The Brevity of Roses

by Linda Cassidy Lewis

  “Especially not Maman, you idiot.”

  “Shit!”

  “Yeah.”

  They stood side by side, neither speaking for a moment.

  “So?” asked Azadeh.

  “I screwed up.”

  “Fatally?”

  “I hope not. I really hope not.”

  She reached over and took his hand. “Then I’ll hope with you,” she said.

  The banquet of food and drink and conversation continued until it was time to head for the park, and most of the time Jalal was caught up in it, but for a moment here and there, he thought about Renee and whether she thought of him. Behind that, paced the worry she was thinking of someone else.

  It was nearly midnight. Jalal's parents were standing at the front door exchanging kisses and hugs with lingering family, but he slipped upstairs to make the phone call. He held his breath while he counted the rings, and then had to gulp air before he could speak. “Renee?”

  “Hello, Jalal.”

  “I was not sure you would speak to me.” Though she made a sound in response, he had no clue how to interpret it.

  “How did you get my number?”

  “I memorized it when I entered mine in your phone.” Again, she made a sound, a different intonation, but just as indecipherable. “So … is everything all right?” It would be nice if she helped him out a little. What did she want him to say? Or maybe that was the point, she wanted him to say nothing. Anxiously, he waited out her silence.

  “Everything’s fine,” she said. “When are you coming back?”

  He disguised his sigh of relief as a cough. “I am leaving tomorrow after breakfast, which will last two hours, knowing my mother, and I have never been able to make the drive straight through, so I will be stopping somewhere overnight, but I should arrive home by noon on Sunday.”

  Renee muttered softly for a moment, and then she said, “Forty-two.”

  “Forty-two? I do not understand—”

  “There were forty-two words in that sentence. That might be a record for you.”

  Jalal had unpacked, started a load of laundry, and now sat on the porch writing in his journal while he waited for Renee. Rain started to fall as she pulled in his driveway. She ran to the steps, a plastic-wrapped plate held to her chest. “I baked you some cookies,” she told him.

  “Thank you. Just in time for tea.” He held open the door and followed her into the kitchen.

  “How was the visit with your family?”

  He filled the kettle and put it on the burner before answering. “It was good.” Then, thinking of his father's admission, he added, “Therapeutic.”

  “Did you solve your nephew’s problem?”

  “Actually, no; my father did.” Jalal measured out tea and spices, and brought out the cups, spoons, and sugar.

  “You look rested,” she said.

  He laughed. “I am. And I probably gained ten pounds. There is nothing my mother enjoys more than feeding people. I wish you would have gone with me, to meet my family.”

  “Don’t!”

  Jalal felt a zing of shock at the tone in her voice, and his balance shifted as though he stood on the beach in the swash zone. With a slow, careful motion, he rotated to face her.

  “Don’t pretend we have that relationship,” she said.

  He wrestled against her words. They were fine now. She had said so. The kettle screeched and he busied himself filling the teapot before he looked at her again. “I am sorry, Renee. I thought—”

  “We can’t have that,” she said, “until I’m sure it’s just the two of us, until I know I’m not just a substitute.”

  “But I told you—”

  “And we’ve already established that you lie.” She picked up his journal off the counter and shook it at him. “You told me you were writing poetry, when all you wrote about was her. My name isn’t even in—”

  His hand shot out and ripped the book from her grasp. “How dare you,” he said. “You had no right. None.”

  “Jalal—”

  “Shut. Up.”

  He hurled the journal against the wall and stormed out of the house. Half-blinded by rain and rage, he staggered across the road and down the steps to the beach where he began to pace. His breath came in big, fiery gulps. He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and spun toward it. Renee was climbing down the steps. In desperation, though he knew every inch of this beach, he looked around for another way back up to the road. It was high tide; seacliff rose to either side of him.

  He screamed at her. “Go away! Leave me alone.”

  She stopped only when she came within a few feet of him. “Talk to me, Jalal.”

