Mirage

by Soheir Khashoggi

The Boston Globe devoted a half page to Patricia Bowman Pierce’s obituary, listing all her charitable works and noting her many awards from phil- anthropic organizations. The accompanying photograph showed an attractive woman with an open, friendly expression and a trusting smile. “Mrs. Pierce is survived by her husband, Bradford, the obituary concluded, her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Colin Bowman, a sister, Karen, and a brother, Dexter.” No children, Jenna noted. How sad that must be for Brad.

  Though her appointment book was crammed with obligations, Jenna took the time to write him a note. “We don’t really know each other,” she began, “but my thoughts and my sympathy are with you today. I know what it’s like to lose some- one very precious and very dear. If there’s anything I can do to ease your pain, please let me know. Sincerely, …”

  In the days that followed, she thought often of Brad, wondering how he was coping with his loss, remembering the tenderness with which he spoke of his wife, the love that was there in his face for all the world to see. When a white vellum envelope from “B. Pierce” arrived, she was oddly disappointed that it contained only a conventional thank-you note—polite but brief; the kind of acknowledgment Brad must have sent to hundreds of people.

  Well, what did you expect? she chided herself. Why should he remember a few brief conversations in a hospital cafeteria? This isn’t like me, she thought, this feeling of unfinished business—words unspoken, deeds not yet done—with this near-stranger who has just lost his wife.

  The feeling gradually faded in the turmoil of her own life. There was Karim, who would soon be starting his freshman year at Harvard. Although Jenna had persuaded him to live at home the first year, he would soon begin a life of his own, away from her. Then she would be alone.

  And there was the loss of hope for Carolyn: with every passing week, the chances of her recovery grew slimmer, until finally there was no hope at all. Her parents, devout Catholics who could not bring themselves to request the removal of life-support systems, were moving Carolyn to a private nursing facility in Connecticut.

  O

  ‘‘We can’t go on like this,” said Helen Schrieber, one of the Sanctuary’s newer counselors. “We’re running out of space. We’re doubling women and children up in rooms meant for one.”

  “I know, I know,” Jenna said, “I’m working on it. And I hope to have some news soon.” In front of her was a copy of the proposal she’d sent to the Pierce Foundation, describing how the Sanctuary served the needs of women and children who had nowhere else to go. An excellent new space was about to come open in the neighborhood. The Sanctuary had taken a ninety-day option. Would the Pierce Foundation help?

  She fully expected a call in response to her plea, but none came. Instead, she received a formal letter from someone describing himself as the foundation’s executive secretary requesting detailed information on the cost of acquiring and renovating the new space.

  Jenna sent the documentation, the money came, and construction on the Patricia Bowman Annex began. That was all there was to it.

  I could call him, Jenna thought. I could thank him personally. But it was obvious, wasn’t it, that he didn’t want that kind of contact? She let it go.

  Yet, when Brad did call—a full five months later—she knew who it was the moment he said hello. She was so thrown off balance that she began to babble about the grant. “We’re all so very grateful. We’ll be opening the Bowman Annex in a matter of a few weeks. You’ll be the guest of honor, of course, and—”

  “You’re entirely welcome,” he cut in. “And I’ll be at the inaugural ceremony. But what I’ve called about is to ask you if you’d like to have dinner with me. Friday evening—or at your convenience.”

  “A date?” she blurted, wishing the moment she heard her own words that she could yank them back out of the phone.

  He laughed. It was a good sound. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose that’s what it is.”

  O

  It was as if she’d never been out with a man, never dressed up to look her best, never been told how beautiful she was. Jenna littered the floor with the contents of her closet, found fault with every garment she owned, then started all over again. She ended up in the most expensive boutique on Newbury Street, spending an outrageous sum of money on the kind of outfit she hadn’t bought in years—a creamy gabardine suit that lightly caressed the contours of her body. Not particularly suitable for work, but just right, she hoped, for her first date with Brad Pierce.

  They met at Locke-Ober’s on Winter Place, with Brad apologizing for not picking her up and Jenna assuring him she didn’t mind making her own way there.

