by Leylah Attar
Every second passes like a time-bomb, ready to detonate inside me, spilling my guts all over the dock.
It’s my fault. My fault, my fault. I was kissing Troy in the kitchen when I should have been looking for Zain. I was distracted by petty jealousies while my son fell in the water. I dropped him at Maamaan’s to spend an afternoon with my lover. This is my punishment. This is my tsunami. Except it’s claimed Zain, not me.
My breath comes in heart-wrenching sobs. How odd it sounds in this serene setting, with the wind rustling through the pines, as if it were just an ordinary afternoon. How can the water look so sparkly? Why is the sky still blue?
There is a loud, sharp intake as someone breaks through the water. Two heads. Oh god. Yes. Yes. I make out Troy’s form, swimming back towards us, towing Zain to shore.
Hafez helps him out of the water and they lay Zain’s body on the dock. His lips are a sickly blue and his eyes remain closed. Troy places two fingers on the inside of Zain’s wrist.
“Call an ambulance,” he says. “Now!”
“My baby.” I crawl up to Zain’s limp form.
Troy puts the heel of his palm on Zain’s breastbone. “Hafez, keep his head still.”
“1,2,3,4,......” Thirty fast, hard chest compressions. An endless stretch of eternity. Then he covers Zain’s mouth with his and pinches hiss nose, tilting his chin up as he gives him a breath. Once, twice. He places his ear close to Zain’s mouth.
Back to 1,2,3,4.....Each number feels like a quick, sharp stabbing of my soul. Hack, hack, hack, hack. The cross around Troy’s neck sways. Life, death, life, death.
“Come on.” He gives Zain another rescue breath. “Come on!”
Pink foam sputters out of Zain’s nose and mouth on the next round of compressions. It’s not clean, like in the movies. It’s ugly and slimy and mucusy. He hurls lungfuls of water with each chest press. He takes a breath, but sucks the water back down. Cough. Sputter. Horrible popping, gurgling sounds. His eyes open, teary and bloodshot.
Troy rolls him to his side. More water. More wretched gasps.
“Get me some blankets from the boat,” shouts Troy. “Where’s that damned ambulance?”
He lifts Zain up from behind, arms around his waist, and squeezes. More water. Hafez covers Zain with a blanket and Troy lays him down again.
The paramedics arrive, intubate Zain and start pumping out more water. I think of his tiny lungs, swollen, like two bags of water, and sob convulsively.
Troy puts his arm around my shoulder. “He’ll be all right.” He looks exhausted, drained, completely spent.
“Thank you,” says Hafez.
I move away from Troy and reach for my husband. We follow the paramedics into the ambulance. Troy stands outside as I huddle into the cramped interior with my family.
The door closes and we drive away. I know Troy is watching, but I don’t look back. The shiny red paint on my toes is all chipped and cracked.
29. Four Years Later
July 29th, 2000
Zain was born during a thunderstorm.
It was the spring of ‘86 and it had been raining for three days. Hafez was away when my water broke. Bob drove me to the hospital while Elizabeth looked after Natasha.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to call anyone?” she asked.
“Just try Hafez again.”
I labored for sixteen hours. Zain was much harder than Natasha, or maybe it just seemed that way was because I was alone. The lights went out when he came into the world. The first time I saw his face, was between flashes of lightning. Maybe that’s why he’s afraid of thunderstorms. When he was young, he would put his arms around me and bury his face in my belly.
“Make it go away, Mum,” he’d whisper.
Now he finds other ways to stay close. Today he shuffled around and asked if I could make hot chocolate, the kind he likes, from scratch.
There is a certain comfort in watching milk come to a boil, a simple pleasure in breaking pieces of chocolate and seeing it melt in expanding swirls as I stir the pot.
I sit with Zain and Hafez at the kitchen table, as the steam rises from our cups and fogs up the windows.
“Can we stay with grandma tonight?” asks Zain, strumming his guitar.
“Yes,” replies Hafez.
“No,” I say at the same time.
“Well? Which is it?” asks Zain.
