53 Letters For My Lover

by Leylah Attar

  “Then why did you slap him?”

  “Because!” She puts her hands on her hips. “He said, ‘You want me to get the ice again, squirt?’ He still thinks of me as Ryan’s little sister from that summer. Squirt. Who calls the bride a squirt? Really!”

  I laugh. Jayne has always managed to get exactly what she wants. Her pick of the best clothes, the best schools, her choice of men. Her exasperation is understandable.

  “He let me think he forced that kiss on you when I brought it up,” I say.

  “You took it up with him? Are you serious?” She laughs. “Well, I’m not surprised he didn’t enlighten you. He’s always been chivalrous in spite of his womanizing. A gritty integrity beneath that brazen exterior. He’s also very...discreet.” She giggles. “In any case, he helped me get it out of my system.”

  The rest of the family comes out, with Zain and Natasha running towards me at full sprint.

  “Mum! Troy says he can take me out on the boat! Can I go? Please? Pleaaase?”

  “Me too,” says Natasha. “I want to go on the boat.”

  “Not now. It’s time for lunch,” I reply, feeling a little betrayed by my own children. They just met Troy and already they want to run off with him. Is no one immune to this Troy Heathgate epidemic?

  “After lunch then?” asks Zain.

  “We won’t have time for that. It’s a long drive back.”

  The kids look crest-fallen.

  “Why don’t I pack you a basket? You can have lunch on the boat,” says Jayne.

  “That’s not necessary,” I reply.

  “Nonsense. It’ll be fun. Who wants to help?” Jayne heads towards the house with the kids in tow.

  “Mmmm. Everything looks delicious,” says Bob, holding out a chair for Elizabeth.

  “No fried chicken for you,” she reminds him.

  Bob eyes the basket. “I hope you’re not going to be like this on our cruise.”

  “Where are you headed?” asks Troy.

  “They’re hitting the Mediterranean this year,” replies Ryan. “Their annual getaways get fancier every year.”

  “We’ve worked hard for it,” barks Bob.

  “Don’t forget your annual getaway to the pharmacy before you leave.”

  “Rascal.” Bob throws him a bread roll.

  “Boys, our son-in-law is going to think we’re a crazy bunch,” says Elizabeth.

  “He might as well find out sooner rather than later, right Matt?” Bob slaps him on the back.

  I smile. Being around Bob and his family makes me forget my broken links with Maamaan, Baba and Hossein. Of course, it could be much worse. Like Hafez and Pedar.

  “All set.” Jayne returns with a basket full with goodies.

  “Let’s go!” Natasha tugs my dress.

  “Why don’t you come with us?” I look around the table.

  Someone? Anyone? Troy and Zain are already heading for the dock.

  “Go!” says Jayne, giving me a little push. “Have fun.”

  There’s no graceful way around it. I take Natasha’s hand and follow Troy to the boat.

  He lowers the kids in, climbs inside and holds his hand out for me. I stumble as the boat sways. His arms grip my waist, steadying me. Then he lifts me up and sets me down slowly, letting me slide down the entire length of him.

  “Welcome aboard.” That devilish smile when my feet touch the deck. “I hope this is more to your liking than that rusty old canoe.”

  I think back to that night, the white orchid moon, our clothes plastered to our bodies.

  Dear god. What have I let myself in for?

  I busy myself with the life jackets, fussing over the kids. Zain squeals with delight as we pull out of the bay.

  “Sit tight.” I strap them into the cushioned seats.

  “First time?” asks Troy when I join him at the helm.

  I nod. They’ve never been on the water before. Troy, on the other hand, looks completely at home manning the boat.

  Strong, tanned arms span the wheel as we turn into crystal waters, flanked by majestic forest on each side. The blue horizon melds into the endless expanse of the lake.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” He removes his glasses and tucks them into his t-shirt.

  I don’t know which I prefer—his naked eyes, intensified by the clear sky, or the disconcerting screen of dark shades.

  Shades on, I decide, as his gaze lingers on my lips. I don’t need his thoughts revealed as he recalls our kiss. The kiss he walked away from.

  “Ready for some action?”

  “What?”

