Dreaming in English (37 page)

“Hi, Camille!” I wave back from the street. “I have to go, I’m in a hurry, but say hi to everyone for me, okay? Can you do that?”

As she nods, Mrs. Hanson comes up behind her. She’s the one person I didn’t want to see, for while she isn’t the one who reported us to the fraud hotline, she might have. She’s certainly capable of it.

“I left some papers for you,” I call to her. “Some papers concerning the shop.”

Mrs. Hanson puts her hand on Camille’s shoulder and says something I can’t hear. Then she unlocks the door and approaches me. For the first time since I’ve known her, she looks uncertain. I don’t say anything. I’m done trying with her. She can be the one to speak first.

When she gets to the mailbox, she opens it and takes out the manila envelope I just put in. She doesn’t open it and doesn’t ask what it is, although she probably knows. She searches my eyes. “Paige told me about the talk you had a few weeks back, about sex and that boy, Garrett. I want to thank you. It sounds like you gave her some good advice.”

“She’s too young,” I say. “Too young and too innocent.”

Mrs. Hanson nods. “When I asked her why she sought you out for a talk, instead of coming to me, do you know what she said?”

I shake my head.

“She said she went to you because you don’t judge people.” She swallows hard after she says it.

“I try not to,” I say.

“She also told me you were the one who took the photograph she gave me for my birthday.” This is true—we enlarged the picture I took at our coffee-shop-naming party, of the older Hanson siblings holding Camille sideways. “It’s beautiful,” Mrs. Hanson says. “It really captures the essence of my children, and I thank you. It’ll have a spot on our fireplace mantel forever.”

“I’m glad you like it.” I say this politely, but I’m swallowing my bitterness.

“Tami ... I’m sorry.” Mrs. Hanson looks at me with the crystal blue eyes Ike inherited from her, and in them I see sincere regret. “I’m sorry I judged you so harshly. I was wrong about you. You make my son happy. What more could a mother want? You’ve been so nice to us.” Her eyes moisten. “I’m sorry that I’ve been so mean.”

 

 

 

Ardishir is driving me to the airport, and when he pulls into the driveway, I take my carry-on bag to the car and tell him I’ll be right back, that I need to say good-bye to Rose. I find her in the kitchen, washing dishes with her Persian lime-scented dish soap. “It’s time, Rose. I’m leaving.”

She reaches for a towel to dry her hands and comes around the counter to embrace me.

“Be safe,” she says. “And Godspeed. I’ll see you soon.”

“You’ll look out for Ike? ” She nods, and I know she will. My Rose will take care of my Ike. “Encourage him to stay in the guesthouse where you can keep an eye on him, okay? And where he can look out for you, too. I worry about you, being alone.”

“Don’t worry about me,” she says. “You’re never more than a phone call away.”

We embrace one last time. It won’t be the
last
, last time—she has a passport, and I expect to see her again very soon. If I’m to be a nomad, at least I know my friends will follow me.

In the car, Ardishir is distracted. In some ways, he seems to have taken this turn of events the hardest. He’s called everyone he knows, looking for help or an overlooked point of law, or a lawyer who is confident he could plead my case successfully. So far, the silver lining has eluded him, and my failure weighs heavily on his mind. I’m sad for this. With the baby so close to being born—perhaps days—he should feel only excitement. I regret so much that I caused this moment to be at least as bitter as it is sweet. For Ardishir, I wish him only life’s sweetness.

“Are you ready for your aunt’s arrival?” I ask on the drive over to the coffee shop, expecting it will make him happy, for I know how much he’s looking forward to her visit.

But instead, he grips the steering wheel. “Sure,” he says. “Of course.”

“You’re not? Is something wrong?”

He takes his eyes off the road to give me a probing look. “I heard Maryam on the phone with her friend in San Francisco.”

My heart races. “What did you hear?”

“Not enough,” he says. “Just enough to make me wonder. You are coming back, aren’t you? Even if you don’t go to court, you’ll be coming back to Tucson, right? For however much longer you have?”

“Of course, Ardishir.”

