53 Letters For My Lover

by Leylah Attar

  I looked away, my eyes focusing on the silver cross that hung from a rosary around his neck.

  “Need some help?” He held out his hand.

  “I’m fine.”

  He paused for a beat, then he turned and took off, the steady thump of his footsteps fading into the summer morning.

  I looked at my watch. 9:05 a.m. I was late. And all the forms were out of order. And my heart was beating like I’d jumped over a thousand hurdles. I rounded the corner to Bob’s house and rang the doorbell.

  A second later, I was staring at the blue eyed stranger through the criss-cross mesh of the screen door.

  Of course. Bob’s son. Home for the summer. How could that have slipped my mind?

  “Ryan?” I asked, turning red as he appraised me from head to toe.

  “I’m Ryan.” A head popped up beside him. “He’s Troy. Who are you?”

  “Coming through, coming through.” Bob’s familiar voice. “Oh hey, Shayda.” He stepped out and held the door open for me. “Boys, this is my assistant. Be nice.” He gave them a stern look. “I’ve left some notes for you, Shayda, but I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

  “Okay.” I put my head down, parted my way through two hard, muscular bodies and marched into the office.

  “Holy crap. My dad’s assistant? She’s smokin’!” said Ryan.

  “Lay off, man. She’s married.” I heard Troy reply.

  I dropped the papers on the desk. My wedding band. He’d noticed. And run. Literally. I smiled in spite of myself.

  “Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god!” Jayne came into the room and shut the door. “Did you see Ryan’s friend?”

  “I did.” I laughed.

  It was way before noon, but Jayne was up. Her hair was combed and she had on a dab of mascara.

  “So he was washing his car yesterday. No. Shirt. Eeeeee!” she squealed. Then she opened the door a crack and peeked out. “He’s so cute!”

  “Hey, Jayne?” I asked. “Have you ever seen a red butterfly?”

  “A red butterfly?” She turned around. “Does that even exist?”

  “Sure does.” Troy poked his head into the study. “I saw one just this morning.”

  “Yeah, right,” replied Jayne. “What’s it called then?”

  “A Beetroot Butterfly.”

  I stare at the red Monarch before me now.

  “You made it up? There’s no such thing as a Beetroot Butterfly?” I ask over the sound of blood rushing in my ears.

  “Oh, but there is.” He catches the color wash over my face. “And I’m looking at her right now.”

  The seconds stretch out indefinitely, leaving me suspended, floating mid-air, weightless, breathless.

  That’s when the butterfly decides to come out. It perches on the edge of the box, wings folded flat, with white spots that stare at us like fake eyes. The majestic valley calls, but the butterfly clings to its mesh cage.

  “Fly, dammit, fly!” says Troy.

  The Monarch spreads its wings, taking in the warmth of the sun before touching them together and flying away. It rises before us, a fragile wisp of crimson against the vast valley.

  “I wonder if she’ll make it,” I say.

  Every year, Monarch butterflies migrate south by the millions, a round-trip journey of many thousands of kilometres.

  “No one butterfly completes the whole trip,” he replies. “It takes four or five generations.”

  “That’s sad,” I say. “And beautiful. If she stays, she dies. If she goes, she dies.”

  We watch it glide lower, and lower still, until it disappears into the backdrop of autumn leaves.

  “We all die, Shayda.” He turns and looks at me. “It’s about how we choose to get there.”

  “Is that what this is about?” I ask. “You want me to choose?”

  He pulls the edges of my coat together as the sun begins to set and a coolness settles in the air. “It’s not about what I want. Or what anyone else wants. What do you want, Shayda?”

  “Don’t,” I say, feeling tiny headed flowers of hope push through long-forgotten graves. “Can’t you see what you’re doing?”

  “When it comes to you, I’m blind, Shayda.” He lifts my chin. “I just see you. Not a mum or friend or wife or co-worker. Just you, Shayda.”

  With the setting sun in his face, Troy’s eyes look like the tops of two blue umbrellas with dark pin point centres and spokes of gold. The glints in his hair soften his features, making him seem infinitely more vulnerable.

  “You just see what you can’t have,” I reply.