“Dad isn’t here next weekend,” I reply. “You can go to grandma’s then if you want to.”
“But—"
“Zain.” Hafez looks up from his newspaper. “What your mum says.”
“But she never lets me go anywhere.”
“She’s scared.” Natasha walks in and pulls up a chair. “You know, because of what happened.”
“But that was four years ago. And I know how to swim now.”
I look at my children. Natasha, sixteen, almost as tall as me, but much more opinionated than I was at her age. I like that. I want her to have a voice. And Zain—at fourteen, his face is starting to change. We came so close to losing him. He has my curly hair and Hafez’s big, round eyes.
“Next weekend,” I reply. “You can go to grandma’s next weekend.”
“Did you see this?” Hafez spreads the newspaper out on the table. “There’s an article here on Troy.”
My heart still rams into my chest at the mention of his name. I look into my hot chocolate, waiting for the moment to pass.
“Let’s have a look!” Zain grabs the business section.
“Heathgate Group is expanding its international offices to Mexico and Hong Kong. The company, which has thrived under the leadership of founder and CEO, Troy Heathgate, is set to step into the international arena...” Natasha trails off. “Look, there’s a photo of him too.”
I pick up the empty cups and start washing them.
“How come we don’t see him anymore?” asks Zain.
“He’s a busy man,” replies Hafez. “I think the last time mum and I ran into him was two years ago. Right, Shayda?”
“That’s right.”
Two years, five months, two weeks and two days. The Valentine’s Day ball that Jayne had organized.
I managed to avoid him all evening, except for that moment on the dance floor when I looked over Hafez’s shoulder and our eyes met. I didn’t see who he was dancing with. Didn’t know, didn’t care. They were playing Lionel Richie’s ‘Oh No’, and for those few moments we were the only two people in the room.
He looked so handsome in his tuxedo, like Richard Gere in that opera scene from ‘Pretty Woman’. I remembered what it felt like to dance with him, my hand clasped in his, breathing in that heady, exciting air around him. I wished the song would end. Who plays this on Valentine’s Day? Three minutes of pure lyrical hell, of pretending I could breath, that my feet weren’t lead, that my heart wasn’t choking, gasping, sputtering pink froth.
Later, when Hafez made his way over to Troy’s table, I said I had to use the bathroom. He looked at me funny. He couldn’t understand how I could be so indifferent to the man who had saved our son. Indifferent, he said.
“Mum.” Natasha turns off the tap. “You’ve been washing the same cup for the last five minutes.”
“Oh.” I stare into the sink. “Just a spot I can’t get out.”
The phone rings as I’m wiping my hands.
“Hello.” Hafez picks up. “When?” He looks at his watch. “No, no. I’ll be there. Yeah. Okay.”
“What now?” I ask.
“One of the drivers can’t make his shift. I have to go.”
“Can’t you get someone else to cover?”
“No one’s available on such short notice. I’ll be back Wednesday night.” He kisses me on the cheek.
“And off again on Friday,” I remind him. “I thought owning a business afforded us certain privileges.”
“It’s a new contract. We start missing deliveries and there are ten other companies waiting to swoop in.”
“I know.”
I sigh. “I’ll see you Wednesday.”
I watch him back out of the driveway.
I wonder when he’ll stop running.
30. Dark Spell Master
August 4th, 2000
Jayne and I come to a faltering halt in the middle of downtown traffic.
“Damn it.” She hits the steering wheel. “Damn it, damn it, damn it!”
“I don’t get it. It’s a brand new car,” I say.
“It’s not that.” She thunks her head on the wheel.
“Then what?”
“I forgot to get gas.”
“You’re kidding.”
She shakes her head. “The light’s been on for a while.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“Now what?” I ask. “Hafez is out of town. You want to call Matt?”
“Um...NO! He’s always going on about how he has to look after me.”
“Which is so obviously not the case.” I roll my eyes.
“I know we have some kind of emergency roadside assistance...” She flips the dashboard open and a pile of papers fall out.
