“You are wasting time. Do you want my mother to walk in here and find us still naked on the kitchen floor?” he asked.
“Jalal!”
He sighed, as if admitting defeat, but he kept hold of her. “You have exactly fifteen minutes to do whatever you imagine you need to do to fix yourself up, but then you have to get back down here to chop that garlic, or I promise I will embarrass you beyond belief when they get here.”
“Please, finish for me. Let me have the whole hour to get things ready.”
“On second thought,” he said, reaching for her buttons again, “you would be much more at ease after—”
Meredith slapped his hand away. He opened his arms and she turned to run upstairs, his laughter growing fainter behind her with each step.
Jalal’s mother and sisters arrived a little less than an hour later, but by the time the doorbell rang, she had changed clothes, touched up her hair and make-up, aired out the guest rooms, and freshened them with clean sheets and towels. As she followed Jalal to the door, she reverted to the calm, cool, socialite she had been before he threw her life into pleasant chaos.
She stood to the side and let Jalal open the door. Even so, the five women almost knocked her over as they jostled to give him hugs and kisses. His mother, the shortest of them, was crushed in the middle, but her smile of adoration as she gazed up at Jalal made it obvious she didn’t mind.
Laughing, Jalal declared, “Enough.” The women let go, his sisters drawing back when he took his mother’s hand and turned her to face Meredith. With his other hand, he pulled her closer to his mother. “Maman,” he said, “this is Meredith. Meredith, this is my mother, Nasrin Shirazi.”
As she hugged Nasrin, she heard one sister murmur to another in Farsi. With Nasrin speaking to her, she missed a word or two, but caught enough to piece together the expressed thought—Jalal wasn’t likely to give their mother grandchildren from this old one. She was relieved she couldn’t identify which sister said it. If she didn’t know who had pierced her heart, it would be easier to tuck away that spoken truth, bury it deeply, and treat them all equally as Jalal’s beloved sisters. Her smile never wavered as Jalal introduced them, oldest to youngest: Goli, Shadi, Azadeh, and Ziba. She exchanged ceremonial hugs and kisses with each.
Having assumed Jalal would entertain his family in the living room, Meredith gasped when he led them toward the kitchen. She followed reluctantly, worried Nasrin, if not his sisters, might consider her an ungracious hostess, and worse, that any time spent in the kitchen would surely reveal her own lack of cooking skills.
“Oohs” and “ahhhs” greeted her entrance. The women loved her kitchen, though she felt somewhat foolish accepting compliments on the room she valued least. Within minutes, they had uncorked wine and agreed on the dinner menu. As Nasrin, Goli, Shadi, Azadeh, and Jalal busied themselves with the meal preparations, Meredith realized her first fear had proved unfounded. She had never seen a group of people more at home in a kitchen.
Her second fear dissolved when Ziba, carrying a bottle and two glasses, motioned for Meredith to sit with her. “I hate to cook,” she said. “Let’s just drink and watch.”
Ziba stayed true to her plan, so Meredith observed the activity, amazed at how Jalal and these women filled the room with life. Their conversation, punctuated often with laughter, was mostly in English, with a sprinkling of French and Farsi she had no trouble following. Even when they disagreed, it was good-natured and, more often than not, settled by a swat from Nasrin’s wooden spoon.
Jalal and his mother shared that mischievous twinkle in their eyes, and her mouth pursed like his did in amusement. But Nasrin’s gray-streaked hair was straight, like three of her daughters’. Apparently, Goli and Jalal had inherited curls from their father. Meredith couldn't help comparing her mother with Jalal's. Nasrin, dressed in a maroon velour sweat suit, evidently felt comfort trumped fashion. Tailored slacks and a twin-set were as casual as her mother had ever dared to dress. Even in pajamas and robe, she had appeared neatly pressed.
Nasrin had a joyous carefree air, though Meredith knew she had to be tougher than she looked. This woman had raised seven children, lived through a difficult time of revolution followed by emigration twice, and made a new life for her family in a land far from her birth. Meredith could only imagine that kind of inner strength.
She repeated the sisters’ names in her mind, attaching details to help her remember who was who. They were all attractive, though not in the same way. Goli, with her wide hips, full breasts, wild hair, and hearty laugh, was the earth mother. Her obvious pregnancy completed the picture. Shadi, the tallest, most sophisticated and striking, was the social one. Azadeh, with her fragile beauty, and veiled eyes, was the quiet one. And Ziba, the youngest and most petite, seemed the least serious of them all, as if being the last born of seven made her somehow less substantial.
