53 Letters For My Lover

by Leylah Attar

One world is waiting to be folded and put away, another is fluttering in the wind, like a sweet-smelling dress on a clothes line, longing to be put on.

  Maamaan doesn’t notice. The kids don’t see it. Is there nothing on my face to give it away?

  I drive home listening to their incessant chatter.

  Grandma trimmed my bangs. Do you like them?

  Natasha has a boyfriend.

  I do not.

  Do too. You were all lovey-dovey on the phone. For hours, mum.

  Zain was gambling.

  It was Bingo! And I won fair and square.

  Twenty quarters.

  Yeah? So?

  So you took money from old ladies. Mum, he took money from grandma’s friends.

  You’re a snitch.

  What’s for dinner?

  They stomp upstairs, blissfully oblivious, leaving me standing in the living room.

  I place my keys on the counter. The red light on the answering machine is flashing. 4 new messages. I press play.

  “Hello, Shayda. This is Dr. Gorman. Please give me a call when you get in.”

  I jot down the number. The rest of the calls are hang-ups.

  I look at the time. 6:30 p.m. Should I call or wait until tomorrow?

  I dial the number.

  A woman picks up the phone.

  “Hi, may I speak with Dr. Gorman?”

  “Honey!” she calls.

  Damn. It’s his personal line.

  “Hello?”

  “Dr. Gorman, it’s Shayda Hijazi.”

  “Shayda. Yes. I’ve been trying to reach you. There were some abnormalities in the mammogram. It’s probably nothing, but I’d like to schedule a follow up.”

  My knees go weak. “Yes, of course.” I sit down. “I’ll call my mother and make an appointment.”

  There’s a pause at the other end. “It’s not your mother’s mammogram I’m calling about, Shayda. It’s yours.”

  36. I Changed My Mind

  August 18th, 2000

  The doorbell rings. Repeatedly. Followed by loud thumping on the door.

  Natasha. So impatient.

  “Coming, coming! Now what did you what forget?” I swing the door open.

  My heart screeches to a slamming halt. “Troy.” I turn pale. “You...you shouldn’t be here.”

  “No?” He storms past me into the house. “Where should I be, Shayda? Waiting by the phone? Staking out your office? Checking my email? Where the fuck, Shayda?” His fist slams into the console table, so ‘fuck’ is an obscure, jarring thud, like some censored song on the radio.

  “I changed my mind.”

  “You changed your mind. Just like that?” He starts pacing the hallway. “And when were you were planning to tell me exactly? When, Shayda?”

  “I made a mistake.” My voice quivers. “I got caught up in the moment. We were alone, we were away. It was...it was all an illusion.”

  “An illusion?” He pulls me hard against him. Our bodies collide, knocking the breath out of me. “Is this an illusion?”

  His lips assault mine.

  “And this?” His hand slides under my dress, claiming my thigh.

  “What about this, Shayda?” He pushes my panties aside and slides two fingers inside.

  “Tell me, Shayda. Tell me this is all in my head.” He shoves me against the door and deepens his strokes. “Tell me this is nothing.” He rubs his fingers on my neck, leaving the unmistakable trail of my reaction.

  “This is you, Shayda.” His finger slips inside my mouth. “Your taste, your smell, your skin, your touch.” He grabs me by the hair and pulls my head back. “Tell me you’re not real, Shayda. Tell me!”

  I feel the gathump gathump of his heart. Our breath comes in short, shallow gasps. His eyes darken, black holes pushing sky blue irises to the edges of raw emotion. Hunger. Anger. Love. Pain.

  The shrill ring of the telephone rattles my shattered nerves. Troy keeps me pinned against the door. The answering machine picks up.

  “Hi, Shayda. It’s Lisa from Dr. Mason’s office.”

  I free myself, and run to the phone.

  “Your mastectomy has been scheduled for September 12th...”

  ...something, something, something. Beeeeep.

  No. Nononono.

  I sweep the answering machine off the counter. It breaks in big, black plastic pieces. I swing around to face Troy, my chest heaving.

