53 Letters For My Lover

by Leylah Attar

  I leave with new bras, panties, a padded swimsuit, vitamin E for my scars and a wedge cushion which Kelly says will help me sleep better.

  “You don’t have to go home yet, do you?” asks Jayne.

  I look at my watch. I have an hour before I meet Troy. “Let’s go into that café.”

  We cross the road and find a cozy table by the window.

  “So when’s the big day?” I ask.

  Jayne rubs her belly. “It’s going to be a spring baby. Late March, early April. And of course, you are going to be the godmother.”

  “I’d be honored. But you do know I could be called on to check out at any time.”

  “And so can anyone else,” she chides. “So? Tell me.”

  I do my best, leaving out the husks, the tough, tasteless bits that stick in your mouth, begging to be spit out. Like lying under bright surgical lights, feeling like a still-alive frog about to be dissected. The phantom pains that fool you into thinking you still have your breasts, until you reach for them. Wishing you could keep the thick, white gauze on forever so you don’t have to face the deformity below. Crying in the bathroom because your scars are puckered and bruised, and not at all like the nice, clean lines you imagined. How ‘okay’ becomes your personal mantra. ‘Okay, okay, okay,’ while you’re waiting for them to tell you if they got it all. ‘Okay, okay, okay,’ when you notice skin folds on the side of your body because the tissue under your arms is now just hanging. ‘Okay, okay, okay,’ when your backside is gaping through thin, paper gowns and you would give anything for a blanket.

  I don’t tell Jayne any of that. It doesn’t pair well with the strawberry and spinach salad or the grilled chicken or anything else on the menu.

  “You didn’t opt for reconstruction?” she asks.

  “It’s a possibility I may consider down the road.” I reply. “It would mean more surgeries. Tissue expanders, permanent implants, nipple reconstruction. For now, I just want to give my body the chance to heal.”

  Jayne nods. “I’m planning a New Year’s Charity Ball with Matt’s mum. It would be wonderful if you spoke about your experience. You know, raise awareness.”

  “You know me and public speaking. I don’t know if I can share something like this with a room full of strangers.”

  “No pressure. Just something to think about.”

  “Sure,” I reply as we say our goodbyes. “And we definitely have to talk about a baby shower.”

  “I’m glad you’re back,” she says before driving off.

  I glance at my watch.

  On my way, I text Troy.

  I take a deep breath and check my face in the rear view mirror. I’m filled with anticipation and dread. Okay, okay, okay. I start the car, wincing a little as I turn the wheel.

  He buzzes me into the garage. I reach for the door to the elevator when it swings open. We stop at the same time.

  He moves first, pulling me inside. The door shuts behind us. He scans me from head to foot, like a parent checking a newborn for ten fingers and toes.

  “God, I’ve missed you.” He envelopes me in a tender embrace.

  We step into the elevator, still locked together. The afternoon sun glints off the dark wood in his living room. He seats me on the couch, takes my boots off and places my feet on his lap. His fingers knead them with a strong, steady pressure.

  I smile.

  “What?” he asks.

  “You did that the first time I met you in that hotel room.”

  “I remember.”

  “I always wondered why you insisted on meeting there.”

  “Because I was selfish,” he replies. “I figured we’d have a wild, passionate fling. Get it out of our systems, get on with our lives.” He strokes the top of my foot. “I didn’t want reminders of you here, in my bed, in the kitchen, on the couch. But it didn’t matter. My place. Or the hotel. You were in my head. I couldn’t stop thinking about you.” He pauses. “That reminds me—I got you something while I was in Mexico.”

  He walks into the bedroom and comes out with a gorgeous shawl.

  “It’s a rebozo.” He places it around my shoulders.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  The rich, crimson fabric feels like a soft blend of cotton and raw silk.

  “You must have read my mind,” I say. “I was wishing I had something like this when I was in the hospital.” I pull the ends and wrap it around myself.

  Something jingles on its hand-knotted fringes.

  “What’s this?” A set of keys are tied at the edge.

  “The keys to my place.”

