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

by Lewis, Linda Cassidy

  “No. I mean, yes he found Amber. She lives in Maryland.”

  “For god’s sake, just tell me the bad news.”

  “Wait until I—”

  “Now.”

  He takes my hand and says, “Her parents refused contact.”

  “Oh.” I turn away and stare at the road stretched for miles before us as though I might see the barrier that prevents me reaching Maryland. “Her parents are probably right. They know what kind of family she came from. Why would they want her exposed to that?”

  “You are the only one she would be ‘exposed’ to. How is that bad?”

  “For all they know, I could be like Becky. Like Nicole.”

  “But you—”

  “I might have been just like Nicole if I’d stayed in that neighborhood. I could easily have become a drug addict, a prostitute, whatever … some member of the criminal element.”

  Jalal says nothing and turns his attention back to driving. What can he say? He was right; I shouldn’t have pushed him to tell me. Of course her parents don’t want her anywhere near me. If I were them, I’d refuse contact too. I’m so wrapped up in self-pity I don’t realize Jalal’s pulled over and stopped until he speaks again.

  “Why are you so down on yourself?” he says. “If you were going to become an addict or a prostitute you would have. Leaving that ‘neighborhood’ was your choice, Renee, because you wanted a better life.”

  “Maybe Nicole didn’t have a choice.”

  “Maybe not. But you did and you took it. And Amber was given a chance at a good life too.”

  “Two out of four.”

  “Do we know that yet? It could be three out of four. And Nathan is still trying with Amber’s parents. I know it hurts that you may never be part of her life, but you are not to blame for that. Be happy for her.”

  “I am,” I say and smile because I mean that. If Amber has a wonderful life, it’s keeping the balance. It’s justice for Nicole’s life. Jalal starts the car moving again. I don’t have much hope left for a joyful reunion with Brandon. Maybe I’m getting my wish after all. If all the people in my past are erased, maybe I didn’t exist then, either.

  Twelve

  An hour after we arrive back in Coelho, Aza and Paul announce their engagement party will be in Seattle—in four days. Since marrying into this family, I’ve gotten used to their impulsive actions, so I launch into unpacking, doing laundry, and repacking our bags without complaint. I only hope Aza gives us at least a week’s break before she announces we have to fly back up there for the wedding. The Vaziris could keep a small airline in the black, no problem.

  Jalal finds me in the upstairs laundry room. He has a file folder in his hand. “I just talked to Nathan. He sent Amber’s parents more details about us and assured them we will not try to contact her against their wishes. They responded. Do you want to see? There are photos.”

  I lean back against the dryer and hold out my hand. Her first name is still Amber, but no last name is listed. Neither is there any contact information, not even the name of the town she lives in. Apparently, her parents didn’t trust Jalal’s credentials completely. Amber’s a freshman in high school, where she’s an honor student and a cheerleader. The first photo shows her dressed in her cheer uniform, but the school logo is blurred out. She’s gorgeous, still blonde, with no resemblance to me or Becky. I could have met her anywhere and not known who she was. The other photos track backward through her life. The earliest shows the Amber I remember, though a little plumper, healthier. It’s a studio photo, taken with a man and woman whose faces are blurred. Her adoptive parents, evidently. Their first family photo.

  Amber smiles in each shot. How soon did she forget her birth family? If her parents told her I was looking for her, would my name even stir a vague memory? She’s my sister, but she’s not. I have no right to intrude. Her parents are right to protect her. “It looks like she’s had a good life,” I say, handing the folder back to Jalal. “I’m happy for her.”

  “Do you want to pursue—”

  “No. That would be selfish. I just needed to know what happened to her. I can let her go now.” But I will never forget her.

  Jalal hugs me. “I’m sorry you lost your sisters, sweet love. But I feel good about your brother. Nathan will find him soon.”

  “Mm-hmm.” I appreciate Jalal’s sympathy, but he can’t relate. He’s imagining what it would feel like if one of his sisters died or another cut him out of her life. Though deep inside I never moved past the shock of being separated from my brother and sisters, on the surface I accepted I’d never see them again. They haven’t been real to me for a long time.