  “I was asking the kids,” he replies with a twinkle in his eyes.

  Zain and Natasha beam as he powers up.

  “Hold on tight!” He swings the wheel from lock to lock, carving tight turns across the lake.

  I look back, watching the zig-zag trail of foam and the sheer joy on the kids’ faces. Later, when their cheeks are flushed and their noses cold, he circles a rugged outcrop and drops anchor.

  “Lunch time, mateys. Let’s see what Aunty Jayne packed for us.”

  Gentle waves lap up to the boat as we dig into the basket.

  “Ah, there’s a cold beer in here,” he says. “Must be for you, Zain.”

  Zain giggles.

  “No? You want it, Shayda?”

  The kids giggle even louder.

  “Mum doesn’t drink, silly,” says Natasha.

  “Natasha!” Since when does she act so familiar around strangers?

  “It’s okay mum. Troy’s cool,” she replies.

  “Yeah, mum. I’m cool.” He pulls the tab.

  Instead of a smooth ssssst, there’s a loud explosion as beer foams all over him.

  “Fuck!”

  I clear my throat loudly, hoping to drown it out.

  “The Captain said the f-word,” says Zain, between fits of laughter.

  “Damn!” Troy waves his arms, shaking off the droplets.

  “Here you go, Captain Cool.” I hand him a towel, trying to suppress a smile.

  “Oh yeah? You think it’s funny?” He covers the can and shakes what’s left inside.

  “No, Troy!”

  “What do you say, mateys?” There’s pure mischief in his eyes.

  “Get her!” they shriek.

  It’s not long before he corners me in the cockpit, his eyes gleaming with a wicked glint. But in the two seconds that it takes to close the distance, the childlike fun disappears. We stand there, heaving and out of breath, aware of something much bigger than the both of us. My heart thunders like the hooves of a thousand wild horses. He steps back and lowers the can.

  “Your mum’s lucky she’s wearing white,” he tells the curious audience of two. “But we can’t have this go to waste. Who wants to get sprayed?” He pretends to go after them.

  Somehow he makes it look like they got him with it.

  “Mercy. Mercy!” He lets them wrestle him to the floor and soon the three of them are rolling around on the cushions.

  “Zain, Natasha! Back in your seats. It’s time we head back.” For some reason, I’m choked over the fact that they’re bonding with him.

  “But we haven’t had the brownies yet,” protests Zain.

  “Brownies?” says Troy. “We can’t leave without dessert.”

  Natasha hands him a saran wrapped square from the picnic basket. He pulls his wet t-shirt off, sits back and takes a big bite, closing his eyes to savor the rich, fudgy taste.

  “Are you a rock star?” asks Natasha, eyeing the tattoos and the rosary around his neck.

  “A rock star? Heck no, I’m Captain Cool.” He winks at her.

  She melts. “You want another one?”

  “I’d love another.”

  “Mum made them,” says Zain.

  “She did?”

  With his shirt off, he’s even more intimidating, like he’s suddenly grown and filled my whole field of vision.

  “Uh-huh. We can’t give you the recipe,” Natasha declares solemnly.
“But we can make another batch if you want.”

  “Oh, I want.” He looks at me as he lets his teeth sink into the last piece. “I have quite an appetite for sweet things.”

  My cheeks burn with a mix of exasperation and embarrassment. Flirting in front of my kids.

  Not. Cool.

  “And there it is,” he says quietly as he notes the color rush into my face. “I think we’ve gone far enough today.” He gets up and takes the wheel.

  I wish he’d put his shirt back on. Or his sunglasses. Anything would be an improvement over the smooth expanse of bronzed muscle disappearing into his jeans. There’s just too much naked. Naked shoulders, naked chest, naked back.

  “Ready?” He looks back and checks on the kids.

  “Aye, aye Captain!”

  This time, he cuts a path straight across the lake at full throttle. The world rushes by in a blur of rainbow drops and trees and sunshine.

  “Hey, Shayda?”

  “What?”

  He tugs on my bandana.

  “No!” I say as he pulls it free, but it gets swept away, a startling red, floating free against the vivid blue sky.