  “Are you happy now? You still want to hang around? Watch them cut my breasts off? Maybe you’d like to see my bald head? Huh? Hold a bucket while I puke my guts out?”

  With each question, I shove him back towards the door. He offers no resistance, letting me pummel him with my fists.

  “Get out, Troy!” I hold the door open. “I can’t stand your butterfly dreams or your perfect love or your perfect world. You hear me? I can’t stand it!”

  The look on his face. Like I’ve sucked the soul right out of him.

  “Go!” I give him one final push and turn away.

  Stillness. Then I hear the door shut.

  My shoulders slump. The spirit drains out of me. I fall to my knees and double over on the floor, wrapping my arms around myself, like a newborn yanked out of the womb, cold and naked and bloodied.

  “Don’t.” The softest whisper.

  My eyes swing to the door.

  He never left.

  I want the earth to open up and swallow me whole. I want to hide. But he doesn’t let me. And he doesn’t help me up either. He stretches out on the floor and lies next to me.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he says. “I told you. Whatever happens, we face it together. Don’t shut me out, Shayda. Not again. I won’t let you.”

  He tucks his arm under my neck and rests my head on his shoulder. He doesn’t want me to see his face. He doesn’t want me to watch him stuff his pain inside.

  We lie on the floor, not caring that the door is unlocked, that anyone can walk in and find us like this. No one cares if, after a storm, they’re washed ashore naked. Only that they are alive.

  37. Every Woman Imagines It

  September 27th, 2000

  Natasha props up a pillow and slips into bed with me. “Marjaneh called. She says she’ll be dropping by a little later.”

  It’s been this way since I got back from the hospital, Natasha turning into my constant shadow, to make up for some irrational guilt over still having breasts.

  Zain hovers by the bed, feeling left out by the female bonding.

  “Get in.” I pat the other side of the bed. It’s still difficult to raise my arm.

  “Does it still hurt?” He nestles in.

  “It’s much better.” His gentle concern makes me smile. “How’s high school?”

  “S’okay.” He shrugs.

  “Natasha, do you keep an eye on him?”

  She shrugs, mirroring his expression.

  Hafez walks in, carrying a tray with a bowl of soup, crackers, water, medication.

  “This is nice.” He rests it on the night stand and squeezes in next to Zain. “Who wants to watch some TV?”

  “Go back, go back,” says Natasha. “That was Seinfeld.”

  “Hey, that’s the one where Jerry steals the old lady’s bread.” Zain laughs.

  “Marble rye.” We chant in unison.

  Hafez smiles at me over Zain’s head. The things that bind a family.

  The doorbell rings.

  “I’ll go.” Natasha hops out of bed.

  “Zain, go sit on the chair. Let mum eat.” Hafez places the tray on my lap and brings the spoon to my mouth.

  “I can do it.”

  “Let me,” he insists.

  He’s been a rock. He’s helped me into my clothes, put my hair up in a pony tail, made appointments, dropped the kids to school, cooked, cleaned, folded the laundry. And now, he’s made me soup.

  I can’t stand it. I want to weep and shout.

  “It’s good,” I say, taking the spoon from him, hoping these moments slip by unnoticed,
when I push away his kindness, his unquestioning attentiveness. I don’t want him to take time off, I don’t want him to take care of me.

  “I called your mother,” he says. “She gave me the recipe. She wants to come stay with us for a few days.”

  “No need. I don’t want her going to any trouble.”

  “Shayda, she’s your mother. She wants to help.”

  Natasha enters the room, her face obscured by a bouquet of colorful balloons.

  “Another delivery for mum.” She places it on the bench by the foot of the bed. “This one doesn’t have a note either.”

  Towering over the bright, metallic balloons is a single, red, heart shaped one.

  “Now you can’t even see the TV,” says Hafez.

  “No,” I reply. “Leave it.” I take my pain killers and push the tray away.

  “I tell you what. I’ll give you fifty dollars,” says Jerry Seinfeld from behind floating reminders of Troy.

  “Take it and run, Jerry. Run!” says Zain.