  “But I mind. I’m an old-fashioned guy—like this place,” he said, indicating the dark-paneled woodwork, the traditional elegance of the private room he’d reserved. “I meant to come to your door with a bouquet of posies in my hand, but my meeting ran so long, and I didn’t want to just keep you waiting, so …”

  “It’s all right,” she reiterated. “I’ll take the thought for the deed. At least this once,” she added boldly, wondering what on Earth had gotten into her.

  A tuxedo-clad waiter who looked as venerable as the establishment itself hovered discreetly at Brad’s elbow. “Shall I serve the wine, sir?” Brad nodded. “I took the liberty of ordering ahead,” he said to Jenna, “but if you’d prefer …”

  “No,” she said, “I like surprises.”

  Deftly and without showy fanfare, the waiter served the meal: consommé, green salad, grilled game hen accompanied by a fine Cote de Beaune.

  “I’ve passed this place dozens of times,” Jenna said. “I never realized it was so … so quaint.”

  “It was my father’s favorite restaurant. I brought my first important date here.”

  “Your wife?” Jenna asked, pleased to follow the tradition of Brad’s “first important date.”

  He nodded. “We met in high school. And there was no more need to look around. I knew it, and so did Pat.”

  “That sounds rather … old-timeyish.” “I told you—”

  “Right,” she laughed. “You’re an old-fashioned guy.” They continued talking over coffee—he, reminiscing about his marriage and apologizing for boring her, she, enjoying his memories and assuring him she wasn’t the slightest bit bored.

  “You never had children.” “No.”

  “And you didn’t mind.” Despite her years in America, Jenna still reacted as a Remali would, finding it remarkable that a man so desirable continued to love a woman who bore no children.

  “We both minded. Very much. But … Pat couldn’t. We sublimated, I guess. Then we talked about all the needy and unwanted children in the world. That’s when we started the foundation. Pat traveled to Africa, to India, wherever kids were starving and in need of medical attention. She established group homes in places where kids were living on the streets. And in the last ten years or so, she’d been doing volunteer work with AIDS babies, you know, holding them, cuddling them, helping them feel that someone cares. In fact, she organized a whole army of volunteers to cover all the hospitals in Boston.”

  “She sounds like a remarkable woman.”

  “Oh, yes.” Brad’s eyes glistened as he retreated for a moment into memory. Jenna reached across the table and put her hand over his. The gesture felt right. Strange, she thought, to be drawn to a man because he had loved his wife. And yet, not so strange; as a psychologist, she knew very well that Brad’s devotion to Pat gave testimony to his own capacity to love.

  When she noticed the septuagenarian waiter glance at his watch, Jenna looked at her own. “It’s awfully late,” she said reluctantly. “I think the old gentleman would like us to leave.”

  O

  “May I kiss you?” he asked at Jenna’s door. “What?”

  “First date,” he mumbled.

  “My God—you are old-fashioned.” But Jenna was charmed. “I think,” she told him, “I’m old-fashioned, too.”

  His lips brushed hers; his hand gently stroked her cheek. An unde
manding caress but filled with promise, it evoked distant memories of being cared for and loved. She wished it could go on and on.

  She discovered that they had more in common than loss and loneliness. They both loved the North End and the Isabella Gardner Museum; hated diets and much of what passed for modern art. But most important, they discovered that they were easy in one another’s company. Whether they were at a Red Sox game or strolling the banks of the Charles, conversation seemed effortless. The silences they shared seemed cozy, not at all like empty spaces needing to be filled.

  One Saturday afternoon, after they’d browsed through the cookbooks at Waterstone’s and shared a club sandwich at an outdoor cafe, Brad said, “I’d like you to come to tea. Tomorrow. At my mother’s house.’’

  “Your mother?”

  “Sure. Bound to happen sometime. I think you’re going to be an import- ant part of my life. So we might as well get meeting my mother out of the way. Besides, it could be fun.”

  Jenna was touched and flattered. But remembering her mother-in-law, the formidable Faiza, she very much doubted that such a meeting would be “fun.”

  She was right.

  Abigail Whitman Pierce was as impressive as her name. Slender, ramrod straight, with crispy gray hair and steely gray eyes, she presided over an antique- filled Beacon Hill home that could well have been a museum.

