The Brevity of Roses

by Linda Cassidy Lewis

  Tears welled in Jalal’s eyes. Sucked hollow by irony, he slumped forward.

  “My son,” Baba repeated. His voice wavered. “My son.”

  Jalal did not weep alone.

  Thirteen

  AFTER BREAKFAST, AZADEH and the kids gathered their things to leave. Ryan had talked her into letting him drive and drummed his impatience on the steering wheel while Azadeh took her time saying goodbye. “Jalal, promise me you’ll come to the house next week. It’s time.”

  He sighed. “You are relentless. What’s the point of making me promise something we both know I cannot do?”

  “Will not do.”

  “Stop pushing me, Aza.”

  “One of these days you’ll do it just to get me off your back.”

  Jalal avoided her eyes.

  She hugged him, forcing him to reciprocate. “Please,” she said, her voice muffled against his chest, “let this go before it kills you.”

  He tried to laugh it off. “I thought Ziba was the drama queen in our family.”

  Azadeh released him. “This is not something to joke about.” She walked to the passenger side door and reached for the door handle, then hesitated. “And another thing, Jalal—in case you really don’t get it—Renee doesn’t see herself as just your neighbor.”

  Jalal watched them drive away, his smile a sham. Azadeh had gone too far this time. Of all his sisters, she was the only one who tried to control him. She needed to concentrate on the mess her life was in and leave his life alone. Why the hell had he moved her within easy driving distance?

  He cleaned up the kitchen, banging things around and slamming cupboard doors. He felt like hell. Too much food. He was not used to eating three full meals a day—usually one a day, if he was honest. Plus, it had been nearly forty-eight hours since his last run. His head was splitting. He could barely think. Not that he really wanted to because, if he did, he would think about Karen hassling him for poetry he could not write, and Azadeh trying to force Meredith out of his life, and Renee trying to force her way into his life. Fuck them all. If everyone left him the hell alone, it would suit him fine.

  He grabbed the bag out of the trashcan and stomped out the kitchen door. Halfway down the back stairs, he slipped and took the steps at a half-run, unable to catch his balance until he reached the bottom. He stomped to the garbage bin and jerked the lid off. “Son of a bitch!” Once again, he had forgotten to put the trash out for pick-up. He jammed the bag in the already full bin and returned to the steps where he sat, elbows on his knees and hands gripping his head. Why the hell had he ever quit smoking? He sat there alternately gritting his teeth and taking slow, deep breaths.

  Calm now, he shook his head, disgusted with himself. Since when did he resent Aza being in his life? She was the person who knew him best. Better than Meredith, if he was being honest. It hurt to admit that, but he had always known it was the truth. Meredith loved him, he believed that, but at times when he considered that fact objectively, he wondered why. He gasped when an invisible fist slammed his chest from the shock of questioning, for the first time, whether she had loved the idea of him more than the reality. It took him a moment, but he shoved that thought away. He was just having one hell of a morning and dredging up muck that never existed.

  His heart pounded in rhythm with his head, so he centered on his breathing again. Just as he started to relax, he heard a car slowing on the road and snapped alert. When the engine cut off, he crept up the steps and into the kitchen. He had no desire to see anyone right now. Least of all Renee, and if that car had stopped at his house, who else would it be?

  “Jalal?”

  Shit! For a moment, he stood still. How ridiculous! What was he going to do, cower in his kitchen until she went away?

  “Hello? Jalal?”

  He slapped on his happy face and headed toward the front door. “Sorry, I was taking out the trash.” She backed away as he approached, and he took that as a sign she had no intention of coming in. Fine with him. He opened the screen door and stepped onto the porch.

  “I figured it was all right to stop,” she said. “I didn’t see your sister’s car.”

  He decided to make a joke of it. “She does not bite, you know.” There was no hint of a smile in her eyes. Great. Next time, he would opt for cowering in the kitchen. He motioned toward the nearest chairs and took one, but she perched on the porch railing. “If I had had your number,” he said, “I would have invited you to dinner with us last night.”