  The wind whips unrestrained curls around my face. I try to hold my hair down with my hands.

  “Let it be.” He flashes me the most brilliant smile.

  Stay mad. Stay mad. Stay mad.

  But I can’t. Not for long. It’s exhilarating, skimming over the lake, feeling the wind rush through my hair. I close my eyes and tilt my face up to the sky. My hands reach out, touching the air as it whizzes by; my tongue tastes the spray from the lake.

  By the time we get to the dock, we are sun-kissed, windswept and cracking up over absolutely nothing. I squint at the lone figure on the dock. The sun is in my face, but Zain makes it out.

  “Dad!” He waves.

  My heart drops like I’ve been caught driving the wrong direction on a one-way street. I start smoothing my hair as best as I can.

  “Thank you, Captain,” says Natasha before Hafez helps her out.

  I’m about to follow, when Troy pulls me back by the strap of the life jacket.

  “Oh, sorry.” I fumble for the clasp. Hafez is already helping the kids take theirs off.

  “Hold still.” Troy reaches around me. His fingers slide the vest off, grazing my arms.

  I tell myself the goose bumps are from the lake air.

  “You made it,” I say, as Hafez gives me his hand.

  “The line up at the border wasn’t too bad today,” he replies.

  I feel a stab of guilt. He looks worn and tired, his face brown from wind and sun and dry, dusty roads. The stubble he left with has grown into a full beard, and his clothes smell of diesel and coffee shops. He has none of Troy’s polished veneer, his attraction built on the craggy isolation that surrounds him, the kind that makes you want to dig beyond the dark brown depths of his eyes.

  “Hey, Troy!” Bob and Elizabeth walk down the pier. “You think you could take a couple of seniors out for a trip?”

  “Hop on,” replies Troy.

  “Shayda, make sure you feed Hafez,” says Elizabeth. “He rushed straight here to find you.”

  She pauses, looking from Troy to Hafez. “Have you two met?”

  I hold my breath as she makes the introductions.

  Troy, meet Hafez, Shayda’s husband. Her anchor, her rock, her safe harbor.

  Hafez, meet Troy, the current that sweeps her so far ashore, she forgets which way is home.

  They shake hands—the solid, down-to-earth man and the restless, unpredictable lightning in the sky. I feel like a tree exposed to the elements, my roots clinging to the soil, my branches flirting with heaven.

  “Nice to meet you,” says Hafez.

  “Likewise,” replies Troy.

  “Oh Shayda, I almost forgot,” says Bob before he gets on the boat. “I told Troy that you’ll look after him while I’m away. Show him a few places, will you?”

  A dart of terror shoots through me, but I nod.

  “Thanks.” He waves as the boat pulls out.

  “What’s that, dad?” Natasha and Zain clamor around Hafez.

  “Something for mum.” Hafez hands me a white gift box.

  “Open it!” says Zain.

  I rummage through the foam noodles and uncover a bubble wrapped package. Inside is a family of four porcelain figurines, joined at the base. The matte ivory finish captures stylized silhouettes of a mother, father, daughter and son.

  “It’s beautiful,” says Natasha, admiring the details.

  But it’s more. So much more than she could ever understand.

  I turn away from the sight of Troy, as he sets course for the shimmering mirage of the horizon, and squeeze Hafez’s hand. His gift is a reminder of another time, a time before Natasha and Zain, before porcelain shards mingled with blood and left pin prick splinters in our hearts.

  5. Boardwalk

  PAST

  July 10th, 1982

  What I remember most about meeting Hafez is his smile. Not the one he greeted me with, but the one I caught later, when he thought I wasn’t looking.

  It was two months after I had arrived in Toronto. I suspect Khaleh Zarrin had planned it even before my flight touched down. She was Maamaan’s younger sister, and a notorious matchmaker.

  “But I don’t know anything about him!” I said when she told me she had invited Hafez and his family over for dinner.

  “Think of it as a starting point,” she replied. “If you don’t like him, you never have to see him again.”