“Meredith,” said Shadi, “did Jalal ever tell you the story of his arranged marriage?”
“Do not!” warned Jalal, his face growing red.
“No, no, tell it!” said Ziba. Turning to Meredith she added, “This is hilarious.”
“You tell it best,” Shadi said to Goli.
Goli stopped working and wiped her hands on the aproned mound of her belly. “When Jalal was seven,” she began, “our brothers Farhad and Navid convinced Jalal that Baba—our father—was about to arrange a marriage for him. Of course, Baba and Maman were too modern thinking for that, but Jalal didn’t know. Naturally, he was anxious to see his intended bride, so Farhad and Navid took him to the bazaar and pointed out the carpet weaver’s daughter.”
At this point in the story, Jalal sighed loudly and turned away. Azadeh gave his back a sympathetic pat.
“This girl,” Goli continued, “was as big as a man, fierce-looking, and brayed like a donkey. Jalal was so horrified he begged them to plead with Baba on his behalf. And of course, they agreed to do it, but only if Jalal paid them.”
Nasrin shook her head, tsking at the memory.
Goli continued, “Well, Farhad and Navid were not asking for money; they wanted their pound of flesh. Poor Jalal did all their chores for more than a week before Maman caught on and put a stop to it.”
“Those boys,” said Nasrin, “working Jalal so hard.” She shook her spoon in the air, as though still angry. “They could have made him sick again.”
“Really, Maman!” said Shadi. “Jalal was perfectly healthy by then.”
Jalal, shaking his head, moved over to the stove. He poured oil in a sauté pan and adjusted the flame. “Maman still sees me as sickly,” he said. “She greets me by patting my stomach to make sure I am fat enough.”
Meredith asked, “Jalal was ill as a child?”
“He almost died!” said Nasrin. “He never told you this?”
Suddenly, Meredith recalled that Jalal had once mentioned a childhood illness, but she had never bothered to ask him more about it. I can’t admit that to his mother!
Jalal came to her rescue. “No, Maman,” he said, “I did not tell her, just as I have not told her a thousand other things the five of you will probably embarrass me with.”
“Bah!” Nasrin said to Jalal, then directed her next words to Meredith. “Jalal nearly died with meningitis when he was a baby.”
“A baby!” Jalal and his sisters chorused.
“He was four years old!” said Goli.
Nasrin flapped a hand of dismissal in Goli’s direction and said to Meredith, “It was years before he regained his strength.”
“Enough of that,” said Jalal, “could we stop reminiscing about my delightful childhood and concentrate on getting dinner started, so we can have tea? Maman made baghlava, Meredith. Wait until you taste it.”
With more chopping, tasting, and seasoning, the khoresh was set to simmer, the kitchen wiped clean, and the tea brewed. They gathered around the table.
Azadeh turned to her. “After tea, will you show us the rest of your beautiful home, Meredith?”
> “And her wonderful garden,” said Jalal, glancing out the windows. “Well, tomorrow, I guess. The sun is already setting.”
“Do you all come down often to visit Jalal?” asked Meredith.
“This is the first time,” said Nasrin. “He has only come up to visit us twice since he moved to California.”
“We had to come down,” said Ziba, “because Jalal wouldn’t bring you up to meet us.”
“Ziba does not mean that the way it sounds,” Jalal said quickly.
“No!” agreed Azadeh. “It wasn’t that he didn’t want us to meet you.”
“I never said that,” protested Ziba.
“Well, it sounded that way,” Goli and Shadi said at the same time.
Ziba huffed and turned to Meredith. “Did you think I—”
With a clap of her hands, Nasrin ended the squabble. “Actually, Meredith, we came down today because we decided it would be fun for the five of us to take a trip together.”
Meredith smiled. “Well, I am very happy to meet you all,” she said. “You are welcome in my home anytime. And, Nasrin, this baghlava is the best I’ve ever eaten. Thank you for bringing it.”
Nasrin acknowledged the compliment with a smile, though she waved it off and shook her head. “It was nothing; such a small thing.”
“Jalal told us you were an anthropologist,” said Goli. “Did you spend any time in the Middle East?”
“Not as much as I would have liked. Most of our research took us to Africa.”
“Meredith is a linguist,” said Jalal. “She speaks Farsi.”
At just that moment, she happened to glance at Shadi, whose face registered alarm before she exchanged a look of guilt with Goli. “I’m not at all fluent,” Meredith said quickly.
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 c
an 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—”
The Brevity of Roses Page 10