  The room is dark when I open my eyes again. Hossein and Marjaneh are sitting stiffly, side by side, as if they would rather have picked another time to avoid running into each other.

  “How have you been?” asks Hossein.

  “Fine,” she replies. “And you?”

  “Good.”

  They don’t say anything for a while.

  Then Hossein clears his throat. “Are you all right? I mean...life.” There is an odd tenderness to his voice.

  Marjaneh gets up and walks to the window. “What was wrong with me, Hossein? That you had to leave?” she asks.

  “Nothing.” My brother sighs. “It was me. We happened too...easily. Our families fixed it, we went out a few times, and then everyone started making plans for us. I never had the chance to yearn for you.”

  Marjaneh nods, and continues staring out the glass pane. “I hate that they couldn’t tell if it was a boy or girl. When I want to mourn, I have no face, just some formless tissue that would have turned twenty-two this year.”

  Hossein goes to her and takes her in his arms. She goes limp, like it’s finally all right to let go, to be comforted by the man who betrayed her. “I’m so sorry, Marjie.”

  I can’t tell if they’re crying. The moment is so private that I pretend I’m still sleeping.

  “Don’t close yourself off because of what I did,” says Hossein.

  “I did. For a while.” she replies. “Then I met someone who showed me that there are men who stand by their families no matter what.”

  “I’m glad,” says Hossein. “Is it serious?”

  “He doesn’t know.”

  “You haven’t told him?”

  “No,” she says. “I seem to fall for men I can never have.”

  She tenses when Hafez comes into the room with two cups of tea.

  “Thanks, Hafez,” says Hossein, draining his cup. “I’m sorry, I have to get going. Would you let Shayda know I came by?”

  “I will,” replies Hafez.

  “Bye, Marjie.”

  “Bye, Hossein.” She holds her tea without drinking from it. “They took everything?” she asks Hafez.

  “The tumor was in her right breast, but given her family history, her best option was a double mastectomy.”

  Marjaneh stares at her hands. Every woman imagines it for a horrifying second.

  “The good news is that there is no lymph involvement. Her tests are clear.”

  Marjaneh continues to examine her fingers.

  “Hey,” I say.

  Her eyes come up. “Hi, Shayda. How are you feeling?”

  “Much better. I hope I haven’t left you in a lurch. I can’t thank you enough for looking after everything at work.”

  “I’d still be working the checkout lines if it wasn’t for you.” She squeezes my hand. “Everyone sends their love. Bob says he’ll be in again. Maybe tomorrow.”

  She stays a little longer. “Let me know if I can help,” she tells Hafez at the door.

  “Time for your medication,” says Hafez after he sees her out.

  “Already? They make me so groggy.”

  “You need the rest.”

  My cell phone rings as I’m swallowing my pills. Hafez picks up. For a moment, I panic.

  “Yes, hold on.” He hands me the phone. “It’s your father.”

  “Baba?” I say, relieved.

  “Shayda, Hossein told me you had surgery.”

  “Yes. I didn’t want to worry you. I’m fine.”

  “Cancer is not fine! You know what happened to Zarrin.”

  “We caught it in time, Baba. I have to go through some chemo, but the doctors are taking good care of me.”

  Hafez goes downstairs, giving me some privacy.

  “I’ll be in town next month,” says Baba. “Promise me we’ll meet up.”

  “Yes.” I know we’ll do it this time.

  Nothing revives the cup of life more than a caustic splash of death.

  I hang up and check my messages. Two voice mails from Jayne. Five text messages from Troy.

  5 a.m. in monterrey. thinking of u, beetbutt

  guess what? just saw a goat

  in meetings all day. how r u doing?

  message me!!!

  business dinner. you would love the chapulines

  Simple texts that scream ‘I MISS YOU’.

  He was adamant about canceling his trip.

  “Work can wait. I want to be here. With you.”

  “But you won’t be. I’ll be at home after the surgery. It’s not like you can come visit. It’s taken you months to set things up. Go. I’ll be right here when you get back.”

  The red balloon sways before me. I can hear Natasha, Zain and Hafez having dinner downstairs.

  hey, I text.

