The Brevity of Roses (14 page)

Jalal, not realizing he was making the situation worse, defended her. “Actually, she speaks and understands it quite well,” he said, beaming.

“Meredith?” said Jalal as they lay in bed that night. “You overheard what Shadi said to Goli.”

“Yes.” She didn’t need to ask what bit of conversation he referred to, and that he hadn’t been more specific meant he knew what weighed on her mind. Unfortunately, she now had a face attached to the remark.

“I am sorry about that,” he said. “I should have warned them you speak Farsi. But Shadi did not mean—”

“It’s all right. She was only stating fact. It’s only natural your mother should be disappointed that I’m too old to give you a child.”

He sighed. “I do not want a child.”

“Why? You would be a wonderful father. And your child would be beautiful and talented, just like you.”

“You cannot assume that,” said Jalal.

“I meant—”

“I never want to be a father for the same reason you did not want to be a mother.”

She gasped at the unexpected cruelty of his remark. He had taken her words, so recently confessed, and used them to carve all hope from her heart. How foolish of her to believe their relationship was anything more than a sham. A game.
Jalal doesn’t want me
. Tears sprung to her eyes.

Jalal rolled to his side, propping himself up on one elbow to see her face in the faint glow from the patio security light. “I am sorry this subject came up again.” He put a finger to her temple, catching a tear as it slipped from her eye. “I know this is difficult to talk about, but—”

“Having a child together ties you to someone for life, right?”

“What?”

“You certainly wouldn’t want
that
.” She started to sit up, but he reached an arm out and blocked the move.

“Meredith, I want nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with you. Why would you—” He was silent for a moment, and then he said, “Oh.”

Too late, she understood that she and Jalal were talking about two different things. He had misunderstood why she hadn’t wanted to have a child with Stephen. But now, she had made it clear. Now, finally, he understood the depth of her selfishness. This was the end. Forget the rest of his life; he wouldn’t want to spend even the rest of the night with her. Again, she made a move to get out of bed, forgetting that his arm still rested across her stomach. Again, he held her back.

“I do not want to be a father,” he said, “because I have no guarantee I will be any better at it than my father. I might not be able to love my child.”

Despite all the clamoring in her brain, she heard his words distinctly and they hit home. Some tether within her snapped and she felt herself float free. Her tears evaporated. Her breath moved in and out, a shallow rhythm with no connection to her. In her mind’s eye, she paged through her photo album, seeing the fear and uncertainty in the eyes of her mother holding a bald baby girl, and the awkwardness of her parents posed with that child, as though she were an alien life form thrust upon them.

“How could you have wanted a child when you never felt wanted by your parents?” asked Jalal. “How can either of us overcome the damage that does?”

Meredith reached for him, holding him to her so tightly she could barely breathe. Jalal rolled to his back and cradled her in his arms.

“Kindred souls,” she whispered.

After breakfast, Jalal led his mother and sisters on a tour of the garden—surprising Meredith by reciting the correct common name of each rose variety. He reminisced with Nasrin about her mother’s gardening, and pointed out the thigh-high, cobalt, enameled pots he had chosen for his herbs. Goli and Shadi made polite comments on the garden, Ziba made it clear she was much more impressed with the pool, but Azadeh was transfixed. She paused before each rose still in bloom, leaning close to test the fragrance, and Meredith, pleased and proud, knew she had found another sort of kindred soul in this family.

They left Azadeh in the garden and drifted toward the house. Jalal and his mother, discussing dinner choices, named things they needed from the market, and Ziba said she might as well go along to check out any nearby shops. Meredith found herself walking beside Goli. When Jalal, Nasrin, and Ziba entered the house, Goli reached out and laid a hand on Meredith’s shoulder, holding her back.

“I want to apologize for what Shadi said about you,” she said. “That was rude to say, and wrong to say it thinking you would not understand.”

“You’re apologizing for Shadi?”

Goli avoided her eyes for a moment, then took a deep breath and faced her. “No. I apologize because I had the same thought.”

“It’s all right, Goli,” she said, patting her arm. “Today … it really is.”

Goli leaned closer and whispered, “Shadi can be a bitch.”

Meredith smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I also wanted to tell you, I have never seen Jalal happier.” Goli laughed. “That is silly, I know. We worry too much about him.”

“No,” she said. “I don’t think it’s silly at all.”

As they were eating lunch the next day, Nasrin said, “Jalal, I want you to come home for Christmas.”

Jalal averted his eyes. “Maman—”

“You are no longer in New York,” she said. “You cannot be ‘snowed in’ this year.”

Jalal dared a glance at his sisters, but none of them met his eyes.

“Why would you want that tension to ruin the holiday, Maman?”

Nasrin reached out to pat his hand. “You need to climb that mountain between you and your father,
azizam
.”

“But, I already made plans,” said Jalal.

“Change them,” Shadi ordered.

When they left an hour later, Jalal’s mother and sisters repeated the amiable mob scene at the front door—only this time, they also crowded around her, giving her hugs and kisses and promises to keep in touch. Nasrin, hugging her a second time, whispered, “Please, bring him to Seattle for Christmas.”

Jalal wrapped an arm around Meredith’s waist as they stood side by side watching Shadi’s car drive away. “They will pressure you to make me obey Maman’s wishes, you know.”

