go, so I can step back and set Adam free. I can't even smile.

On this beautiful June evening, we've just finished a quiet dinner on Judith's patio when Hank and Jalal begin discussing the stock market. Judith motions for me to follow her into the house. "I don't want to discuss making money," she says. "I just want to have plenty of it."

"Have you always had plenty?"

A surprised "Good lord," bursts through Judith's laugh. "I will never get used to your candor. I love that about you. And yes, I've always had enough … and most of the time I've had plenty."

"I'm not comfortable with it," I say. "Having money, I mean."

"Why on earth not?"

"I don't trust it. It's just something Jalal assumes will always be there. I can't do that."

Judith lays a hand on my arm. "Lately, it seems you worry about everything. And there's no cause for any of it that I can see. I think you should talk to your doctor about post-partum depression, Renee."

"Judith, I am not—"

"I've watched you. You're animated with the children and Jalal and … and everyone, I guess, but when you think no one is watching, you go blank. You're only acting like everything is fine."

"No. I'm just tired. Mia Grace is only five months old, and she's not sleeping through the night, and—"

"And with Jalal and Azadeh there—day and night—to watch the children, you can't possibly nap."

"You don't understand."

"No, I don't. Do you?" She waits for a response I can't give. "Exactly. That's why you need to talk to someone."

I turn away. "I'm just tired."

"You're depressed," Judith says, but she lets go of my arm. "I have some French silk pie, want some?"

"Of course."

"Start the coffee, will you?"

Judith knowing when to drop a subject is one of the things I like about her. I don't know how to put what's wrong with me into words. Or maybe I do. I wasn't lying when I said I'm tired, but it's not from lack of sleep. I'm tired from the effort of pretending I'm someone else. I can't fill Meredith's shoes. I don't even like those shoes. They're not my style. Wow, how ungrateful does that sound? I have more reasons to be happy than I've ever had—than I ever
dreamed
I'd have. Suck it up, Renee, and get on with life.

I take the beans from the cupboard and measure them into the coffeemaker. As they're grinding, I watch Jalal and Hank through the kitchen window. Jalal leans close to Hank and gestures as he speaks. Hank, nodding, keeps his eyes on his hands folded on the table before him. What are they up to?

Judith sets the pie on the counter. "Do you suppose the men will interrupt their discussion for this?" she asks, but before I can answer she opens the patio door and asks them directly.

Hank gives an enthusiastic yes, but—unbelievably—I'd swear Jalal was about to decline. A shadow crosses his face, but a second later he leans back in his chair and smiles when he nods to Judith.

Jalal shows no sign that anything troubles him when we all sit down to coffee and dessert a few minutes later. In fact, he launches into the story of how Jennie won his confidence by plying him with her excellent pies. The three of them are debating meringue versus cream when a phone call from Azadeh interrupts. I study Jalal's face as he listens and before he says a word, I'm on my feet. "We have to go," I tell Judith and Hank.

"We're on our way," Jalal says into the phone a second later. He pockets his phone and says, "The baby has a fever."

I'm almost to the car when he catches up with me. "Aza said a
slight
fever," he says, "probably just the beginning of a cold."

"I shouldn't have left her," I say.

"This is no big deal." He slips the key in the ignition. "You deserved a couple of hours for yourself."

"Good mothers put their children first."

Jalal sits silent for a moment. From the corner of my eye, I see him looking at me. I motion for him to get the car moving, and he starts the engine, but before he puts it in gear he says, "You
are
a good mother, Renee. Why are you so down on yourself?"

"I'm sorry I made you come home," Aza says when we walk in. "Now I think it's only teething." She hands the baby to me. "Look at her lower gum."

I pull down Mia Grace's lip. It's true; her gum is red and swollen. I offer her the breast to calm her fussing. "I'm still not sure we shouldn't call the doctor."

"I believe we had this same scare when Adam first teethed," Jalal says. "Remember?"

I scream, startling Mia Grace, who begins to cry.

"She bit down?" Azadeh asks.

I nod and gingerly let the baby reattach. "I guess it
is
the teething." I sway in place to sooth her. "How long has Adam been asleep?"