  I stare at them quietly.

  “I don’t want you to have to buzz in,” he says. “Walk in, walk out. Anytime you like. And while you’re at it, feel free to make whatever changes you like. I want the place ready for when you and the kids move in.”

  “About that...” I weigh the keys in my hand. “There’s something you should know.” I take a deep breath. “Hafez has been amazing. Beyond amazing. Through all of this. And the kids...I need time to ease out of it.”

  “How much time?”

  “I know Hafez won’t fight me for the kids. He’s away so often. But I can’t just uproot them and move in here with you.”

  “Fine. We’ll find a place close to their school. Keep them in a familiar environment. This place was never permanent, anyways. I’ve always wanted kids, Shayda. Always. I would love them like my own.”

  “That’s not it, Troy. I need to do it alone for a while. Without Hafez, without you. The divorce will be difficult enough. I want to introduce the kids to the idea of having you around slowly. One thing at a time. What I’m saying is...we need to hold off a little longer.”

  Silence.

  I hold his scalding gaze for as long as I can.

  “Troy—”

  “Unacceptable.”

  “But—”

  “It’s not up for debate, Shayda. I refuse to wait any longer. I almost lost you, dammit! I am not wasting any more time, and I’m not going to let you do it either. I will have you by my side, in my house, in my bed, so help me god!” His eyes flash with steely determination.

  “And if I don’t agree?”

  “Are you waiting for a ring, Shayda? Is that it? Are you afraid of creating a bad impression on the kids?”

  “I just want to do the right thing.”

  “Well, it’s a little too late for that, don’t you think?”

  I flinch like he just slapped me in the face. This is not how I anticipated our first meeting after my surgery.

  “I deserved that.” I start pulling my boots back on.

  “Shayda—”

  “No! I get it. You didn’t sign up for this.” I gesture to my chest. “If you’re looking for a way out, there’s no need to be cruel. Have the balls to say it. Tell me I’m not woman enough for you anymore.”

  Troy clamps his jaw tight. “If that what’s you think, then you might as well leave. Don’t expect me to indulge you so you can feel fucking sorry for yourself.”

  The way he says it sends cold chills to the centre of my soul. He’s right, of course. I want to be coddled and reassured. I want to be told I’m still beautiful, still desirable. Instead, he’s holding out my discarded self-esteem, insisting I dust it off and put it back on.

  “You know the one thing I regretted when the anesthesiologist told me to start counting back?” I say.

  He keeps his face turned away.

  “I thought, ‘What if I don’t wake up from this? I never told Troy I love him. I never really said the words’.”

  His breath escapes in a long exhale.

  I frame his face in my hands. “I love you, Troy.”

  I say the words to him, but a dam breaks loose inside, releasing gallons of soothing salve that heal my wounds from within.

  He puts his arm around me and draws me in.

  “We both want the same thing, Shayda. Let’s not fight.” He presses his lips into my forehead.

  I sigh and s
ettle into the warmth of his chest. “I’m scared, Troy. I’m scared I’ll do all this, turn everything upside down, only to have the cancer return. And then what? It will all have been in vain.”

  “If we base our decisions on all the things we’re afraid of, we would be paralyzed with fear. We’d never have the guts to love, or hope or dream, or have kids, or swim in the ocean. And that’s what makes us human, isn’t it? What carries us through it all?”

  “But it’s not right to be selfish about it either. I don’t want to ruin their lives, or yours, Troy.”

  “There you go again, hogging all the responsibility, deciding everyone’s going to fall apart before giving us the chance to react. You didn’t get here alone, you know. There were inherent problems in your marriage right from the start.”

  There are no more secrets. I’ve told Troy everything, including the whole, dark truth about Pasha Moradi.

  “Yes, but it wasn’t Hafez’s fault.”

  “It wasn’t your fault either,” he replies. “You tried to make the best of a difficult situation, and so did he. Maybe it’s time you put some faith in Hafez. Maybe you’ll find out that as much as you want him to be happy, he wants the same for you. So quit with the long face. It’s not like the fate of the entire universe is resting on your shoulders.”