  I left the house early that morning. I needed a sign, an omen, a crystal ball into the future. It was clear enough—you could see for miles into the blue sky. I sat on the grass by the boardwalk and watched the world pass by. The whirring of bicycle wheels, oiled bodies playing beach volleyball, melting ice cream cones, babies in strollers.

  What a beautiful, wondrous country.

  A golden retriever came up and licked my face.

  “Hey, you.” I laughed as he slobbered all over me.

  Then I heard it. The joyful burst of laughter. It was a young couple on neon roller skates, their faces hidden under shiny helmets. She was obviously a learner, but it only added to their sense of adventure. He held her gently, but firmly as she pushed off one foot and then the other, confident he wouldn’t let go.

  He pulled a camera out of his backpack, looking for someone to take their photo. I started getting up, but an elderly gentleman intercepted. The roller skating duo removed their helmets and leaned in. I saw the backs of their heads as they held still for the camera. Suddenly, the guy scooped the girl off her feet. She squealed and threw her arms around him, half delighted, half terrified. I hoped that was the moment the camera captured. They thanked the man for taking their picture and took off, hand in hand.

  That’s what I wanted. Him. Them. Someone I could walk with, and laugh with, and hold hands with the rest of my life. I had my sign. I smiled and got up.

  Maamaan had called while I was away, and Khaleh Zarrin was happy to regale Hafez’s parents with the latest gossip from home. Kamal Hijazi looked disinterested. He was a small man who picked at the motor grease under his nails and spoke only when he had to. His wife, Nasrin, had a round face and a thick neck. She breathed heavily as she regarded me over her cup.

  Hafez sat across from me. His face was reserved and so perfectly symmetrical that I found myself staring. He reminded me of the imported bars of chocolate that sat behind locked shelves in Tehran, the kind that Baba would get for Hossein and me if we’d been very, very good. His hair was the color of cacao beans, roasted and husked, and he wore it slicked back from his face, leaving his eyes in stark focus. They were sweet and intoxicating, but with a bitter aftertaste, like two round drops of dark liqueur. He knew he was being paraded and cool resentment rolled off his caramel skin like the layers of shiny packaging we ripped off our chocolate bars when we finally got our hands on them.

  When I caught him checking his watch for the
third time though, he looked suitably contrite. I shrugged. It wasn’t exactly a picnic for me either. After that he stole small sips of glances. When Khaleh Zarrin’s neighbour stopped by, he said hello, but his eyes came right back to me, as if he hadn’t noticed her starlet red lips or juicy cleavage. At dinner, we sat side by side, painfully aware of being scrutinized—him by my aunt, me by his mother, us as a couple.

  “Why don’t we let the kids clear up?” said Khaleh Zarrin after we were done.

  “This is so awkward,” I mumbled when we were alone.

  “Your first time?”

  I nodded.

  “My third,” he said. “It gets easier.”

  Our fingers touched as we reached for the same bowl. We jumped back simultaneously. I liked his laugh and the way he looked when he let his guard down. It was as if a little boy had been frozen under lock and key, and he was finally free to come out and fly kites and build sandcastles. I was so taken with the transformation that I didn’t notice the rice dish by my side, and elbowed it right off the table. It shattered on the floor with a loud crash.

  “Shayda? What was that?” Khaleh Zarrin asked from the living room.

  It was one of her favorite dishes, part of a set she had shipped from Iran. I stared at the pieces, horrified.

  “Sorry,” replied Hafez, after a tense silence. “I broke one of your dishes.”

  There was a pause.

  “It’s okay, dear,” said Khaleh Zarrin. “I guess Shayda will just have to keep you out of the kitchen.”

  We heard laughter from the living room.

  ‘Thank you,’ I mouthed.

  The teasing went on. I turned a bright shade of red as Hafez helped me clean up the mess.

  When he proposed two weeks later, I said yes. It wasn’t until much later that he told me he’d never intended to get married. We both had our reasons—mine was my family, waiting in the wings for a new life, and his were the ghosts he was trying to keep at bay.

  August 3rd, 1982

  A week after we set the date, Khaleh Zarrin took me to see Dr. Gorman. He gave me three discs.

  “These are samples. Use one pill every day for twenty eight days. When one pak finishes, start the next. Understand?”