“Surely you can understand how much it would mean to have all her children together for the holiday.”

He turned her around to face him. “Even if the day is hell for me?”

“But isn’t it nice to be surrounded by all your brothers and sisters and their children? That must be exciting.”

Shaking his head, Jalal gave her a sad smile. “The family thing really got to you.”

She nodded.

He sighed. “I made plans to take you to Paris for Christmas.”

Her eyes lit up. “Oh, I love Paris!” Then she sobered. “Couldn’t we go later?”

Jalal did not respond. He gave her a brief kiss and turned toward the kitchen. “I need to set out the
daube
so it can come to room temperature before the final cooking.”

“Jalal!” She followed on his heels. “What about Christmas?”

“I believe that occurs five weeks from now.”

Meredith responded with a growl of exasperation.

Jalal removed the stew from the refrigerator and set it on the counter. “The airline charges extra when you make changes.”

“Oh my
lord
,” she said. “I’ll reimburse you. All right?”

Frowning, he crossed his arms and leaned back against the counter.

She assumed he still contemplated the change in plans until a quirk at the corner of his mouth gave him away. With a squeal, she flung herself into his arms. “We’ll have a wonderful Christmas. I know it.”

Jalal sighed. “You do not know my father.”

Seven

WITH ALL THE NECESSARY preparations for their Christmas trip, the next few weeks flew by. Meredith and Jalal made gift-shopping trips to Los Angeles and San Francisco, and for the first time in years, she looked forward to the holidays. They would spend Christmas in Seattle, two days in New York City, celebrate New Year’s Eve in London, and then go on to Paris. Her life had changed so much since September that sometimes she felt she had been in suspended animation before meeting Jalal. Sleeping beauty waiting for a kiss.

Many times during the last month, she imagined the scenario of meeting Jalal’s father. Though his sisters all referred to their father by the affectionate Baba, she couldn’t imagine Jalal addressing him that way. He volunteered a little information about what she might expect during their Christmas visit, mentioning what dishes they would eat, who would be there, and when gifts would be exchanged, but never giving her a hint at what concerned her most. How his father might receive her. Finally, she resorted to indirect questions. “How traditional is your family? I mean, your mother and sisters didn’t appear—”

“Cultural traditions?” he asked. “How Persian are they, you mean?”

“Well, yes. I’ve already gathered they’re non-religious.”

“Ah, of course,” he said solemnly. “I should instruct you on the family protocol.” He took a deep breath. “Whenever we are with my family, you must remember never to look any adult male in the eye and never speak to them unless spoken to first. Never step in front of a man, nor turn your back on one. At meals, the women will serve the men, and then return to the kitchen to eat their own meal. In fact, when we arrive, I will formally introduce you to my father and then you will go directly to the kitchen and stay there unless summoned.”

Oh, my.
A battle between outrage and acquiescence raged within, paralyzing her tongue. Then she saw the gleam in his eyes. “Jalal!”

He laughed, shaking his head. “You actually considered going along with it.” He took her hand and pulled her close. “Sorry to disappoint you, but my family is thoroughly Westernized. Most of the time, my parents even speak English to each other.”

“What should I expect when I meet your father?”

“He will be exceedingly polite.”

“Cold, you mean?” Jalal confused her with a look that indicated she must be crazy to suggest such a thing.

“Not at all,” he said. “Baba will greet you warmly and if you speak to him in Farsi, I expect he will find you particularly charming.”

How could Jalal speak so kindly of the man who had disowned him? She must have looked as bewildered as she felt because Jalal smiled.

“He will love you,” he said, his smile fading. “It is only his youngest son he has a problem with.”

That was her biggest worry. How could she be civil to a man who dealt so unjustly with his son? Or was it unjust? Possibly, there was more to it than she understood. Despite what Jalal said, she suspected his father had not shed all his cultural upbringing. Perhaps Jalal had breached some patriarchal taboo.

As though Jalal’s parents had chosen to immerse themselves in Americana, they lived in a white clapboard Foursquare on a quiet street where massive oaks and maples stood along the curbs like soldiers at arch sabers command. When Jalal and Meredith’s taxi pulled into the driveway, two boys, pitching ball on the front lawn, took off running. The younger one headed toward the door while the older one ran to the car.

“Hey, Jason.” said Jalal as he stepped from the car and turned to offer Meredith a hand. “Looks like you’re ready for Little League next spring.”

“I’m going to pitch.”

“Good for you.”

As the driver unloaded their luggage, members of Jalal’s family spilled out onto the front porch. Exotic scents from the kitchen wafted through the open front door—a bit of Shirazi transplanted to Seattle.

“Meredith,” said Jalal, when two of the men stepped forward to help carry their things, “these are my brothers Farhad and Navid.”

She had never expected his brothers to smother her in bear hugs, but their concerned glances and murmured hellos perplexed her.
Is it my age? Surely, they knew.
She opened her mouth to return their greeting, but swallowed her words because neither man now paid her any attention. They were signaling Jalal: Farhad with his eyes and Navid with a nearly imperceptible tic of his head toward the porch.

Jalal breathed a curse and pivoted toward the house, smiling. “Baba,” he said with a bit too much enthusiasm, “forgive me. I thought you would be waiting inside.” Taking her arm, he led her up the steps.