  His eyes blazed. “My god, you are relentless. You have the audacity to invade my privacy like that and then expect me to—”

  “I didn’t read your journal,” she said quietly. “I just made a guess.”

  He shook so hard, he had difficulty staying on his feet. “But if … if I had written about you … you would have read it? You would have read feelings I could not express to you yet?” He turned away, dismissing her. “Get away from me!”

  “No,” she said. “We need to talk about Meredith.”

  “Incredible.” He stumbled toward the steps.

  She blocked his path and shoved hard against his chest with both hands. “No. No more running away, Jalal. It’s time for you to grieve.”

  He fell back a step, his eyes darting wildly. “Are you insane?” He was panting now. “I have grieved for two years.”

  “No you haven’t,” she said. “You’ve been holding on for two years—resurrecting her ‘a thousand times a day’.”

  He shook his head. “You have no idea—”

  “How dare you!” she screamed. “How dare you say that to me? I do know. I know exactly what it’s like to lose someone you love that much.” In the midst of her fury, her voice broke. “I felt my loss. I drowned in it. I endured it. I dealt with it.” She took a shuddery breath and then her voice grew tender. “You never did. You’ve never really accepted that she’s gone. Meredith is dead. But you’re alive. Please be alive.” She stretched her arms out to him. “Please, Jalal.”

  In the wake of a sudden calm, he stood paralyzed. For one clear moment, he marveled at the way Renee’s tears mingled with the raindrops running down her face. Then, he saw nothing but darkness. His clenched hands began to shake and the movement traveled upward until his whole body trembled. The full force of his grief erupted in a roar. Once released, he could not rein it in. He had denied the pain too long. His cries rose again and again until his voice gave out and he collapsed to his knees in the wet sand.

  Renee knelt beside him, reaching out for him. At first, Jalal wrestled against her touch, then he clung to her. He gave way to tears and then to great heaving sobs. She held fast. After a while, shivering from wind and rain and emotion, he let Renee lead him up the steps and across the road. He offered no resistance as she took him into the house and led him to the bedroom. She peeled off his wet clothes and gently laid him down. Already half-asleep by the time she covered him with a blanket, he murmured, “Stay with me.”

  Renee sat on the floor beside the bed and brushed his hair from his eyes. She held his hand. “Sleep,” she said.

  Jalal ignored the doorbell, thinking it might be one of Meredith’s friends, but when the pounding started, it occurred to him it might be Meredith dashing in from the rain. He rushed to fling open the door. His smile vanished. Two uniformed men stood before him.

  The older one spoke. “Jalal Vaziri?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your wife is Meredith?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could we step inside, sir?”

  “No.”

  “Sir, we’d like to come inside.”

  “No!”

  “Mr. Vaziri, there’s been an accident.”

  Jalal backed up. He shook his head once and then could not stop.

  “I’m sorry, but your wife didn’t surviv
e.”

  He hated this man. Despised him. Jalal screamed out in rage, “You should be dead!”

  Suddenly, it was Meredith in the police uniform, and she spoke. “I am dead, Jalal.”

  With a jerk, Jalal forced himself awake.

  How long had he been asleep? The clock read 3:27 and daylight flooded the room. Yet this could not be the same afternoon. Had he been out for twenty-four hours? His body told him that was entirely possible; his mouth was a desert and his bladder held an ocean. He dragged himself out of bed and into the bathroom.

  When he returned to the bedroom, he intended to go on through to the kitchen, but he sank down on the edge of the bed. He had drunk his fill of water straight from the tap. He should eat something. He should call Renee. Instead, he sat there too exhausted to do either. In the end, he surrendered his head to the pillow again.

  When he woke the next time, he could tell by the shrouded light in the room the fog had rolled in thick. He looked at the clock; it read 7:49. Something drew his eyes to the closed bedroom door. He listened for a sound. Nothing. His stomach growled, but more pressing than food, was his desire for a shower.