  As she kissed her son on both cheeks in the European manner, there was a softness in Abigail’s gray eyes. A moment later, when she turned to Jenna, it was gone.

  “Did you know Patricia, my dear?” Abigail asked over crustless water- cress sandwiches and Darjeeling tea.

  “No,” Jenna replied. “But I know she was a very special woman.” “Indeed. She was one of a kind. A perfect wife for Bradford. Irreplaceable, I might add.”

  Jenna smiled politely, understanding exactly what Abigail meant. “And where is it that you are from, my dear?”

  “Egypt. Cairo. I grew up mainly in France.”

  “My late husband and I traveled throughout Egypt, let me see, it was about thirty years ago. A colorful place, fascinating history. And the natives … so picturesque.”

  Jenna smarted under Abigail’s patronizing manner. All right, she thought, she’s a typical mother—like Faiza. No one is good enough for her beloved son. And yet, Patricia Bowman had been good enough.

  O

  “Catastrophe,” she said to Brad as they left the Beacon Hill house. “Total planetary destruction.”

  “Not nearly so bad as that,” he argued. “Mother can be daunting, but a sense of humor helps a lot. How do you think I cope with all her subtle little attempts to set me up with what she thinks of as suitable women?”

  Jenna was not amused. So Abigail was ready to accept a “suitable” woman. It was Jenna Sorrel she had no use for. All right, she told herself, Abigail doesn’t like you—you both have to live with that. You don’t like Jacqueline, but because Karim does, you’ve had to tolerate her.

  So she tried not to mind when Abigail turned up at the opening of the Bow- man Annex and spent a full half hour telling the Globe reporter what a saint Patri- cia had been—and pointedly ignoring any references to Jenna and her work.

  When Brad mentioned that his mother was having a “small gathering” later that evening, Jenna begged off. She’d had enough of Abigail Pierce for one day.

  “Oh, come on, be a good sport,” Brad coaxed. “We’ll wear her down if we work together, Jenna. You’ll see.”

  “Why am I unconvinced?”

  “Don’t you think I’m worth a little discomfort?” he teased. She did.

  The expression on Abigail’s face told Jenna she had neither been invited nor expected. If Abigail was surprised, she recovered quickly, and with one swift authoritative sweep of her arm moved Brad away from Jenna and toward a striking redhead. “Winky’s been waiting for you, Bradford,” she said smoothly, just as if Jenna hadn’t been there. “She’s been very patient, and now I think you should make her a martini. I’m sure you know exactly how she likes them.”

  For a long awkward moment, Jenna didn’t know what to do—especially after the redhead threw herself into Brad’s arms and began kissing him with noisy exclamations of joy. All right, Jenna, keep calm. Forcing a smile, she strolled into the front parlor and tried to mingle with the other guests. Seeing an elderly man standing alone in a corner, she introduced herself.

  “What’s that?” he shouted, touching his ear to indicate he was hard of hearing.

  “Jenna Sorrel,” she repeated, raising her voice. “Jenny who?”

  “Sorrel, Sorrel, Jenna Sorrel!”

  “I see you’ve met Eldon,” Brad said, suddenly materializing at her elbow. “Not exactly,” she said peevishly. “We still haven’t gotten past my name.” “Ah. Well, then, Jenna Sorrel, meet Eldon Baker. Eldon retired from the state senate fifteen years ago. I think he’s kept his hearing aid turned down to low ever since.” Brad winked at the old man. “I think Eldon’s heard enough nonsense to last a lifetime.”

  Eldon smiled broadly, as if he’d heard and understood every word. So who’s the redhead? Jenna wanted to ask. But she didn’t. She wouldn’t. “Are we having fun yet?” Brad whispered in her ear.

  “Not yet.”

  “Okay, let me start introducing you to some of the other nice people here.” Taking her by the elbow, he worked his way around the room, making introductions, exchanging politenesses with people he’d clearly known for years. Jenna tried to continue smiling at the mention of names and places she’d never heard before. The smile grew very strained when the redhead joined them, linking arms with Brad and launching into a series of reminiscences that he apparently found hilarious.