I’m not sure he believes me, but thankfully, we’ve arrived at Common Grounds, so this discussion will end. For a moment, I sit in the car and look at it, this coffee shop that was supposed to be mine—that
was
mine, for a time. Now, looking at it today, I feel foolish. It was so hopeful—so cocky, so arrogant—to think I could open a business with Ike before I’d gotten my residency. I’ve managed not to spend much time here since the immigration interview, but Ike’s here, and as much as I don’t want to—as much as it will kill me—I have to say good-bye.

“I’ll wait in the car,” Ardishir says.

“You’re sure?”

He nods. “I have some phone calls to make.”

But instead of starting to make them, he leans his head against the window.

“Ardishir?”

“This isn’t right,” he says quietly. “America would be lucky to have you.”

I lean over to kiss his cheek. “I was lucky to have America, and I’m so glad your baby’s going to be an American citizen.”

He looks from me to the neon sign out front. “It’s a nice idea, Common Grounds. It’s a good name for a coffee shop.”

“Make sure to buy all your coffee here,” I say. “Help Ike succeed.”

“I’ve no doubt he’ll succeed,” Ardishir says. “He’s got that special something.”

Ardishir is right about that.

“Still, buy your coffee here,” I say. “And your tea, too. I chose the tea selection. It’s the best you can get.”

My heart races as I approach the shop. I’m pretty sure I’ll miss this place as much as I’ll miss the people, except for Ike, who’s so much a part of it that many of my best memories are of this place, with him. We held hands by candlelight at a special table we declared ours, dreaming of our opening day. I even knew what I’d wear—impractical high heels, my new blue baby-doll top, a denim skirt, and a flower in my hair. Even now, I can picture myself dressed like this, with an apron around my waist, offering bakery samples from a basket. I was going to make rose-water scones and call them a Persian delicacy, even though I invented them all by myself.

We made love in the stockroom. In the office, too. This was long ago, the first few weeks we had the shop, and to this day, my stomach flutters from the memory every time I go in either one. I wonder if Ike’s does, too. I wonder if it always will.

I step inside and call to him. “Ike?”

I know he’s here. His truck’s out front and the door’s unlocked.

His voice arrives before he does, angry, complaining on the phone to some contractor or other about not showing up. Ah, it’s the waste-removal people. Yet again, there’s something between us, this time the phone. He acknowledges me with his eyes and stays behind the counter to finish his call.

While I wait, I go to the wall that holds the majority of my nicely framed prints, the photographic collection titled
Everyday Acts of Freedom.
The project turned out wonderfully. Enlarged, they look even more artistic and make even more of a statement. We’d talked about listing them for sale, at the unbelievable price of two hundred dollars each, and I see now that Ike has made placards for them, listing the price and the artist’s name.
Tamila Soroush, Photographer.
That’s me.

That
was
me. That’s who I was going to be.

Looking at these photographs, I feel like I’m looking at my own gravestone.

“That’s it,” Ike says when he hangs up the phone. “I quit.”

I don’t turn around. The man who says this is no one I know. Ike’s not a quitter.

We’ve looked at these photographs together so many times, and we have a routine—I come over first, he approaches from behind, wraps his arms around me, lifts my hair, and softly kisses my neck. I link one hand back through his hair. But today, he abandons the routine. He comes up behind me but just stands there.
Where are the arms, Ike, the arms you should wrap around me? Where is the soft kiss on my neck? What have you put between us now?

I turn, thinking maybe I will say something, but for once, there’s nothing in his hands, not even his phone, not even a pen. He looks like he’s lost—he looks like he’s losing—his best friend, which he is. I take a step toward him, but he shakes his head just enough to keep me back.

“I don’t want you to sell them,” I say. “I want to know they’re always here.”

“I don’t think this damned place is ever going to open,” he says. “Nothing’s coming together like it should.”

“It will, Ike,” I say. “You’ll see. It’ll open, and it’ll be great.”

He studies me. “So you’re leaving.”

“I made that promise to my father to return the sand to the ocean shore. ...”