  For a moment, he stood still, letting the hot water run over him. When he felt himself drifting off, he ran it cold, to shock him back awake. That door had been open! He was certain now; his bedroom door had stood open when he woke earlier. Of course. Renee was still here and must have closed it. Something crept through the background of his mind as he hurriedly washed and shampooed. Was it another dream he had been having right before he woke? He shook the water from his hair, and toweled off. Despite a two—three?—day beard, he skipped a shave, brushed his teeth and dressed. Renee awaited.

  Except, she didn’t. It was Azadeh he saw when he walked into the kitchen. She looked up from her book and smiled, but waited for him to speak.

  “Where is Renee?”

  “At home.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Since yesterday.”

  “Renee called you?” he asked.

  “Yes. She was worried about you.”

  He walked to the stove for the kettle, filled it, and turned on the burner. While he measured out the tea, Azadeh carried the teapot from the table to the sink, emptied the cold brew, and rinsed it out. She offered him the plate of cookies Renee had made for him—a long time ago, it seemed. As he chewed, he studied Azadeh, now sitting at the table. She gave him no clue what thoughts had occupied her while waiting for him to wake up. They said nothing more until he carried the teapot to the table and sat down with her. “Did you talk to Renee?”

  “She told me what happened,” said Azadeh. “She was afraid she pushed you too far.”

  Their eyes locked, and again, they did not speak. They had always said as much to each other in silence as with words. He looked away first. “I feel—”

  “Like you’ve been away for a long time.”

  He nodded. Renee had not pushed him too far. She had repaired him, as if he had been a clock with bent hands, caught up on each other, unable to mark the passing minutes. She had fixed him, reset him to the current time. I survived. He offered Azadeh a wan smile. “I am back now.”

  She reached across the table and patted his arm. “Good.” She pushed back her chair and stood. “I’ll fix you some eggs and toast.”

  “I should call Renee.”

  “No!”

  He had risen halfway from his chair to get his phone, but now sank back down. “Why not?”

  Azadeh went to the refrigerator and gathered what she needed before answering. “Give her some time, Jalal.” She set a sauté pan on the burner and dropped in a chunk of butter.

  “But what if she thinks—”

  “She doesn’t.”

  He shook his head. “You do not know the whole—”

  “Yes,” she said, “I do. We talked for a long time before she left.” Azadeh pushed the bread down in the toaster, cracked the eggs into the bowl, and reached for the whisk.

  “But I want—”

  “Jalal! She knows what you want.” She sighed. “Renee’s right, you are spoiled. We’ve all spoiled you. Your wants can’t always come first. Let her decide what she wants. Wait for her to come to you.” She adjusted the flame and stirred the butter around to melt it.

  Spoiled? An argument rose up within him, but then, in his mind, he heard Meredith accuse him of always insisting on having things his way. Apparently, Meredith had thought him spoiled too. Meredith. Even in his mind, her name sounded different to him now, more solid, not just an echo. The gossamer image he had held on to so long had grown faint, leaving behind something solid, something real, like Blue Point coming into focus as the fog burned away. Something separate from himself.

  Jalal watched Aza’s movements at the stove for a moment. “Are you saying I need to grow up?” he asked.

  “I’m saying the whole family needs to step back and let you fight your own battles.” Azadeh set the plate of eggs and toast before him. “Enjoy. I’m going to bed,” she said and kissed the top of his head.

  As he ate, that vague mental creeping sensation returned, but this time he recognized it as words floating through his mind. He listened. By the time he finished the eggs, the words had started connecting themselves into phrases. Lines formed. Elated, he scanned the room for his journal. Sitting alone, in the hush of night, he composed the poem flowing through him, and still the words came. He started a story. He would write of the only thing that mattered. He would write of love.

  Sixteen

  RENEE SLIPPED JALAL’S phone from his pocket before she left his bedroom. In the kitchen, she dialed his sister’s number. The phone rang two, three, four, times and then, as Renee debated whether she would leave a message or try again in a few minutes, Azadeh answered.