  Already feeling out of place, Jenna saw just how unwelcome she was when dinner was announced. According to the place cards—done by an expert calligrapher—Brad was seated next to Winky Farrell. Jenna’s card, hastily improvised in pencil, had been placed alongside that of Eldon Baker, the old man with the hearing problem.

  Anger bubbled up, pushing aside good intentions. She grabbed Brad by the sleeve and dragged him out to the foyer. “That’s it,” she hissed. “I get your mother’s message loud and clear: I’ll never be the person Patricia was. And I can’t be Winky, either! Well, I don’t want to be like any of those people your mother likes. I can only be me, and if that’s not good enough, then we won’t be seeing each other again.”

  The outburst felt good, even cleansing. In al-Remal, her family had been among the elite, and even here, she was a respected professional. So how dare Brad’s mother treat her with such disdain!

  But after she slammed her own front door and flung her handbag against the wall, her sense of righteousness began to evaporate. The Badir temper burned hot and cooled quickly. When reason returned, there were sometimes regrets. Yes, it was true, Brad’s mother had behaved very badly. But was Brad’s own behavior bad enough to warrant storming out of Abigail’s house? Without even having a bite to eat? Jenna almost laughed at herself, for she now realized how hungry she was.

  The refrigerator had little to offer, and as she rifled through it, trying to assemble a meal from odds and ends, she came up with some limp lettuce, a small tomato, a piece of cheese. Not very appealing.

  The doorbell rang. Jenna pushed the intercom. A rough voice: “Pizza delivery.”

  Had a genie conjured a meal for her? Had to be a mistake. “I didn’t order a pizza.”

  “I got a pizza for this address, lady.”

  Something about the voice. She went downstairs and looked through the peephole. Brad—with a large pizza.

  She opened the door. “You’re lucky I’m hungry,” she said, unwilling to let him know how relieved she was to see him, how very glad she was that he didn’t just let her go.

  Sitting in her kitchen, she devoured the everything-but-anchovies pie, letting him do the talking.

  “Jenna, we don’t really know each other that well. Is your mother still alive?” “No. She died when
I was a teenager.”

  “Ah. That must have been hard. I’m sorry.” Brad touched her hand. “Let me ask you this, then: If she were still alive, wouldn’t you put up with all kinds of silliness on her part, just because she was your mother and you loved her?”

  Jenna had to admit she would.

  “Okay. It’s no different with me. Look, the lady I was so subtly paired with tonight—”

  “Winky,” Jenna noted acidly.

  “Yes. Winky, God help us. Gwendolyn’s her real name. We’ve been bud- dies since we were six.”

  “Yes?” Jenna’s best professional listening attitude.

  “And that’s it. We were having such a hoot today because … well, because we know each other so well. Listen, she wouldn’t mind me telling you this—everybody in Boston but Abigail knows anyway—she’s in love with her doubles partner.”

  “I see.”

  “I’m not sure you do. I’m not talking about mixed doubles.” Suddenly, they were both laughing.

  “By the way,” Brad said, “maybe we should get Abigail and Karim together.

  They seem to have the same opinion of our seeing each other.”

  Jenna laughed even harder. It was true. Her son, now a Harvard scholar and at the flood stage of his Egyptophilia, showed Brad only a dry-ice politeness. But now Karim’s disapproval no longer upset Jenna. It wasn’t that she didn’t care what her son thought, she did. No, it was that Jenna felt a rightness about this relationship that she hadn’t felt before.

  Brad kissed her, without permission this time, their lips lingering, tast- ing, exploring. “Does this mean we can go steady?” he asked, his blue eyes serious now.

  “Go steady?”

  “No more Winkys. Or anyone else.”

  “Yes,” she answered, pushing aside fear and conscience, ignoring the nagging voice that reminded her that, according to the laws of the United States and al-Remal, her rights to a relationship were limited in the first instance and nonexistent in the second.

  O

  Going steady meant someone to talk to, to share with. Someone who was on her side, who would rub her back when she was tense, who would fix an omelet when she was almost too tired to eat. Someone who cared.