"Since two minutes past seven," Aza says. "He was out before I read halfway through
Snuggle Puppy
."

"Thanks for watching them, Aza. I'm going to go kiss Adam and then get her to sleep."

"I need to get a book downstairs," Jalal says, "and then I'll be in."

Before I turn toward Adam's room, I catch the glance between Jalal and Aza. I've learned to interpret some of the signals between them. That was the one that says
I need to talk to you
. Let them talk. This time, Aza was the one who over-reacted.

We're sitting up in bed. Jalal read while I nursed Mia Grace, who is now asleep but hasn't relinquished the comfort of the breast. "Can you hold her for a minute?" I slide the tip of my finger between my nipple and her tongue to break the suction. "I have to pee."

When I come back into the bedroom, Jalal is alone in the bed. Before I can even open my mouth, he points to the alcove and says, "I put her in the crib."

"Jalal—"

"She is only ten feet away. Come here; I want to talk to you."

Uncertain I want to hear what he has to say, I stop at the foot of the bed. His brows ripple in humored question and he pats the mattress where I'd sat with the baby. Okay, I'll sit, but I'm not listening to another speech about my over-protectiveness.

As soon as I sit, Jalal slides down on his side, pulling me flat beside him. He clears a stray lock of hair from my lashes. "I love you," he says. "Do you believe that?"

"Is there any reason I shouldn't?"

"What kind of answer is that?"

"I believe you."

"And?"

"I love you too."

"I have to say, your enthusiasm does not exactly boost my ego."

"Boo hoo. You have enough ego for both of us."

"The problem is, sweet love, I do not. I would gladly give you some of my
confidence
, but you resist me all the way."

He lifts one of my hands and presses the palm flat against his chest. He does this when he's being particularly sincere, as if my fingertips can detect that from his heartbeat. Maybe it's a Persian thing. I never remember to ask at a more appropriate time.

"Why will you not believe you are a wonderful mother?" he asks.

Oh no. Not discussing this. I glance at the baby. "If we're quiet," I say, "we could do something more fun than talk." I try to slide my hand down his belly, but he grabs it.

"I thought you agreed to drop the evasion tactics when we need to discuss these things."

"I just don't feel like having a serious conversation tonight." I try to press closer to him, but he holds me back.

"Do you neglect the children?" he asks.

I sigh, a big sigh, a dramatic one to make my point. "
No
."

"Is this home unsafe?"

"You know it's not."

"Are you an alcoholic?"

"Jalal …"

"You are not your mother, Renee."

I roll over quickly to get out of bed, but Jalal is faster. He grabs me around the waist and pulls me back to him. I've already lost the battle to hold back tears. Though Jalal seeks to sooth me with tender strokes and whispers—"let it out, sweet love"—his effort only makes me sob harder. Every day, I feel myself break into smaller pieces. What will happen when I can't hold them together anymore?

Full daylight is streaming into the bedroom by the time the ache in my breasts wakes me. Why didn't Mia Grace wake me for a feeding? I don't have to look to know she's not in our bed, and one glance tells me the crib in our room is empty. "Oh, God." It wasn't teething. She's too sick to be hungry; that's why she didn't wake me. I dash to Adam's room, also empty, and on through to the nursery. The sight of the pajamas I put her to bed in, bunched on the changing table, give me no comfort. I grab them and check for vomit or diarrhea. Nothing. "What the hell?"

I take the back stairs down to the kitchen. Jalal sits at the table with Adam in his booster seat beside him and Mia Grace on his lap. He looks up and smiles at me. "Hey, sleepyhead."

Adam shakes his head. "Mama say bad word."

Jalal points to the monitor speaker. "I forgot to turn it off. He immediately repeated your h-e-l-l."

Of course he did; it was a new word. "Yes, Adam, Mama said a bad word. I'm sorry."

"Okay, Mama."

I lean against the door frame for a minute. My breasts hurt, and I'm a little shaky from the adrenaline rush. Without help, Jalal dressed the kids and made them breakfast, so I could sleep. He's a good father. He's a good husband. I'm a nut job. Please don't let me screw this up like I have everything else in my life. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly as I cross the room to kiss all three of my babies.