Glamour (33 page)

“He was.”Haya wondered what the hell had happened.“Maybe he stopped off for something. I’ll call when he gets here.”

An hour later, she called the police. Supremely uninterested, they told her she couldn’t report a missing person for twenty-four hours.

An hour after that, she started phoning the hospitals.

“It can’t have happened. No.”

“I’m terribly sorry.”

“He was with me three hours ago.” She felt stupid, just kept repeating it. “He was fine. Can’t you put him in a neck brace?”

Ahmed lay there—she could hardly believe it really was him. Bandaged and trussed, with drips and feeders running from his arm. Around her, there was chaos; an overwhelmed A&E, a really bad hospital in Venice.

“Move him,” Haya said sharply. “Get him into a private room.”

The machines behind her husband’s bed beeped. It was a comforting sound. He was still with her, still alive.

“Mrs. Al-Yanna.” The doctor, a young woman, Korean-American, was trying to be kind. “We don’t have those facilities here, ma’am. . . .”

“Then transfer him! A private clinic. I’ll pay whatever it takes,” Haya said, tears welling. “I have the money.”

“It’s not that. There’s no point, Mrs. Al-Yanna. It was a very bad accident—the other driver died at the scene. . . .”

What did Haya care? They were just words.

“My husband is still alive,” she snapped. “
Mash’Allah.
And I want him to get the best care . . . and I’m staying with him, so I’ll be needing a bed, or a cot, or something.”

“He is not still alive,” the doctor said flatly. “Ma’am, I’m extremely sorry, but you don’t understand. Your husband is dead. He experienced total brain death.The stem of his brain is dead.”

“People come out of comas,” Haya whispered.Tears were rolling down her cheeks.

“He is not in a coma. He is dead.”

The woman was a devil! “Then why?” Haya demanded, and her voice broke on a sob. “Why is that machine sounding? I can hear his heartbeats . . . I can see them!”

“Artificial respiration.” The doctor could see that the wife was semihysterical. She had other patients. She had to move on. “We kept him alive in the hope you’d be willing to donate his organs. All that means is his heart is pumping. It’s up to you, ma’am.” For the millionth time that day, Dr. Kim tried for patience.“But I have a very sick father of two who needs a liver and an indigent lady waiting for a heart with no other options.” Haya looked stricken. “She needs it now. I’m sorry there’s no time for you to decide. If the answer is no, we unplug him immediately and the medical examiner will take over. I need the bed.” She gestured at the wailing, sobbing crowd outside.“I am so sorry.You can see how it is.”

At these hurried, harassed words, a strange feeling of immense calm enveloped Haya. He was gone, gone to Paradise, and she was here alone. And Allah is the Most Compassionate, she said to herself.

Ahmed was gone. His tender heart would have reached out to the sick. In saving other lives there was a crumb, just a crumb, of comfort.

“Yes. I’ll sign the form. Take what you need,” she said. “And then return him to me, this day. He must be buried at once. He is a Muslim, a believer.We cannot delay the burial.”

Dr. Kim couldn’t believe it. She tried not to smile, but the relief and surprise were too great.

“Thank you—thank you. I’ll get you a consent form and a rush on the autopsy, I promise you. Tell me where you want”—her voice trailed off a moment—
“him sent.”

She went into automatic mode. Calling Egypt, and his parents. Listening to the ululation of his mother. Calling their mosque. Calling Baba and Mama, and forbidding them to come over. Not yet. Ahmed was lying in the funeral home, and she was there, in Hollywood, alone again, a widow at twenty.

Who would marry her now?

It did not matter; she wanted nobody. Ahmed was her life, her love, the sun and moon to Haya. Without him, life seemed utterly pointless.

There was the funeral. She mustered what few mourners she could—her friends, and the Muslims who worked for them at Sekhmet—not many people to stand around his grave, to mourn his shrouded body.

She tried to pray, but felt nothing. Nothing but darkness engulfed her.Without feeling, she stared into space.