  “Maybe. Or maybe I’ve carried you with me for so long, there’s no room for anyone else.”

  I suck in my breath. “You’ve made me out to be something I’m not. It’s all in your head.”

  “That theory went out the window the moment we kissed. And you know it too.”

  “It’s just physical attraction, Troy. Nothing more.”

  “Fine,” he lets out a ragged sigh. “Then let’s have a wild and crazy affair. Get it out of our system. Anything would be better than this. This half-living. This damned yearning.” His thumb traces the curve of my lips. “I can’t stop thinking about you—your touch, your taste, your smell.”

  I close my eyes as he runs his finger down my neck.

  How do you deny a living, breathing feeling? How do you hack it and kill it and bury it so that it never surfaces again?

  “Stay away from me.” I wrench myself away from him. “I don’t want anything to do with you, Troy.”

  8. Not Like This

  October 9th, 1995

  “Happy Thanksgiving, Shayda.” Jayne hugs me at the door. “And Happy Anniversary!”

  “Thanks. Happy Thanksgiving to you too.”

  Hafez, Natasha and Zain follow me inside. I take the brownies to the kitchen.

  “Smells wonderful, Elizabeth. Thank you for having us over.”

  “Oh good! You brought my favorite.” She beams.

  “Shayda, Hafez.” Bob calls us into the living room. “Good timing. Troy was just about to leave.”

  I freeze.

  Troy?

  “Come look at these plans.” Bob unrolls a large sheet of paper on the dining table. “I was just showing Troy some commercial properties for his new office.”

  “I really have to get going, Bob.” Troy puts his glass down. “Nice to see you again, Hafez. You too, Shayda.”

  I get why he’s leaving, and it twists my gut.

  I don’t want anything to do with you, Troy.

  In a white-button down shirt, navy sweater and tweed jacket, he’s a far cry from the laid back t-shirt-and-jeans Troy I’ve come to know, but just as devastating. Even more so with the cool distance in his eyes.

  “Come on, Rachel,” he says.

  I notice her for the first time, a leggy blond lounging on the sofa, in a chic black turtleneck and pants.

  “Are you sure you can’t stay?” asks Elizabeth.

  “We’re spending Thanksgiving with Rachel’s parents.”

  Okay. So maybe I was wrong about why he’s leaving. It has more to do with Rachel. Less to do with Shayda. And that would also explain the more conservative outfit. It’s ‘meet the parents’ night. The knife in my gut twists deeper.

  “Troy!” Natasha and Zain zero in on him.

  “Hello, mateys!” He picks up Zain and refrains from ruffling Natasha’s hair, which earns him bonus points.

  “Captain.” Zain gives him a smart salute.

  “You’re not leaving, are you?” Natasha follows him to the door.

  “Afraid so, princess.” He puts Zain down and helps Rachel with her coat.

  “Wait.” Natasha rushes into the kitchen and comes back out with something wrapped in a paper towel. “We made brownies.”

  “And you remembered?”

  “Uh-huh. You like them.”

  “Thank you, sweetheart.” He kneels and takes them from her.

  “I’ll follow up on the downtown unit,”
says Bob.

  “That would be great. Talk to you soon.” I hear before the door shuts.

  Elizabeth peeks out from the window “Wow. Thanksgiving with the parents. Is it serious?”

  “Stop spying, Liz.”

  “I’m not spying.” She lets the curtain fall. “I just hope that boy finds someone nice.”

  “I think he rather enjoys playing the bachelor,” says Jayne. “He moved back, what—three, four months ago? And his social life is already off the charts. He’s made it into more gossip columns than I have in as many years.”

  “Lots of buzz in the business section too,” adds Matt.

  “Are we going to sit around talking about Troy all night or are we going to get some dinner?” Bob starts putting the papers away. “You know,” he says to me, “he’s thrilled with the loft. I’m surprised he didn’t come to you with this.”

  “He was your client to begin with,” I say.

  Bob smiles and pats me on the shoulder. “You’ve got a great gal here, Hafez.”

  Hafez lights up. I don’t get to see that face too often, but every time I do, it aches like an old wound on a rainy day.