  I don’t share Jalal’s optimism, either. Even if I do find Brandon, we’ll be like childhood friends meeting at a school reunion and realizing we have nothing in common except a few memories. And with a childhood like we had, our collective memory would be a swamp floating up rotting corpses.

  “Let me finish the laundry.” I try to squirm out of Jalal’s embrace, but he hugs me tighter. A moan rises from deep inside me. I will never see my sisters again. Never. Never. Never. Jalal rocks me in his arms and kisses my hair while I cry.

  Adam calls Jalal’s father Old Baba. None of us taught him to do that. Since the first time Adam sat in Korush’s lap, that’s been his favorite spot when we’re in Seattle. Jalal, who lived most of his life in fear and resentment of his father, believes Adam is making up for that somehow. Whatever the reason, the relationship between Adam and Korush pleases all three of them. It certainly makes it easier on me when we visit.

  Korush and Nasrin’s house is the central meeting place for the Vaziri family—all forty-two of them, including spouses. When we’re in Seattle, it’s not unusual to find twenty or so family members and friends in the house most of the day. Food is plentiful, always in some state of preparation in the kitchen, or carried in by these visitors, and there’s an interesting conversation or activity taking place at all times. I love our visits, but all the happy chaos makes it hard to keep track of Mia Grace. Korush always has Adam or knows who does, but Mia Grace gets passed around because everyone wants a taste of baby sweetness.

  Jalal’s no help this visit. He keeps disappearing to huddle with Jason and Ryan or his brothers and father. I have no clue what they’re discussing because there’s an obvious quick change of subject whenever I get within hearing range. Of course Jalal gives me a non-answer when I ask what’s up, but I’m not imagining things because Nasrin is keeping her eye on these huddles too. I guess I’ll know when I know.

  Right now, it’s naptime for the kids. Adam and Korush are dozing together in the recliner, but I’ve lost sight of Mia Grace. I find Aza and Paul in the dining room, sitting at the table with Shadi and her husband, either the last to eat lunch or the first to try the afternoon snacks. “Have you seen my daughter,” I ask. Shadi points her fork at Aza.

  “She was with the girls outside and fell asleep,” Aza says. “Kristen put her in the crib.”

  “Oh. Well … that’s good.”

  “Renee’s having a hard time with Mia Grace weaning herself,” Aza says, and I turn away, conscious that everyone’s looking at my breasts.

  “Don’t go,” Shadi says. “Sit with us. Ray will get you a plate.”

  Her dutiful husband rises and though I’d like to refuse, I’ve learned they’ll feel insulted if I do. “Just a little,” I tell him.

  “What is my brother up to?” Shadi asks.

  She’s the no-nonsense sister, so I’m not surprised when she wastes no time revealing what’s on her mind. “I haven’t a clue what he’s talking to all the men about,” I say.

  “I do,” Azadeh says. “Well, at least, I know he’s asking Ryan and Jason about the classes they’re taking.”

  “Excuse me,” Shadi says to Aza. “That’s not what I meant.” She turns back to me. “Is Jalal writing?”

  “Yes.” My tone is a little defensive because her question felt like a slap. The truth is, I’ve been too w
rapped up in the kids and my insecurities to even wonder what Jalal’s working on. “He spends plenty of time in his office.”

  Shadi narrows her eyes. “I’d say he’s not writing, Renee.”

  “Why do you say that?” Aza asks.

  Shadi shakes her head in disgust. “You both live with him, but do either of you ever look at him?”

  Aza and I look at each other and then at Shadi.

  “He doesn’t have that dreaminess in his eyes,” she says. “He has that tight, calculating look he had when he worked in New York.”

  “When he was a financial advisor?” Aza says.

  “That’s the only job he had there, Aza. What he did after that certainly didn’t pay.”

  In the three years I’ve known Jalal, this is the first time I’ve heard any of his family openly speak the truth about his final year in New York. The year he partied away. The year depicted in those photos I found.

  “Why isn’t Jalal writing?” Shadi asks me.

  “I don’t know. I mean, I think he is.”

  Shadi sighs. “Talk to your husband.”