“I’ll get them.” I start picking them up.
“Sweet Jesus!” she exclaims.
“What?” I come up and hit my head.
“I’ll be right back.” She dashes out of the car and crosses the street, waving her arms about like a mad woman. I rub my head. What is she up to now?
It takes me a second to figure out who she’s running to.
Troy Heathgate. In the flesh.
My heart brakes mid-breath. No. Nonononono. Then I realize we’ve stalled not too far from his office.
I watch as Jayne points to the car, talking animatedly. His face breaks into a smile. God, I’ve missed that smile. He hands his briefcase to his associate and cross the street.
My stomach twists into a knot as he opens the door and gets in. He freezes when he sees me, one leg in, one leg out.
“Shayda.” With the ahhh.
“Hello, Troy.”
He’s sporting a five o’clock shadow that makes his sharp features look even more rugged. His hair is shorter, but just as thick and unruly. That dangerous, electric vibe is still there, throbbing, hot and hard between us.
“Troy?” prompts Jayne, reeling us back to reality.
I look away, even as the blood pounds in my ears. Will I ever stop being so aware of him?
He turns on the ignition. Nothing.
I watch his fingers—all the places they’ve been, all the ways they’ve made me moan and squirm.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” he says to Jayne. “No gas? There are at least three gas stations within a few blocks of here.”
She shrugs, not about to admit anything.
“I’ll have one of my guys look after it.” He makes a call and hangs up. “Can I drop you off somewhere? Looks like we’re in for a hell of a downpour.”
“Could you?” replies Jayne. “That would be absolutely darling of you!”
Great. How absolutely darling of you, Troy.
I follow the two of them to the parking lot.
“Wow.” Jayne gets in the passenger seat. “Nice sports car. Hey, you still have the Ducati?”
“I do.” He flips the driver’s seat down for me to slide into the back. His arms steady my waist as I get in. We pull back instantly.
“You still owe me that ride, you know,” says Jayne.
There’s a horrible silence as the three of us recall that day, why Jayne never got her ride. August 4th, four years to the day that Troy dragged Zain out of the water.
“Hey, is this a Bose stereo system?” Jayne tries to lighten the moment. “Check it out!” She turns on the radio.
I envy her the blissful freedom to breathe and talk and think around him.
He starts the car and the engine roars to life as the first drops of rain start to fall.
“Just in time,” says Jayne. She babbles on about the weather and her trips and the events she’s planning.
I’m thankful for the chatter. The car smells of Troy, and new leather—dark, masculine and sexy as hell. It’s low slung, with a quietly powerful engine and a sleek instrument panel.
“Oh hey. I love this!” Jayne cranks up the volume.
I catch Troy watching me in the mirror, his eyes the only points of brilliant blue on this grey day. Bryan Adams is reminiscing about his lover in that perfectly raspy voice. ‘Please Forgive Me’, he sings. The light turns green and Troy breaks contact, but his knuckles are white as he grips the steering wheel.
“This is me!” announces Jayne as he pulls into her driveway. Lightning flashes across the sky. “Thank you, Troy.”
“I’ll get off here too.” I grab my handbag.
“Shayda, it’s pouring. Troy will drop you home. You don’t mind, do you Troy?” asks Jayne.
“No.” He stares straight ahead.
Jayne gets out and folds the chair down. “Hop in the front, Shayda. Quick, I’m getting soaked!”
I do as I’m told, aware of how ungraceful I must look, scrambling out with my skirt hitched up.
“Bye, Troy. Thanks again! Sorry we couldn’t do coffee, Shayda. I’ll call you.” Jayne pulls her jacket over her head and runs to the porch. As soon as she’s inside, I open the door.
“Where do you think you’re going?” asks Troy.
“I’ll take a cab,” I reply, pulling out my umbrella.
“For God’s sake, Shayda, I—”
His words fade as I bolt out of the car. The wind whips my hair and I stumble blindly towards the road. A hard yank pulls me back.