With his hands in his pockets, he scans the pictures on the wall: The one of a teenage boy with three earrings in his ear and one in his lip. The one of a barefoot, shirtless black man with crazy braids riding a unicycle and playing a flute. The one of Eva from the waist down—of her miniskirt and thigh-high boots. The one of Ike’s and my intertwined hands.

“I noticed you were on MapQuest getting directions to Vancouver from San Francisco.” He doesn’t look at me as he says this. Instead, his eyes linger on that last photograph. “You should clear the computer’s history if you’re trying to keep a secret from someone.”

“Ike ...”

He looks at me. “I guess there’s not much more to say, is there?”

This is not a pretty moment. It’s not how I wanted our marriage to end, but I have a flight to catch, a heart to heal, a life to build.

“I love you,” I tell him. “I’ll never stop loving you.”

“I love you, too.” It looks like it hurts him to say the words, like he wishes they weren’t true.

“Will you kiss me good-bye, please?”

He waits for me to step to him, but he does kiss me. It’s soft and lingering, sweet and loving.

It is, perhaps, the saddest kiss the world has ever known.

“I won’t sell your photographs.” He brushes my hair off my shoulder. “I’ll keep them right here, in case you ever make it back to Tucson.”

He’ll have moved on by then, but the pictures won’t have changed.

In the photograph, at least, I’ll always be holding his hand.

A
t the airport, Ardishir walks me to the security gate. It’s only then that I pull from my backpack the gift I got for him. His quizzical look soon turns to one of suspicion. I knew it would—this is why I waited to give it to him until now. All I have to do is step past the screener and he can’t follow me. “What’s this for?”

“Open it,” I tell him. I’ve bought him a copy of
The Killer Angels
by Michael Shaara, a novel about the Civil War
.

He’s very pleased to receive it, but his suspicion lingers. “Thank you, but why’d you get this for me?”

“I know you’re bored spending all that time in the hospital, and I thought you might like it. Or have you read it? I tried to pick one you haven’t read yet. One of Ike’s favorite movies,
Gettysburg
, is based on this book, and—”

“No, this is great, it looks fascinating, but ... why now?” He narrows his eyes. “I think you’re up to something. You and your sister both.”

“Don’t be silly.” Quickly I kiss him. “I’ve got to go, or I’m going to miss my flight. Thanks for everything! Kiss Maryam for me!”

He grabs my wrist. “You’re coming back, aren’t you? You
need
to, Tami. If you never listen to another word I say, listen to me now:
You’ve got to come back.
Trust me on this.”

“Ardishir ...” I give him a pleading look. When he releases his grip, I wave and back away. “Don’t worry about me, please. Everything will work out fine.”

I’m careful not to look back as I go through the security ID check and begin the slope up to the screening area.

“Tami!” I cringe and pretend not to hear him, but he calls again, even louder. “Tami!” Reluctantly, I turn. He’s far enough away that he has to raise his voice. “You know why I read all these books and watch all these movies?”

I shake my head.

He crooks his finger at me, beckoning me back, and he waits to speak until I’m close enough that he can speak intimately. “I’ve been trying to figure out how America managed to get things so right. Does that make sense? When it comes to freedom, I mean. Why America succeeded where so many others have failed. And I’ve come to a few conclusions. Want to hear them?”

I clear my throat. I do want to hear them, but I have the feeling there’s a relevant lecture in here somewhere, which normally I wouldn’t mind, but I don’t want to be talked out of what I’m going to do, so I want his lesson but not the lecture. “Sure, but I only have a minute.” I keep my bag on my shoulder, heavy though it is, to emphasize this point. It’s not true I only have a minute. My flight doesn’t leave for another hour.

“America got it right because the people in power understood the nefarious nature of that power.” He’s puffed up and says this in professor mode, holding the book I gave him like it’s sacred.

I hate to have to ask, but this is an English word I don’t know. “Nefarious?”

“Evil,” he says. “Power corrupts, almost absolutely. And it’s addictive. People will do
anything
to keep their power. As you well know.”