  That night, I pull out a lace baby-doll from the back of my closet. It feels daring and sexy. The bright pink complements my skin and brown eyes. I spritz on some perfume and step out of the bathroom, feeling a little self-conscious.

  The lights are off and Hafez is already in bed. I slip between the covers and snuggle up to him.

  “I’m so glad you made it home for our anniversary.”

  “Me too,” he replies.

  “I’ve missed you.” I nuzzle closer and let my hand slide lower.

  “Hmmm. You have missed me.” He turns to look at me with soft wonder. “How did I get so lucky?”

  I can’t remember the last time we had sex. Months have turned into years, and the years have melded into a hazy point beyond recall. But tonight I want to burn for him. I want to drive away thoughts of anyone else but him. I want it here, where it belongs, where it’s good and right and pure.

  He slides my panties off and turns me on my tummy.

  “No, not like this,” I say. “I don’t want it like this any more, Hafez.”

  A pained expression crosses his face.

  I’ve asked for too much. I know. But I need this. I really, really need this.

  And so he takes me, face to face, but he hides his eyes in my neck.

  Look at me. Please. Look at me, I want to say.

  When it’s over, he slides off me and curls up on his side.

  I put my arms around him, wanting to absorb his pain, trying to hide my own. “Maybe it’s time we see someone.”

  “You mean like a therapist?”

  “It might help.”

  “You’ve never mentioned it before.”

  I prop myself up and look at him. “It’s not just about this. You’ve never talked to anyone about what happened.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about. It’s behind us now.”

  “But it’s still in here.” I put my hand on his heart. “Don’t you think it’s time you dealt with it?”

  “What do you want me to do, Shayda? Do you want me to sit on a couch and tell some stranger that I can’t make love to my wife because every time I look at her, I see that monster?”

  I let his words sink in.

  That’s not what I want. What I really want is something else, someone else, and in my bid to run away from that, I’m putting my husband through hell.

  “No,” I reply, suddenly exhausted. “Let’s go to sleep, Hafez. You’re here, I’m here, the kids are fast asleep in their rooms. That’s all that matters.”

  We cling to each other, two souls from broken homes, determined to keep it together, to never let the claws of the past rip our family apart.

  9. Poseidon

  PAST

  December 27th, 1982

  Pasha Moradi. I remember the exact moment I heard the name. My whole world about to tip over and I stood, warm and clueless, in a beautiful crimson coat that Hafez had just bought for me.

  It was a season of firsts. First winter, first Canadian christmas; the first time Hafez and I had three whole days to spend together.

  We bought two slices of scalding hot pizza and stopped by a playground behind the apartment. Hafez brushed the dusting of fresh snow off the bench and smiled as I lined it with a napkin before sitting down in my new coat.

  “You like it?” he asked.

  It was more than he could afford. I was worried what Ma would say when we got home.

  “It’s lovely.”

  It felt a bit ridiculous, being tongue-tied around the man I’d been married to for over two months. But today, as he picked the red onions he knew I didn’t like, off my slice, I felt a curious warmth flood my heart. With that simple act, Hafez pushed aside all the doubts and anxiousness I had about us.

  I bit into the doughy crust, the taste of melted cheese and tomatoes more delicious than anything I could remember. He did care. He cared for me. It was there in his eyes, a slight lifting of the gates, just enough space to let me crawl through to carefully guarded grounds. I wanted to sit there forever and watch the twinkling lights on the balconies.

  “Do you roller skate?” I asked.

  “Roller skate?” He looked amused. “No. Do you?”

  “No.” I laughed. “I was just thinking about this couple I saw on the boardwalk, the day we met. They looked so happy.”

  He took my gloved hand and held it quietly. “Shayda, I know we haven’t...I haven’t...”

  The words wouldn’t come so he took a deep breath and tried again. “I know there are things you may not understand, but I do want us to be that couple. When I look at you, I see things I never dared imagine before. I want to give you everything that’s good in me, Shayda. I promise I’ll do whatever it takes to make you happy.”

  My heart swelled. I felt like a big, red balloon, about to float away.

  We walked hand in hand past the dumpsters behind the building. The warm blast of scented dryer sheets from the laundry room greeted us as we took the elevator. Hafez pulled me close and nuzzled my neck. I liked the feel of his stubble on my skin.