  “That would have been awkward.”

  He arched his brows, feigning innocence. “How so?”

  “Cut the crap, Jalal.”

  He blew out a breath and rubbed his palms over his face. “Look, I really do not need your attitude today, so—”

  “Oh, excuse me. Am I being rude? I guess someone forgot to tell me the rules of etiquette for neighbors.”

  He stood up. “I think you should leave.”

  “Well, I think we should talk. I think you should let me know where I stand.”

  He looked away, shaking his head. “If you have misunderstood—”

  “Hell yeah, I misunderstood!” Renee’s feet hit the porch floor and she faced him. “We’ve known each other for five weeks … and yeah, we had a rough start, but we got through that and then—until your sister came—we were together every day. Do you realize that? We even shared some pretty deep thoughts. I thought we had something good going … a connection.”

  “Nothing has changed—”

  “Yes, it has.” She was quiet for a moment. “No,” she said, “I guess nothing has changed. My mistake. I thought … maybe … you had made room in your life for me.”

  “Meredith is part of me. How can you expect me to forget her?”

  “I’m not asking you to forget anything.” Renee laid a hand against his cheek, turning his face to hers. “I just want to know if you see me in your future.”

  Jalal looked beyond her right shoulder, toward the ocean, searching for a glimpse of the surf through the fog.

  She slapped her open palm against his chest. “Look at me, Jalal. I’m here. Do you see me?”

  Jalal knew what she wanted to hear, the words he should say. He said nothing. Instead, he searched her eyes, begging for understanding. As though his silence slowed time, her hand lifted from his chest and floated to her mouth, touching her lips for one second, two, three, before drifting down to her side. She stepped back and, when she finally spoke, her voice rose barely above a whisper. “No. You don’t.” Her eyes shimmered. “You only see her.”

  He could not breathe. His eyes stung and he squeezed them shut. After a moment, he stood alone.

  Jalal spent most of the next two days in all the oblivion alcohol and sleep would provide. Karen called; he ignored her. He had need of an agent only because he had been married to Meredith. Hers was a public death: Dahlberg Heiress Dies. A fortune, a tragic death, a grieving widower poet, just the type of story the media sinks its teeth into on a slow day. Just the type of story to turn a lowly poet into a publishing success. I am a fraud.

  On the afternoon of the second day, Maman called. He told her he had a virus, and because, at that point, he had drunk just enough tequila for his buzz to pass as feverish delirium, she believed him. It was her comment that she would tell Azadeh to drive over to check on him that launched him down the fast track to sobriety. Two seconds after he ended the call from Maman, he was dialing Aza’s number. He jumped past hello. “Maman will be calling you any minute. Do not click over!”

  “What’s going on, Jalal?”

  “It is a misunderstanding.” His thickened tongue mangled that last word.

  “Are you drunk?”

  “Maman is going to tell you to drive over to check on me. She thinks I am sick.”

  “And why would she think that?”

  “Because I told her I was … but I am not.”

  “Yeah, but you are drunk. So, why?”

  “I … I am just mixed up.”

&n
bsp; “Indeed you are, so let’s talk about that.”

  “No … I need to sleep it off.”

  Azadeh sighed. “Will you call me when you wake up?”

  “Yes.”

  Jalal lay back, but not to sleep. He acknowledged the truth Baba had always known about him—he was weak, a coward, he took the easy way out. He ran. All his life, he had surrounded himself with people who would run with him, or at the least, enable him to avoid making the hard choices. He rejected them unless they did. Renee would not let him run. He knew this, and yet, he wanted her to come back. He needed her.

  On the heels of that admission came the knowledge she was not coming back. Not on her own. He would have to go to her, plead his case. And he had no way to make it easier by just phoning her, because he did not have her number. He had known Renee five weeks—five, not three—and he had never asked her for it. But why should that surprise him? Renee was right. He had never really seen her. They had walked together, talked, laughed, and argued, but she had not been as real to him as his memories of Meredith. Renee lived in the present and he in the past. He was a time-traveler, a visitor to her world, snatched backward at the slightest memory. His eyes drifted shut.