  “Ouch. Talk about deflating a woman’s ego.” I laugh.

  “I’m just saying. You’ve been through enough. Give yourself a break, Beetroot.” He smiles. “You want something to eat?”

  “No. I had lunch with Jayne. I got fitted for breast prostheses today.”

  “Is that what you’re wearing?” He traces the edge of my collar.

  I tense, not ready for him to see.

  He pulls away, just a fraction, enough so I can breathe again.

  “What’s it like?”

  “These? They’re are made of silicone—”

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  What’s it like to face your own mortality?

  “It makes you think,” I reply. “The big things, the small things. The dreams, the regrets.”

  “Like?”

  “Well, big things like wondering if you’ll ever see your kids graduate. Small things that you never get around to, like a trip to the South Pacific. Falling asleep in an overwater bungalow to the sound of swaying palm trees. Snorkeling unexplored reefs, dipping your feet into waterfalls that cascade over volcanic cliffs. You revisit your dreams, the ones you lose along the way. At one time, I wanted to be a writer, to touch someone with words, to inspire.”

  He listens to me quietly. “And the regrets?”

  “I have none now.” I say, kissing him softly.

  39. Defenseless

  October 9th, 2000

  It’s the Monday of Thanksgiving weekend. I lie in bed, wondering what Natasha and Zain are doing up so early.

  “I’ll go take a look,” says Hafez, after a particularly loud clang from downstairs.

  He doesn’t come back, but the tinkering stops. I close my eyes and doze off.

  “Breakfast!” yells Natasha.

  I shuffle out of bed and head down.

  The table is set with scrambled eggs and french toast and fresh strawberries.

  “Looks great.” I sit down to still faces. “What’s wrong?” I look around the table.

  “Surprise!” Zain jumps up with a cardboard sign that says ‘HAPPY’.

  Natasha grins and gets up, holding ‘ANNIVERSARY!’

  Then Hafez. ‘# 18’.

  Zain puts his arms around me. “Happy Anniversary, mum.”

  “I was sure you were going to come down before we were ready!” Natasha laughs, kissing me on both cheeks. “I’m glad dad did though. I was going to boil some eggs and Zain had microwave oatmeal ready to go.”

  “All that noise for boiled eggs and oatmeal?”

  “We had to make the signs too!” says Zain.

  “Well, thank you. This is very special.”

  How could I have forgotten?

  “Happy Anniversary, Shayda.” Hafez gives me a kiss.

  “Happy Anniversary, Hafez.”

  I’m a fraud.

  I drown my french toast in maple syrup, but it still tastes like cardboard.

  “Last night was fun,” says Zain. “I can’t believe grandma invited grandpa for Thanksgiving dinner.”

  “I can’t believe grandma actually acknowledged Thanksgiving,” Natasha replies. “You think the two of them were in on it together? Like ‘Let’s do something nice for our daughter’?”

  “The possibility of losing someone you love will make anyone rethink their priorities,” says Hafez.

  “Is that why you’re not gone as often?” asks Natasha. “To spend more time with mum?”

  “I feel like I’ve been given a second chance. To spend more time with all of you.” Hafez picks up my hand.

  I swallow my orange juice, keeping my eyes on the plate.

  “I liked meeting Kayla and Ethan and Summer yesterday.” Zain helps himself to more eggs. “Although I couldn’t understand a word when they switched to French.”

  “They were probably talking about how obnoxious you are,” says Natasha.

  “Natasha,” warns Hafez.

  She giggles. “Honestly, I can’t remember ever meeting Uncle Hossein’s kids. And Aunty Adele. She’s very pretty.”

  “Is that why Uncle Hossein left Marjaneh?” asks Zain.

  “I think Marjaneh is very pretty too.” Hafez puts the cap back on the maple syrup. “Are we all done?”

  “I like Aunty Adele,” Zain continues. “But I feel bad for Marjaneh. It’s not nice to lose your family.”

