When Meredith finally entered the house, she carried the hope that Jalal’s second absence would be temporary, like his first, but as she looked around, the truth stole that away from her. This time, Jalal had taken all his things. He had even gone through the laundry hamper and packed up his dirty clothes. He had done his best to erase himself from her life. Jalal was truly gone.
Yet, he haunted her. When she sat alone in the kitchen, the scent of his spices wafted around her. When she walked down the hall, her heels echoed his voice from the living room. While she worked in her garden, his beautiful herb pots accused her. When she woke in the night, for just a moment, she felt his weight beside her. Here, a dried pouf of blue where his can of shaving gel had sat. There, a word he jotted on the scratch pad on the desk—Halcyon. Everywhere traces of him remained, if only she looked close enough.
And she did.
Once, she had believed the only way to keep Jalal in her life was to show herself as strong, independent, aloof. No hard task. She had lived under that pretense most of her life. The epitome of poise, she had become almost a mirror image of her mother. But that critical voice in her head wasn’t her mother’s. It was her own. And now, she would force herself, once again, to be that stone cold Meredith to keep Jalal away. He was better off without her.
Her presence had kept him from his work. Though he wrote something in a journal nearly every day, he never secluded himself for a serious writing session the way she would have. He often seemed lost in thought and distracted, annoyed even, if she interrupted him, but she knew his writing was not going well. The last time she asked him about it, he sulked the rest of the day, so it was good he had left. Maybe he would be able to write.
But every moment of the day, she wanted him back. She despised this weakness, this hollowness that manifested in a physical urge to curl in upon herself. To shrink smaller and smaller. To disappear. She ached for him.
She was all wrong for him. Why didn’t he realize that? She was too old. What must people have thought, seeing them together? Had they laughed at her, like those young women had on the day she met Jalal? She had never noticed; she was that smitten. That’s all it was, she saw now—infatuation. He had flattered her, made her feel young again. She had fallen in love like a silly teenager, and she was just as selfish. She would have kept him for herself, deprived him of the life he should have, with a young wife and children.
And what about her life? She had allowed Jalal to turn it upside down. In the last ten months, she had alienated friends, bowed out of committees she had served on for years, and neglected correspondence with former colleagues. She had put her life on hold while she chased butterflies through meadows in some fantasy world.
It was time to let him go.
Meredith checked the answering machine when she came in from the garden. She hesitated before pushing the playback button, bracing herself for either joy or disappointment. The first message was from Carol, as head of the garden club, to remind her of the next meeting. The second was a telemarketer. As the last message began, she recognized Azadeh’s concerned voice.
“Meredith? I’ve tried to reach Jalal on his cell phone for a week. He doesn’t answer. We thought he would call us right away with the formal announcement. Anyway, congratulations on your engagement. Please, tell him to call me. Hope to see you both soon.”
It was more than she could bear. She sank to the floor.
Azadeh’s message replayed in her mind all through a sleepless night. By morning, she had decided to rent a car and drive to Bahía de Sueños. She skirted the village and drove down the highway beyond his house before she pulled off and parked near the far entrance to the beach access road. From her vantage point, she could see the side of his house and his car in the driveway. She watched for almost an hour and then, there he was. He left his yard, crossed the road, and descended to the beach. Meredith got out of the car and hurried to a spot where, if she stood on tiptoe, she could see the shoreline.
Jalal stretched, warming up for a run. She sprinted down to the beach road and found a place on the pathway where she could crouch down, but still have a view of him. How could she have been clever enough to drive a rental car, so he wouldn’t recognize hers, but hadn’t thought to pull her hair back, wear a hat, or disguise herself somehow? She wished she were invisible, so she could walk right up to him and look in his eyes. Then, she would know. Then, she could be sure he would be all right without her. She wanted to call Azadeh and say, Forgive me. I’ve humiliated Jalal. I’ve hurt him. Please, help him. I can’t. This is for the best. I can’t…
Jalal had run almost out of view. In the distance, he dwindled to a mere spot then appeared to wink out. Like a flame. The light of her life. Snuffed out.
She arrived home at a quarter past two. At three o’clock, the phone rang. She answered out of habit, not bothering to look at the Caller ID first.
“Hello, Meredith.”
At the sound of his voice, she left her body. She became ether and light. She was dream.
“Meredith?”
“Yes,” she breathed.
“I saw you this morning.”
She crashed and was real again. Heavy, sodden, dead.
“I want to come home,” said Jalal.
“No,” she said. “No.”
Silence.
“It’s best this way, Jalal.”
After a moment, she hung up the phone.
Meredith walked into Pain sur la Table determined to eat whatever humble pie the Wanton Women dished out. Judith would not accept her apology over the phone, insisting she needed to face them all and explain herself. So, here she was. And so were they, on time, she was surprised to see. No. Even more shocking—and ominous—they must have arrived early because, judging by their raucous laughter, they were well into the wine. They were anxious to have great fun at her expense. Judith spied her and motioned her to hurry, but before Meredith could respond, someone behind her called her name.
She turned and recognized one of the young women who had witnessed her watching Jalal that first day here in this restaurant. “Hello, Amanda.”