The telephone rang. Haya answered automatically.

“Hello? Ms.Yanna?”

“Yes?”

“This is Dr. Nevins.”

“Hi.”

“I have the results of your tests today. And in fact I have some very good news!”

The American woman spoke with a professional chirpiness that made Haya want to slam the phone down on her.

No, you don’t,
she thought,
there is no good news anymore
.

“You’re not barren. These things just happen sometimes. It takes a little longer than planned. All
your
indicators are normal.” The doctor blabbed on. “Maybe your husband had a low sperm count, you should get him in to be looked at . . .”

Rage surged in Haya. “I have to go,” she said.

“But it’s all academic.” The woman responded brightly. “Because, you see, you’re in fact pregnant. Congratulations!”

Haya shuddered. “What?”

“You’re pregnant. Only about three weeks from conception, but you’re definitely pregnant.There’s a heartbeat already, which
greatly
increases the chances of a successful first trimester. So lay off the booze,” Dr. Nevins wise cracked.

“I don’t drink.” Haya was swaying on her feet. “I have to go,” she repeated, and hung up.

Oh, God! Pregnant!

She ran into her bathroom and started to be sick.

Haya did not tell anybody. She could not deal with that, not on top of everything else.The fussing and clucking . . . she would die.

It was enough to have to fly back to Egypt, and be plunged into a world she could hardly cope with: instructing lawyers, selling the house, enduring the anger of his parents, who blamed her for Ahmed’s death. After all, she had dragged him to America, that godless, decadent land, and there, he had died.

Then there was everything else. The dismissal of all the staff, with compensation—generous; Haya arranged six months’ wages for each of them, paid from the sale of the Cairo house; no questions asked.

Yet she could not bear to rid herself of the carpets, the lamps, the silken cushions, everything he had acquired; the evidence of that eye for beauty that had assessed Haya herself, and found her pleasing. The stock, she had shipped to L.A. Everybody told her she should sell it off, in bulk; there were offers, now their brand had been established; for the carpets, the gallery space, for everything.

And in truth, Haya found, she could not keep it going. Even if she’d had the emotional strength. She had been the inspiration, the spirit, of Sekhmet, but she had no idea about the details. Line management, staffing, wages, distribution—all that, Ahmed had confidently handled.

She was out of her depth. She wound up the company, offering three months to the American workers—their wages were far more costly—and let the gallery sit vacant. But the stock she put into storage.

Haya wasn’t rich, but there was some money there, now. Enough for a year or so, for breathing space.

Enough to see her through the birth of her child. His son or daughter. A small piece of her love, that would come back to her.

Right now, that was all she cared about.

On the other hand, it wouldn’t last. And Haya had no desire to go back to her father’s house. She loved her parents, but she was independent of them. Which meant, one way or another, eventually she was going to have to make a living—more than a living—a success.

She had to give his child all he would have dreamed of. Anything less would be a betrayal.

CHAPTER 10

“We’re here. Momma?” Sally reached across the passenger seat and shook her mother, who was snoozing, her mouth open and her neck lolling against the headrest. “Wake up.We’re here.”

Mona opened her eyes. “We are? Great.” She rubbed her lids. “I want a drink,” she said groggily. “A little champagne, huh? To celebrate.We’re back.”

“Let’s see what the apartment has for us,” Sally suggested. She knew better than to refuse outright. Whatever would get Mona up the stairs. Sally was perfectly prepared to drug her mother, once she’d had a shower and eaten. A few sleeping pills, and she would tumble into bed.

Whatever it took. Anything to get her mom sober for a week, past that first rush of chemical addiction. After that, she’d made the decision for rehab. Betty Ford was out of their budget, but there were other places, if she sacrificed a few months’ rent.

It was worth it. And she didn’t think Mona would fight that hard. Her mother had surrendered her place in the family, become the child, leaving Sally in charge. And if Sally issued an order, Mona obeyed it.