  An hour later, he jerked awake and sat up. He shook his head hard, trying to dissipate the nightmare that had woken him. Somehow, in the dream, he had slipped over the edge of the sea cliff, but had an iron grip on a rope. He had no memory of how he ended up there, where the rope had come from, whether help was on the way, he only rejoiced that he was not falling. He held on without fear—until he looked up and saw the rope ended only two feet above his hands.

  Let this go …

  The next day, Jalal felt strong enough to face Renee. He would apologize, tell her he had not meant to be so blind to her, ask for another chance. She must have seen something worthy in him to have kept her coming around. Surely, she could not dismiss him that easily. Yet, as he hurried to his car, the fear it was too late made his breath cold against his lips.

  He drove past her apartment. Her car was not in sight, but he circled the block again to make sure. It was not quite five; she could still be at Jennie’s. He had hoped to talk to Renee in private, so he was more relieved than disappointed when her car was not parked behind the restaurant. His stomach lurched. What if she had packed up and moved to L.A. after all? Would he ever find her? A blaring car horn notified him the red light he stopped at had since turned green. He rolled forward and turned into the market parking lot. Yes! He praised the Fates, and pulled in beside Renee’s car.

  Jalal searched through the aisles, and found her in the last one. If he had stopped here a few minutes later, he would have missed her. He came up behind her, as she dropped something in her cart. “Good afternoon.”

  She ducked her head. “Hi,” she said.

  “I have been looking for you.”

  “Have you?”

  “Can we talk?”

  She said nothing.

  “Please look at me.”

  She did, but so briefly, he was lucky to have caught it.

  Jalal sighed. “Can we discuss this?”

  This time she looked at him for all of two seconds. She shook her head.

  “Why not?”

  “I’ve accepted the truth.” Renee tried to maneuver her cart past him, but he grabbed it with both hands.

  “I am sorry—”

  “Don’t be. It is what it is.” She tried to jerk her cart away, but he held tight. “Let go!”

  “What do you think it is, Renee?”

  She narrowed her eyes at him and let go of the cart, gesturing her surrender. “I think the only purpose I serve in your life is to remind you of—”

  “I never forget.”

  Renee uttered a strangled cry and rocked backward as if he had slapped her. When she regained her balance, she lowered her head and shoved past him. Jalal stood still for a moment, looking at the space where Renee had been. Then he grabbed her purse from the cart and ran after her. He found her beside her car with her forehead pressed against the door frame. “You forgot this,” he said.

  With one hand, she swiped at her eyes and, with the other, jerked her purse from his hand. She rummaged for her keys and had the door open an inch or two before he grabbed it.

  “Let me explain.”

  “Please,” she said, “you’re better off not speaking. Just let me go.”

  “But I was trying to explain I cannot be reminded of something I have not forgotten. I think of her a thousand times a day.”

  “Oh my god!” Renee knocked his arm away from the car door and got in.

  She started the engine and backed up before Jalal could react, leaving him to watch open-mouthed as she tore out of the parking lot. He ran back into the store and found her cart still sitting where she left it. Quickly, he paid for her things, and drove to her apartment. Renee must have been looking out her front windows because when he carried her bags up, she met him at the door with a glare.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “I brought your groceries. May I bring them in?”

  She opened the door wider, but reached out to take the bags from him. “Just tell me how much I owe you?”

  “Nothing.” He held out the lightest of the plastic bags, but kept his grip on it until she looked him in the eye. “You owe me nothing, Renee.” Her steel-gray eyes showed him no mercy. He released the bag into her hand.

  “I’ll accept the food,” she said, “but don’t try to explain anything more to me. I don’t want to know. I don’t care.” She stepped aside to let him enter the apartment. “Please, just put those down and go.”