“I know I’m imposing, but I have to tell you…” Amanda moved closer, lowering her voice. “We have mutual friends … you know? And, well … I heard that you and Jalal have split up.”
Meredith eyed her coldly. “And you’d like his phone number, I suppose.”
Amanda’s eyes widened and she shook her head. “No! No, not at all. I was very sad to hear about it.”
It was Meredith's turn to look surprised. “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” she said. “You and your friends had a good laugh at me the day I met him.”
“Laugh? No. We weren’t laughing at you. We thought it was exciting. It was the most romantic thing we’d ever seen. We almost applauded when you two left together!”
Meredith was too bewildered to speak.
“We watch for you two around town. It’s obvious he adores you. Oh! I mean …” Amanda clamped a hand over her mouth. She took a step back. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I bothered you. I’m really sorry.”
Amanda fled before Meredith could respond. After a moment, she turned to look at the table where the Wanton Women sat staring at her. Judith looked impatient, annoyed. Carol and Donna gazed impassively at her, as if she could be just anyone. None of these women really knew her—or even cared to. None of them wanted to know her as the girl who wrote poetry and dared to wear a violet kaftan. Yet, Jalal had. He had slipped under her skin and, somehow, shaped her into her true self.
Good lord, what have I done?
What form of insanity, what cruelty, had made her push him away? In no sense of reason did she believe Jalal would have owned her. He had set her free, for God’s sake. That wonderful man had surprised her, challenged her, brought her back to life, and she loved him for it. She loved herself. She loved him. She had let her fears blind her. Fear of aging, fear of what people thought of her, fear that the minute she let her guard down and da
red to believe she deserved to be loved, it would all be taken away. And yet, without Jalal, what did she have?
She had nothing.
Judith, Donna, and Carol still sat staring at her, their faces a mixture of puzzlement and annoyance. Taking a deep breath, Meredith waved and mouthed a good-bye. Then she turned, walked out the restaurant door, and wound her way through the parking lot toward her car. “Please, God,” she prayed. “Please.”
She was shaking when she pulled up to Jalal’s house. She had rehearsed what she would say on the drive over, but when he opened the door, she forgot it all. Meredith said only three words before the tears came. “I need you.”
It was enough. It was the beginning.
Eight
POSITIVE AFFIRMATION is a crock. That brilliant bit of wisdom had crawled around in the back of Jalal’s mind since he left the motel in Redding that morning. A constant barrage of talk radio had kept it at bay, until he finally grew bored and switched it off just before he navigated the I-5/505 interchange. The voice of his inner guru had spoken in the abrupt silence.
No one could fault his effort at positivity. He had driven all the way up to Seattle for Maman’s birthday and spent five days assuring his family he was fine. His health was fine. His work was fine. Everything was fine. He laughed and joked and ate and drank. Do you not see? The old Jalal is back. Jalal is fine.
None of that was true.
Each day he made a mental list. Things to do. Steps to get back on track. Ways to move on with his life. Most days he accomplished little more than a run on the beach. He ran and ran and ran—as if he were training for a marathon. It was amazing he could run at all, when living was such an effort. Sometimes, he wondered at this dual sensation of being hollow, yet lead-filled.
Thirty miles later, he merged his car onto I-80, heading toward San Francisco. Today’s list: do some shopping; have lunch with his agent; maybe phone his old college roommate and—if Tony would get drunk enough with him—crash on his sofa tonight. Less than fifteen minutes later, Jalal wiped that list clean, and swung off onto the 680. He could drive up to San Francisco anytime.
Because he had traveled this part of the route countless times in the last twenty-two years, he drove on autopilot for the next hour. He had kept tally of those early solo trips taken during school breaks. He made no road trips after he moved to New York, and made only two, from his home to his parents’ and back, right after he returned to the West Coast. But through the next seven years, after Meredith fell in love with his family, the two of them made frequent drives to Seattle, though usually not along the coast. They took the 101 from Coelho. He merged onto that freeway now. Less than seventy miles to the Monterey Peninsula.
That would be a nice place to stop for lunch. He considered the restaurants he knew there. Maybe he would even stop at the aquarium, do the tourist thing. Today was a Tuesday—off-season—it would be peaceful, and he had time. He had more than enough time. He had nothing else. But when he came to the 156 turn-off, he kept on driving. Coelho was less than two hours further on. He could stop for lunch somewhere between here and there.
When he reached Salinas, he grabbed coffee and a candy bar with his fill-up at the mini-mart and, for a moment, sat in the car with the engine running. It was not too late; he could still take 68 over to Monterey. He could avoid this self-torture. He could get a grip.
He could let Meredith go.
Jalal pulled out onto the street and took the entrance ramp onto 101-S. The mileage sign read: Coelho 98.
Nine
“GET YOUR HAND OFF MY ASS, Wayne.” Renee set the full pitcher of beer on the table and swatted his hand away with her empty tray. Wayne, Jerry, Dominic, and Brian were four of her regulars—good guys.
“Aw, come on, Renee,” said Wayne, grinning, “you know you want me.”
She shook her head. “Not even in my wildest dreams.”