“If you think I’m going to leave you here in the middle of a bloody thunderstorm, you’re fucking crazy!”
He hauls me over his shoulder and starts walking towards the car. I splutter with indignation. My umbrella goes flying into the street. I watch as it gets swept off into an upside down world.
“Get in and stay in.” He deposits me like a sack of potatoes on the seat.
“I’ll ruin the leather.” I don’t want to be alone with you.
He gives me a chilling look as he gets in the driver’s seat. I hear the sound of the automatic locks.
“We need to get out of here.” He puts the car in reverse as Jayne draws the living room curtains, peering at us through the window.
His arm goes around the back of my headrest as he pulls out of the driveway. He’s drenched; his shirt is clinging to the hard planes of his chest and his hair is dripping wet. An unbidden memory of him, fresh out of the shower, towel slung around his hips, flashes before me.
“You made me lose my umbrella.” I hate sitting so dangerously close to you.
Why is Bryan Adams still singing this stupid song? How long is it anyways? I switch the radio off. Now it’s worse—just him, me and rhythmic swishing of wipers splashing the rain this way and that.
Troy ignores me until we come to a stop sign. His weight shifts and he leans over, his mouth inches from mine.
Oh god, he’s going to kiss me.
“Seat belt.” He buckles me in.
Relief.
Disappointment.
“You need to dry off.” His hands go back to the wheel. “There’s a towel in my gym bag. In the back.”
I reach around, feeling for it, but I can’t find it.
“It’s on the floor, behind your seat.” He turns into an empty parking lot. “Here.” He gets the bag and hands me a towel.
I smell him on it. The rich, sensual scent of his skin brings back flashes of bare, sweaty moments and tangled sheets.
“Damn it, Shayda. Dry off!” He grabs the towel and starts rubbing it briskly over my hair.
“I can do it myself!”
“Fine.” He tosses the towel back at me and turns the car off.
“What are you doing?” I ask, alarmed as he removes his tie and starts undoing his shirt, one button at a time.
“What does it look like I’m going?” He slips out of the wet shirt and digs into
his gym bag. “I’m changing.”
I’m hit with the brunt of raw masculinity, the corrugated leanness of his abdomen, his nipples hard from the rain. I don’t breathe until he’s safely covered up.
“I’d offer you the t-shirt, but I sense you won’t be as free dispensing with your blouse.” His eyes fall to the top that’s clinging to me like saran wrap. I hold the towel closer, shielding myself.
“Don’t worry, Shayda.” He rakes his hand through his hair. “I’m not going to take you like some depraved, dejected fool. You’ve made it very clear that you can’t stand the sight of me.”
Can’t stand the sight of him? I hold back the crazy laughter that threatens to break free.
He reaches into the dashboard for a cigarette, and places it between his lips.
“Don’t,” I say.
“What do you care?” His eyes challenge me.
Lightning illuminates one side of his face.
Damn you, Troy. Why do you have to be so heart-breakingly handsome?
“Just don’t.” I remove the cigarette from his mouth.
It’s a simple move, but it brings back all the other times I’ve done it before—a hotel room with soft, fluffy pillows, foggy mirrors in the bathroom, him zipping up my dress and leaving hot, smoky kisses on my back.
He watches me put the cigarette away, like he’s battling his own army of flashbacks.
“Your hair is still wet.” I hold up the towel, expecting him to take it, but he leans forward and puts his face in it.
I wipe his hair, wanting to kiss the thick, dark strands. I wipe his eyes—eyes that know all of my secrets. I wipe his cheek, the one he liked to rest on my belly. I can’t bear touching him and yet not touching him, so I remove the towel from his face. But it’s a mistake, like I’ve removed a mask. His eyes are bare, naked, like he’s been running for a long, long time and now he’s finally here, looking at me, tired, weary, and very, very thirsty.
Please don’t look at me like that.
He lowers his gaze, picks up a strand of my hair and twirls it around his finger.
“I miss you,” he says to it.
It’s barely audible over the sound of the storm raging outside, but in here, it’s like a roaring crescendo.