  Five seconds later, he replies: BB!!!!

  love the balloons

  u got them

  yes & the roses & the red velvet cake...u need to stop

  how are the incisions?

  they’re coming along. what are chapulines?

  grasshoppers

  ewww

  what did the doctor say?

  pathology report is clear

  the drainage tubes still in?

  no. & stitches have dissolved

  good. it’s hell not being with u

  sorry, have to go now. N coming up

  ok. u rest now

  I turn the phone off and put it under my pillow.

  “We cut some fruit for you.” Natasha places a plate beside me.

  “Natasha, how do I look?” I ask, tucking my hair behind my ear.

  “You look fine.” She views me through the eyes of a daughter. It doesn’t matter that I’m in a button up granny night gown or that my chest is as flat as a seven year old’s.

  “You know your friend’s mother? The one who’s a hairdresser?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does she make house calls?”

  “I’ll ask. You want her to come over?”

  “Yes. I would like that.” I want to do girly things. Hair and make-up and mani-pedis. I want to look pretty. Maybe then I’ll start feeling like a woman again.

  38. Red Rebozo

  October 4th, 2000

  Jayne meets me outside the prosthesis store. A woman’s silhouette coming out of a pink circle, arms outstretched, spans the sign. The store window features mannequins with wide strap bras, pink ribbon decals and a large, flashing ‘WELCOME’ sign. I pause at the door, thinking of our trip to the lingerie store and brace myself for how different this will feel.

  “Come on.” Jayne takes my hand. “Let’s do this.”

  We walk in and exchange relieved smiles. It’s not so bad. It looks just like a ‘normal’ store, racks displaying matching bra and panty sets, swimwear, hats, scarves, jewellery.

  “Hi, you must be Shayda.” A cheerful lady greets me from behind the counter.

  Yes, the boobless one who made the appointment to get fitted for new boobs.

&nbs
p; “I’m Kelly.” She comes around. “I’m so glad you brought a friend. It’s more fun that way.”

  Jayne’s eyebrows shoot up. “Fun?”

  Kelly laughs. “Think about it this way. You can get breast forms that are bigger, smaller or perkier than what you had. You get to choose from teardrop, triangle, heart shapes. Silicone, foam, fiberfill. The choices are endless and our mastectomy bras come in neutrals, pastels and a variety of sexy colors, so you don’t feel like you’re giving up anything.”

  Her outlook is refreshingly empowering. I like her right away.

  She ushers us into the private fitting room. Jayne stays with me, but I keep my back to her, not wanting her see my chest full on. It’s not long though, before Kelly nudges my body around, taking measurements at strategic points on my chest and around the rib cage.

  Jayne holds a wobbly smile, keeping her eyes on my face, although there’s no way to avoid the angry lines slashed across my front, screaming, ‘Look at me, look at me!’

  With the bra fitting done, Kelly notes the shape and drape of my chest, and has me try on me a variety of prostheses. In the end, I opt for silicone forms with a self-shaping inner layer. We pick a nude seamless bra with molded cups and breathable mesh pockets to insert the breast forms. The straps are softly padded and the extra support makes me feel more held-in and secure.

  “I think that looks just right,” says Kelly. “But you need some fun, sexy bras, maybe a matching set? I’ll be right back.”

  With the new bra and breast forms in place, I button up my blouse and look in the mirror, feeling like I can finally walk into a room without feeling self-conscious.

  “Look, Jayne. No more Frankenboobs.”

  My smile freezes when I see the tears pooling in her eyes.

  “Oh, Shayda,” she cries, giving me a big hug.

  We stand in front of the full-length mirror, me consoling her, as she sobs uncontrollably into my shoulder.

  “It’s okay,” I say.

  “I’m pregnant,” she announces and clings on tighter.

  “What?” I step back and look at her.

  “I’m finally pregnant!”

  We start laughing. And crying. And laughing.

  When Kelly returns, we’re holding on to each other’s shoulders, hopping up and down.

  “Well, that’s one way to test your prostheses,” she says.