Jerry sucked in his gut and expanded his chest like a peacock in full display. “Give up, Wayne. She wants a real man.”
“You got that right,” she said, flicking a subtle wink to Jerry. “So, if you guys see one walk in, let me know.”
The men cracked up, Jerry included. She always tried to leave them laughing. The tips were better. And every penny saved brought her one second closer to getting out of this place, one minute closer to starting her real life. None of the crap she’d lived through until now had been a life. Another month’s worth of paychecks, plus tips, and she’d be gone. She’d be reborn. Hallelujah! Praise the lord and pass the wine!
With more strut than step, she returned to the bar. “Hey, Rick-o, where’s my pitcher for table six?”
“You must have called that order in by telepathy, Renee, ‘cause I never heard it.” He filled the pitcher and set it on the bar. “You’re in a good mood tonight.”
“I’m seeing that light at the end of the tunnel.” She loaded her tray and flashed him a smile. “Just seeing the light.”
For the first four years after moving to California, she served in five restaurants. When she turned twenty-one, she switched to waiting bars, and in just two years, she’d lost count of those jobs. A couple of them, she’d deliberately forgotten. Working in bars paid better, but that money didn’t come easy. She spent the greater part of her waking hours in a mostly male world. Trouble and testosterone both started with T, and, in her mind, that was no coincidence.
The night was early, but Rick’s Place was already full, and she and Maria did some fancy moves to avoid tripping over each other as they hurried to keep up with the customers. Renee checked her watch. Three of them should have been waiting tables by that hour. She filled her tray with dirty glasses and headed back to the bar.
“Shelly is working her shift tonight, right?” Rick didn’t answer, but she knew by the way his hand jerked and sloshed the head out of the glass of stout he’d heard her. “Damn it, Rick! You knew I needed off early tonight.”
“You got an order to put in, Renee?” He dumped the stout, drew another one, and set the pint on the bar just as Maria arrived to collect it. He took a breath and turned to face Renee. “Shelly will take your shift Sunday, if you want.”
“Well, I don’t want. You know damned well, I want all the hours I can get. I just needed to get out of here a couple hours early tonight. Matt and I are going to go see a friend’s band play.”
Rick shrugged. “Shelly called in sick. What could I say?”
His easy-going nature was what made him bearable to work for, but at times like this, it frustrated the hell out of her. She sighed. “Just give me two draft lights and a Heineken. And is Oscar still working on my nacho order back there, or did you give him the night off too?”
Rick almost succeeded in hiding his amusement. “With a smart mouth like that, it’s a good thing I like you, Renee.”
She called home on her first break. Matt didn’t answer until the fourth ring. “Hey. Bad news. I can’t get off early after all. Sorry.”
“Uh-huh,” he said.
“So, I can’t go to Rock Hard with you.”
“Yeah. Got it.”
Well, hell! Obviously, something more important than her had his attention. What was it this time: TV? Xbox? A damned Hot Pocket? “Geez, Matt, you could try sounding just a little disappointed.”
“Oh! Of course I’m disappointed, Renee. For sure.” He cleared his throat. “But you won’t care if I go to the club anyway, right?”
Maybe it was some inflection in his voice that triggered her female intuition, but just like that, she knew. Forget the Xbox; he was playing a different game. She closed her eyes and wrestled her voice under control. Still, her tone fell flat. “Sure, Matt, go ahead. You have a real good time.”
She clicked off and stared at her phone as though the whole scenario played out on the darkened screen. A dozen little signs came together into the big picture. Like Matt’s recent flurry of text messages from ‘some guy at work’. And why he’d started showing up here during her shift, but—she
realized now—only on the nights she worked with Shelly.
Matt had known she’d have to cancel out on the club because he’d planned to go with that little bitch who’d called in “sick” to work.
The clock on the cable box read 2:47 when Renee got home. Without bothering to turn on a light, she kicked off her shoes and padded through the dark toward the bedroom. Her last few hours of work were a blur. The what-to-do-about-Matt problem had kept her preoccupied. She needed sleep. A lot of it. Forget removing her make-up; she didn’t have the energy. She’d need a clear head tomorrow when Matt came slinking back with a lame excuse about spending the night passed out on some dude’s floor.
Damn him. Why’d he have to cheat now? “Six more weeks, Matt. That’s all I needed—” She’d flipped the light switch and the glare exposed the mess he’d left behind: half-opened drawers, empty hangers on the bed, a leftover packing box. Gone. The breath she held eased out like a prayer. “I wanted to be the first to leave this time.”
During the minute she stood in the doorway surveying the remnants of Matt, she assessed the situation, adjusted her plans, and shot her middle finger into the air. Done, and done. She cleared the bed with a sweep of her arm, peeled off her tip-increasing micro-skirt, cut the lights, and crawled under the covers.
Only two cups of coffee into the morning, Renee had already evaluated her finances. Paying the full rent and utilities on this place would eat another month’s pay, so it made no sense to stay until June. A nice bottle of Stoli would get Bonnie in the rental office to backdate her notice. Rick had known for months she was saving up to leave, so what difference would a few weeks make?
The Brevity of Roses Page 12