  “Hi, Azadeh, this is Renee. We met at—”

  “Jalal’s, yes.”

  “Can you please come here? To Jalal’s house?”

  Azadeh gasped. “What’s happened to him?”

  “Nothing,” said Renee quickly, “I mean, not an accident or anything. He’s just … I confronted him … about Meredith.”

  “Meredith? What … where is he now?”

  “He’s asleep.”

  There was a pause. Renee couldn’t stop shaking and she didn’t know what more to say. Azadeh broke the silence.

  “Are you telling me Jalal had a breakdown of some sort?”

  “I think so.” Renee sank onto a chair. “I’m sorry.” Her hands shook so hard she had trouble keeping the phone to her ear. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I’ll be there within the hour,” said Azadeh. “Stay with him until I get there!”

  “Of course,” said Renee. When the call ended, she tiptoed back down the hall to check on Jalal. From the doorway, she watched for the rise and fall of his chest. He lay so still, so far away from his pain. Away from her. A tiny part of her—the unselfish part—hoped he would forget her by the time he woke. The rest of her prayed he would forgive her.

  She returned to the kitchen to wait. For several minutes, she sat staring at Jalal’s journal lying where he’d flung it to the floor. Finally, she crossed the room and picked it up. Some of the pages had rumpled and she smoothed them, closed the book, and laid it on the table. She’d done her best to not read anything. Not that she wasn’t tempted. She was pretty sure she’d seen her name written on one page. And most of the pages were blank. This was not the same journal she’d peeked in before.

  She had lied to Jalal. And she’d justified her snooping because she wanted to help him and needed to know what he was thinking. That day on the beach, when he’d confessed he hadn’t been writing poetry, she’d guessed what he did write in these journals, but had to see for herself. Not that she’d ever planned to let him know. That had just slipped out today. Disastrously. After another minute, she got up and carried the journal over to the counter where it had been before she picked it up earlier today. Before she had forced Jalal’s hand.


  As the minutes passed, she alternated between checking on Jalal and trying to decide whether she would escape as soon as Azadeh arrived or stay and talk to her awhile. At the least, she owed her an explanation of why she’d had to drive all the way over here. When the door opened, Renee was still planning what she would say.

  Azadeh motioned for Renee to stay seated and went straight to Jalal’s room. After a couple of minutes, she entered the kitchen and laid the book she had brought with her on the table. “He seems to be fine,” she said, “just deeply asleep.” She selected a bottle of wine, opened it, and set two glasses on the table. She took a seat across from Renee and poured. “You look like you could use this,” she said.

  “I’m sorry I had to call you,” said Renee.

  Azadeh waved away the apology. “Just tell me what happened.”

  Renee took a gulp of the wine. “I pushed him too far. I forced him … about Meredith.”

  “What about Meredith?”

  “About him not letting her go, not mov—”

  “Good. I’m glad you did.”

  “But—”

  “Renee, listen, I love Jalal as much as any sister can love her brother, but sometimes he angers me. Sometimes …” She sighed. “Sometimes he just doesn’t seem to want to help himself. You know?”

  Surprised by Azadeh’s candor, Renee only nodded.

  “I’m sure it’s part of why he writes well,” said Azadeh, “but Jalal tends to create a world around him that’s not … not quite the reality the rest of us live in.”

  Oh, God. “Are you telling me Jalal is … has some kind of—”

  “No!” said Azadeh. “Jalal’s not sick, not schizophrenic or anything. He just tends to see things the way he wants them to be, rather than how they are. At least, he does in his personal life.” She smiled. “It really surprised me he did so well in the business world.”

  “So he really did work for a living.”

  Azadeh frowned. “Excuse me?”

  Renee held her glass by the stem, rolling it between her thumb and fingers. She wished she hadn’t started this topic. “I thought he was just born into money. He seems—”