  Jalal entered a small room that served as both living room and kitchen. He set the groceries on the small dining table, then pulled out a chair and sank down on it. Behind him, Renee stood at the door for a minute longer. He imagined her eyes boring holes in his back. Finally, with an exasperated sigh, she crossed the room and started putting the groceries away. He began to babble. “I do not know why I say all the wrong things to you. Or why I do the things I do.” He rubbed his face with both hands before letting them drop to the table. “You have never been just a reminder to me.” Think, think, don’t screw it up this time! “I am trying … I want to get to know you, Renee. I really want that. But I keep …” He shook his head. “Maybe I do need a psychiatrist.” He turned his hands over and stared at his palms as if he might read the answer there.

  When he looked up, Renee stood across the table from him. Nothing on her face or in her stance encouraged him, but he said, “I would like to start over. Please, give me one more chance.” A debate raged in her head; he read it in her eyes.

  Finally, she nodded.

  The breath he held rushed out and he dared a weak smile. “Will you let me cook dinner for you tonight?”

  She shook her head, but a smile touched her lips. “What am I going to do with you, Jalal?”

  “Eat?”

  “Yes,” she said, “I will.”

  Jalal feared, if he stayed any longer, he would blunder and say something to change her mind so he stood. “Be there at seven.” As he reached the door, he turned and added, “Please.”

  By the time he reached his car, he had planned the menu. He headed back to the market. Piemonte’s was next on his list. He wished understanding Renee was as easy as cooking for her. His powers of perception did not work. Meredith had been so much easier to read, but then, she had shown him her poetry, the window into her mind and heart. Renee gave him so little, with evasions and, he suspected, lies. She accused him of not seeing her, but how could he when she kept herself hidden from him?

  Renee arrived precisely on time, and entered the house without knocking. Jalal noted she wore one of those soft summer dresses instead of her usual tee and shorts. And her hair—set free again—cascaded to her waist. “I didn’t know what we were having for dinner,” she said, setting two bottles on the counter, “so I brought a red and a white.”

  Jalal g
lanced at the labels. “You have excellent taste in wine.”

  “No,” she said. “I just used to work in an excellent upscale restaurant.”

  “I am preparing fish, so the Sauv Blanc will be perfect.”

  “You really cook?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said, “it keeps me from starving.”

  “Funny. So, you’re a gourmet cook, a renowned poet, a financial genius. What other talents do you have?” She pinched a bite of salad. “Mmmm, that’s good.”

  “Thank you. The dressing is my own recipe.”

  “And …?”

  Jalal glanced up, eyebrows raised.

  “I asked what other talents you have.”

  He shook his head. “I do not even claim the three you think I have.”

  “Well, I’ll judge the first one for myself tonight, but the other two are common knowledge.”

  “Oh, yes … what would we do without Wikipedia?”

  “Smart ass,” she said.

  “Now, that one, I will claim.” It made him nervous, how easy it seemed between them again, as if they were only killing time until his next screw up. “Dinner will be ready in a few minutes.” He dished up salad. “The corkscrew is in that drawer.” He motioned with the tongs. “Will you pour the wine?”

  He carried the salad plates to the table and sat down across from her. “Where did you live before moving here?” he asked after a few bites.

  She glanced up at him and then focused again on her plate. “I can’t quite picture you as a suit on Wall Street.”

  “Neither could I,” he said then laid his fork down and sat back in his chair, “but that is beside the point. I asked where you lived.”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Because I could not find your bio on the internet.” When she begrudged him a smile, he returned to his salad.

  “Sacramento,” she said after a moment.

  “Is that where—”

  The oven timer buzzed and she said, “The fish is calling.”

  “Saved by the bell,” he muttered.

  He served the snapper en papillote with saffron rice. Renee seemed impressed when he snipped open the parchment, and that pleased him. They ate without speaking, until Jalal felt her watching him. He looked up.