  As Shadi ordered, I plan to get Jalal alone tonight after we put the kids to bed, but some of the family starts a Hokm tournament after dinner. They take a break while Jalal comes upstairs to read a bedtime story to Adam and Mia Grace, and then he goes back to the game. When I’m sure the kids are asleep, I go downstairs too. I watch the game for a few minutes, not to learn it, as Paul seems to be doing, but because it’s fascinating to watch loving family members turn cutthroat competitors.

  Since only Aza and Nasrin are free to keep the card players supplied with food and drink, I expect I’m needed in the kitchen and move on. Nasrin is stirring a pot on the stove and Azadeh is cranking the salad spinner. “What can I do to help?” I ask them.

  “You can keep us company,” Nasrin says.

  I slide a stool up to the counter next to Azadeh. She pulls parsley from the spinner and starts chopping. Nasrin has never given me any reason to believe she doesn’t care for me, and she’s delighted I’ve given her two more grandchildren, but I know how close she and Meredith were, and because of that I sense her reserve. Maybe it’s only that she fears I’ll cause something to devastate Jalal, the way Meredith’s death did.

  “Did you talk to him yet?” Aza asks me quietly.

  I shake my head. “I didn’t want to believe it at first, but I can’t remember when he last showed me or even talked about writing something new.”

  Nasrin, her face already creased with worry, turns from the stove. “Who are you talking about? And what is the problem?”

  Aza passes the question to me with a flick of her eyes.

  “Shadi thinks Jalal’s not writing enough.” Nasrin’s frown deepens, so I add, “Our friend Judith says he’s too happy to write.”

  “Nonsense,” Nasrin says. “He wrote wonderful poetry when he was happy … before.”

  When he was happy with Meredith is what she was going to say. The sharp look Aza gives her confirms that. So, the votes are in. If Jalal has writer’s block, I’m to blame.

  “Maman,” Aza says, “His life is fuller now with Renee and the children. Maybe he prefers spending time with them over locking himself away to write.”

  “Well, of course,” Nasrin says. “That is probably the reason. Those things fill his heart now.” She smiles at me.

  I return her smile, and she turns back to the stove. Aza catches my eye and mouths an apology for bringing up the subject in front of her mother. Meaning she doesn’t really believe Jalal is too happy, too otherwise fulfilled, to write. With all those poetry talks she and Diane have with him, shouldn’t she have been aware Jalal wasn’t writing? I stand and head for the dining room. “I’ll see if anyone needs anything.”

  The room is smokier than when I left, and the voices louder. Since four, at most, can play the game, the table is divided with one game at each end. The space between the two games, plus standing room around the table is taken up with family either watching or waiting for their chance to play. Jalal is teamed with Shadi. When I reach past him to empty an ashtray, he grabs my braid and pulls me close for a kiss. I’d say his team is winning. I gather empty bottles, one Scotch and three wine, which helps explain the noise increase.

  Aza and I meet in the kitchen doorway and sidle past each other. She’s carrying a bowl of chips and a plate of sandwiches for the players. Nasrin is still alone in the kitchen when I return from taking the bottles out to the recycle bin. “Did Aza finish the parsley?” she asks me.

  I check and scrape the last of it into the bowl. “Here it is.” She takes it from me and adds the parsley to the soup pot. “That smells good,” I tell her.

  “Korush’s favorite.” She stirs it one more time and turns off the burner. “His stomach demands a little less spice these days, though.”

  “Is he sick?”

  “No, just old.” There’s a gleam in her eye as though she’s joking. “He will be seventy-nine next month.”

  “Have you made this soup for him your whole marriage?”

  She nods. “Fifty-four years.”

  “It’s great that you’ve been together so long. I hope—” The words catch in my throat. Jalal might not live to see even our fiftieth wedding anniversary. Nasrin pats my hand.

  “Make every year count, Renee.” She reaches into a cupboard for soup bowls and freezes. “Oh, no.” She turns to me. “Is he reconsidering his finance career?”

  “Jalal?”

  “All those private discussions with his brothers, he must be talking business with them. And with the boys, their studies, accounting and investments, all those things.”