  “Don’t worry, son.” Hafez ruffles his hair. “Nothing like that is ever going to happen to us.”

  I get up and start clearing the table.

  “Let me.” Hafez starts taking things from me.

  “No!” It comes out much harsher than intended. “Sorry.” I put the plate down. “I just...I need you to stop hovering over me.”

  Hafez backs off. The kids turn on the TV, leaving us alone in the kitchen. My reflection stares back at me from the kitchen window as I wash the dishes. My cheeks are orange, there’s green on my chin and my forehead is half red, half yellow. Fall colors from the park behind us. They make me look fragmented, like a patchwork quilt sewn together from different pieces.

  “I was thinking we could go out later. Just you and me. For an anniversary lunch,” says Hafez.

  “Everything is closed today.”

  “Not everything,” he says. “Wear something warm.”

  “We’re walking?” I ask.

  “It’s not too far,” replies Hafez.

  “The park?” I say as we cross the street.

  “Go sit on the bench,” says Hafez. “I’ll be right back.”

  He returns ten minutes later with a greasy paper bag held horizontally. Inside are two slices of hot pizza.

  “You remember? That first Christmas we were married? We walked around and shared some pizza?”

  The day he picked the red onions off for me.

  “I told you I would do everything I can to make you happy.”

  “It was a long time ago.” My throat constricts.

  “Yes,” he replies. “A time before Pasha Moradi. We didn’t have much but we had each other.”

  My tears drop on the deluxe vegetarian, with roasted red peppers.

  “I want to go back, Shayda,” says Hafez. “I want to go back and start over. I’m starting therapy. Next week.”

  I look at his face. He wants to try. He wants to leave the ghosts behind. So many years, I waited for this day. And now that it’s here, I want to make it stop.

  Don’t go. Don’t try. Don’t make this harder for me.

  “That’s great,” I reply.

  Stop thinking about yourself, Shayda. He needs this, to heal, to become whole.

  “I’m glad.” I manage a smile. But a part of me is furious with him.

  Why now, Ha
fez?

  The worst thing I can do is leave him. Not when he’s so close, when he’s finally reaching for help.

  It’s not fair! Another part screams. IT’S NOT FAIR!

  I get up. “I think I’ll go for a drive.”

  “I’ll go with you,” says Hafez.

  “No!” Again it’s too harsh. “I just need some time alone.”

  We walk back to the house in silence. Hafez stands on the side of the driveway, holding two slices of cold pizza, as I back out.

  I feel like I’m running away when I’m most needed, but I can’t stay. I need to clear my head. What do I do with this life that’s been spared? How do I spend it? Here, with my family, being a good mother and a good wife? Loving them as they deserve to be loved? Or there? With Troy? Tingling with anticipation at the dawn of each new day, feeling more alive than I ever have?

  The tires squeal as I step on the gas, leaving a trail of spinning gravel behind.

  “Troy!” I swing the door to his loft open. “Troy!”

  I walk in, turning corners—the kitchen, laundry room, pool, library. No Troy.

  I take my jacket off and slump into the sofa, burying my face in my hands.

  “Shayda?”

  He’s standing in the hallway, a towel slung around his hips, his hair wet from the shower.

  He’s never looked better.

  I rush to him, throwing my arms around his neck.

  “I’m slipping away, Troy.”

  “What hap—”

  I don’t let him finish. My mouth devours him.

  “I need you. I need you so bad.”

  “Are you sure this is all right? The surgery—”

  “I don’t care.” I yank his towel off and sink to my knees, taking him into my mouth, all of him, as far, as deep as I can.

  “Shayda...” He leans back on the wall, trying to slow me down.

  I suck his balls. I lick his shaft. I wrap both hands around him. With each bob of my head, each flick of my tongue, I reclaim my power, my femininity, my hacked up body. My hunger for him unleashes a shameless, greedy beast. I moan at the taste of the first bead of his arousal, rubbing the tip with my thumb, spreading it around.

  His thighs tremble. His fingers clench my shoulders as he gives in to me. “Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Don’t fucking stop.”