  When we got to the apartment, Ma was so excited, she didn’t notice my new coat.

  “Pasha Moradi, he call. He got papers. He move to Toronto! Stay here until he find place.”

  “When?” asked Hafez. “When is he coming?”

  “In two weeks,” said Pedar, smiling from ear to ear.

  It was the first time I had seen anything but bored indifference on Kamal Hijazi’s face.

  “Who is Pasha Moradi?” I asked, not noticing that Hafez had slowly let go of my hand.

  January 8th, 1983

  Preparing for Pasha Moradi was like unleashing a whirlwind into the tiny apartment. We bought steak and chicken and whole snapper and lamb. Every night would be a feast. Pedar spent hours installing new parquet flooring and Ma polished her glass cabinet until it danced with rainbows in the light. I mopped and vacuumed, and buffed the faucets, and tooth-brushed the bathroom grout with bleach.

  One evening, Hafez drove us to Honest Ed’s to buy new bedding. He stood by, detached and distant, as we sorted through the sets.

  “What do you think?” I held up the ones we were considering.

  “Get whatever the hell you want.” It was the first time he had been short with me.

  Ma crocheted a bedspread in zigzag colors. Pasha Moradi would have their room. Hafez and I would use the mattress, and Ma and Pedar would sleep on the couch.

  “He very powerful man. No wife, no family. If we good to him, he change life for us,” said Ma.

  Money. So that’s what it was about, I thought, trying to decipher the looks of resentment Hafez threw his parents as they gushed over the man on the phone.

  Yes, yes, yes, we are coming to pick you up.

  What would you like to eat on the first day?

  Of course, we will go to Niagara Falls!


  “Call your parents,” Hafez said to me, after they got off the phone one night.

  “It expensive.” Ma was not pleased. Kamal Hijazi rolled his cigarette between stained fingers.

  “I don’t see why she can’t talk to her family when you spend hours of long-distance with him.”

  “It’s all right,” I whispered to Hafez.

  “Call them.” He handed me the phone.

  That night, the night before Pasha Moradi’s arrival, Hafez turned to me. He had been withdrawn since our day out, like a curtain that closes before the show even begins.

  “This will be our last night alone for a while,” he said.

  We were never really alone, but the living room was our space at night. My heart lurched as I felt his arms around my waist.

  My husband is going to make love to me, I thought.

  But his eyes were far away as he stroked my hair.

  “If it weren’t for Ma, I would have left a long time ago,” he said. “I thought we would be free once we moved here.” His chest trembled as he spoke, but with anger or anguish, I couldn’t tell. “Stay away from Pasha Moradi. Do you understand, Shayda?”

  I didn’t. But I nodded because of the intensity in his words. A worm of fear crawled over my flesh and left tight little goose bumps on my skin.

  Hold me, Hafez, I wanted to say.

  But he turned away, wrestling his own demons in some dark corner of his backstage.

  February 25th, 1983

  A grey wind slammed gritty snow against the windows. February was furious, pounding the glass panes until they shook in their frames. I lay on the mattress, clinging to the warm indent that Hafez had just left. It was barely dawn, but he was out the door. He had been doing that a lot lately. Last one in, first one out. I listened to Pedar snoring on the couch, thankful for the long, heavy snorts that kept me up most nights, because it meant that I wouldn’t have to wake Pasha Moradi up today.

  I hated going into his room after Hafez and Pedar left for work. It smelled of him, like overripe fruit fermenting in whisky. He was the complete opposite of Kamal Hijazi—big and boisterous, with pink cheeks and fat lips that he smacked loudly whenever he ate. He sucked on his fat sausage fingers when he was done, coating them with saliva instead of getting up to wash his hands. It didn’t matter whether we were at home or treating him to dinner at a restaurant we couldn’t afford. Pasha Moradi didn’t give a damn what the world thought of him. I think he deliberately let his penis protrude from his pajamas, under that round, hairy belly, while he lay in bed, waiting for me to wake him up. But that was something I kept to myself. Ma and Pedar worshiped the ground he walked on. Pasha Moradi could do no wrong.