  “Well … you know he has a lot of money invested—”

  “But if he has quit writing …”

  “I’m sure he doesn’t want to go back to his old job, Nasrin. He hated that work. And we don’t know that he isn’t writing. That’s just something Shadi said.”

  She considers this. “Shadi is very good at reading people, that is true, but she seldom sees Jalal …”

  “Right. She’s probably making something out of nothing.”

  “You will talk to him?”

  “As soon as I get the chance.”

  She nods and reaches for the bowls again. “Go tell them to take a break and eat. These games will go on past midnight.”

  The kids don’t understand why I won’t let them wake Jalal. “Baba Daddy eat brefust,” insists Adam.

  “Later,” I say, trying to hold Mia Grace still long enough to pull on her leggings. “Just get dressed and we’ll go see what Old Mama has made for your breakfast. I’ll bet it’s delicious.”

  “Old Baba eat too?”

  “I don’t know if he’s awake yet.

  Only Aza and Paul, who went to bed when I did, are in the kitchen with Nasrin. “Here are my babies,” she says. “Sit, sit; I will fix your plates.”

  “Pancakes,” Adam cries when he sees Paul’s plate.

  “Cake,” Mia Grace says. Adam corrects her, of course, and she frowns and kicks a foot in his direction. I predict she’ll soon teach him to ignore her mistakes.

  “What time did the games end?” Paul asks.

  Nasrin shrugs. “I slept through Korush coming to bed.”

  “Jalal came upstairs about 1:30.”

  “When I was a girl,” Nasrin says, “once a year my father hosted a family tournament that lasted for two or three days. Only the men played then, but the occasion became a family reunion because their wives and children accompanied them. Most of our family lived in other towns, so we did not see many of these relatives often. Uncles and aunts and cousins would crowd our table and beds and floors. Our mothers worked and laughed and competed in the kitchen from morning to night, keeping the banquet table filled. My mouth waters even now. Best of all, to keep us children quiet and out from under foot, they doled out unlimited sweets. We were in heaven. In the evening, with our bellies full and our bodies exhausted, we would lie on pallets at
their feet, listening to the family stories, the secrets and gossip, their voices fading to whispers and murmurs lulling us to sleep.”

  Even Mia Grace and Adam quieted at the sound of Nasrin’s voice, and when she sighs at the end of her reminiscence it’s the only sound in the room. I’m not surprised this woman birthed a poet. My husband. The man I vowed to love and support. The man I’ve been too selfish to notice has stopped writing.

  “Well,” Nasrin says, “I should clean the dining room while I wait for the others to come down for breakfast.”

  “No. Please sit with the kids,” I tell her, “I’ll clean up.”

  “Paul and I will help in a minute,” Aza says.

  I’ve only gathered the empty glasses from wherever they were left around the room and set them on the dining table before Jalal bounds down the stairs, showered and smiling. He lifts me off my feet and kisses me. “What are you so happy about?” I ask.

  “Shadi and I killed them last night.” He sets me back on my feet. “I forgot what a good player she is.” Like the bartender he briefly was once, he pinchers four glasses between the fingers of each hand and disappears into the kitchen. I’m anxious to get him home tonight. It’s time to get our life back on track.

  Thirteen

  Jalal and I are both half-asleep over breakfast. With airport delays and an accident backing up traffic on the freeway, we didn’t get home until two this morning. Adam and Mia Grace are able to sleep anywhere, through anything, so they got their full ten hours and are full of energy this morning. I’ll be counting the minutes until naptime

  It seems The Fates, as Jalal calls them, are against me. Three times, I’ve planned and failed to talk to him about his work. Now, in the midst of spilled milk and oatmeal, I plunge in. “You never talk about what you’re writing anymore. Not to me, at least.”

  “Oh.” For a moment, he looks as though he’s trying to form a more complete answer, but then he blinks and it’s gone.

  “Have you been writing?”

  “Of course.”

  He picks up the teapot to refill his cup, though he’s taken only two sips. I take that as a sign he doesn’t want to discuss this, so I drop it—for now. I finish my coffee and stand. “You clean up the kitchen. I’ll clean up the kids.”