In her heart, her mother didn’t want to be this way.With every day sober, the fog cleared up a little. Plus, they were back in L.A. That gave Sally a chance for some prime emotional blackmail.

“Momma—you don’t want to drink the moment we step inside, do you? You know, people might report us to the papers. You don’t want Lucille and Kimberley”—Mona’s ex-friends—“to read about you in the society columns, do you?”

Mona shuddered. “Read what?”

“That you were a drunk living in a cheap apartment? Just think—they’d be laughing at you.”

Her mom’s eyes flashed with a spark of her old spirit.

“Hell, no,” she said. “I’ll just take a bubble bath.”

“There you go,” Sally said, relieved. She shepherded her mother inside and up the stairs. The apartment building was painted bubblegum pink, and the paint was chipped; the rails on the stairwells were made of steel, and the flooring was cheap linoleum. But at least the place was clean; there was a strong smell of industrial disinfectant.

Mona clutched at her daughter as Sally fumbled with the keys.

“D’you think they will? D’you think they’ll find out we’re living here?”

“Listen, Momma, it’s a decent place. Better than Hartford. It’s got security and underground parking.” Sally pushed her mother inside the apartment. “See? Not so bad.”

It was plainly furnished with the basic essentials. Couch, bed, table with four chairs, and small seventeen-inch TV set. Functional beige carpets, and all the charm of a roadside motel.

“You take a bath.” There was a small tub, the kind where you had to raise your knees.“And I’ll go get the groceries.” Some hot chocolate with two sleeping pills would do the trick. Sally comfortingly patted her mother’s arm. “We won’t be here too long, Momma.You’ll see.”

Brave words. She wondered how she could make them come true.

Sally got a job the first week. It wasn’t hard in L.A., the world capital of glitz and glamour; every other block there was a beauty parlor. Beehive was a cute little place on Sunset with a customer base of anonymous West Hollywood teens; anonymous and boring. Sally agreed to work on commission in exchange for being off the books. She didn’t want to be found in her own city.

She did makeovers, styled hair, and kept the place clean. Sally was very good, and very popular. She got to set her own rates and kept fifty percent plus tips.

One sunny Sunday morning, Sally shook hands with the owner and told her she was quitting.

The boss pouted. “It’s tough, making it on your own.”

“I’m used to tough.”

“Well, honey, if it don’t work out, you always got a job here.”

But Sally knew, as she walked out the door, that she would never return. Tempered by tragedy, poverty, and abuse, Sally Lassiter was ready for the big time.

The next step was the easiest. Sally booked Mona a place in downtown rehab.

“I don’t want to go without you.” Momma’s latest excuse. “I can cut down. It’s just the stress.”

Sally didn’t look at her. “Mom, you’ll be fine.”

“I should be home, looking after you.” Mona’s teary, drunken tones turned aggressive. “Stop the car! You can’t make me do rehab! I won’t check in . . . I’ll look after you, Sally. . . .”

Sally pulled over and looked at her mother, swollen-faced and drowning in self-pity.

“Do you know why we left Texas, Momma? Because I was raped. By Leo Fisk. One night while I was walking home after slaving all day to support us.” Her mother’s mouth opened in shock. “And when I came inside, you were passed out drunk. Again.” Sally pressed her foot on the gas. “Which is why we’re here.To make something of this family again.”

Her mother started to sob now, in earnest.

“That’s how I lost my virginity,” Sally said, coldly.“To a rapist. And I couldn’t even tell you, Momma. That’s why you’re going to rehab. Because I won’t let you lose your life inside a bottle.”

Mona relaxed against the leather, surrendering.

“I’ll go, baby,” she said, dully. “I’ll go.”

“You can’t play chicken with me, Ms. Morgan.”

Turnbull Scott, the doughy chief executive of Shop Smart, narrowed his piggish eyes at his young vice president.

“Your story is a good one—it reads well in the reports. But you’re far too young for this sort of promotion.”